by A P Bateman
“Four-hundred metres, Commander!”
McClure did not answer as he waited for the explosions from the countermeasures. Four charges shot vertically and slowly sank in their wake. When they levelled out to the same depth as when they were launched, they exploded and super-heated phosphorus burned at 2000ºc and white-hot metal ball bearings were shot out twenty-feet in every direction.
“No change, torpedo still on course!”
“Vent chambers! Helmsman, hard to surface!” McClure gripped the rail beside the watch desk and nodded to his XO who instinctively picked up the PA and ordered the crew to brace. The crew would now be hastily finding something to hang on to, or wrap themselves around, or strap themselves to. “WEPS! Countermeasures!”
Again, the counter measure charges shot out vertically, but were left in their wake as they started to climb. The flotation tanks were flushed with compressed air and the vessel lurched upwards, its prow leading with such angle that all crew remaining on the control deck leaned heavily forwards to counter the effect.
The explosion rocked them, blowing the submarine wildly to port and seats were emptied of their occupants. Commander McClure stuck out his right floor and pinned the primary weapons officer to the deck as he slid past him. “WEPS, back to your station, if you will…” He nodded to Lieutenant-Commander Jacobs. “Prepare for breach,” he said calmly. “Helmsman, breach the surface then dive hard immediately. Ballast tanks to reverse, prepare for hard descent. WEPS, two Barracuda torpedoes away as you locate target…” He paused. “Let’s put this bastard on the bottom of the ocean…”
There were gasps from the crew as they waited for the submarine to surface. Nobody aboard had ever issued or heard the order for live torpedoes to be fired upon a real target. The Weapons Division Officer relayed to the torpedo room, the helmsman and his co-controller readied for the hard breach and the divemaster relayed that the now empty ballast tanks should be immediately pumped with water to allow a hard dive upon his order.
“Two hundred feet… one-seventy… one forty…”
“Twenty-two knots, Sir…”
“One hundred feet…”
McClure took in his crew’s feedback, then said, “Brace! Brace! Brace!”
The ordered was repeated on the PA system.
“Torpedo! Torpedo! Torpedo!” the PWO screamed. “Directly on our stern, three hundred metres!”
“Shit!” Commander McClure responded. “Countermeasures! Immediately!”
The WEPS gave the command to the torpedo room, but there was no time. The weapons crew would be holding on for dear life between checking the locks, straps and clips on the torpedoes and ground attack missiles.
The Submarine broke through the surface, two-thirds of the vessel breaching the water like a humpback whale. The belly of the vessel slapped down hard on the surface smashing onto blocks of floating sea ice, each block the size of a family car. A mighty bow wave broke ahead of them, capsizing the bergs of sea ice and driving them fifty metres away from them. Inside the submarine, there were screams and shouts as crew members were sent in all directions, injuries sustained and alarms sounding. In the galley a fire alarm was sounding, and the crew were starting to respond, the years of training becoming second nature. Already, the submarine was into its dive. Behind them, the wire-guided torpedo was still gaining on them. The countermeasure charges scattered and sank behind them, but the Russian torpedo operator had not yet armed the device, and if it could pass through the web of falling charges, then the torpedo would be unaffected.
“Enemy sub located! Two torpedoes away!” the WEPS shouted triumphantly. Unlike the wire-guided Russian torpedo which was fed out on a large spool of command wire, the Virginia class was armed with the Barracuda Mk IV and once fired at the enemy, used powerful electro-magnets to remain on target, as well as a conventional noise source detector, like that of heat-seeker missiles fired from fighter jets, but sensing the pulse of the submarine’s propeller instead of heat.
Commander McClure leaned back against the heavy angle from their descent and said quietly to his second in command, “Let’s just hope ours can get to them before theirs gets to us…”
“Amen…” Jacobs replied, watching the sonar screen beside them.
The two Mk IV Barracuda torpedoes were equidistant from the Russian submarine and the wire-guided torpedo to their stern.
An explosion rumbled and the Virginia Class submarine tremored and vibrated. The WEPS announced, “Their countermeasures have destroyed one of the Barracuda…”
“Add a real prayer to that Amen, would you…?” McClure said quietly, but Lieutenant-Commander Jacobs just stared at the sonar and said nothing.
Behind them, the countermeasures were sinking and exploding with white-hot phosphorus balls which glistened like deep-sea phosphorescent plankton. The Submarine was diving hard and the torpedo, which had been steered a devious and circuitous route, was getting ever nearer. The barrage of countermeasures was scattering around the nose cone of the torpedo, and finally one exploded dead-on. The burning, 2000ºc chemical fire of the phosphorous melting the hull and letting in enough water for the torpedo to be put off balance and lurch to starboard, exposing its command cable to the starburst of super-heated chemicals. The wire was severed by a clump of burning, sticky phosphorous and the torpedo continued, but deviated steadily off its course with the American submarine.
Another explosion rumbled and shook the submarine and crew. The Weapons Division Officer looked at his commanding officer and said, “The second Barracuda has been destroyed, Sir…”
“The enemy torpedo is off course and heading directly for the Russian sub!” the sonar operator shouted. “The Kilo-class is turning broadside into it!”
“Helmsman hard to surface! Vent ballast tanks, hard ascent!” McClure turned to the sonar operator and said, “Get us back under the ice…”
“Yes, Sir. Head twenty-five degrees north…”
The helmsman acknowledged and steered to port, whilst the ballast tanks vented.
“Reduce speed, fifteen knots. Slow ascent.” Commander McClure paused, turning to his second in command. “Damage report?”
“Nothing serious reported. Small oil fire in the galley, but it’s out now. Expect sandwiches for dinner…”
McClure nodded then gave the order, “Silent running…” He turned to the sonar operator but said nothing yet. The sonar display showed the Russian torpedo close to the Russian submarine. There was a sudden explosion and a tremor vibrated through the hull. “Impact?”
“Negative, Sir. Self-destruct. Russian sub is veering to the east, full engines.”
Commander McClure nodded. “Maybe that’s the last we’ll see of her, then…” But he didn’t think so for a moment.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The Aurora Project Rigs
Hormuzd Shirazi had seen King and another man leave one way, and after the last pontoon had been attached, the Asian man who he had fought with for possession of the gun had left in the other direction. Shirazi had been using a pair of powerful Zeiss binoculars with light enhancement, although it was now too dark to use them. He had sprinted to the third rig in the chain, but his accommodation – a bunk in a shared room - was in the second rig and he was now in a position where he could be shepherded into containment. He figured the Englishman would want to maintain his cover, so they would not have announced the fact they were searching for someone, much less the reason. And they would be unable to search the individual accommodation rooms and sleeping quarters. He glanced at his watch. He had missed his first scheduled communication and had only three minutes until the next. His lips and nose were sore, his ribs too. The Asian guy had put up a tremendous fight for possession of the pistol, and he had lashed out in return with an almighty kick to the man’s balls, flooring him. Unfortunately, the man had fallen backwards and kept hold of the pistol and by kicking him to the floor, Shirazi had put too much distance between them. He had darted for the stairwell, hearing t
he gun fire its muted silenced shot after him, the bullet ricocheting around the metal staircase. It had been close, but he had lost the weapon he had stolen from the English agent, and he had shown his hand. He knew he would be hunted and there was nowhere to go, nowhere for him in which to flee. Seven former oil rigs in a ring covering five kilometres did not offer much in the way of escape. His options were limited. He had already seen where the inflatable boats were stowed, and the larger ships were anchored a mile away on the outside of the ring. They would remain while the Aurora scientists got organised, and while the weather conditions remained calm. The crew raising the submarine were still arriving and getting organised over the next two days, and then they would leave and not return until the submarine was floated on the inflatable bags similar in design to the large booms forming the pontoons between the rigs. That gave him a night at least. Enough time to make contact, confirm the coordinates and kill the Englishman. After he had completed his mission, he would steal an inflatable and rendezvous with the Tareq-class submarine commanded by Keshmiri Pezhman of the Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps Navy and continue his journey.
Shirazi checked his watch. Just a minute to spare. From his position on the top deck, he could no longer see the Englishman or his kafir subordinate approaching in their pincer movement. The rigs were now shrouded in complete darkness and he was also aware of a dense fog looming in from the east. The fog could help him, but it could also hinder him. He took the Iridium satellite phone out from his jacket pocket and dialled 8816 followed by the eight-digit number from memory. The signal was achievable, but when the phone line opened, the sound was both tinny and echoey.
He spoke the Takbeer nonetheless. “Allahu Akbar, my brother.” He awaited the reply and nodded in respect of His name. “My brother, our time frame is short. The salvage crews are massing, there will be a consultation period while they analyse the data, then work will commence in three days. You will need to complete your task before then. I will be at the prearranged coordinates at the agreed time…” He stopped talking, hearing a movement behind him. Shirazi broke the connection and locked the phone using the six-digit pin code. He backed away into the shadows and watched as the Englishman appeared at the top step. There was something about him. Something predatory, animalistic. He had been lucky before. Lucky at the storage depot on Spitsbergen and lucky on the other rig when he had shot at him but been thwarted by the kafir. When the time came, or when opportunity presented itself, he would enjoy killing the Englishman, but he would enjoy killing the kafir even more. He loathed his kind – a Muslim doing the bidding of a capitalist nation of non-believers. Fooled into believing the myth of multiculturalism in the West. A man who Shirazi imagined prayed little, no longer practised a halal diet, and dated non-Muslim women while listening to lurid lyrics in music and drinking alcohol before engaging in casual sex. No, he would enjoy killing him, and he would do it the Islamic way, by cutting the man’s throat.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Tremezzo
Lake Como, Italy
They had always planned on staying in the small Italian town of Tremezzo for its location, but not as soon as they had been forced to. With Milo Noventa dead and with contact made to Giuseppe Fortez it was time to get out of Geneva. The villa they had rented before leaving England was a six-bedroomed stone-built farmhouse, although any farmland once surrounding it had long been built on. Shrouded in gardens with off-road parking and even a small swimming pool, the quiet property acted as a welcome sanctuary to them after recent events. The chance to reset and reflect on what had gone wrong, and how they could put things right now that they had put Switzerland behind them.
Captain Durand had set up the laptop with its added external processor and routed it back through Noventa’s IP address in Switzerland. No further contact had been made, but the ball was in their court. Fortez wanted a meeting to discuss his stipulations in the contract, and driven by vengeance he had allowed them in. Noventa had been the middleman, the expert needed to negotiate the dark web, but Fortez was still just an old-fashioned crook, blinded by revenge. He could have allowed Noventa to act as go-between, never dirtied his hands or put himself at risk, but King’s death meant something to him. Which was what worried Caroline the most. The man would stop at nothing to carry out his revenge, near Shakespearian in its magnitude and audacity – a true bloodlust that would never see him rest until it had been achieved.
They had eaten a basic meal of takeaway pizzas and calzone in near silence and each member of the team had found their own space afterwards. Durand was now checking the laptop and surveillance equipment, while Neil Ramsay worked at his own laptop and was busy filing reports and firing off emails to London. Big Dave had gone outside to check the vehicles. Tyre pressures, oil, water, and fuel meant everything when your life depended on them. Once they arrested Fortez they had decided it would be beneficial for all concerned to whisk him away to Switzerland. The Swiss police had cooperated with Interpol and had taken the investigation out of the Italian’s hands. Durand had arranged for the arrest warrant to be made in the name of the Swiss Judicial Directorate and sans frontières, or without borders. Police corruption in domestic Italian organised crime was still rife, and they did not want to risk falling foul to a senior police officer with criminal underworld connections. Fortez had also employed a security company. Research into the company in question showed that in addition to providing alarms, CCTV, and panic buttons, they had a uniformed security team, covert bodyguards and a rapid response unit. The company boasted that their personnel were all ex-soldiers and had served in Afghanistan. They were also licenced to carry firearms. Getting Fortez away from Lake Como and into Switzerland would be better all round for everyone. They had not recorded Milo Noventa’s involvement, recording instead that they had used the man’s digital identity because of his former working arrangements with Fortez. They had sanitised their presence in Switzerland and as far as the Swiss police would be concerned, the joint Interpol-MI5 operation required a Swiss judicial connexion for the arrest of Fortez.
Caroline had cleared the empty food boxes away and taken her coffee out onto the veranda. She could see a sliver of moonlight gleaming on the still waters of the lake. There was a chill in the spring air, and she buttoned up her coat and eased herself down into the cane chair. She let out a gentle groan, the pins in her leg aggravated by the past few days.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Sally-Anne Thorpe said from behind her.
“Give it a rest…” Caroline replied tiresomely without looking up. “Don’t you ever stop? Tell me, have you been single for long?”
Thorpe ignored her quip and instead said, “You’re clearly not fit for duty.” She paused, stepped around the low coffee table, and stood at the rail, watching the same view of the moonlight on the water. “You could put your fellow teammates at risk.”
“Not a chance.”
“You can barely sit without it causing you significant pain,” Thorpe replied.
“I’ve overdone it, that’s all. I need Giuseppe Fortez out of the picture.”
“Because your judgement is clouded. It’s understandable, the man has a contract out on your partner, but that’s still no reason for you to be here.”
“Alex is on a mission, he isn’t able to put a stop to this himself.” Caroline paused. “And he’s operational, therefore out of contact. When he returns, he may well have let down his guard. The Security Service owe him a duty of care. In my book, that extends to putting an end to Fortez and his contract. If we don’t, then Alex will stop Fortez when he finds out…”
“By killing him? Because that seems to be the man’s answer to everything. It’s just as well he’s out of the picture, then.”
Caroline sipped her coffee and rested back in the chair. She knew she wasn’t fit for duty – she’d never intended to return – but she was damned if she could take being lectured anymore. “You did well today,” she said.
Thorpe, clearly caught off guard b
y her response, frowned. “Meaning?”
“At Milo Noventa’s place.”
“Meaning?”
Caroline shrugged. “Meaning, you were there for the team.”
“I merely advised the best way to get rid of Dave’s DNA in a compromising situation,” she replied guardedly.
“Oh, I didn’t take it like that,” Caroline sipped another mouthful of coffee. It was cooling quickly, the night air chilling rapidly. “I thought you took over, used your specialist skills and experience and ordered us to sanitise the crime scene.” She shrugged. “Naturally, we did what you told us to, after all, Neil Ramsay bought you in as an expert in your field and we all look to you for the legal angle. Just to stay the right side of the law, that is.” She paused, looking quizzically at the ex-detective. “I must admit, I was surprised by the turn of events…”
“Are you serious?” Thorpe stared at her coldly, failing to hide her anger.
“It’s strange how things can be remembered. Especially in tribunals or a court of law.” Caroline shrugged again and smiled. “Or forgotten. It pays to stay on the right side of people. Especially those with whom you work.”
Thorpe shook her head as she chuckled quietly. “We really should start again,” she commented flatly. “But I suspect it’s probably too late for us.”
“Never say never,” Caroline replied breezily, then looked up at her. “Okay, maybe we should. If you want to start over, then perhaps you could do me a favour?”
“Okay…” Thorpe replied warily.
“You’re right,” she said flatly. “I’m not up to fitness, and I have overdone it somewhat. I brought along just one crutch to save face. And I walked unaided far too soon. I am in pain, and yes it could affect my judgement. I need some seriously strong pain killers, which I would appreciate you getting for me from a pharmacy. I have also arranged for another crutch to be sent out and it’s arriving tomorrow at the post office in Menaggio at around ten-AM. It will need signing for, but if you could get it for me, I would really appreciate it. I don’t want to make a fuss and I guess, if you could get it and I simply have it to use, then I won’t lose face in front of the others.” She shrugged. “I’d really appreciate your help, and discretion.”
