Arctic Firepath (Sean Quinlan Book 2)
Page 27
‘Do you know how to fly this?’ Khostov asked through chattering teeth.
‘I used to fly them in the marines. Remember?’
The ship lurched with a new explosion that seemed to originate directly underneath, and the deck tilted further. Sean planned to get the engine to the lift-off point before leaping out and hacking the last remaining tether, but before that happened, the line snapped.
Sean pulled the stick back, but it was already too late. Without enough power he couldn’t pull away from the sucking action of the seawater. The machine began to slide along the deck. By now the level had risen above the bottom of the doors. They were not water-tight at the best of times, and seawater leaked into the cockpit. The copter continued its relentless slide until it hit the bow rail and swung round.
Sean knew from experience that the moment a rotor touched the water it would break up. While they were stuck, the angle of the deck steepened, and it would only be a matter of seconds before the blades made contact.
‘Here, hold this,’ Sean commanded Khostov, giving him the stick. ‘Keep it pulled back.’
Sean pushed the door open against the press of water. He grabbed the axe and jumped out into the freezing seas, held his breath and ducked under the machine. It was difficult to see anything in the swirling chaos. Sean ran his hand along the underside until it met the ship’s rail. There was no doubt; the undercarriage had caught in the railing.
Sean grasped the strut and pulled. No good. He swung the axe, but it was hopeless.
It wouldn’t budge.
Sentinel leader observed the red trail crossing his visor, indicating the release of a Russian air-to-air missile. Another American plane had been hit, and the squadron was taking a hammering. He surveyed the battlefield picture again. US warplanes, scattered over the sky, were retreating from the onslaught.
‘Bandit on tail. Advise.’
He estimated Sentinel three was ten kilometres from his position. Another red trail traversed his field of view. He clicked the mike.
‘Take him out Sandy.’
‘Roger.’
Sentinel three applied emergency boost to the Pratt & Whitney F135 engines, and began a random weave pattern to try and confuse his adversary, and force him to apply more power. He checked the heads-up display inside the visor helmet, waiting until he was sure the Russian plane had reached near maximum speed. Then he hit the controls in a manoeuvre known as ‘viffing’.
The F135 engine was considered to be the most powerful ever installed in a fighter aircraft. In this version, the exhaust was capable of being deflected downward at the tail. Over 50,000 lbf of thrust was now being vectored through the nozzle, creating a huge break on the jet’s forward speed. The pursuer overshot rapidly, frantically scanning for the missing F-35.
‘Bingo one,’ Sentinel three breathed as he touched the button to launch an AIM-120 Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missile. The Amraam’s solid-fuel rocket motor accelerated the missile to Mach 4. Less than a second later it contacted the MiG-29 and blew it out of the sky.
Immediately Sentinel 3 performed a high loop, coming behind another MiG. He blinked. The targeting software in his helmet acquired the Russian and launched an Amraam in the same split second.
Sentinel leader watched as the MiG vanished from his screen. He couldn’t stop an involuntary whoop.
‘Take that, Mother Fucker!’
Sean came up for air, holding the ship’s rail under the water. He breathed twice, deeply, and ducked under again. Placing his legs square against the stanchion, he heaved. It still refused to give. He felt the vibration from another explosion through the soles of his feet. The ship made a sudden lurching movement and canted over more steeply.
Sean knew this was the moment. If he didn’t release the undercarriage now, he never would. He gripped the strut with renewed force, pushing hard with his legs, pulling with his arms. Nothing else mattered; Sean was oblivious of everything except the pain.
The strut moved slightly and despite the numbing effect of the ice cold seas, a sudden and excruciating pain shot up his arm. He knew immediately what had happened; his index finger had snapped where the bone had been weakened by the saw cut, courtesy of Urilenko. Now his left hand was useless. With one last exceptional effort he hauled the ironwork with his right hand. It gave way suddenly and unexpectedly. He was so surprised it took several moments to realise the helicopter was free. Using the deck, he propelled himself to the surface and gasped for air.
He wiped his eyes. Where the hell was the copter? The tail pivoted overhead. Sean realised that the whole aircraft was swinging in a slow circle, just feet away from the deck. He waited, timing his leap, and jumped onto the fuselage while grasping the door latch with his uninjured hand. The aircraft swung round, Khostov unable to control the machine. Sean lent in to reduce the centrifugal force, slipped open the cockpit door and threw himself in.
‘Let me have it now.’
Khostov turned to look at the man beside him, water pouring from his clothes.
‘Thank God you’re back,’ was all he could say.
Both Presidents entered the room on time and were greeted by the British PM.
‘Sit down gentlemen.’ Prime Minister Terrance Ashdown indicated two chairs. ‘I’m sorry I had to bring the meeting forward, but we are in danger of being overtaken by events in the Arctic.’
‘Pleased to help in any way I can, Terrance,’ responded President Donahue. He noticed a single black file lying on the table behind them and wondered if the Russian President had observed it too.
‘I believe things are getting out of hand. I have evidence that both American and Russian war planes were ordered into the Arctic, and may be engaged in a confrontation.’ He eyed President Duskin. ‘I’m not sure how much our colleague Pavla understands what is at stake?’
President Duskin’s face remained fixed. ‘Perhaps if you were to explain, I might be able to tell you.’
‘Well it’s certainly disturbing news, I’m afraid.’ Ashdown looked closely for signs Duskin was conscious of the events he was talking about. ‘There is a very high probability that a huge explosion of toxic radioactivity will occur on the icebreaker, LK-80. The fallout is likely to be greater than ten times that of Chernobyl and Fukushima put together. You should be aware the British Government has sent a professional to investigate, at the request of the American State Department.’ Ashdown nodded towards President Donahue, and waited for the reaction.
The Russian President cleared his throat. ‘I am conscious that the American military forcibly boarded LK-80 when it was going about its lawful business.’
The PM leaned forward. ‘Were you informed that the reactor on board your ship is about to explode?’
The silence gave him his answer. The Prime Minister regarded the American President. ‘The expert decided the best way to minimise the fallout was to scuttle the ship once everyone had been evacuated. He called on American air support to sink LK-80, and this fact was made known to your squadrons. Your warplanes chose to ignore the message and opened up an attack on US planes.’
Pavla Duskin’s face reddened. ‘My understanding is that this was a deliberate attempt by American forces to get rid of the evidence of their occupation of our vessel.’
‘No, Pavla. Your own expert, Alexei Khostov - the most authoritative nuclear scientist in Russian - has said that sinking the ship was the only way to reduce fallout from the blast.’
Duskin waved his hand dismissively. ‘Khostov is a renegade scientist. You are working together to discredit Russian interests. You British always side with your American cousins. It is only natural for a dog to follow its master.’
Ashdown’s lips drew back into a taught line. ‘That is not what is happening here, Pavla. I wish to bring you both to a point of mutual understanding. Regardless of the outcome, unless you both rein in your forces and co-operate in dealing with the crisis, I will place the cause of the eruption squarely on both your shoulders. An investigation
will prove me correct, and at the very least you will both lose office. There is a strong possibility you will face prosecution by the international community for your intransigence in the months to come.’
Robert Donahue looked at Ashdown sharply.
‘Yes, I do mean both of you,’ repeated Ashdown.
Duskin leaned back with an amused smile. ‘You play the unbiased negotiator, but I still believe you are in league together.’
The PM fingered the black file. ‘I haven’t yet had an opportunity to discuss the content of this file. I am much more concerned that instead of fighting each other, you should work together to resolve this crisis. You have a straight choice: recall your planes immediately, or I will organise a press conference and blow the whole sorry story to the world.’
The Prime Minister stood and picked up the phone. ‘Geoffrey, I want to arrange a press conference one hour from now.’ He replaced the handset and turned to face them. ‘Well gentlemen, what will it be?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
From the outset of the attack, the dedicated processor aboard Sentinel One assessed the precise location, speed and trajectory of each warplane engaged in the dogfight. Using the sensors on-board the squadron’s airplanes, it also tracked every missile fired on both sides. Thus it was aware of the type and quantity of remaining armaments.
The result of the calculations, which lasted one five hundredth of a second, was a Tactical Battlefield Plan (TBP). The plan united the firepower of the American flight, with a central computerised ‘situational awareness’ hub. Though tested many times over the deserts of New Mexico, the program had never been implemented in hostile conditions – until now.
The TBP was constantly being updated during the early phase of the conflict, but acted only in passive mode. Sentinel leader decided that the time was right, and leaned forward to activate TBP. The switch was protected by a cover which he lifted to depress the button underneath. TBP switched from passive to active mode. Its first priority was to extricate the most vulnerable American warplanes, and the computer issued a rapid series of commands to the rest of the flight.
Each pilot received a set, allocating a grid reference and guidance on how to attain the position, and when. It was up to each navigator to ensure their aircraft reached that point at the pre-determined time. They knew that other nearby warplanes would be covering their movements.
Each crew manually assigned their weapon’s system to operational control of the TBP, reporting ‘Weapons free!’ to Sentinel One. Now all the American warplanes fought as one, under the unified command of the computer on board Sentinel One. All the flight’s sensors, including thermal and radar, fed into the TBP, and the entire arsenal of the squadron came under central control.
The computer made constant adjustments as its human operators strived to achieve the electronic orders. Once they reached their station, it issued another command string, the equivalent of FIRE! Five planes unleashed Amraams, chasing Russian tail. Seconds later three struck their targets, and the remaining two Russian warplanes fled.
Stage two of the plan executed immediately. This phase was designed to begin eliminating key elements of the opposition’s assets. Ten warplanes from Sentinel flight targeted three MiG-29s and two Su-24Ms. Ten pilots did their best to respond quickly and accurately to locate themselves at the correct RDV. At the appropriate instant, each plane released a missile, catching four of their targets. The last Su-24M turned tail, narrowly avoiding oblivion.
The battlefield computer commenced phase three of the operation without pause, marking the beginning of the end. The TBP determined the next group of Russian planes assigned for destruction, based on their threat level. Up to this point, the American attack proved to be so devastating, the Russians did not have time to regroup and form a coherent counter-attack. Storm Flight scattered to the winds.
Seconds later an emergency recall message was broadcast to the whole of Sentinel wing. They were commanded to cease the attack and stand down. Unfortunately, the order came too late to stop another four of the Russian flight number being pursued by missiles and eliminated seconds later.
Sean looked back to where LK-80 used to be. There was no sign of her now.
On board the ship inside the reactor hall the core meltdown continued as LK-80 slowly sank. Fuel rod casings collapsed with the heat which approached 2,500 degrees centigrade. Uranium fuel pellets, Zirconium alloy sleeves and steel inner lining puddled on the floor of the containment vessel. The mix of radioactive and non-radioactive elements was now called a corium - one of the rarest forms of matter on the planet. The closest material it resembled was molten lava from a volcanic eruption - but it was twice the temperature of the hottest lava ever ejected by a volcano.
The corium quickly eroded the containment and the incandescent sludge dropped slowly onto a concrete bed, specially constructed to limit a potential meltdown. Complex reactions with the concrete commenced as the sludge burned a firepath through the metre thick wall. Gravity helped to speed the reaction since the ship was no longer sinking on an even keel. A thick crust formed on top of the lava-like melt, adding to the weight of material. The layer provided a thermal shield against the surrounding atmosphere, and kept the nucleus from cooling.
Above Sean the sky was quiet; the dog-fight was over. He shivered violently; his Arctic survival suit was soaking and his hand hurt like hell. A marine hustled him and Khostov to the waiting C-17 Globemaster. As soon as they climbed on board, the aircraft taxied to the airstrip.
Sean observed the occupants of the huge airplane. They were mostly US military, plus the remainder of the crew from USS Montana. He spotted Major Pierce near the front and raised his good hand in a friendly wave. The marine who had accompanied them distributed two gas masks and motioned for them to put them on. He slipped the elastic cord over his head and arranged the seal over his face, before checking Khostov’s.
LK-80 continued to descend and passed the 300 metre mark. Enclosed spaces within the living areas, the steam turbine hall and power generation room started to implode with the external pressure of the ocean. During the descent the corium had grown in size and weight while eroding the last of the concrete bed. One hundred and forty tons of the melt dropped on to the deck plates and burned through the two centimetre internal steel hull in less than five minutes.
Here it encountered water for the first time in the form of bilge, slopping between the inner and outer hulls. The outcome was devastating. The melt vaporised the water, causing an explosion which punched a hole through the outer hull. As the vessel descended below four hundred metres, seawater rushed in, meeting the corium head on. An enormous blast occurred, vaporising the ship and the sea for half a kilometre in diameter. The sudden and intense transfer of heat caused the water to separate into its constituent elements of hydrogen, oxygen and super-heated steam. Well above the auto-ignition point of the mixture, the ball combusted in an altogether bigger eruption.
The corium experienced a heat spike, and as the sea filled the vacuum it met the thermal barrier generated by the nucleus. There the saltwater boiled off into superheated steam, pushed ever closer to the incandescent core by the weight of the surrounding Ocean. The whole cycle began again, causing another large detonation as the hydrogen ignited in the oxygen-rich mixture.
Sean could hear a rumble even above the roar of the aircraft engines. It sounded like a vast train coming to a halt and he felt the effects as the big aircraft became airborne. The entire plane staggered with the force of the blast. The pilot recovered, and Sean shot a look through the port hole.
Dark clouds scudded in the sky and it appeared to be raining out there. Two kilometres away the sea erupted. An expanding sphere of superheated steam and vapour rose violently from the depths. He could hardly believe his eyes as an immense dome formed over the ocean.
The aircraft turned away, still clawing for height as the leading edge of the compression wave hit. The aircraft dropped 300 feet vertically and a collective groa
n of fear echoed around the interior. Now nose down, the plane continued to dive to the earth. Some people began to assume the crash position, heads bent forward, arms covering their heads. Sean stared out of the window as the ground rose up to meet them. Oxygen masks popped from the overhead lockers, and some of the passengers emitted loud screams.
Sean held his breath and gripped the seat in front of him. A certain sadness settled over him, and an odd thought flashed through his mind. To have come all this way, to have achieved so much, just to die in the closing moments of the mission. Hardly fair, but then that was the price he had to pay for getting his kicks. Almost immediately he was overcome by shame; hundreds of other people were bound to the same fate, and his first instinct was for himself.
The pilot applied maximum thrust and the airframe vibrated with the complex forces battling for the lives of the passengers. Slowly, the nose began to rise, barely two hundred of feet above ground. The aftermath of the compression front gave the huge aircraft a boost in forward speed, and they rose quickly away from the certainty of imminent death.