“Attached magnetically under one of the NGA women’s beds,” he replied.
“Which one?” asked O’Neill, fearing the worst and feeling sick to his gut.
“Reynolds,” replied Harris. Maybe there was a face which launched a thousand ships, but at that instant, for Mark O’Neill, one word had sunk a thousand dreams.
* * *
Yuri Menkov was fast. When he was a student at Moscow University he could do the one hundred metres in 11.50 seconds. This didn’t compare with his hero’s time of 10.14 seconds in winning the 1972 100 metres Olympic crown in Munich, but Valery Borzov was special. He was a Ukranian who competed for the Soviet Union and then eventually returned to Ukraine and had a successful political career. As Menkov bounded up the one flight of stairs, two at a time, that separated his work station from Igor Kruglov’s office, hurtled past the Deputy Direcrtor’s secretary and sped straight to his boss’s desk, Yuri Menkov felt this may be his moment to be special.
“Deputy Director, Sir, sorry for barging in, but agent Ivanovna’s signal has stopped transmitting.”
Kruglov looked startled. This was not good, not the plan, not what was needed to rescue $1bn of Russian naval hardware nor his deep desire to be SVR Director.
“How long ago did it stop?” asked Kruglov with deep urgency.
“About fifteen seconds ago,” detailed Menkov, checking his chronograph. He was glad he had decided to deliver the bad news in person. Had he dialled Kruglov’s extension, had to negotiate the firewall that was his hard-nosed secretary and explain why he needed to speak with the Deputy Director that would have taken way more than fifteen seconds. Kruglov knew that to have any hope of neutralising the captured Borei he would need to be fast too.
“Menkov, do you have the exact co-ordinates of Ivanovna’s last signal?”
“Yes Sir,” responded Menkov. “Latitude of 26˚ 13ˈ North and longitude of 127˚ 42ˈ East.”
“Where is that, Yuri?” added Kruglov.
“Close to Naha, Okinawa in the East China Sea, Sir, just north of the Tropic of Cancer,” replied Menkov, satisfied that he had full details at the tip of his tongue.
“Good work, Yuri. Take a seat. I need to make a call,” said Kruglov. Kruglov dialled Admiral Chirkov’s number, gave him his instructions, and hung up, hoping, waiting, praying for a result.
Captain first rank Sergei Kargin and the Admiral Vinogradov had just passed through the Korea Strait and entered the East China Sea. As he was admiring the view, his first Lieutenant handed him a cable with the heading VOR, it was from Chirkov. It read:
At precisely 14.04 UTC today, an enemy submarine was located at 26˚ 13ˈ N, 127˚ 42ˈ East. This submarine is believed to be heading due South towards the Indian Ocean. Its speed is estimated at 29 knots. On receipt of this instruction fire all available missiles at this enemy vessel. Chirkov.
Kargin understood his orders and would not question them. Admiral Chirkov was Commander in Chief of the Russian Navy, he knew what he was doing. Kargin instructed his first Lieutenant to prepare all missiles to fire. A precise target would follow. The Vinogradov had been on manoeuvres but it still had eight Silex anti-submarine missiles on board in 2x4 formation and two SS-N-22 Moskits. The Moskits were rocket-propelled, radar guided and could travel at 50km per minute. If Kargin got the co-ordinates right the enemy submarine would be toast. The captain had a few calculations to do. Six minutes had elapsed since Chirkov’s timed position for the submarine. It would take a further four minutes, including the time to read Chirkov’s orders, issue his own and to have the Vinogradov’s missiles ready to fire. Provided the enemy sub had stayed on the course Chirkov indicated it would have travelled a further five nautical miles or nearly nine kilometres. Kargin plugged the data into the Vinogradov’s advanced computer system and gave the order to fire all missiles. The Moskits would hit first, in approximately 115 seconds. Their underwater blast radius is twenty-five to thirty metres. The eight Silex missiles would take over five minutes to hit. Kargin had taken that into account in his programmed input. A direct hit by any of the Admiral Vingradov’s ten missiles would either destroy the submarine or render it ineffective and force it to surface. Even if they all missed, and a bulls-eye was a bit of a long shot since the target was moving and stealth protected, the total potential area of damage was nearly three kilometres. If Chirkov’s initial information was even remotely accurate the enemy submarine would not escape. Kargin had done his job and now the Admiral Vinogradov was full speed ahead to the missile detonation site.
* * *
Just as Yuri Menkov had burst into Igor Kruglov’s office, Commander Mark O’Neill had instructed Evan Harris to bring Carolyn Reynolds to the goat locker and to ensure that none of the crew interrupted them.
“Is this yours?” O’Neill asked of Reynolds, who was already not pleased at being roughly frog marched by Harris to the Commander’s quarters.
“No, what is it, it looks beat to death,” said Carolyn.
“It’s a satellite phone, Officer Reynolds,” answered O’Neill suppressing all romantic thoughts and needing to get to the bottom of this. “It was found attached to a panel directly underneath your bunk.”
“Well it’s not fuckin’ mine, O’Neill,” hollered Reynolds. “I’ve never seen it before, I don’t own a satellite phone and I don’t keep my phone in that dilapidated condition.”
“You would say that, bitch!” interrupted Evan Harris, who was now holding Reynolds’ right arm extremely tightly.
“If you don’t let my arm go frog features, I’m going to gouge your fuckin’ eyes out,” ranted Carolyn, wriggling free from Harris’s grip.
O’Neill signalled to Harris to let her be. The Commander so wanted the traitor not to be Carolyn. He was smart enough to realise that if she was a double agent then her cover was absolutely brilliant. American educated, CIA trained, NGA officer, a Scottish dad for fuck’s sake. It didn’t add up and if it did, it was devastating.
“Look Reynolds,” said O’Neill. “I don’t want it to be you. For sure it’s no one in my SEALs team. I’ve known them personally for years and the ones I haven’t are known to Harris and I trust them totally.”
“My guys are good and totally loyal, as are yours, Mark,” said Harris, unnecessarily. Carolyn could see that this was not good. She had calmed a little since being released by Harris. Time to get her brain working rather than her adrenaline flowing.
“Take fingerprints off the phone, Commander. I’ve never seen it before so I haven’t touched it. The only prints on there will probably be the owner’s, yours and whoever destroyed it,” stated Carolyn.
Harris interjected. “We’re not fucking 5-O Reynolds. We’re SEALs, at sea, in a submarine, underwater. We don’t have the facilities to take fuckin’ fingerprints.”
“Maybe you do, tosser!” came Carolyn’s unwieldy reply.
“What do you mean, Reynolds?” asked O’Neill, keen to get on and to break up the simmering conflict between his number two and his desired paramour.
“You’ve got a medic on board, right?” asked Carolyn.
“Yes,” replied O’Neill.
“Then he’ll have some sort of powder and possibly some kind of sellotape to keep bandages in place. We dust the phone with the powder, there will be latent fingerprints on it, due to sweat, dirt or whatever. Once dusted we blow the excess powder off and use the sellotape to lift the print. We need to ensure the tape is flat, no bubbles. Once that’s done, lift the print out and put it on a piece of white card or something similar.”
“How do you know this stuff?” asked Harris, unconvinced.
“I’m CIA trained, remember, idiot,” replied Carolyn, still showing Harris no verbal mercy whatsoever.
“OK, but what do we do once we’ve got the print on a card?” asked O’Neill. “We still don’t have a method of checking whose it is.”
“You do,” responded Carolyn. O’Neill and Harris were still bemused. Since her credibility and freedom were at stak
e, she thought she’d help them out. “Look you two. I noticed that Barry Minchkin had a state-of-the art tablet. The high definition on that screen has a pixilation of 1,900 x 1,200. He can take a clear camera shot of the fingerprint, it will be sharp enough to have it checked.”
“Checked against what?” asked O’Neill.
“Checked against the bleedin’ CIA or NGA personnel files, for god’s sake. On joining either agency you need to have your fingerprints taken. Get Henry Michieta at the NGA or John Adams at the CIA to dig them out, send them a picture of the print or prints from the phone and see if they match mine. They won’t by the way,” said Carolyn, looking confident and feeling calmer. O’Neill pondered for a moment.
“Evan, go get Gary and ask him to bring his medical kit with him. Relieve Barry of his tablet and get back here. Don’t mention what’s going on to anyone. Reynolds, you’re staying here with me,” ordered O’Neill.
“Whatever,” snapped Carolyn as Harris set about his task.
Only a few minutes had passed since officer Reynolds had been hauled into the goat locker. Unbeknown to her or the SEALs, Captain Sergei Kargin was absorbing Admiral Chirkov’s orders at the same moment. Harris returned swiftly with Whitton and Minchkin’s tablet. The young medic did indeed have some anti-rash powder with him, very often useful if SEALs had been in sea water for any length of time or on a long training hike. He had sellotape as well. Whitton dusted the phone, under instruction from Reynolds, using a small amount of powder and one of the NGA woman’s unused make-up brushes to gently distribute the powder so that the ridges of the fingerprints were visible. The medic took a bottle of iodine out of its packaging, dismantled the small cardboard box that it was in and used the plain inside surface to collect the fingerprints from the tape. It was the best he could do. Then he took two digital photographs with Minchkin’s tablet.
“Right, Gary, good,” said O’Neill. “Send the photographs to John Adams at the CIA. Tell him it’s most urgent that we get an answer to whose they are. Get back here as soon as you have one.” There was no way O’Neill was going to Reynolds’ direct boss, just in case he was her direct handler too. Gary Whitton got his gear together and went back to his station to upload the photographs for John Adams. He gave Barry his tablet back. Dannielle Eagles had noticed that there had been something going on and had also noticed the absence of O’Neill, Harris and her friend.
“Anything the matter?” she asked Gary Whitton as he sat only a few stations away from her.
“No, nothing,” replied the young medic, trying to be even toned but sounding a little rattled. “Just have to send some photographs to Langley and await a reply,” he added, again attempting to be casual. A few minutes elapsed and Gary Whitton had his reply. He got off his seat and made his way at normal walking pace to the goat locker. He did not acknowledge Dannielle as he left nor any of the SEALs that were on the conn.
“Gary, what have you got?” asked O’Neill. Harris re-took hold of Reynolds’ arm. She fired him a look that could kill but said nothing.
“Assistant Director Adams said the photographs were clear enough to detect three sets of prints. Two were ours but the other one was…” he hesitated, aware of the company.
“Hers!” exclaimed Harris, pointing accusingly at Reynolds and tightening his grip on her arm.
“No, Sir,” responded Whitton immediately, “the other NGA officer, Dannielle Eagles,” he blurted out. As Gary Whitton’s blurt was finalised and before apologies, recriminations and admonishments could begin, Dannielle Eagles entered the goat locker, arms extended and clasping a Stechkin automatic pistol firmly in both hands. She was aiming directly at Mark O’Neill. Nobody moved.
“Your gun looks Russian, Dannielle, a bit like yourself,” said Carolyn, truly shocked but trying to be professional and calm.
“Yes, Carolyn. I always have been, always will be,” replied Dannielle, keeping the gun firmly pointed at O’Neill’s head but eyes darting around the living quarters, scanning the other three Americans. The Stetchkin was heavy and unladylike but it could fire 750 rounds per minute, twelve per second. Mark O’Neill was not likely to be the only victim if Eagles let loose.
“I don’t know what’s in your pathetic Ruski mind Dannielle and I don’t much care, but you’re not getting out of here. You know that, right?” said Carolyn.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, my friend. I suggest we all go to the conn and surface. A Russian submarine or warship will probably be on its way to pick us all up. Then we can have a cosy chat,” said Dannielle cool as an ice cube. “Go on, Commander shift your well-formed butt. You too Harris. Whitton you and my ex-BFF stay here. If I see either of your pea-heads coming through this partition you’ll have around four 9mm rounds each in them,” she added, fully in control of the situation. Neither O’Neill nor Harris really knew what to do. They could rush her but at least one of them would die. Eagles’ gun would probably have released up to a dozen rounds before she was toppled to the deck. In addition to either O’Neill himself or Harris being dead or injured, half a dozen of the bullets would be ricocheting around like a puck in a tilt machine. If the Stetchkin was loaded with 9mm parabellum rounds then some armour piercing was possible. Any of the five of them could be hit and the submarine’s external skin punctured.
Eagles had the drop on O’Neill, and probably Harris but she was outnumbered and could not take all her adversaries down before being overpowered. As Commander O’Neill was contemplating moving his well-formed bum, with the intention of buying time and forcing Eagles into having to contain the rest of the SEALs on board, the Borei took a massive lurch to the port side. Both Moskit missiles from the Admiral Vinogradov had entered the water and exploded. There was no direct hit but the resulting shockwave was powerful. Shockwaves from this type of missile come in two stages. The primary shock causes the target to lurch, often causing significant damage to personnel and equipment on board. The second shock comes from the cyclical expansion and contraction of the gas bubble created by the rapid chemical reaction of the volume of water displaced by the solid object now occupying that space. This secondary shock can cause the submarine to bend backwards and forwards. In extremis, it can cause a catastrophic breach of the sub’s hull.
The Moskit missiles’ shockwaves had not been close enough to breach the Borei’s hull. They had been strong enough, though, to send flying the three navy SEALs and two NGA officers in the goat locker. Gary Whitton fell backwards, through the goat locker’s partition and into the submarine’s main area. O’Neill went crashing into a bunk and split his forehead. Harris was down too. Eagles had lurched forward and lost her footing as she careered into her NGA colleague. Her right hand had hold of the Stetchkin until she flattened Carolyn and she had unintentionally let off twelve rounds as she tumbled. Two of the 9mm parabellums ricocheted off of the ceiling of the living quarters and both of them hit Evan Harris, one in his right thigh and one in his right arm. The rest of the bullets ended up nowhere interesting and had not caused any further human damage as far as could be told.
Eagles reacted first. Reynolds had broken her fall and now the Russian was on top of her former friend. Carolyn was not injured significantly; she was sore as her head had hit the floor, just missing a pillow randomly ejected from one of the bunk beds, whose bedding was now everywhere. Reynolds was rudely awakened from her daze by Eagles’ hands pressed around her throat and the yelling of ‘bitch’ resounding loudly in her ears. Reynolds put both her arms together, outstretched and drove an arm wedge inside the gap in her assailant’s arms anchored by her own throat, and drove them outwards with force. Eagles had to let go of her grip. As Eagles’ head dipped, Carolyn raised hers swiftly and firmly planted a ‘Glesga kiss’ on the bridge of the Russian’s nose. Dannielle Eagles let out a painful scream. Her once attractive nose was broken and her nasal blood was spreading voluminously into the artificial atmosphere. Both NGA women rose to their feet. Eagles was now the more disoriented. Reynolds took advantage of this. Left
-hook to the side of the head, followed by right spinning elbow to the other side. The big Maasai wouldn’t think so much of his love interest’s looks now, thought Carolyn, in a pico second of self-mirth. Eagles tried to fight back, but her vision was impaired, as Carolyn’s spinning elbow had led to an instantaneous cracker of a split eyebrow and swollen eye. Carolyn was not contemplating mercy. Her BFF had betrayed her, and all of American society in which Eagles had been educated and trained. On top of that, the Russian slut had just tried to choke her to death. Carolyn pounded on, right cross, low kick to the left shin, knee to Eagles’ chin as her head jerked lower when the Russian clutched her damaged leg. Eagles crumpled.
Suddenly, the submarine lurched again, this time less dramatically than before. The Silex missiles from the Admiral Vinogradov had arrived on the scene. No direct hits. The primary and secondary shockwaves were less powerful than from the Moskits but strong enough to topple Carolyn. Flat on her back again, she managed to support herself on her elbows, only to find Dannielle Eagles already on her knees but in renewed possession of her Stetchkin, now pointing directly at Reynolds’ head.
“This time, you American whore, you will die,” gurgled Eagles through a river of blood, snot and other bodily fluids. In that millisecond of time that it would take for Eagles to pull the trigger and at least one 9mm Parabellum round to exit the barrel and enter Carolyn’s head, JJ’s daughter saw images of her dad, her mum, her brother, the children she would never have. The images were like blipverts in Max Headroom but they were there and sharply visible in her mind.
Carolyn felt nothing but she heard a piercing wail. It was not from herself. Evan Harris had been conscious enough to see and comprehend the NGA girl fight. As Dannielle Eagles was about to pull the trigger, he had silently extracted his ka-bar knife from its weathered leather sheath. Harris was attached to this weapon and kept it on his person at all times. It weighed only half a kilogram and had a blackened 7 inch blade. With his uninjured left hand he drove his ka-bar into Eagles’ right leg Achilles tendon. Eagles swung to her right in excruciating and noisy pain, intent on shooting Harris, but Carolyn was on it like a shark on meat. From her supine position, Carolyn launched into a figure-four choke hold, right leg bent around Eagles’ neck, left leg keeping the right in place and also trapping the gun-wielding right arm of the Russian. This move, expertly performed by several UFC champions is known as a triangle choke because the aggressor’s legs look like a triangle with the victim’s head popping through the hole. Carolyn wasn’t a UFC champion but her application of the triangle was good enough. She applied as much pressure as she could with this restraint, restricting Eagles’ blood flow from her carotid arteries to her brain. A skilful choker and a strong, stubborn UFC fighter could probably take this for forty-five to sixty seconds before the chokee tapped out, desperate to breath, admitting defeat. Eagles, though, no longer had any strength, she was exhausted, bleeding from her nose, her right eye and her right leg. She had nothing left. Carolyn was not letting go of her choke hold. As Eagles dropped her gun and went full body limp, Carolyn could hear a voice but it wasn’t clear yet in her aural channels. She had tunnel concentration, squeezing, forcing the last ounce of breath from her former friend’s lungs.
Darke Mission Page 39