Traitor

by Duncan Falconer

  He felt uncomfortably warm but he knew from experience that within minutes of sitting still the cold would start to penetrate his dry-suit and clothing.

  Every now and then a heftier wave from a passing vessel threw him about despite having taken several minutes to cover the distance from the ship. Unlike the Inessa, none of the ships would risk coming too near either mole. The green light on the southern one flashed in the darkness.

  The vast harbour hardly looked its size from where Stratton was. Most of Sevastopol’s street and building lights along the waterline were obscured. It was impossible to see the narrowing channel that led into the harbour proper without climbing to the top of the mole. He settled in to play the oh-so-familiar waiting game.

  If the Inessa did not depart that night, Stratton would have to be back at the villa before first light and then return to the cache the following evening to repeat the whole process. This could go on until the Russian vessel did eventually leave. He wasn’t looking forward to that option at all. The longer he remained on the ground the greater the risk of exposure and of being detected. The task didn’t concern him as much as the time he would have to spend in the villa during the day and especially his need to sleep for part of it. That alone could arouse suspicion.

  Voices drifted down to his ears and he shrank deeper into the cranny. They could only be coming from the top of the mole. Men’s voices, at least two, speaking in Russian. The sound was clear, as though the men were leaning over the parapet.

  Stratton felt a sudden vibration by his right ear. The signal originated from a small receiver tucked into a pocket on the side of his hood. It was a GSM and GPS Sim-card device that could be activated from a cellular phone. There were three distinct vibration patterns: one to order him to abort completely, another to abort for that night only and the third to indicate that the Inessa was departing. He received the third signal, sent by an observer stationed where they could see the vessel or at least the finger of water that it would need to pass along to reach the main channel and the harbour mouth. Stratton had somewhere between fifteen and twenty minutes to get into position.

  His adrenalin level rose and he eased his head from cover to look above. He could see two figures partially silhouetted against the night sky. The men moved along the wall and Stratton quickly turned on the gas bottle at the front of the diving apparatus. He pulled on the face mask, put the mouthpiece between his teeth, opened the flow valves and took several deep breaths before exhaling the gas through his nose to clear the device of excessive nitrogen. He craned his neck to look up again, the action made more difficult by the breathing apparatus. The men appeared to have gone further round the mole and out of sight. Gathering his equipment and looking and feeling like some kind of aquatic gypsy, Stratton moved away from the breakers and slipped below the surface.

  Every step of the operation except the next one had been somehow quantifiable. It all depended on a handful of bolts remaining in their holes in a slab of rock. Deep down Stratton hated relying on single physical bits of apparatus - the rings that secured a man under his parachute, for instance, or the karabiner and line that kept him from falling to his death when he was climbing. It was a visceral complaint. Stratton could control the inner conflicts. They did not alter his reliance on such devices. But the concerns remained, components of his fear that were probably essential to his success.

  Visibility was reasonable, at least ten metres, better than average in his experience. The rubber suit grew tighter as he finned, gripping his arms and legs as the air inside compressed. He looked at the needle of a luminous compass attached to his wrist.

  The concrete mouldings gave way to huge boulders. Stratton followed them until they abruptly ended and a flat shale seabed stretched into the gloom. He had swum too far. The Inessa would pass closer to the mole, above the boulders. He turned back to look for a place to set himself up.

  He inspected the boulders as he moved over them. They all looked like granite. The only obsidian ones, as far as he could tell, were some smaller rocks between the larger gaps. He had taken Binning’s advice and studied the differences between the two rock formations. Confident at the time, he was less so now that he was on task and in darkness.

  Stratton found what appeared to be a choice location: a broad, almost flat boulder, although it lay at a slight tilt. It was not big enough to accommodate the entire frame but another, slightly smaller boulder beside it looked ideal to take the overlap. A check of his wristwatch showed he had around eight minutes before the earliest moment the Inessa could arrive, if the calculations were correct and the GSM signal had arrived as soon as it had been sent. The bolting and harnessing of the frame could be completed in a couple of minutes or so, according to Binning’s trial-timing average. Stratton could not afford to waste a second. He quickly undid the straps and locked the frame’s joints into position.

  After loading the bolt gun Stratton positioned the two holes at the top of the frame over the boulder, checking to ensure that the rock was solid and that the bottom corners, where his feet would go, rested on the adjacent slab. Satisfied that it was well positioned, he pressed the bolt that protruded from the end of the gun firmly into one of the top holes, pushing down on it to release the automatic safety lock. He pulled the trigger. A powerful jolt slammed the steel bolt through the eyehole and into the rock. When he removed the gun he gave the frame a tug. The bolt was firmly home.

  He reloaded the gun and slammed the next bolt into the opposite corner. In a couple of minutes he had planted all five bolts and the frame appeared to be rigidly in place. But another firm tug revealed a loose bolt at one of the bottom corners. Unperturbed, he loaded a fresh bolt into the gun and tugged at the loose one in an effort to remove it. It twisted around inside the rock but would not come out. A fierce tug on the frame didn’t budge it.

  Stratton felt reluctant to spend any more time on the faulty bolt. It would require far more force than he could exert to remove it. Typical of what he disliked about technology, and this was the simple kind, according to Binning. There was no tangible reason, that he could see at least, why any of the bolts should remain in position. It was clear how a screw worked, and even how a nail hammered into wood could hold strong. A bolt punched into rock, and not a very long bolt either, failed to inspire him with confidence.

  A check of his watch revealed time quickly moving on and Stratton suddenly feared he might not have enough. He pushed aside any doubts about the frame, untied the gun from his belt and let it sink to the bottom. If the Inessa came at that moment he would fail. He sat on the frame, strapped both his legs to it as tightly as possible, and lay back to secure the waist and chest straps. Before fitting the head harness he found the recorder on the end of its line, opened the container, removed the device and activated it. He set the arming switch and checked the series of LED indicators. The system appeared to be functioning. He removed his face mask, letting it hang from the back of his hood, and placed the cumbersome device over his face, pulling the head straps tight. Exhaling through his nose into the optical compartment displaced the water inside it and he blinked quickly to clear his eyes. A brief adjustment of the lenses brought his immediate surroundings into focus. The device could penetrate low light as well as some of the murkiness, improving overall visibility. So far so good, he decided. He was still not quite ready.

  The Inessa would make all haste to get out of the harbour once it had slipped its moorings. It had a speed limit of ten knots in the main channel but the captain was committed to turning on the disrupter and accelerating to a cruising speed of thirty-five knots as soon as he could. He would get out of the harbour as quickly as possible.

  Stratton passed the strap that secured the device to his head over the top of the recorder housing, clipped it into place and tightened it. He could only move his arms now. He was firmly secured to the boulders.

  As he stared into the hollow grey glow around him, he picked up a faint noise - the water was a more effective medi
um than air for relaying sound waves. The sound became a distant hum that grew louder by the second. It could have been another ship passing through the harbour entrance but Stratton felt somehow sure it was the Inessa.

  The operational briefing had covered all possible contingencies including another vessel passing overhead, or close by, around the time when the Inessa was expected. Stratton’s orders were to remain in position and record everything, no matter what it was. But it would be a pointless risk for another vessel, even one close to the Inessa’s size, to pass that close to the mole. The Inessa’s captain knew the precise depth of the boulders where he intended to pass above them.

  The deep hum intensified and divided into several tones, a collection of dronish whirring and high-pitched spinning. And something else joined the mix. It was more physical than audible. Stratton could feel it in his temples: a significant pressure wave produced by powerful turbines.

  The boulders began to resonate as the pressure waves explored the gaps between them. The metal frame tingled against Stratton’s skin.

  He tipped his head back in the hope of catching sight of the vessel as it broke through the gloom. He couldn’t see it despite the horrendous noise and intense shuddering that gave the impression the craft was already upon him.

  A dark shape suddenly emerged from the greyness, heading directly at him. A dense broadening shadow followed it. Both were part of the same object.

  The boulder Stratton lay on began to judder, its sand deposits agitating as if on the skin of a vibrating drum. The sound became almost deafening and the cutting edge of the vessel’s bows crossed directly above him with a high-pitched seething sound.

  Stratton’s body vibrated along with everything else as he trained the recorder’s optics directly above him, doing his best to keep the device steady. He felt the pressure on his chest increase as the tons of water displaced by the vessel pushed him down.The greatest danger was still to come - the propellers. He hastily tightened the strap across his head even more and gripped the sides of the recorder, holding it firmly against his face. His brain felt as if it was being puréed inside his skull.

  As the vibrations increased the keel flattened out at either side of Stratton like a vast dark pitted ceiling that he could reach if he stretched out a hand. He felt insignificant beneath it. A short drop and it would erase him as if he was an insect.

  The straps of the harness grew tighter as the pressure forced him upwards towards the Inessa’s hull, the propellers like a massive vacuum cleaner hungrily sucking in anything ahead of them. Shale and debris whirled around, spinning in the vortex. Stratton groaned as the harness bit into him. A square recess, like a dark doorway into the hull, shot past his vision. Another larger opening followed. Stratton was beyond evaluating anything other than his own ability to survive.

  The lower corner of the frame snapped free. The whole frame wriggled and creaked as if it was threatening to buckle. It jolted even more brutally and the bolt on the opposite corner broke away too and Stratton’s legs jerked up towards the hull. He could do nothing to control it.

  The turbulence reached a screaming crescendo as the propellers closed on him. Shale and stones spun around as if inside a blender. The frame rattled as the blades sliced through the water, growing closer by the millisecond. This had suddenly become the craziest stunt he had ever agreed to. The propellers seemed to be lower than his head and would smash against the boulder. Then they were above him, the turbulence unbelievable as the huge blades carved through the water inches past his face.

  A second later they were through. But something dealt a vicious blow to one of Stratton’s feet and he felt sure it had been severed. He felt no pain but he had seen men lose limbs in battle and not know it. The fin swirled past his head but he could not see if his foot was attached.

  The Inessa was not done with him.The force of the water coming through the propellers was so intense that the frame’s centre bolt now gave way, quickly followed by one of the top corners. It flipped him over, the frame bending against the last remaining bolt. Stratton stared down into the gap between the boulders.

  Standing on the bows of the Inessa, two Spetsnaz commandos watched the swirling water churned up by the propellers. One of the men squinted into the darkness as he saw a rubbery black object surface in the frothing wake. It glinted for a second in the moonlight. He shouted to his comrade who aimed a powerful light towards it. The first man took a closer look through a pair of electronically stabilised binoculars. The object floated briefly before sinking out of sight. The soldier hurled a small buoy off the back to mark the position and talked into a radio. A semirigid speedboat was a few hundred yards behind the ship and he waved at it as he gave the coxswain instructions.

  Four men were in the speedboat, two in assault swimmers’ gear. They bit down on mouthpieces and breathed off their sets as the coxswain accelerated the boat forward.

  The turbulence around Stratton died down as the Inessa cruised away. The cacophony subsided and the shale that had swirled through the water like the flakes inside a snow globe began to drift back down to the seabed.

  Stratton unfastened the strap over his forehead. He pulled away the recording device and held on to it while he reached around for his face mask, fearing he had lost it. Thankfully, it was on the end of its strap. He pulled it against his face and exhaled to clear the water. Before Stratton did anything else he looked at the end of his leg. The fin had indeed been sliced away but just beyond the end of his neoprene-covered foot. A wave of relief swept over him. Another inch and he would have lost his toes.

  Stratton moved up a gear, another imminent danger consuming his thoughts. The passing of the Inessa meant the highly probable arrival of Spetsnaz divers to check the shallows.

  Stratton ripped away the remaining straps and pulled himself out from under the frame. A new sound halted him, a higher-pitched whine growing to drown out the distant drone of the Inessa. Stratton looked up at the grey surface for any sign of the new vessel. The sound increased; a powerful engine was heading towards him at speed. Would it keep going, or not?

  Stratton watched as a darker patch moved overhead. The engine abruptly decelerated and two heavy objects dropped into the water. Stratton knew they were divers and that he was in trouble.

  The recorder. He couldn’t swim or defend himself while he still held on to it and therefore it had to go. The brief had been to bring the expensive device back if at all possible. But if not, he was to remove the memory card after ensuring that the device had been armed to self-destruct. At the time Stratton could not help thinking how ridiculous that order was - the latter part of it. If the situation was so desperate that he had to ditch the device he would hardly have time to ensure it was correctly armed. They should have emphasised the need to arm the recorder properly in the first place, before its use. Another example of how procedures were so often formulated by those with little experience in operational implementation.

  Stratton pulled out the memory card and let the recorder drop between the boulders. He tucked the card inside his wrist seal. The divers came out of the gloom, both finning hard in his general direction. Experience told him that he could see them because they were against a lighter background and that they could not see him yet. He remained still, his best bet - initially, at least. He was a lame duck anyway with one fin and having his back to the enemy while trying to swim away would just increase the disadvantage.

  His hand went to the plastic holster at his right thigh and withdrew the P11 pistol from it. The weapon was only effective within ten metres. He suspected the Spetsnaz would have something similar and was thankful for his body armour.

  Powerful lights flashed on in the hands of the divers, who swept the beams across the boulders. The intensity of the Spetsnaz divers’ diligence indicated strongly how confident they were that someone was in the vicinity. Stratton could not see them clearly beyond the glare of the lights. He selected one of the beams, aimed a fraction to its side and touched the
pistol’s battery-powered trigger. The weapon barely jolted in his grip as it released a slender steel dart. He fired two more bolts around the lights. At least one must have found its mark because the light turned upwards as if its carrier had lost control.

  The other beam caught Stratton and something struck him in the side of his chest, the impact absorbed by the body armour. Another blow followed quickly and slammed through the fibreglass housing of his breathing apparatus. If the missile had done any damage Stratton would soon know about it when he breathed in a mouthful of water - or of caustic acid from the carbon dioxide-absorbent powder.

  The Russian diver powered headlong towards Stratton, shining the light into the operative’s eyes, blinding him, and fired again. The shot slashed across Stratton’s shoulder, his blood leaking into the surrounding seawater as two more darts missed him by inches. Stratton could not make out his target in the glare and in desperation fired the rest of his pistol’s darts, one of which smashed the light. But the Russian had closed the gap and, out of ammunition now, he grabbed at Stratton with his hands. The Spetsnaz diver knew the fundamental strategy for underwater hand-to-hand combat: he went for Stratton’s breathing apparatus. Apart from the obvious effect, ripping away the mouthpiece causes immediate panic, thus placing the enemy on the absolute retreat. Usually the first to do it is the winner. It was therefore fair for the Spetsnaz man to assume that as he managed to grab Stratton’s low-pressure oxygen hose where it was attached to his mouthpiece, wrench it out of his mouth and rip it from his set, he had gained the upper and indeed decisive hand. His training had also emphasised ensuring a clean finish, which required maintaining control over the victim until he had succumbed to asphyxiation. He could not allow Stratton to escape to the surface. So the Russian kept a firm hold on Stratton and finned as strongly as he could to push him down between the boulders and hold him there until he was dead.