Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1)

by Anders Jallai

  DEEP STATE

  A Thriller by

  Anders Jallai

  DEEP STATE

  Copyright © 2015 by Anders Jallai. All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

  CONTENTS

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  Also by Anders Jallai

  PREFACE

  I first hatched the idea of writing a spy novel while doing research on the activities of the Soviet intelligence agencies KGB and GRU in Sweden during the Cold War. I found material that proved to be both sensational and unique in its nature—material not only on Sweden, but also on CIA and MI6 activities in Scandinavia, sometimes even in cooperation with Swedish intelligence. The first three novels in a series about the former intelligence operative Anton Modin are based on real events.

  I have had access to documents about the DC-3 spy plane that went missing over the Baltic Sea in 1952, from the archives at the Swedish Security Service (SÄPO), the Swedish Ministry for Foreign Affairs, the military archives of Sweden, the Military Intelligence Service (MUST), the DC-3 archives at the Defense Radio Establishment (FRA), as well as the personal Security Service file of the Swedish arch spy Stig Wennerström, including the most classified parts. In addition, I have also had access to Security Service personnel files up until 1985, as well as the material on Venona, the U.S. counter-intelligence program within the Security Service and the National Security Agency NSA.

  This first book in the series, Deep State, describes events that took place in the 1980’s. It deals with the cover-up of the so-called submarine incidents, the intrusions and stranding of Soviet submarines in Swedish waters, and with spy activity within the Defense Radio Establishment FRA and various levels of the Swedish intelligence community. In this second edition, most of the characters have been given real-world historical names.

  I’ve had the fortunate opportunity to interview initiated and involved intelligence personnel who have willingly shared their knowledge and time. For this I would like to thank them. Many of the individuals who were on active duty during those years, and some even earlier, are no longer with us, which I deeply regret. They are for this very reason not able to share and read the results of our conversations. The 200 or so people I have interviewed in my research for this book have all been active within the Swedish Security Service, the Defense Radio Establishment, MUST, the Department of Special Operations, the Police, the Swedish Coast Guard, the Swedish Maritime Administration, the Swedish Navy, the Russian Navy, the Swedish Air Force, the Swedish Army, the Swedish Defense Research Agency FOI, the Swedish Defence Materiel Administration FMV, the Swedish Ministry for Foreign Affairs, government offices, the National Archives, the KGB-archive, the U.S. Navy, NSA, GCHQ, the military archives of Sweden, the Swedish Accident Investigation Authority, SNCA Courts administration, the Soviet merchant navy, the Estonian Merchant Navy, and the Estonian Intelligence Service. I am sincerely grateful to all of them.

  Some personal names have been altered in the book. All paragraphs designated in italics are snippets from authentic documents or interviews, in most cases including source citations.

  Finally, please keep in mind, this is a work of fiction—not everything is necessarily true.

  Anders Jallai, Grisslehamn, Sweden 2014

  CHAPTER 1

  “The Prime Minister called for clarification as well as for information on the status of the submarine hunt. PM Mr. Fälldin wanted to know if any of the persistent rumors in the recent media coverage about foreign amphibious troop sightings on Swedish territory could be true. He also inquired whether or not there could be a possible submarine wreck on the bottom as a result of Swedish depth charges and mines etc., and if any of them had even an ounce of truth to them.”

  (The Supreme Commander’s secret diary, September 21, 1982)

  NORTHERN BALTIC SEA, SEPTEMBER 20, 1982

  The rotor blades pump steadily above the two pilots flying a Swedish modified version of the Boeing Vertol CH-46 Sea Knight with tandem rotors. They are flying at a low altitude toward the designated target area.

  Dusk settles rapidly over the Northern Baltic Sea this time of year, and they squint in the neutral colorless light. There is no visible activity on the small islands and reefs they pass over; only some stray sea gulls are flying aimlessly, hunting for food. Behind the clouds toward the southwest, the sunset is putting on its fiery display of red-orange, creating a light show of strange shadows. The scenery in the northern parts of the Stockholm archipelago is a splendid sight for the two focused pilots. Endless sea and scattered reefs rapidly roll in underneath the cockpit window as the monotonous and dull pounding from the rotor blades scare away the last migrating birds. They are in the outer archipelago; just past Singö Island, they can see a few summer cabins painted in the classic Swedish Falu-red scattered along the edge of the island. Here and there, a recreational boat tied to a landing stage bobbles up and down in the swells, waiting to be winterized.

  Twelve o’clock, straight ahead, they spot the patrol ship Hugin on the surface of Singö Bay. The two helicopter pilots look at each other and nod. They will be on site within 60 seconds.

  “We can now see Hugin crossing the cordon and the mine line just east of Singö Island. Further orders, acknowledge?”

  “Mission aborted. Return to base. I say again: mission aborted. It’s too late.”

  The helicopter banks to the right in a steep turn toward Stockholm and slowly disappears like a tiny dot above the blurry horizon.

  One thousand feet below, just north of Singö Island, Hugin’s bow splits the surface like a hot knife cuts butter as she slices through the calm waters. She is an intimidating sight with her 120 feet from bow to stern, a draught of only six feet, and a displacement of 160 metric tons. The cruiser is the first in the Hugin series to be delivered, launched four years earlier, in the spring of 1978, and equipped with cutting edge technology.

  Commander Hans von Arbin, middle-aged, with emerging gray hair and intense dark eyes, wearing dark blue pants and his flak jacket, is standing on the bridge with binoculars pressed to his bloodshot eyes, looking out over the calm seas. He has been at it since five this morning. He is scanning the surface left to right and then slowly back again. Every now and then, he lowers the binoculars to give his eyes a break. Sometimes he swears he can see something sticking up, breaking the surface.

  No, it’s only his imagination.

  Earlier that day, at around 1:15 P.M., the dayshift at Singö pilot station filed a report with the Armed Forces Headquarters in Stockholm, citing sight of a conning tower just north of Singö Island. The observation had been made very close to the underwater mine line.

  Von Arbin is in charge of operational command. He has been waiting for this moment for a long time. His career so far has not been without bumps; to put it mildly, it’s been a little rough. Eight years ago, while he was still commanding a submarine, a superior ranking officer had subtly let him know that there was no way he would ever advance any further in the ranks. Anything higher than commander was out of the question for his remaining active duty in the navy.

  “That’s a blessing in disguise, von Arbin!”

  I would make an excellent Admiral and a role model for the entire Swedish coastal fleet. But I have the wrong profile. It’s not politically correct. I’
m way too U.S.-friendly, he contemplates surly, even if nobody explicitly expresses this over at HQ.

  Fucking amateurs!

  Acquaintances in the U.S. Navy and participation in a joint exercise with NATO in the southern Baltic Sea in the late 1970s, are still considered professional disadvantages. The Royal Navy is the last independent branch of the Armed Forces of Sweden, von Arbin thinks. To add insult to injury, Prime Minister Palme and his socialist government have just been elected again. A depressing fact, given they will continue to scale back the defense budget to the point where we will no longer be able to defend our borders. The Prime-Minister-to-be has already announced drastic cutbacks within the armed forces, despite the fact that enemy submarines penetrated our waters close to our military installations and naval bases. That is when this imbecile finds it appropriate to scale down our submarine defenses? Un-fucking-believable!

  Commander von Arbin senses that his strong feelings about the whole mess make him blush. Where is this heading?

  “If we are to open fire, it has to be done now,” Captain Carl Ericson says, clearly addressing Commander von Arbin. “Soon we will be in international waters.”

  Pressured by the gravity of the moment, von Arbin feels the need for a decision weighing on his shoulders. A decision that will end the battle.

  “Hold it!”

  Commander von Arbin raises his hand almost like a stop sign. All activity on the ship dies down for a moment. He is deep in concentration.

  “Just a few more yards, just a few more,” he says, standing completely still, almost frozen.

  “Depth?”

  “300.”

  “Roger.”

  Von Arbin contemplates for a few seconds before he resolutely grabs the microphone and issues the order:

  “Bravo … Oscar … Kilo, one minute to depth charge deployment.”

  “Depth?”

  “450 feet.”

  Von Arbin seems frozen in time; he is leaning forward slightly, tilting his head as if he is listening to the sound of the sea.

  “Sir, may I respectfully remind you that we are now in international waters,” Captain Carl Ericson says.

  “Shut up, Ericson. We’re at war.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, you will end up behind bars, sir. We have clear orders to let the submarine run.”

  “Frigging hell, Ericson. Are you even listening to yourself! To let a deeply penetrating underwater intruder deliberately get away is nothing short of treason, you hear me? We are doing the right thing.”

  “You are not following orders, sir.”

  “Now! Fire.”

  The depth charges are launched in wide arches and land in the water: splash, splash, splash. All six in rapid succession. Then silence.

  On the bridge, all seems peaceful as they are waiting for the detonations. Seconds feel like minutes, as they are anxiously glancing at their watches, then at the spot where the charges went down. The foam behind the stern of the patrol boat is subsiding and sinking down into its wake. Von Arbin is still holding his pose like a statue.

  Then the gates of hell open. The sea explodes underneath them. The patrol ship is caught in a thundering inferno of cascading water and violent shaking as a deafening yet dull rumble travels the length of the hull from bow to stern.

  “Another salvo. Now!”

  The procedure repeats onboard: splash, splash, splash. Another six depth charges go into the water. On the bridge, the men experience the same strange psychological effect as stop watches become the only connection to time and space. This is war!

  The crew watches the drama with a mix of fear and excitement. They are anxiously awaiting the effect of the deployment, of what they have done. From numerous past routine exercises, they have at least a theoretical perception of what’s going on down there.

  A huge air release comes up from below, about sixty feet across. The water is boiling behind the ship. Water cascades rising from the depth.

  The sight is overwhelming, breathtaking. The primitive force within the quivering masses of water is immense. The patrol ship is caught in the aftershock; its hull violently rolls from port to starboard and back again. The crew members are struggling to stay on their feet, trying to compensate for the sudden moves.

  “Scan the area!” von Arbin yells.

  He stands firm, his legs spread wide apart, both hands planted squarely on his hips, his eyes fixed on a point straight ahead, looking out over the dark waters.

  The crew is waiting. The sonar operator, headphones set in place, is listening, deep in concentration.

  “Negative,” he reports. “No engines; nothing.”

  He looks up with a wary expression on his face as he seems to finally realize what has just happened: They may have sunken an enemy submarine, killed people.

  “Any sign from other traffic?”

  No response.

  “On deck; scan the surface,” Commander von Arbin orders the conscripts.

  The order echoes through the intercom and the deck horn. A moment later, von Arbin himself steps on deck.

  A distinctive rattle travels through the hull. The conscripts, twenty-something-year-old boys, come running, short of breath. With squinting eyes and half-open mouths, they’re scanning the surface, now far from shore. In the mast high up above them, a Swedish war ensign flag whips in the wind.

  Their hands squeeze the railing, knuckles whitening. Any sign of casualties?

  The sonar operator continues to listen. “Nothing. Quiet like a tomb,” he says, without even thinking about the grave irony of that statement.

  “Oil! Oil on the surface at eleven o’clock, immediately left of the bow,” the conscript lookout reports his observation in a fast, staccato voice.

  A thin oil slick appears on the surface, clearly visible in the patrol ship’s searchlight.

  Carl Ericson, who so far has been standing by, passively watching von Arbin take over his ship, suddenly flinches. Something is shooting up through the water at an incredible speed. A pillar of water surges more than six feet into the air. Immediately following it, a human body lands with a splash.

  The body is just lying there, bobbing up and down without any visible sign of life. The apparition is dark, but one can see that the face and hands are of a slightly lighter complexion. The crew is petrified, not able to take their eyes off the lifeless corpse. The ship backs up until it is alongside the body.

  “Get him out of there,” von Arbin orders.

  Two crew members use sticks to slowly pull the body toward the stern and manage to get it on board, up on the aft deck.

  The body slams into the deck, water draining from its clothes.

  “Check for a pulse.”

  “No pulse.”

  The crew assembles around a man in his thirties. He wears a dark green military-style knitted skull cap, dark green overalls, and black boots. A tiny stream of blood runs from his nose. His face is pale with a slightly yellow complexion, but otherwise not deformed.

  Corpse complexion, von Arbin thinks as he’s elbowing his way through the crowd. He has seen dead bodies before and without a doubt, he is now looking at another one.

  “Check his pockets for identification,” he orders the two conscripts who just fished the corpse out of the water. However uncomfortable or even unethical it is to strip search a dead body, it has to be done.

  They go through the pockets without finding even a trace of a paper. The man has no wrist watch, no wedding band. Nothing.

  “There’s nothing,” one of the conscripts says, and takes a step back.

  “Check his boots; there’s got to be something.”

  As the men rip off his left boot, they notice that it is an unusual model. There are no brand markings, no text or image or label; nothing. Unidentifiable. The orange life west is the same; there are no markings, no text, no labels.

  Water and blood steadily stream from the corpse’s mouth as they turn him over. Instinctively, the conscript standing closest quickly
moves his foot to avoid being hit.

  “Weird. What kind of a dude is this?”

  Commander von Arbin leans over the stern railing to see if there is more down there, maybe some artifact they’ve missed. He concentrates and focuses his misty eyes on the dark surface of the water.

  After a moment, he thinks he can make out something moving deep down. Something dark, but shifting to a paler nuance intermittently. Or, is it just his imagination?

  He can feel the railing pressing against his belly as he leans further out to get a better view.

  Could there possibly be a source of light down there?

  Any further opportunity for reflection is shattered as another body projects from the deep like a bolt of lightning and lands just behind the transom.

  Taken by surprise, von Arbin recoils as he’s being splashed, falls backwards, and hits his head on a toe rail on the aft deck. He’s down for a few seconds, but the expected and familiar rush of pain refuses to appear.

  He’s okay.

  “What the fuck,” von Arbin says and slowly gets back on his feet.

  “He is alive! He’s moving.”

  The man is floating on his back, aided by his life vest, and he has some kind of breathing aid attached to his face. He’s moaning and it looks like he is trying to rid himself of the contraption constraining his nose and mouth.

  The roar of the ship’s engines wakens the newcomer. By rolling back and forth in the water, he manages to finally get the mask off, and before they’ve been able to reach him, he drops the device. It is sinking fast. No one has a chance to grab it before it’s gone.

  Two conscript seamen carefully haul him on board. He is very weak and can barely speak. His eyes are like saucers and he doesn’t blink. Von Arbin realizes that the man is suffering from severe shock.

  “We have got to get him to shore,” Carl Ericson, second in command, says.

  Von Arbin contemplates the circumstances; the dead and injured have put them in a very precarious and difficult situation. It is uncomfortable, but, more importantly, it is also very dangerous as it proves prove an unofficial sinking. At any moment, a torpedo from a Russian vessel could slam them mid-ship without anyone ashore even noticing. They’re too far out.