Hunter Killer - Alex King Series 12 (2021)

by A P Bateman

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Hormuzd Shirazi glanced behind him and saw the RIB gaining on him. He was not well-versed with boats and he had found that the bow was riding too high to cope with the speed. Each time he neared full throttle, the bow rode so high that the engine almost immersed itself in the freezing water. He worked the throttle forwards gently and again, the bow pointed skywards. He looked for something heavy to shift into the forward third portion of the boat, but there was nothing substantial. Instead, he slowed the boat down, engaged neutral and drifted while he picked up the AR-15 and shouldered it. The scope was a x4 magnification, and he could see the man behind the control console. He did not recognise him, but he had just killed a man to steal the boat and he suspected there would soon be more people on the way.

  Shirazi fired three shots and the pursuing craft veered to the right. He tracked and fired another four rounds. He could not see if he hit the boat, but he didn’t see any plumes of water indicating a miss. The boat veered again and this time Shirazi fired six or seven shots at the engine, allowing several inches for travel. He got his answer to whether he had hit as the boat’s engine pitch changed and black smoke started billowing skywards. Shirazi dropped the rifle onto the deck near his feet and checked the coordinates on the GPS handset before working the throttle again. He was so nearly there.

  ***

  King had worked the trim and tilt, adjusting the engine’s angle of tilt with the twin propellers’ revs and the rescue rib was slicing through the water cleanly, the bow hunkered down as if weighted down and the throttle was at full power. They had been steadily gaining on both boats, but he could now see that one of the craft had stopped with engine trouble.

  “Give me the pistol, Rashid,” he said. “And get the rifle on the person in the rearward boat.”

  “Do I take him down?”

  “Not yet, mate…” King tucked the Makarov pistol into his pocket, the silencer making it difficult, but he got it in butt first. Not ideal, but it was where he needed it.

  He throttled back and kept the RIB in a position where Rashid had a clean arc of fire and wouldn’t be firing across their own bow. They were one-hundred metres out, and even with the rifle’s open sights, Rashid wouldn’t need a second bullet.

  “Hands in the air!” King shouted and the man complied, carefully but confidently. “Don’t move a muscle, my friend doesn’t miss!”

  “You’ll be buying me flowers next,” Rashid murmured quietly.

  “Prat…” King said under his breath and eased the RIB forward, making steering and throttle adjustments with the swell to keep Rashid and the rifle on target. He looked at the man, studied his features. Apart from having him down as American and assuming him to be CIA back on Spitsbergen, there was something familiar about him. As if seeing him gave him an easy sense of Déjà vu.

  “I was gaining on him, but he hit my engine,” the man commented, giving a shrug.

  “Who are you?” King asked. “You broke into my room back at the hotel in Longyearbyen. Had yourself a good nose about. But you didn’t spot my camera.”

  “Right.” He shrugged. “I guess those are the breaks in this game…”

  “So, who the hell are you, then?”

  “My name’s Newman.”

  “That’s what you said on the boat, but I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true. David Newman. Cover is simpler when it’s the truth.” He paused. “I guess you could say we’re on the same side.”

  “That’s doubtful…”

  Newman shrugged. “Most of the time, anyway.”

  “Is the man in the other boat Shirazi?” King asked impatiently.

  “He’s Iranian, but I didn’t have a name. He killed a member of the Aurora crew and stole the boat. Where he’s heading, there could only ever be one method of picking him up. Which doesn’t bode well for you…”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, they’ve obviously got what they came for. And judging by your little war party, you know it, too.”

  King stared at him. He did not like the man’s eyes, nor his confidence. He supposed he reminded him of himself. The man was certainly not to be underestimated. “What’s your exfil?”

  Newman lowered his hands and Rashid fired into the control panel mere inches from his arm. Newman hurriedly shot both hands back into the air and Rashid had already worked the bolt. “Jesus!” he glared back at them. “It was meant to be one of our own subs. But they’re all tied up milking the glory out of a little skirmish with a Russian submarine north of here. Seems like the hunter became the hunted and was then promptly rescued by their former prey. Washington has a tremendous victory on so many levels and will be using it for years.”

  “I haven’t seen the news,” King replied sardonically.

  “I have your pistol,” Newman said agreeably. “Whatever happened back at the yard with all the shipping containers between you and the Iranian, I was going to get you to hospital, but got out of there when the cops showed up. I thought the pistol might complicate matters for you.”

  “That was definitely him then?” King stared at Newman coldly. “Thanks,” he replied without emotion.

  “I’m reaching for it now…” He lowered his hands and slowly pulled the compact Beretta out from his pocket. He tossed it to King, who caught it in his left hand, his right still on the wheel. Rashid’s aim did not waver. “I’ll come with you to lend a hand…”

  King shook his head and hammered the throttle forwards. Newman was left staggering for balance as his boat rocked wildly in their wake .

  “Good call,” Rashid said. “I don’t trust that guy.”

  “I know that man,” King replied. “But I just can’t figure out from where or when.”

  “It’ll come to you.”

  King nodded. That was what he was worried about, but at least the man was behind him now. Ahead, the RIB was still a speck of red in the monochrome, but King was at full throttle and had the trim and tilt working well, the bow slicing cleanly through the slick water.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Shirazi struggled to reload the AR-15 and keep the RIB on course. The bow was riding high – he did not know that the trim and tilt lever altered the angle of the engine planes and brought the front of the boat down, allowing the boat to ‘plane’ smoothly – and he was fighting the attitude of the tiny craft and unable to use full throttle. When he turned, he could see a boat behind him. A thousand metres ahead of him, the Tareq-class submarine was surfacing. Commander Keshmiri Pezhman had been adamant that the vessel would only remain surfaced for five minutes. He needed to make the rendezvous, or he would die at sea. There was no returning to the Aurora rigs, no chance of being captured. He would gladly serve his country, the great Ayatollah, and the almighty Allah, and he would readily die for the holy trinity that was all three. However, he had been assured that in the event of his capture during the course of his mission, then his family and extended family would be arrested and would never be seen again. Such was the sensitivity of the mission, there really was only one way out for him and the head of the Iranian Secret Service, The Ministry of Intelligence of the Islamic Republic of Iran, had personally given him the means to do so – a two-shot .32 calibre Derringer pistol, small enough to sit in the palm of his hand, which he had smuggled into Norway and Svalbard in the same cut-out diving tank that he had used to smuggle the AR-15 assault rifle.

  Shirazi surveyed the ocean ahead and watched the submarine break the monotony of the horizon, a sliver of black separating the greyness of both sea and sky. The vessel rose slowly, steadily from the water, becoming larger with every twenty or thirty metres of travel. He did not hear the gunshot above the whine of the engine, but he felt the sting of hot copper and his left leg gave out completely. He struggled to remain balanced in the unsteady craft and the wave of pain shot through him, the epicentre of which was his left hip and buttock, although the nerve endings from his knee to the small of his back pulsed as if he had been elect
rocuted.

  He released the steering wheel and struggled to pick up the rifle. Using just one hand he wielded it clumsily behind him and rattled off a dozen rounds in the direction of the approaching boat. He had merely glanced at the wound, but he already knew he was finished. A large calibre weapon with expanding hunting ammunition. He would need a trauma team and a hospital to work on him, and without that, he did not have long.

  This is it. This was how it ends… thought Shirazi. Well, so be it and so shall I be unto Him… He pulled the throttle control backwards and mouthed, Allahu akbar, silently.

  God is great…

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “You’ll never make the shot! Not with open sights,” King had said sharply. “I’ll get you closer!”

  The rifle had recoiled sharply as Rashid had squeezed the trigger. They were still four-hundred metres distant and travelling at thirty-five knots in a three-foot swell, and the young former SAS officer had still made the shot. Shirazi had jerked and slumped and clambered back to his feet, holding the rifle in his right hand.

  “Who says?” Rashid smiled as he worked the bolt, took up aim again and waited for another shot.

  “Smart arse…” King turned to Grainger and jerked his head for the man to come to him. “Can you take the wheel?”

  “Certainly.” Grainger stepped into King’s position and ducked his head as bullets sprayed near them from Shirazi’s AR-15. “Are you hit?” King asked, taking hold of the Beretta, and checking the magazine and breech.

  “I… I don’t think so…” He glanced down, patted his arms and sides. “No, all good!”

  Madeleine was hunkered down on the deck near the twin engines. She looked pale. King asked if she was ok, and she nodded. King said, “Madeleine, get your kit ready to deploy.” She nodded and opened the case she was clutching. King turned his eyes back to the boat.

  “I can take him down now for sure,” said Rashid. “We’re close enough for me to aim at his back, dead-centre…” He ducked as Shirazi fired wildly, but the bullets tracked a long way in front of them and to the side. “Say the word and I’ll take him down…”

  King watched the submarine ahead of them. They were now only two-hundred metres from Shirazi, and the man had killed his engine and was drifting. “Slow down,” he said to Grainger. “Approach at five knots, no more.” Grainger nodded and throttled back. “Come hard to port,” said King. “Then pull hard to starboard so Rashid remains on target. I’m going to board him.”

  King tore off his jacket for ease of movement. The Makarov tumbled out of his pocket and he tapped Rashid to make him aware, then placed the weapon at his feet so he would have a rapid-fire option once he’d fired the rifle. King shivered against the cold. Shirazi was only fifty metres away now and fumbling with the rifle. Ahead of them, the submarine had fully surfaced.

  “Shirazi!” King hollered. “Put the weapon down and place your hands on your head!” The man continued loading the magazine with 5.56mm ammunition from his pocket. “Drop the weapon!” King grit his teeth in frustration. Beside him was one of the best snipers he’d ever encountered, and the Iranian had until he raised the weapon to live, but King wanted what the man knew. “Shirazi, it’s over!” The Iranian inserted the magazine and put his hand on the charging handle.

  But he didn’t get to pull it backwards…

  The .30-06 rifle jumped in Rashid’s hands and Shirazi fell out of sight into the hull of the RIB.

  “Grainger, get alongside!” King shouted and got ready to leap across.

  The RIB nudged the other boat, Grainger pulled the throttle backwards all the way into reverse, then back into neutral as the boat lurched to a complete stop. King leapt into the boat and aimed down at the Iranian, kicking the assault rifle aside. He kept the weapon on him, but Shirazi merely smirked back at him. There was a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, and he was already looking pallid, or perhaps it was the Azerbaijan blood in him.

  Shirazi coughed and spittle and blood speckled his chin. “The crew had died a horrible death, a sickness of some kind, apparently…”

  King nodded. “Then there’s a chance the crew on your sub will be infected. I’m glad you lot got there first. You’ve probably saved my life.”

  “You’re bluffing…” Shirazi replied weakly. “You know nothing of it. You’re just a foot soldier. Anyway, you’re too late,” he sneered. “The submarine will dive inside a minute and the next thing you will know about the warheads is when one explodes in a city of our choosing. Hopefully, your city, with you and your loved ones in it…”

  King ignored him. “Where are they taking the warheads?” He glared down at him, the pistol firm and steady in his hands. “Tell me!”

  Shirazi smiled. “To Tehran, of course…” He coughed again. “And some will go to our friends in the DPRK. The world is changing and soon, you and the Great Satan that is the United States will no longer assert their dominance on the rest of us… ”

  “North Korea?” King frowned. “They aren’t your friends…”

  Shirazi smiled then coughed again. This time, a steady gush of blood left his mouth and when he spoke again, it was a gargle. “The… enemy… of… my… enemy…” He coughed, then rasped. “… is… my… friend…”

  King looked at the submarine. He had no idea how many warheads the Iranians had taken aboard, but he knew he could never afford to let them get away. He looked back at Shirazi, but the man was holding something, trying to get the dexterity back into his freezing, dying fingers. King saw enough to recognise two small hexagonal barrels, and he shot Shirazi in the forehead and turned for the other RIB.

  “Get us to that sub!” he shouted at Grainger. “Madeleine, are you ready?”

  “All set!”

  The RIB sliced through the water, gently lifting as it drove head on into the rolling swells. King watched the submarine ahead. A figure appeared at the top of the conning tower, head and shoulders above the rim. He could see them using binoculars. The figure disappeared and King knew what would happen next.

  “She’s going to dive!” he shouted, turning to Madeleine. “What do I do?”

  Madeleine staggered unsteadily forwards, clutching onto the seats for support. She held out the tubular device approximately the size of a can of deodorant. It was made from clear hardened plastic and inside, King could see a processor, coloured bulbs, and a tangle of wires. What looked like a series of SIM cards were inserted into a cartridge and a long trail of fibreoptic cable dangled down at least eighteen inches. At the other end of the tube a ring pin had been threaded with metal clips. “It’s designed to be inserted into the flesh at the base of a shark or whale’s dorsal fin,” she shouted in King’s ear. “I have just finished substituting the barb for metal ring ties. Not that you’ve actually told me, but I kind of figured out what you’re up to. The tracking unit has been tested to one thousand metres and has a battery life of two weeks.”

  “How deep can it go without losing a signal?” King asked as he started to strip off his clothes.

  “The animal has to surface for the data to be collated. That’s water temperature, the animal’s heartbeat, distance travelled etc…”

  “It’s not a bloody animal!” King interrupted tersely.

  “I know!” Madeleine snapped right back. “The data will not download, but the unit will emit a signal constantly. The control receiver will pick up the GPS signal and show on the map on the laptop.” She paused, throwing what looked like a buoy into the water, but instead of floating it sank out of sight and Madeleine ran the end of a cable into a small, black unit, then plugged the unit into her laptop using a USB cable. She gathered some length and wound it round one of the heavy-duty rubber cleats so that the USB would not pull out of the unit of the laptop. She looked back at King as he tore off his trousers and stood in just a pair of black boxers. Her eyes had briefly focused on his taut muscles but lingered on the scar. King had been shot in the stomach and the surgery to remove the bullet and stop t
he internal bleeding had left his stomach looking as if a shark had bitten him almost in half but spat him back out. At his shoulder and right pectoral muscle there was a track of scars from bullet holes. She looked back at him, a little shaken and tried to regain composure. “The receiver is in the water and picking up the signal. There is a second’s delay for every one-hundred metres in depth and an additional delay for speed. The tracker is designed for use with sharks and whales, not submarines travelling at thirty knots.”

  “More like twenty-two for this model,” King said, starting to shiver. The air temperature was -8ºc and the water temperature was just above the -2ºc mark. He looked back at the submarine, now just one-hundred metres distant and almost half submerged. “Get with Grainger and work out approximate figures for delays given depth and speed information. I’m supposing that if you receive the signal and we know the time between transmissions, depth and speed can be calculated?” He paused, smiling nervously, or he could have been shivering. “I think you and Grainger will be better placed to calculate that, rather than Rashid or myself. Get those degrees, Master’s and PHDs working…” He took the tracker unit from her and looked back at the submarine, now almost completely submerged except for the top third of the conning tower. The water looked like it was boiling, but it was merely the expelled air creating bubbles as the ballast tanks were expunged and water was sucked inside. He took a series of deep breaths to psych himself up and said, “Okay, Grainger. Get me right on her!”

  King knew what to expect as he dived outwards from the moving boat, but the pain was far worse than he had anticipated. He had taken short breaths enabling him to hyperventilate on the approach, readying his lungs for as much breath as he could load them with, and to thoroughly oxygenate his internal organs for the extreme drop in temperature. He couldn’t afford to lose time on the surface, fighting for breath or acclimatising to the searing cold in vain. He was in a fight for survival. He needed to enter the water and swim downwards, but as much as he needed the air inside him to feed his heart and lungs, he was too buoyant and fighting against simple physics. He blew out about half his breath, the bubbles temporarily blinding his vision, and powered downward with all his strength. At eight feet he caught hold of the hatch wheel in the conning tower and gripped for all he was worth. The speed of the submarine’s descent was terrific, and it was all he could do to hold on. He needed to equalise the pressure in his ears by clenching his nose and blowing until the pressure inside his ears popped, but as soon as he achieved this, he was needing to equalise again. He had underestimated the light factor, too. The clean quality of the water meant that visibility was good, but the light at twenty feet and counting was getting darker with every foot travelled. King equalised again, his head feeling light and his lungs fighting for breath. He could not feel his hands or fingers and as he threaded the metal clip through the hatch, he could barely see to snap the clip together. Without feeling, he heard the metallic click in the water, echoing in his ears. The tracker was in place and he pushed off hard and stroked for the surface. Only now, with his lungs devoid of air, he had no buoyancy, and every stroke was an extreme effort, and every second was a second more than he felt he could be there. With ten feet to go, he could no longer fight the desire to snatch a breath, and with that, he started to black out.