82-X—that was the internal Special Ops code. The number 82 designated the year and X the fact that the mission had not been coded. Usually this indicated something exceptionally secret.
Bob Lundin left the conference room whistling a happy tune. They had another thing coming, these damn divers.
CHAPTER 19
GRISSLEHAMN, SATURDAY, JUNE 28
Seagulls were strutting around the quayside throwing their heads back, squawking for breakfast. Another vibrantly clear summer morning was about to break in the small fishing village of Grisslehamn.
Once the newspaper boy approached, revving his moped, the seagulls took off from the quay, railings, and poles and started circling the air above, squawking as if to protest his presence. He stopped in front of the hotel, about to deliver the morning newspapers.
The New England style hotel, the façade painted a light blue and white, was set on a cliff, just at the inlet to the harbor. Anton Modin and his search team of four were sitting in the dining room having breakfast. They were enjoying a menu of scrambled eggs, bacon, oatmeal, freshly baked whole grain bread, and freshly squeezed orange juice.
Out on the bay, the fishermen were maneuvering their trawlers after another night of hard labor. Judging by the boats’ waterlines, the catch had been good. Probably lots of cod, flounder, herring, and the occasional eel.
Lost in deep thought, Modin was fingering the huge Band-Aid across his nose. The black eyes and the swelling made him look terrible. It had been a week, but he still felt like he had been run over by an express train, and his muscles cramped in regular intervals if he didn’t move his limbs to soften them.
It had been a bitter return to home base. The villagers were avoiding him, looking sideways at him, talking about him behind his back. Everyone had read Matti Svensson’s article in the Norrtelje News, and it had effectively deprived him of his good name and reputation. His self-confidence was at an all-time low.
I will make sure he regrets this, Modin thought in anger, while another part of him just wanted to ignore the whole incident. I don’t have time or energy to waste on this nonsense now!
“Come on, load up,” he said and turned to the sonar expert Sture Hultqvist.
“All I can eat,” Hultqvist said and smiled.
Sture was from Uppsala, 48 years old and showed signs of an emerging beer belly, although he moved gracefully in his comfortable sailing shoes. He had checked into the hotel the night before. Modin had made sure he’d have a room with a nice view of the ocean. Hultqvist was a serious and somewhat reserved gentleman with dark blonde hair. His outdated John Lennon style glasses effectively disguised his youthful, almost boyish facial features. Just as outdated was his attire, a navy blue shirt and a pair of corduroy jeans. Modin knew Sture’s private life was in shambles, with his wife half a world away and his kids switching between the two, as they were sharing custody. But when it came to technical details, Sture was the man. The hardware was already firmly in place. His van was loaded to the brim with newly constructed search equipment, custom built just for this mission.
Modin had hit him up a couple of weeks ago and ordered everything they could possibly need, compensating him handsomely. In a very short time, Sture constructed a brand new and more sensitive sonar fish. The device, which looked like a small torpedo, would be pulled behind the boat at an appropriate depth. The fish relayed the sonar signals from the bottom and displayed the formations on a monitor somewhere in the search vessel.
“The new sonar fish is tuned to 900 kilohertz and provides us with outstanding resolution,” Sture explained while showing them the centerfold of his notebook.
“Incredible,” Nuder said, making an effort to come across as sufficiently impressed. The first generation sonar that Modin and Bergman had used earlier operated somewhere between 150 to 500 kilohertz.
“The drawback with such a high frequency is,” Sture continued in a monotone voice, “that the range of the sonar becomes somewhat limited.”
Modin explained that they needed such high frequency equipment because they were convinced the submarine could only be found by exclusion. With some dumb luck, they hoped to find the area where suspicious interference would not let them ‘see’ anything at all. He had opted for the more sensitive sonar, because the jamming device itself was going to lead them to their prize.
“At least that’s my plan and I am sticking to it,” Modin said.
Of course, he failed to mention that he did not have the faintest idea whether this plan would actually work.
“Trial and error is a very common method,” Bergman said leisurely, with tongue in cheek.
“In my experience, a very high level of self-esteem along with creativity and a good deal of dumb luck is usually what gets you there,” Modin said.
“That’s my kind of style,” John Axman said. “Just like S.A. Andrée taking off for the North Pole in his balloon at the beginning of last century. Trouble is, he didn’t make it.”
John Axman was the fifth member of the team. He was tall, in excellent physical shape, and only 38 years old, thus the youngest member of the outfit. His extreme buzz cut usually identified him as a policeman or soldier, and indeed, Modin and Axman had both been divers in the navy. In a previous life, Axman had been a professional helicopter pilot, and a navy diver back in the 1980s. Now he was part of the police cyber-crime division, which focused on pedophile rings and organized crime.
He is a very good friend, Modin thought as he was looking at Axman’s impressive profile in the pale mid-morning light. He had a very inviting smile and warm, intelligent eyes. With noticeable envy in his voice, Bergman often joked about the similarities between Axman and the actor Brad Pitt.
Axman had just arrived at the hotel. As such, he left the talking to the other guys, since he had his hands full just trying to stay awake, suppressing his yawns.
“I should have come here last night, just like Sture,” he said and poked around in his scrambled eggs.
“In the 1980s, John was part of the team identifying the now infamous bottom tracks made by mini subs in the Swedish archipelago,” Modin said, introducing Axman to the others. “Hey, John, why don’t you tell us the story the way it was?”
Axman put his fork down.
“Well, it was an exciting and intriguing story,” he said in a voice that immediately instilled confidence. “The Swedish Navy pinpointed the tracks on the seabed just south of Landsort in 1988. Following Modin’s advice, I double-checked this with my own diving diary. Every single person who was involved in those diving operations at the time was eventually subjected to a lifelong oath of confidentiality. You know, in the interest of national security. We were briefed on the situation, as well as on the confidentiality agreement, before we were even allowed into the water.”
Axman leaned back in his chair with a smirk on his face.
“I was only 18 at the time and could not fully grasp the extent of what was happening when I took the oath. Later, I decided to break the oath, and Modin here was the first person I ever told about these tracks. I was very much a part of the so-called submarine hysteria in the 1980s, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Facts were ignored or swept under the rug in the official investigations and factual events were just covered up, distorted, or ignored. We were told we had imagined the whole thing.”
“Only 18 years old and propelled right into the center of events,” Bergman said. “Please tell me how that happened?”
“We were diving at a depth of only 45 feet. We photographed, measured, and documented the tracks, which were clear as a day and could not in any way be confused with anything like anchor drag marks, for instance. Unfortunately, the cover-up started immediately and continued until and including the official investigation by diplomat envoy Rolf Ekéus in 2002. He was a one-man team, and eventually concluded that the tracks were anchor drag marks after all. He came to this conclusion with the assistance of some shady characters, experts from Military Intelligence.”
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“You can’t be serious,” Bergman said.
“Unfortunately, I am,” Axman said. “I think it is farfetched to accuse Ekéus of being partial or even lying straight-faced, but I am pretty sure he was led astray by our colleagues in the intelligence service. The 2002 tracks he was studying could in no way have been the ones my colleagues and I discovered and documented in the 1980s. The tracks we saw radiated perpendicularly from a deeper trench with sharp edges, most likely made by a bigger miniature sub. We discovered this imprint close to a rock formation on the bottom. The larger keel imprint was close to 70 feet long, which means the sub must have been a few feet longer, probably 85 to 90 feet. But there were other tracks, too; two of them. They were about two feet wide and close together. It was like something had chewed its way across the bottom, like the tracks from a small backhoe.”
“Where did the tracks go?” Sture asked.
“They continued a good distance away from the keel imprints toward the shore line, just to disappear in front of our eyes. We assumed that the mini subs had elevated themselves from the bottom and continued by propeller. In the early 1980s, the Russians experienced trouble stabilizing small subs in shallow waters. This deficiency put them at risk of accidentally surfacing like corks.”
“And, of course, no one told Mr. Ekéus about this simple fact?” Bergman said, now working himself up.
“Well, at least I haven’t,” Axman said while indulging in an Italian sausage. “No one ever asked us divers for our opinion. It is a bit weird, to tell you the truth. Come to think of it, I have never again seen the footage of those tracks.”
“You would think they’d like to present the tracks as evidence,” Bergman said.
“Well, my opinion of that one-man investigation is clear,” Modin said in a surly tone of voice. “The politicians had something to cover up. Why else would they appoint only a single investigator? One man is easier to control and manipulate than an entire group of investigators. If you guys recall, they also initiated a one-man investigation of the alleged smuggling of military goods onboard the M/S Estonia.” Modin fought to conceal his emotions. Even today, the sheer mention of the ferry unsettled him. He simply had to uncover the truth and find those responsible somehow. Soon.
“Oh, fuck it all,” Bergman said. “We are going to find not only the tracks, but the wreck itself and put it on display for everyone to see. Then I would love to see Mr. Ekéus’s face.”
“Pants around his ankles,” Modin said and everyone smiled, including Sture Hultqvist.
CHAPTER 20
SINGÖ ISLAND, SUNDAY, JUNE 29, 2:00 A.M.
It was a starry night. Modin and his group stealthily moved back and forth, carrying equipment down to the dock. They loaded the fishing boat that Nuder had provided and stocked up the galley with food and water. Diving equipment for two divers included four twin sets of diving tanks filled with Trimix gas. The gas had been mixed to allow a diving depth of up to 430 feet, if so needed. Although considerably deeper than any of them had descended before, this was the anticipated approximate depth of the submarine wreck.
The fishing vessel was equipped with a state-of-the-art mapping GPS receiver and an echo sounder. In addition, there was radar for navigation at night or in inclement weather. Harry Nuder was the captain. He had brought one of his hunting rifles with telescopic sight along. Just in case. His mother had been asked to take care of Nuder’s puppies.
Modin fired a friendly and appreciative smile toward Nuder. “We made it,” he said contentedly. “In those long summer days you only have a two-hour window of darkness.” Modin had planned loading the equipment in darkness, so they would be able to leave and be out of sight before first break of daylight.
Nuder smiled back as he folded out the new nautical chart where he had marked the search area. Dawn would be here soon enough and it was time for departure.
“Cast away,” Nuder said.
It was a beautiful night and deadly calm. A blood-red sky formed a stunning backdrop as the sun, still stuck somewhere just below the horizon, cast its rays on the cumulus clouds high up in the stratosphere. Modin secretly admired Nuder’s seamanship. Nuder maneuvered the trawler away from the landing dock and immediately set the course for the territorial water limit. Modin felt a sensational but familiar tingling in his limbs as they embarked on their adventure.
• • •
Meanwhile, in Grisslehamn, a car had snuck down into the harbor area with its headlights turned off. Matti Svensson rode all the way up to its back fender and got off his bicycle. He was short of breath and wore only his pajamas underneath the old worn overcoat. Balancing his bicycle with one hand and grabbing on to the edge of the car roof with the other, he bent forward trying to control his breath so he could talk to the driver.
As if on cue, Bob Lundin rolled down the driver’s side window.
CHAPTER 21
ÅLAND SEA, SUNDAY, JUNE 29, 6:00 A.M.
They had traveled a fair distance offshore.
While Sture Hultqvist and John Axman checked the equipment below deck, Modin, Bergman, and Nuder studied the nautical chart up on the bridge. They plotted several alternative lines of sight from the Svartklubben pilot station out toward the location where Nuder assumed the depth charge attack had taken place in the fall of 1982.
Nuder remembered the information he had passed on from Hans von Arbin, the officer who ordered the depth charges back then. That night, Nuder had witnessed his first and only real act of war, and it had scared him stiff. Realizing that history was in the making out there on the dark waters, he had memorized every word. The lines of sight now reduced the search area to about five nautical miles in a north-south direction.
Modin was an experienced sea dog. Knowing that a nautical mile equaled approximately two thousand yards, he opted for a two-and-a-half nautical mile wide sector in the east-west direction.
“Roughly a nautical mile inside the territorial water limit, and about a mile-and-a-half outside of it,” he said. “Am I right?”
Bergman agreed.
“According to von Arbin,” Nuder said, “the whole idea was to sink the submarine just barely outside of Swedish waters, but still close enough to make a Russian search and rescue operation almost impossible without violating or threatening Swedish territory.”
He pointed to the nautical chart on the table in front of him. “I would imagine von Arbin was banking on the fact that the Swedish Navy would not go searching for the sub outside the territorial water limit. According to international law, Sweden—or any other country, for that matter—is prohibited from tampering with any foreign state vessel outside of their own territorial waters.”
“The sinking was an act of war, indeed,” Modin said, “but the Russians could do nothing without exposing their aggressive secret operations in Swedish waters. Von Arbin knew that.” Modin squinted toward the horizon, while Bergman and Nuder concentrated on the nautical chart.
“Listen up,” Bergman said. “I have accounted for some margin of error and by that arrived at a search area equal to ten by two-and-a-half nautical miles. Assuming that the search passes will have a width of about a hundred yards and we travel at a speed of four knots, the entire search operation will take 141 hours, or six days of continuous searching, provided the weather gods are on our side.”
“We should be able to make it,” Harry Nuder said. “The forecast promises decent weather for the rest of the week. A high pressure system is on its way in, with calm and clear conditions.”
“I just hope and pray we are in the right area,” Bergman said.
“Von Arbin’s testimony claims that the charges were deployed at a depth of 450 feet,” Modin said partly turned away from the chart. “That fact alone limits the search area considerably.”
Modin felt content, almost happy. They were well prepared. The precautions for this search mission were close to ideal. Their only potential obstacle could be the jamming device supposedly deployed somewhere in the area. And
of course, Loklinth’s Special Ops might be in their way, too. He had still to develop a plan for getting around those problems, but he wasn’t prepared to share this with the others just yet.
Daylight arrived in a cascade of azure, light blue, and clear skies. Mists of bubbles and foam were spurting about the bow as they steamed forward. At 7:30 A.M., Nuder began to slow down; they had reached the search area. The diesel engine revved down as seagulls were circling the top of the mast.
“Modin! You have a phone call.”
Modin’s cell phone in his hand, John Axman walked through the door onto the bridge.
“Yes, this is Modin.”
“Hi Anton, this is Matti Svensson.”
“What do you want?”
“I just learned that you have been accused of rape and assault. The Estonian girl pressed charges. What are your comments?”
“I am innocent. It’s all a setup.”
“Well, we are going to publish it tomorrow. Going to print, I would like to have a better story than this fairy tale. This is for your own sake, Modin. Nobody is going to believe that someone is trying to set you up. Who would? And why? So, ‘fess up, old boy.”
“Fuck you, Svensson,” Modin hissed and hung up.
This was worse than having the living crap beat out of you, he thought. Psychological mind games like this were unusual, even for Special Ops, and reminded him more of the methods used by the old Soviet KGB. It could very well be that Chris Loklinth was behind this. But how am I going to prove that he’s fucking with me?
Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1) Page 13