She swung the wheel to the right to get around the other side. The back of the vehicle began sliding to the left. She corrected, but not enough and it smashed into the side of the moving Tigr and bounced off without a grip on the ice. Carrie tried to correct again, but it kept sliding. Mikki laid down fire against the Tigr’s front windshields. Their vehicle spun round until they were facing back toward the immigration post. Carrie slammed into reverse, gauged distance with wing mirrors, and headed backwards. Mikki kept up covering fire. They cleared the Tigr. The siren kept blaring. A surge of fire smacked against her vehicle. It dipped, the wheel crushing down to the right in a tire blowout. Carrie ignored it, keeping up momentum, praying she could avoid another slide, skewing left, then right. She headed toward a barrier with red and white stripes and braced herself to smash through it. But the barrier swung up. Lights went on. A voice from a loudspeaker said in Russian, ‘Hold your fire. This is Norwegian sovereign territory.’ Carrie coasted, letting the vehicle slow naturally. Yes, a blown-out rear tire. She had guessed right. Yes, she was safe. They were on the Norwegian side.
Face twisted with pain from his wound, Mikki leant forward, grabbed her hand, and gave it a big kiss. ‘Did anyone tell you, Dr Walker, you’re one hell of a human being?’
FIFTY-TWO
Svanvik, Finnmark, Norway
‘Where is the real Halland?’ asked Harry
‘She was at Karlskrona,’ answered Olsen, referring to Sweden’s main submarine base in the south of the country. ‘She left dock five days ago to join Dynamic Freedom.’
‘Has she checked in yet?’
‘No. But she’s signature identified, submerged, and scheduled.’
‘Have any others not checked in?’
Olsen was on the line to the command center in Bodø. ‘They’re closing down on us, Harry. Too much else going on.’
‘That’s what Yumatov’s banking on,’ muttered Harry while calling Jim Whyte at Bodø. ‘We need confirmation on the Halland, General, and now.’
‘Halland has been verified,’ said Whyte.
‘At least order her to surface?’
‘You need to step aside, Congressman. The summit is secure.’
‘Eleven minutes out,’ said Olsen.
Harry studied the cordon around the royal yacht and the position of the vessels attached to Dynamic Freedom. He placed the Poseidon or Halland center screen on the live feed of the Dynamic Freedom chart. The underwater drone was three times shorter in length than the Halland yet Russian technology enabled it to emit a detailed acoustic signature that was fooling NATO’s most sophisticated defenses. If this were not the Halland, where was the real one?
‘We need to put out a debris search—’ Harry enlarged the chart, working out the Halland’s route over the past twenty-four hours. ‘Start between Kirkenes and Tromsø. Fishing boats, freighters, cruise ships.’
‘It’s ten minutes out, Harry, there’s no—’
‘Just do it, for Christ’s sake.’
He opened the line to Stephanie. ‘What’s happening?’ she asked. ‘This is going—’
‘Steph,’ he interrupted. ‘Do exactly as I say. Contact your Prime Minister now. Tell him to set up a line with Joint Forces Command at Northwood. HMS Anson, Astute-class submarine, is two miles outside the royal yacht’s protective cordon. She has a trailing-wire antenna, meaning you can have direct communications. Within the next five minutes, I need the Anson independently to confirm the identity of a Swedish Gotland-class submarine, Halland, now showing ten minutes out. Do not work through NATO or Dynamic Freedom. Tell the captain that the Halland is suspect.’
Royal Yacht HNoMY Norge, Kirkenes, Norway
Stephanie didn’t query Harry. She dialed Prime Minister Kevin Slater, who was watching the summit on television. ‘God, Merrow’s droning on,’ he said. ‘If he mentions freedom and democracy one more time, I swear I’ll declare Britain a dictatorship.’
Stephanie broke his humor by repeating Harry’s precise instructions. Slater immediately understood. ‘Onto it, Steph. Keep the line open.’
She steadied herself as the yacht jolted against a ferocious gust of wind. Merrow reacted by giving the room a sweeping smile. ‘As my friend Viktor told us, no spot of rough weather can come between the friendship of the Russian and American people. Together we have fought …’
Stephanie caught Grizlov’s eye. She tapped her phone to say she was working on finding out what was happening. He slightly raised his right hand and crossed his fingers. Slater came across the line. ‘The Anson will get back to us in three minutes.’
Svanvik, Finnmark, Norway
‘Seven minutes out,’ said Olsen.
Harry sipped his coffee. It was lukewarm. This was one of those short stretches of time in a military operation when a man needed to fight every straining fiber and do nothing. If the British submarine commander corroborated the Halland’s identity, meaning that no action would be taken against it, Harry would simply yell down the phone for Stephanie to get off the yacht and pray she survived. After that, if proven right, he would track down every strand and thread of Yumatov’s operation and go wherever it took him to what Rake Ozenna called the head of the snake.
‘Putting you through to the Anson commander,’ said Stephanie.
‘Captain Winchester here, Mr Lucas. What exactly are you looking for?’
‘A Russian Poseidon UUV.’
‘I’m reading a Swedish Gotland-class but with possible irregularities. Give me fifteen minutes and we can—’
‘We don’t have fifteen minutes. What are the irregularities?’
‘This acoustic reading gives us no confirmation of the air-independent propulsion installed on the Gotland class.’
Slater cut across. ‘Conclusively?’
‘No. It could be turned off to increase its speed, so not enough to verify this is a false signature, sir.’
‘Six minutes out,’ said Olsen.
The Halland was marked as being allocated to the presidential summit, not to Dynamic Freedom. She would not be under NATO command but— There wasn’t time to think and guess, he had to know. ‘Does Halland have a trailing antenna?’
‘She does,’ answered Winchester from the Anson.
‘Under whose command?’
‘I’m next to the Norwegian Defense Minister,’ Stephanie broke in. She went quiet for a beat. ‘The Halland is under US Secret Service command for the length of the summit.’
The Secret Service could have ordered the Halland to surface. It had chosen not to, even though Harry had people at the heart of the operation, Frank Ciszewski in the Situation Room and Jim Whyte in Bodø.
‘Can you sight the target?’ asked Harry.
‘Affirmative,’ replied Winchester.
‘Are you ready to take it out?’
‘Only on authenticated word from the Prime Minister,’ said Winchester.
‘Five minutes out,’ said Olsen.
The screen marker over the Halland blurred. ‘Target’s increasing speed.’ Harry’s voice was raised with urgency. As Rake Ozenna had warned, a Poseidon could be programmed to break cover in the final minutes to ensure maximum impact at a stage in the attack when it would have been too late to intervene. A few seconds from now the royal yacht itself would be in the arc of the explosion and the weapon would be too dangerous to destroy.
‘Take it out,’ said Harry. ‘Now.’
‘Prime Minister?’ said Winchester.
Slater said nothing.
‘Three minutes out.’
‘Prime Minister,’ repeated Harry. ‘This won’t stop at the assassination of two Presidents. If you don’t give the order now—’
‘I know the consequences,’ snapped Slater.
Olsen’s face creased with surprise. His hand went to his earpiece and he spun around toward Harry. ‘Debris found. North of Vardø.’
‘What debris?’ asked Stephanie.
‘Red life jacket, blue fabric with yellow cross, the Swedish natio
nal flag.’
‘Prime Minister?’ prompted Stephanie.
‘Destroy her, Captain.’
Less than a mile from the royal yacht, the British torpedo destroyed the Russian drone and the sea heaved violently, lashing out in a violent pitch and roll. A white and gray wall of water rose up from the surface, hurling broken packs of ice in a mix of spray and froth. The gale caught it and spread it away and within seconds of the massive explosion, the sea returned to the raging turbulence of the storm.
Stephanie caught sight of the blast through the weather-lashed window. No one else seemed to. Pounding hail and applause for Merrow’s speech drowned out any sound it might have given off. Then, all hell broke loose as the Russian and American security details moved in to get the two Presidents to safety.
‘Thanks, Steph,’ said Harry as she joined a crush of dignitaries being pushed toward the gangway.
‘Anytime, Congressman,’ she said lightly.
‘Brief Grizlov.’
‘As soon as we’re clear of this crush.’
‘The Poseidon came from a Russian sub, the Kasatka. The commander is a classmate of Yumatov’s.’
‘Have you got him?’
‘We will.’
‘Yumatov?’
‘We’ll know within the hour. Rake Ozenna is across there now.’
FIFTY-THREE
Murmansk Oblast, Russia
Sixteen Alaskan huskies ran fast, tracking the smell of Rake’s blood and his torn silk vest across the ice. Stefan drove the lead sled, its tough birch runners bumping over thin snow on jagged frozen water. Rake was behind. Snow pelted against his goggles with such ferocity that he had no visibility of Stefan. Night vision and thermal imaging were so distorted that they only confused. Rake was better with his natural senses. The dogs knew, heads down, working hard, discerning between the hazardous and the safe with far better accuracy than he. From the sky, heat signatures would be too faint and unrecognizable to read in the storm, while Yumatov and his snowmobiles would stand out and be easy targets. Through his earpiece, using the Norwegian cellphone system, Rake had lines open to Harry Lucas and to Stefan.
‘Poseidon destroyed.’ Harry’s voice came through clearly. ‘Well done, Ozenna. You saved the President’s life … Hold … Moscow cutting satellite comms again. Losing visuals.’
The sled tilted sharp to the left as the dogs swerved to avoid a low wall of ice. Rake leaned to the right to balance the weight. As it corrected, Rake saw the dogs were avoiding a wrecked snowmobile that had hit ice and flipped. Flames licked up from the engine, reminding him of the short time he had been in Norway and come back. The dogs’ harnesses tightened and they bounded forward, getting up enough speed for the sled to jump over the crushed legs of the snowmobile’s dead driver. Rake could see only blurs of different shades of darkness, but the energy of the dogs picking up the scent he had left on the bear trap told him they were close.
Something hard and metal smashed against his jaw, cutting his face mask and hurling him into the ice. Too late, driving the sled, his concentration lapsed, he saw a dark shape in front of him. Harsh cold numbed his skin. The dogs stopped. Rake began to pull himself up and a boot crashed against his shoulder, ripping down his neck protection. Wind cut though to his muscles. Rake kept focus against pain, his vision wrecked from the force of the blow. But he could still sense danger around him, and when the foot came for him again, he deflected it, caught hold of the other leg, and twisted his enemy to the ground. He jammed his fist into the neck, heard a choking sound, and was reaching for his knife when an arm caught him round the neck and hurled him backwards. The new attacker snapped on a helmet flashlight, putting the glare right onto Rake’s blood-streaked face. A second helmet light came on. There were at least three.
One crouched next to him, pulled back his head as if to break his neck, and shouted through the noise of the storm, ‘Where is he?’
The air exploded in a barrage of gunfire. The man who asked the question crashed forward onto Rake. More rounds pounded his body and bounced off his Kevlar. The dead man protected him. Through relentless snow, Rake gauged muzzle flashes. He judged distance and shot direction. He waited for the weapon to fall silent, its magazine exhausted. He heaved the body aside, rolled away, drew his knife, and hurled himself forward against the attacker, bringing him down. Rake caught the man’s arm as it swung up toward his head, and stabbed his knife into the face, pulling back the blade, pushing it up into the skull and drawing it out. Blood blew away. Some froze on his skin.
Stefan had saved him. He pulled Rake to his feet. There had been three attackers. Stefan killed two, Rake one. There was a hum of engine sound from the south. Again, without warning, the weather quietened. The snow fall stopped. The wind dropped and a blue-gray haze unfolded over the landscape. Rake and Stefan stood back to back, assessing. Ragged strips from his torn vest hung from the arm of the bear trap he had tied it to. The dogs, trained and alert, had scented and tracked their quarry. They waited in their harnesses, some on their feet, some down in the snow, the sleds held fast by steel anchors Stefan had embedded in the ground. Three wrecked snowmobiles lay in an arc around them from the battle less than an hour earlier. The engine sound was louder, not so far away, three, possibly four military snowmobiles.
From the north, a flat-bed truck sped toward them. The headlamps were on high beam. An orange light flashed on top of the cab. Its wheels threw out spray and ice, and a white sheet flapped from a window, which could be a white flag of peace in war conditions or could have come loose from a load. The truck swerved erratically as the driver avoided hazards. It was traveling too fast. The higher the speed, the greater the vibrations through the ice, creating a destructive surge of water underneath. The vehicle would be three tons, meaning the ice needed to be at least ten inches thick to take its weight and that was at a slow speed. Rake didn’t know enough about Norwegian winters to calculate more.
The truck was a minute out. The snowmobiles were three minutes out. They would have to be stopped on the approach. Rake signaled that they should take cover behind one of the wrecked snowmobiles and checked the line with Harry Lucas. ‘Sword Edge.’
‘Excalibur, reading you.’
‘Do you have visuals?’
‘Negative.’
‘We have truck approaching from the north and four snowmobiles from the south.’
‘Copy that.’
A wind gust slid a fragment of broken metal across the ice. Rake’s torn vest on the bear trap flapped like a flag. A few minutes of respite and the weather was coming back, which was good. Rake set up a firing position south over the burnt-out seat of a snowmobile. He expected the approaching snowmobiles to slow just over a mile out while the crews gauged what lay ahead of them. He turned to see Stefan, standing, examining through night-vision binoculars.
He came across to Rake: ‘It’s Yumatov.’
Yumatov? Rake questioned incredulously, then remembering how one of the attackers asked, Where is he?
To the south, two snowmobiles stopped. Two others went ahead but slowed to a crawl. With horror, Rake watched as men from the stationary ones set up light portable mortars. After one or two test rounds, they could target Rake’s position accurately. Worse, the shells could be designed with explosives to melt and break ice. Stefan pointed to his sled. He would head out to distract the mortars. Rake would handle the truck.
The dogs jumped up on Stefan’s command. They pulled away. Stefan hopped onto the back runner and guided them in a loop. A skilled musher with well-trained dogs would be a near-impossible target at long range. The mortar crews were stationary and vulnerable.
A roar tore under Rake’s feet. The ground trembled like in an earthquake. A cracking sound like breaking glass ripped through the atmosphere. Rake signaled wildly toward the truck, which braked hard, but too late. It skidded and skewed to the left. A chasm appeared, tearing between two massive plates of ice. The weight of the vehicle and its speed created a surge of water under th
e ice like a tsunami hunting a weak spot, which it found near the bear trap, the spot where Rake had wrecked a snowmobile with a hand grenade. The ground tilted like a theater stage. Water washed up and the truck slid toward a black pool of swirling water. Rake saw the face of Ruslan Yumatov. His gaze met Rake’s eyes tight with concentration. He smashed through his window with a metal rod. The truck’s front wheels were in the water. Yumatov had to get out before water spilled inside the cabin. If he didn’t, he would be as good as dead.
Rake ran to the edge with a snow anchor and rope from the sled. He hurled the rope toward the cabin. There was an ear-splitting screech as another slab of ice broke away. A burnt-out snowmobile tipped into the water, somersaulting, creating a whirlpool that sucked the truck down faster. Yumatov’s head was out, his right arm flailing. He was trapped. A leg was caught inside the door.
Rake had to go in because he needed Yumatov alive. He wasn’t the head of the snake as Rake had first thought. There were others, many more, like the men with the mortars and those commanding and paying them.
Rake drew as much air as his lungs could take and leapt into the water ensuring that his head did not go under. He felt his organs react to the sudden cold, his heart pumping, blood needing oxygen, his mouth closed to avoid drawing water into his lungs. Rake knew about cold-water swimming. Nerve ends on the skin sent signals to the brain that responded by rapidly adjusting blood flow. Once through that, and if able to ignore the cold itself, a man could survive for long minutes before exhaustion and hypothermia.
Man on Edge Page 28
