Dying is not that bad. He is not afraid. As a matter of fact, he is almost happy. He feels calm. Just go to sleep and soon everything will be over. This is it.
A firm hand suddenly grabs him and pulls him toward the line. Someone clinches his wrist and forces his fingers around the rope. A regulator is violently shoved into his mouth. He takes a few breaths. Then he opens his eyes. John Axman’s face is too close for comfort, but he is holding a supporting hand under Bergman’s left arm. Modin is firmly holding onto his other arm.
They have saved the life of Judas, he thinks. Oh my fucking God! They both know!
CHAPTER 65
THE ROCK, GRISSLEHAMN, WEDNESDAY, JULY 30, 2:00 A.M.
As far as Commander Larsen was concerned, the rank marks on his shoulders were an easy burden to bear. Nothing but embroidered insignia designed to provide official credibility once the shit hit the fan.
Larsen’s hair was gray and thin now, but the intensity in his eyes was the same as during the unfortunate submarine events back in the 1980s, their sharp gaze further emphasized by his distinct, almost hawk-like nose. He examined the guests on his way through the The Rock as he was heading for his table.
A fisherman was half asleep on a chair by the short wall, while two brats in their late teens were hitting on a pretty girl at another table. Two couples were lined up at the bar, ready to square the check and leave. The music was turned off.
Henry Hoffsten, the younger officer and Larsen’s right hand, had been sitting by the table waiting for his boss, while at the same time also observing the patrons, one by one. Their uniforms had not drawn any extraordinary attention and the guests were not Russian spies disguised as tourists or locals. He finally decided that all was good.
Joint brought a tray with two giant cocktail shrimp sandwiches and two lattes over to their table.
“Last call, gentlemen,” he said. “Please enjoy.” Joint nodded and left them.
“We will cast away in an hour,” Larsen told Hoffsten in a low voice. “There are Russian vessels in the area.”
Hoffsten grabbed his latte and dug in on the sandwich, wondering if he’d have enough time to finish it.
As if he had said it out loud, Larsen said, “Go ahead and eat, but the sooner we can get out of here the better. The crew has been given orders to maintain a ten-minute readiness. I just got off the phone with HQ.”
“What are our orders, if they decide to attack the divers?” Henry Hoffsten asked with a full mouth and a smidgen of mayo in the corner of his lips. His sloppiness is the only slightly annoying thing about him, Larsen thought. Other than that, he is bright, quick with his thoughts, and the right stuff through-and-through.
“Well, we will protect our fellow countrymen,” Larsen said and looked him deeply in the eyes. “There is not a shadow of a doubt that the Russians would want to beat us to the missing submarine and that is what we are here to prevent. That is why we have been equipped with live depth charges. We are, as of now, a secret Special Ops unit taking orders only from the highest authority.”
“Excuse me, from whom?” Hoffsten said.
“From His Majesty the King.”
“You must be joking. He cannot issue orders anymore. This is not the sixteenth century, you know.”
“According to a decree issued many years ago, but still very much in effect and kept at Navy Headquarters, the King is officially the highest ranking officer with the rank of Admiral. That is our legitimacy for this operation.”
“Will that really fly in a constitutional hearing?” Henry Hoffsten asked while finishing the last of his sandwich.
“Who the hell knows? But it is all we’ve got to go on right now out here in the open sea. We will stay mostly within Swedish territorial waters, or at least in close proximity. Push comes to shove, we can always claim that we are protecting Swedish sovereignty. In addition, we have the official backing from some heavy hitters the business community. We will be fine, I am sure. They will eventually be disbanding the entire navy anyway, so who knows, this might be your last chance to do something good for good ole Mother Sweden.”
Larsen swallowed the last sip from his latte and got up.
“Come on, let’s go. It is roughly twenty-four years since the last time I met the Russians eye-to-eye. That time we came out victorious.”
• • •
The iciness of the sea squeezed Bergman all the way into his marrow. He was up at the forty-five feet stop. Freezing like a dog, his whole body was shaking. He had to remain at forty-five for another fifteen minutes before he could advance to the forty feet stop.
Modin was hovering right alongside, but they were not looking at each other. Bergman clinched the rope as if he would never let go. John Axman was already out of the water. He probably had hot tea ready for them up in the Hulk, waiting to raise a toast to success. They had just conducted the most spectacular dive that anyone had ever dared to undertake in this country. And they had managed to avoid decompression sickness, at least for the most part. Bergman did not think he was at risk any more. He and Modin had deliberately extended the decompression stops and both of them had had a refill of gas.
Bergman, however, could not feel any joy whatsoever. He was a traitor and they knew. Would Modin and the others ever forgive him?
Modin was hovering motionless next to him. It was a remarkable sight. Daylight had begun to break above. The combination of water and emerging light created a dimension of eternity. He was clearly missing something important in his life. Filled with sorrow, he felt like giving up and just letting go of the rope.
No, I cannot, I have Astrid, he thought. This is nothing but hallucinations from breathing this gas mix. Count your blessings, get your act together, and concentrate on the here and now! You can figure out how to mend relationships later. There’s always a way.
Bergman looked up. He could see the contours of the Hulk up there on the surface. Modin’s diving suit was dirty all over from bottom sediment. In a karabiner by his diving belt hung the dark-green metal case with its chain and handcuff in closed position. Bergman forced himself to think positively. Forced himself to think of what could be inside of that case. He fumbled his left leg pocket and could feel that the wrist watch was still there. That was another positive. Things were easing up, he could breathe more freely. A warm sensation flooded his chest.
Then he heard a distinct mechanical noise. It was more distinct now than when he thought he had heard it on the bottom. He tapped Modin on the shoulder. Modin turned toward him and Bergman pointed to his left ear. Modin did thumbs up.
He had also registered the noise. He turned around and squinted into the green, endless masses of water.
Bergman grabbed the pad and wrote: What the hell is that?
Modin shrugged his shoulders as if to say your guess is as good as mine.
• • •
Up on the Hulk, Harry Nuder was listening to the communications radio. There was activity on the channel; that much he could tell. He assumed it was the navy, although no identifications were made and no call-signs had been used. He assumed that he was listening to communication between a surface ship and a helicopter.
Suddenly a warning was transmitted. An unidentified vessel was closing in from the south and due course for Märket Reef.
Nuder grabbed the binoculars and followed the horizon. There she was, big and bright and a stark contrast to the pink line making up the horizon. It looked like an ordinary merchant vessel closing in on Märket Reef straight from the south. He estimated the distance to about ten nautical miles.
Before long, the ship’s silhouette became more distinct against the breaking dawn, and her shape came into focus. She did not sway from her course.
“How long before decompression is complete?”
“Thirty minutes,” Axman said.
• • •
Bergman and Modin were up at twenty feet where they had to remain for another seven minutes, before their last stop at ten feet.
Daylight was breaking through the water. They could see the Hulk clearly.
Visibility is incredible, Bergman thought.
The water had become distinctively warmer as they ascended from thirty to twenty feet. They had passed a convection layer and Bergman’s diving computer showed the temperature as being sixty-three degrees. It felt like a bathtub compared to what they had experienced at thirty feet. He stopped shivering and hope returned.
Then he could hear the noise again. Apart from the faint rumbling, he could also make out a high-pitched whirling sound. Bergman had never heard anything like it before. Was it a submarine? An ice-cold fear gripped him. He turned in all directions, but was not able to determine where the noise came from or what caused it. He looked at Modin and could see that he was just as puzzled.
Bergman wrote: A sub?
Modin responded: No idea. Weird.
Bergman looked up at the underbelly of the Hulk; he could not wait to get onboard. According to the diving computer, they had a little less than thirty minutes of decompression left. Could they interrupt it? In that case, they would have to get to a decompression chamber somewhere in a hurry. Would that work?
Modin was lying right next to him, again motionless.
• • •
Up on the Hulk, Harry Nuder, Sture Hultqvist, and John Axman watched the unidentified vessel heading for Märket Reef. They also watched another ship, this one coming from the shore. It was a navy surveillance ship and she was flying a Swedish flag.
Nuder could not help drawing parallels to the situation in 1982. Back then, he had been standing at the Svartklubben pilot station, listening as depth charges were deployed against the enemy submarine he now knew laid wrecked 470 feet below. He was excited in anticipation of what Modin and Bergman had to tell him about what they had seen down there. Because judging from the traffic on the water and on the radio, he gathered it was something rather spectacular.
He grabbed the binoculars and looked at the foreign ship. She was flying a Russian flag in her stern. It looked like a research vessel.
He sincerely wished they’d be a few hundred yards further west, in Swedish territorial waters. Anxiety started to build in his guts.
• • •
The high-frequency sound became louder. Bergman was hyperventilating. Here he was, hanging under the boat, unprotected and vulnerable, without the option to let go and swim up to the surface. A sitting duck!
And suddenly there it was: dark, unforgivable, and unstoppable. Like an approaching storm. He forced himself to look down between his scuba fins. The dark monster was less than forty-five feet below his feet. A sinister shadow. He instinctively retracted his feet and involuntarily advanced another three feet up the rope.
This was not a creature of nature, for sure, and he had known that all along. It was a submersible vessel of giant proportions. A nuclear submarine! The thought shot through his head even before the conning tower came into view. The tower was sharp like a razor and wide. It covered roughly one third of the sub’s entire length. It was gliding slowly and majestically beneath them at a speed of two to three knots. The craft grew until it finally covered their whole view.
It was gigantic. Bergman was on the verge of soiling himself from fear. Commanding forces moved giant masses of water, creating powerful currents, jerking Bergman’s limbs back and forth. This was horrifying.
Bergman looked in Modin’s direction. He was lying still in the water, just watching the spectacle. Modin yelled something unintelligible into the regulator; Bergman did not catch a single word.
He was terrified. The currents created by the enormous forces pushed his body toward the surface.
This is where they are going to silence us, get rid of any evidence. We’ve got to get the fuck out of here!
He interrupted his decompression and swam straight up toward the surface, following the rope.
I’ve got to warn the others on the Hulk. This sub is here to sink us!
Modin tried to stop Bergman, but he broke loose and continued upwards. Modin decided to follow suit. Bergman ripped out his mouth piece the second they broke the surface.
“A sub!”
“Yes, we know,” Sture Hultqvist said. “Congratulations.”
“No, no a real submarine. We’ve got to get the fuck out of here. And fast. It is right beneath us.”
“Come on, give us a hand so we can get up in the boat,” Modin shouted. “And bring out some pure oxygen. Fast!”
• • •
Commander Captain Larsen was standing on the bridge of the navy vessel, talking on his cell phone.
“I have a visual on Modin and his divers. They are seemingly lying still just outside the territorial water limit southeast of the island Understen. The Russian research vessel Sibiriakov is in standby position, slightly east of the Märket Reef lighthouse. We have no firm indication on the two Kilo-class submarines reported earlier by the Finnish Navy. Awaiting orders, sir. We can position ourselves in proximity to the divers and try to protect them. Request permission to use deadly force, if need be, sir.”
Larsen was quiet, listening to his orders for about thirty seconds.
“Affirmative,” he then said in a loud voice so there would be no confusion or misunderstanding with his second in command, Henry Hoffsten. “We are to protect the object at any cost. Thank you, sir.”
Larsen hung up.
• • •
Nuder started the engines and let them idle. Modin and Bergman were both lying down on the forecastle of the Hulk, breathing from the oxygen tanks to prevent decompression sickness. They did not look at each other, didn’t even face each other. But it seemed like they were going to survive.
Nuder wanted to get out of international waters as soon as he possibly could. Although aware that it was going to mark the spot for the Russians, he grabbed a knife and quickly severed the descent line from the boat.
We really do not have a choice, he thought. The Russians are already here. It is too late to play innocent when they have practically caught us with our pants around our ankles.
The Swedish surveillance ship was headed straight for them, closely shadowed by a navy helicopter. He quickly peeked at the nautical chart and found the closest reef to be Understen. Using VHF channel sixteen, he made an attempt to get in touch with the approaching navy vessel.
“The Hulk is calling navy ship. Diving vessel southeast Understen is calling. Come in, please.”
“This is Navy Surveillance Ship 502, we are listening.”
“We are leaving the area,” Nuder said trying to sound as strict and formal as possible. “Concluded diving operation has revealed a submarine directly beneath us.”
“Roger, and welcome back to the motherland. We will take it from here. We are impressed with what you’re doing, and we want you to know that the Swedish Navy is behind you one hundred percent. Data on last known position of submarine requested. Over.”
Nuder read the position off one of the screens in the GPS receiver and transmitted it over to 502 before putting the engines in gear and swerving around to head for shore. Was the Swedish Navy going for the sub?
It did not feel like they were high-tailing out of there. On the contrary, this felt like a victory. Nuder enjoyed the wind whipping his face, and every so often, he turned around to look at the navy ship.
He saw her steaming full speed toward the territorial water limit. The time was exactly five o’clock in the morning. The chopper was in hot pursuit at low altitude.
Nuder had put a couple of nautical miles between the sub and them, and picked up speed. Suddenly he heard the dull detonation of a depth charge. He recognized the sound and smiled.
We are finally defending ourselves.
CHAPTER 66
STOCKHOLM SOLNA, WEDNESDAY, JULY 30, 5:00 A.M.
Chris Loklinth was sitting in his requisitioned Porsche parked on Johan Enberg Road. The engine was turned off, and he was alone in the car. He had a good view, up about a hundred
yards of the entrance to the condo complex where Nils Nilson, former Defense Radio SIGINT director, lived. He was keeping it under close surveillance, and he could make out some sporadic activity in Nilson’s apartment two stories up.
The window drapes were moving slightly but irregularly. A shadow passed by somewhere behind. Nilson was not asleep.
This man had dedicated his entire life to SIGINT to support Swedish foreign and security policy. And today it was all going to end. He would not be able to escape the fate that awaited him. He had put the GRU spy organization in danger. He also knew too much about the fate of the DC-3 crew imprisoned in a Soviet camp. By talking to Anton Modin, he had become a leak that had to be plugged. Those are the rules and Nilson knows that, Loklinth thought. Anderson did too. Dear old man.
The layout of the apartment, two bedrooms, a kitchen, and the narrow hallway—Loklinth had memorized it all, like a map in his head. Including the fact that the bathroom did not feature any windows. Nilson had nowhere to hide, nowhere to barricade oneself. Loklinth had passed all this information to one of the Bulgarian hit men, who should be up by the apartment door at just about this moment.
Without too much exertion, Loklinth was able to imagine the fear and horror the former Defense Radio director was likely experiencing at that very moment. It hadn’t been too long since he had experienced similar mortal fear. Premonition of looming death slithered through Nilson’s body, making it almost levitate. Not much though. But sufficient to spark a glimmer of hope that he’d be able to fly away from it all.
The early morning dew was covering the hood of the Porsche, giving the paint an almost silvery shimmer.
Chris Loklinth took a banana out of the glove compartment, peeled it, and split it into four even pieces before slowly and carefully chomping it down. He then grabbed a can of wet wipes between the seats, ripped one out to ceremoniously and vigilantly wipe his hands and face thoroughly.
Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1) Page 36