“I did the morpher last year, Dad, this is our house and garden, can’t you tell?” replied the six year old. JJ noted his son’s skill for disinformation, it could come in useful one day he laughed to himself.
“I’m not concentrating, Dad, just chillin’ to ‘Waterloo Sunset’ and worrying about the fate of Katniss Everdeen,” replied Cyrus. He knew his dad was well acquainted with both so he didn’t need to elaborate much. JJ preferred the Kinks to either the Beatles or the Rolling Stones and it was he who first introduced Cyrus to The Hunger Games.
“Great. Thanks Cyrus, so here’s the scoop. In the course of business, MAM has acquired quite a chunk of physical gold. It’s in the form of bullion bars, each weighs about 12.5kg, so they’re a bit heavier than the weights Gil has been torturing you with. We need to find an efficient way of loading these bars from vaults, which may be under street level, and onto secure trucks. I’m trying to devise some kind of treadmill or travelator machine to do this but I can’t sketch a stick man, as you know.”
Cyrus knew his dad was rubbish at drawing. He also knew that his dad didn’t often ask for his help in relation to his work, so this was quite cool, the teenager thought. “I get it, Dad, you need a conveyor belt system to transport the gold and it needs to be capable of going uphill with quite a heavy load on it.”
Smart boy, thought JJ, he was on it straight away. “Yes, that’s it, Cy. You don’t need to worry about weight or dimensions etc. I have a manufacturer in mind, but a decent sketch or drawing of what it might look like would be handy.”
“When do you need it, Dad, and do I get a financial incentive for my work?” asked Cyrus, cheekily and with a broad capitalist smile.
“Tonight would be good, young man, and yes you can have a decent bonus if it’s up to scratch,” replied JJ, ruffling Cyrus’s curly locks and giving him a wee hug.
Cyrus worked on his sketches for a few hours. They were good and clear. He even included a collapsible version where the conveyor belt could be made smaller and then extended when necessary. This was likely to be a very useful variant.
Overnight JJ worked on the loads that the conveyor belt would need to carry and support. The next morning he contacted Harold McFarlane at McLaren to find out whether they had anything comparable in stock, surely McLaren would need such a gizmo at some point, or at least know of one. Harold said that they did not. However, a while back, he recalled Ron Dennis had asked him something similar regarding baggage handling for his private jet. Harold had gone to Herbert Systems in Cambridgeshire, and they constructed a small mobile conveyor system for them. Harold suggested that JJ scan the diagrams he had and email them to him, sharpish. He’d get on the phone to Herbert’s and see if they could do a rush job. JJ thanked Harold, scanned and e-delivered the diagrams and hoped for the best.
The timeline and deadlines for this mission were seriously constraining. So far, luck had been on his side, meeting Vincent Barakat, his old pal Harold, the availability and skillset of Ginger, his US buddy Jim Bradbury being in Seoul and his offer of two helpful Koreans. Ginger had earmarked a safe cracker, whom he was going to meet later today, his son could draw and Toby was doing a good alcohol-free job of covering for JJ at work. The non-existent law of averages suggested that this could not last, but, hey, let’s ride that lucky train for as long as it’s chugging along.
JJ still had not solved the thorny issue of the HGV drivers. Sure it was easy enough to get such drivers with the requisite skills and licence but the vast majority of these would be legitimate, no knowledge of the criminal world or the security services, and no desire to get involved in a life-threatening heist. If Ginger’s safe cracker was up to scratch then JJ would turn his mind to finding the final piece of the pre-match jigsaw. Maybe Harold could help. He must know a gazillion HGV drivers, but it was how to approach it. In any event, they all needed to be on a flight to Seoul in three days’ time, no matter what.
* * *
“I think my fucking leg’s broken,” wailed Joe Franks as he peeled Billy Smith off the top of him. The two of them plus Mark O’Neill and Yang Dingbang had literally dived into the sub through the surface hatch. There was no time for climbing down the integral ladder or following protocol. They were under fire and down they went like apples from a barrel. Joe Franks drew the short straw and both Ding and Billy landed on him as they hit the sub’s unwieldy floor.
As Joe Franks stayed down, clutching his right leg, O’Neill was up and shouting, “Medic!” The approved medic on this operation was Garrison Whitton, one of Evan Harris’s team. He had been a SEAL for only two years, hailed from Washington State, but was widely regarded as one of the best patch up guys in the Navy. So far, he had had little to do on this mission and while he would have preferred that Franks didn’t have a broken leg, at least he didn’t feel like a spare part anymore. Whitton headed straight for Joe Franks with his medical bag. The rest of the team could not afford to hang about however much they cared for their buddy. There was an enemy nuclear sub to drive to safety and there were only an effective eight of them to do it.
“How are we doing, Tommy?” Commander O’Neill asked of Tommy Fairclough, the main driver, backed up by David McCoy.
“Fine, Sir,” he replied. “We’re under way and we’ll soon be underwater. Those NGA girls did a good job with the crib sheets they sent through. The main instructions for this sub and all the labelling on the instruments are in Russian. I think there’s a Korean translation in this drawer, but I’ve not had time to look at it. Not that it would do any good. If we get stuck on translation can we contact them?”
“Not yet. We need to be sure we’re undetectable first. You’re right about the NGA girls. Not only have they sent us a workable translation of the key operating instructions they let us know that the submarine was supposed to be all stealthed up. We’ll find out soon enough if that’s accurate,” said O’Neill, clapping Fairclough on the back and then checking the status of the rest of the men.
Evan Harris joined O’Neill on the conn. While all aboard were Navy SEALs they could afford to dispense with much of the usual submarine specific language. There was no need for a Chief of Boat (COB) as the discipline and good order of the crew would not be an issue. O’Neill was the Commanding Officer (CO) and Harris the Executive Officer (XO). It needed both Fairclough and McCoy to drive the sub efficiently, one to control the tail action and one the sail. Normally, there would be another submariner behind them issuing instructions but this skeleton crew did not have that luxury. Barry Minchkin was the Chief Engineer, essentially the only engineer. He was critical to the supervision of the nuclear reactor on board, and any tweaking that was necessary to keep it operating safely. Barry was also doubling up as the Communications Officer. Ding had been put in charge of weapons, not that they were likely to use them but they needed checking anyway. It would have been Joe Franks’ job but his injury prevented him from moving around efficiently to inspect the various weapons positions. There was no Supply Officer, indeed there seemed to be no sign of supplies on board at all. O’Neill hoped that would not become an issue later on.
“Preparing to dive, Sir,” announced Tommy Fairclough.
McCoy repeated the announcement though he didn’t really need to as O’Neill and Harris were both well within earshot. McCoy opened the valves at the top of the ballast tanks and as the air escaped and seawater came in, they headed lower.
This Borei could submerge lower than 1,000 feet but Tommy Fairclough had set the stable depth to be 400 feet. He was taking no chances with either the sea bed or his crib sheet instructions. Evan Harris had undertaken emergency specialist sonar training when he knew about Operation Philidor Defence. On this operation he would only be deploying passive sonar to detect where other subs or ships were without revealing the Borei’s location. So far, so good, there was nothing within detection distance, and that detection distance was more than 1,000 nautical miles. The Borei class subs had a sonar processing power of around 2,000 laptop computers.
The KPN were not giving chase. As the submarine settled at a depth of 400ft, Commander O’Neill relaxed a little. They’d acquired their target, only one non-life threatening injury to the team, and now they were deep underwater and very difficult if not impossible to detect. The submarine was moving along at close to 25 knots or just under 30mph, and could go a little faster if necessary. As O’Neill was contemplating the next phase, Garrison Whitton came into the room. Whitton was in his mid-twenties, slight of build, dark brown straight hair, not cut short enough in O’Neill’s view, with blue eyes and an upright posture.
“Sir,” he said, attracting O’Neill’s attention. Normally, he would have addressed his usual team leader, Evan Harris, first but he was embroiled in sonar work and Whitton judged it best to leave him alone.
“Yes, Gary, what is it?” asked O’Neill.
Whitton was pleased that the mission’s team leader knew who he was and that he felt comfortable enough to address him by his shortened first name.
“Two things, Commander,” began Whitton. “Joe Franks has two fractures of his right leg, the major one is a clean break of the tibia and I think at least three of his proximal long bones in his foot are also broken. I’ve put a makeshift splint on his leg and wrapped his right foot as best I can. He’s effectively immobile just now but may be able to hobble about in a day or so. I’ll have a ferret around the ship to see if I can make a temporary set of crutches.”
Mark O’Neill did not think that Whitton’s report was the end of the world. He’d kind of assumed that Joe would be out of action given the wailing noise he’d made when hitting the deck. “And the second thing?” asked the Commander.
“Once I’d patched Joe up, Sir, I thought I’d have a look for food stores. I know we don’t have a Supply Officer so I thought I’d double up. I can cook a bit, but there’s nothing to cook. In fact, there’s nothing to eat at all. They had not provisioned the sub, Sir, as of tonight.”
“Is there anything to drink?” responded the Commander.
“Yes, Sir, there’s plenty of water, the desalination plant on board means we have as much fresh-ish water as we need.” Gary Whitton was glad he had at least one positive to tell O’Neill.
“Thanks, Gary,” said ONeill, not wanting to show any emotion to the medic. “Good job on Joe. Now go and check that the rest of the men are hydrated and do not need any medical attention.” Even though he showed no sign of it, he was a little worried.
As every SEALs team would do on a mission they had packed emergency food supplies, unappetising as they all were. For this mission they had only two full days’ supplies in tow. As this was sinking in, Barry Minchkin came up to him.
“Mark, you’ve received an encrypted message from John Adams.” Barry Minchkin handed Mark O’Neill his tablet. Modern sub technology meant that you could get a signal and receive electronic communications even 400ft below sea level.
Mark O’Neill remembered CIA Associate Director for Military Support Adams from the Langley meeting that had kicked all this off. He seemed solid and sharp. Once decoded the communication stated: Well done on target acquisition. Proceed with due haste to latitude 56° 04ˈ 12ˈˈ N, longitude 04° 45ˈ 49ˈˈ W. Good luck. The message wasn’t long but O’Neill was still looking at it. He was familiar with latitude and longitude coordinates but did not recognise this exact location. “Barry, where’s latitude 56° 04ˈ 12ˈˈ North, longitude 04° 45ˈ 49ˈˈ West?”
Barry tapped the coordinates into his tablet. “Scotland, Sir, specifically Faslane on the River Clyde.”
They both looked at each other. Why the holy moly would they be taking the sub to Scotland? Of more immediate concern to Mark O’Neill was the distance. Scotland had to be over 5,000 miles away. The Borei could travel at 25 knots all day and night long without a break if the system was operating efficiently. That still meant a near seven day journey.
“Jesus believe us!” O’Neill muttered under his breath, thinking about the food supplies. We’ll all be auditioning for the Broadway version of Bridge on the River Kwai by the time we reach bonnie old Scotland.
* * *
Harold and Herbert Systems had come up trumps. With the offer of double time for their engineers and a bonus on completion they had built in record time the conveyor system sketched by Cyrus. There were six individual conveyor systems in total, each one looked like a big ‘Toblerone’ with embedded wheels and rubber treads attached. They could be used individually or, thanks to an ingenious design by one of Herbert’s engineers, interlocked in up to a six times larger configuration.
JJ had asked Gil to go to McLaren Technology Centre to check them out and to ensure that the installation of the ‘sunbeds’ into the Volvo/FAW trucks was proceeding on track. The clock was ticking and JJ needed to delegate even though he really did want to eyeball the finished trucks before they were flown to South Korea. Harold had assured JJ, who had in turn been assured by the Managing Director of Herbert’s that the ‘Toblerone’ conveyors would leave Wisbech that morning and be in Woking by lunchtime.
JJ had lent Gil his Porsche for the trip. He wouldn’t normally do that, he was a bit particular as to who drove his car, but she hadn’t crashed or dinged it at their last foray up the A3 so he was OK with it. In addition, he needed to be very nice and sensitive towards Gil. JJ had told her that she was not going on the field trip to Korea. Initially, she was livid and made the case for her inclusion with aplomb. JJ had eventually convinced her that he needed someone trustworthy here in London, someone he could rely upon to protect Cyrus. If they both went to Korea and it ended badly, Cyrus would have no one within 400 miles to take care of him. JJ couldn’t have that and worrying about Cyrus would prove a distraction on a mission where distractions would be punished harshly. Gil understood. Once she was convinced that her exclusion was not because of her gammy leg, she realised JJ was right. In any case, she enjoyed being with Cyrus and she vowed to whip him into shape in his dad’s absence. If Cyrus had been aware of this oath, he’d surely have gone into deep cover hiding.
As JJ was musing over Gil and Cyrus, his cab pulled up outside the police station in Saville Row. Ginger had organised a meeting with the safe cracker but as he was presently a guest of HM Prison Belmarsh in Greenwich, the meeting had to take place under police supervision. Belmarsh was a Category A prison and some folk, overly concerned with the human rights of total wasters, said it was Britain’s equivalent to Guantanamo Bay. Its infamous collection of inmates ranged from Abu Hamza the terrorist loving so called cleric to Ronnie Biggs, one of the Great Train Robbers. As JJ entered the same meeting room that he last saw Ginger in, he was hoping that the safe cracker was more of the latter’s mind set than the former’s. JJ greeted Ethel Rogers with a hug and they both sat down opposite a very young looking man.
“JJ Darke, meet Victor Pagari,” said Ethel. It was kind of difficult to greet the young man in the traditional way as he was handcuffed. JJ gestured to Ethel and she undid the cuffs. If Ethel and JJ couldn’t handle the kid, they shouldn’t be doing what they were about to do.
“Thank you, Officer,” Victor said very politely to Ethel, with the definite hint of an Italian accent. Victor was around 5ft 10in, slim and wiry, with a somewhat pointed but not unpleasant face. His nose was quite long but slim, le nez aquilin it would have been termed in France. He had short dark hair, no doubt cut by the prison barber who was no Nicky Clarke, thick eyebrows and deep brown eyes.
“Victor,” began JJ. “Do you know why you are here for this meeting?”
“I have some knowledge, but not full information,” he said as he took a sip of water. At least he had the good sense not to ask for a coffee. “Officer Rogers tells me that you have an offer that I should not refuse,” said Victor calmly. “I have found previously that these types of offers I really should have refused,” he added with a degree of humour. Obviously prison had not beaten him down too much.
Ethel interjected. “Look, we’re on a meter here Victor. Why don’t I fill Mr Darke in a
nd you interrupt me if I get anything wrong. OK?”
“OK,” said Victor.
“Victor is the grandson of Albert Spaggiari, he changed his surname slightly so as not to be labelled immediately by police forces all over the continent.” Victor smiled and JJ was, as yet, none the wiser as to who the young man’s grandfather was. Ethel resumed. “Albert Spaggiari was a career French criminal and one with a sharp brain. He is credited with one of the most audacious bank robberies in French history. He formed a gang and, in 1976, robbed the Société Générale bank in Nice, relieving them of over 60 million French Francs worth of cash, securities and other valuables. He did eventually stand trial, but duped the judge and leapt out of the courtroom window onto a waiting motorcycle. Albert was never caught, nor was the swag from the heist. He died from throat cancer, aged fifty-two. When the French gendarmerie investigated the robbed bank vault it had a message on one of the walls, sans armes, ni maine, ni violence. This translates as no arms, nor hatred, nor violence.”
JJ thought this was a fine story, but not sure what it had to do with Victor. He was already 1-0 down to his granddad, as he was caught, and was a Belmarsh HSU inmate.
“Fine, but has Victor here inherited his grandfather’s skillset or what?” JJ asked impatiently, keen to get to the punch line if ever there was going to be one.
Ethel responded. “Despite his youth, he’s only nineteen, Victor is the best undercover CI that this police force has ever had. He’s presently doing time in Belmarsh as part of that cover. Do you remember the London Silver Vaults robbery last year?”
“Yes, it was all over the news. The gang had broken into the vaults but were caught on their way out. They nearly got away with £100 million worth of silver and jewellery.”
“Nearly £300 million,” corrected Victor.
“Well,” continued Ethel, “Victor was the safe cracker on that job. He’s a friggin’ computer genius. Disabled the outer locks with a very small explosive and used a smartphone and two laptops to break the security codes of the back-up doors. Don’t ask me for the technical details. He told me once but it may as well have been in Ancient Egyptian. Once all the gang were inside the vaults Victor sent a signal and that’s how they were caught. The real crooks had no idea that he sent it, his computer magic was such that those Neanderthals had no clue about what was happening. We had to lock him up for a while to keep his cover intact.”
Darke Mission Page 20