Under Water (Anton Modin Book 3)

by Anders Jallai

  • • •

  There was increased activity around the cottage. The Special Forces Team was now deployed around the building. Some of them were working on the front door. After instructions from the crackly radio, a dull explosion and a shockwave went through the house and down into the basement.

  • • •

  The explosion could be felt in the tunnel. Bergman’s ears clogged. He held his nose and cleared his eardrums again.

  “Fuck, they’re on their way,” he said.

  “They won’t get through the reinforced basement door with explosives,” Jöran Järv said. “They’ll have to cut their way through.”

  “How long will that take?” Kim said.

  “Don’t know. Half an hour at best, ten minutes at worst.”

  “Okay, new situation,” Modin said. “We will have to be ready to defend ourselves.”

  Jöran Järv cautiously opened the steel door to the sea shore. He opened it wide and could sense the sea, down below. He saw the moon reflected in the shiny black ice and felt a breath of cold air in his face.

  Behind him in the tunnel, he could hear that someone had begun to work with an oxyacetylene torch. He could imagine the sharp flame cutting through the steel.

  “They’ll be through soon.”

  At that very moment, he saw the ice below move as something broke through. He saw a black silhouette rise. A military vessel, a coastal corvette came across the strait toward them, making its way so rapidly through the ice that chunks were flying away at the bow.

  As the vessel began to slow down near the shore, Jöran turned and saw that half the steel door had been cut through. He glanced at Bergman who looked back into the passage with fear in his eyes.

  “Here,” he said. “Take this and throw it into the passage.” He gave Bergman a smoke grenade. After that, Jöran vanished down the steps on the shore side. Modin and Kim followed.

  “Quick, get the equipment,” he said. “Kim, take this and shoot if anyone comes.” He gave Kim a revolver.

  Bergman threw the smoke grenade as he heard the Special Forces breaking through the door. Then he shut the shore side tunnel door. Smoked flounder, he thought.

  They had hoisted the last tote box with diving equipment on board as shots could be heard on shore. Bergman saw bullets rip into the ice; they sounded like whip lashes. The coastal corvette returned fire with its automatic cannons, as they quickly disappeared below deck.

  The noise echoed across the strait as they set off on Mysingen at high speed.

  They had made it.

  CHAPTER 118

  The naval vessel with Modin, Bergman, Jöran Järv, and Kim Zetterman on board had come out to ice-free waters as it passed the Mällsten mine station, the spot where the Los Angeles-class submarine Järv had been talking about had nearly been sunk in early October 1982.

  The coastal corvette passed Mällsten at about twenty knots. Mällsten Islet was starboard and Utö Island far out to port. They were traveling in a southeasterly direction, heading for international waters some twelve miles from land.

  “Are we on our way to the Landsort Trench?” Modin asked the fair-haired, twenty-five year old skipper who was wearing a navy blue uniform and a pair of perfectly polished shoes.

  “How did you guess?”

  “The Landsort Trench is much better known in the U.S. than in Sweden,” Modin said, while looking at the electronic sea chart on the bridge. “How many Swedes know that the Landsort Trench is the deepest place in the Baltic Sea, and happens to be right on the edge of Swedish territorial waters, only half an hour sail from Hårsfjärden inlet, where the submarines were once being chased?”

  The Landsort Trench was some 1,500 feet deep and extended only a few miles. It was a narrow strip under the Baltic Sea and had originally been caused by a meteorite. Over time, its bed had gradually filled up with silt and the true depth was far deeper. Over the years, radioactive waste had been dumped here, as well as chemical weapons and other military surplus. Perhaps there was also a Cold War submarine down there, or, as rumor had it, even an underwater base. In the 1980s, it was still impossible to trace a submarine that lay still on the ocean floor at great depths, especially in the narrows at Landsort. Over less than two nautical miles, the seabed sloped down abruptly from 130 to about 1,400 feet. A nuclear submarine could hide down there for months at a time and the crew could be exchanged at regular intervals by means of civil vessels.

  Modin guessed that their transport was lying in wait for them right there—a U.S. submarine that would take them to the wreck of the M/S Estonia.

  After passing Mällsten, they were blanketed in darkness, except for the moonshine that hit the water surface in a narrow strip. A searchlight lit up the rest, so that the closest vessel would be visible through the windows of the bridge. The sea was calm, the temperature a little below freezing point, and there were no other vessels around.

  They had been en route for about half an hour when the Captain ordered the vessel to slow down. Their destination was a GPS position at the deepest part of the Landsort Trench that had to be matched exactly. Modin read the chart. The captain had placed an electronic marker at the spot; a circular red ring.

  “Slow forward,” he ordered, and the skipper obeyed.

  Kim, Jöran, and Bergman had gone below deck to have some sandwiches and coffee. Modin was not hungry. He was on his way to something big, important, and irreversible. His mind and body were both gathering power, energy, and focus for what lay in store for them. He was approaching the hour he had been looking forward to for nearly sixteen years. The day he would see his family again. That was his goal; nothing else mattered. He was going home to a place he had left so reluctantly. The text message had been right: He couldn’t deny that he had left his family on board a sinking ship. He had suffered for it ever since, no matter how much he wanted to live.

  Everything had happened so fast back then—suddenly he had been outside the ferry, in the sea, rescued. Since that time he had been deeply unhappy. He wondered what would happen if he had been given another chance, if he could return and do it all over again.

  “Two hundred and fifty yards to go. Come to starboard, ten degrees. Okay, stop!”

  The Captain put the engine in reverse and the vessel came to a stop. There they were. The searchlight was turned off; only the navigation lights and the electronic screen shone faintly in the moonlight. Now all they could do was wait for the guests to show up.

  CHAPTER 119

  We are in contact.”

  “Data?”

  “Depth 500. Rising slowly.”

  Activity on the bridge increased. Modin went to one of the monitors and saw the clear echo of a submarine on its way toward them. It seemed like a dream to be floating above almost 1,500 feet of water and to have an armed submarine coming up from the depths immediately below. Sean Connery’s on his way, Modin thought, thinking of the film The Hunt for Red October.

  “One hundred and fifty.”

  Silence fell on the bridge. They were waiting for what would emerge in front of them. Except Modin and Bergman last summer at the Black Island, it was likely that no one on board had ever seen a 6,000-ton Los Angeles-class submarine. Modin knew it was a monster, and he was looking forward to getting on board that ship. He ran his hand across his crew cut and took a deep breath.

  “Depth sixty-five feet. One hundred yards forward.”

  Modin noticed small bubbles in the middle of the searchlight beam right in front of him. A black mast, a periscope, was sticking up. The submarine was in surface reconnaissance mode. A modern periscope would have 360-degree visibility without having to rotate. It had lenses that took an image that could then be analyzed down in the control room, all of this to minimize the time above water. The periscope stayed up, although the submarine had spotted them much earlier, Modin was convinced of that. Kim had come up onto the bridge and stood next to him with her arm round his waist.

  “What’s happening?”

&
nbsp; “We’re waiting for the monster from the black lagoon. Look at the periscope over there. She’s on her way up. Our ride out of here.”

  A submarine conning tower emerged with two periscopes in front of them. Water gushed down the sides from the flat top surface. There were no markings on the tower; the submarine had been painted all black. It leveled out when they could make out the upper surface of the submarines hull, which splashed in the waves. This was no Los Angeles-class; the conning tower was similar but this was a much smaller sub.

  What model was it? This submarine could be no more than 130 feet.

  Modin didn’t understand.

  CHAPTER 120

  POLICE HEADQUARTERS, STOCKHOLM, WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 10

  Göran Filipson was clearing his desk. It was Friday afternoon and the sky was overcast. He himself was shining like the summer sun. He was whistling and his back was straight. His vertebrae had ended up in their right places after all that bending. His term of service at the Swedish Security Service had been one long walk in the desert. He had never reached his goal, despite all his efforts to protect the Kingdom of Sweden. Had he done anything useful? Had he saved the country on at least one occasion? He was having more and more doubts about that. At any rate, it was over now. Someone else could continue to rescue politicians, celebrities, and military top brass from real or imagined enemies. A long life under the badge of paranoia was finally over and he felt relief.

  He carefully packed his belongings in a cardboard box. The books at the bottom, the papers and little things on top. He rolled up a poster with Master Spy Stig Bergling Sentenced to Life written on it, a nice souvenir, if nothing else. He intended to put it up at his summer cottage.

  Half an hour earlier, he had handed in his resignation to the head of the Security Service in Police Headquarters in Stockholm. He had asked to be relieved of his duties with immediate effect, which had been accepted after some discussion. He was allowed to leave that very day. This often happened when someone resigned the secret service prematurely—sudden, for reasons of security. He had been given a six months leave of absence, which was the entire notice period. There was still an email on his computer screen. It was from Special Ops. They had found their boss, Chris Loklinth, in terrible condition on Muskö Island the previous night. He had been badly tortured and was suffering from dehydration. He had been taken to the Southern Hospital in Stockholm by helicopter. Loklinth would survive, but nothing could be done for his finger. A nationwide alarm had been issued, but the perpetrators had slipped through the net. Special Ops had asked for assistance in stopping all diving operations to the M/S Estonia. That had top priority, the email said, signed by the temporary head of Special Ops, Bob Lundin. Everyone must work together on this case, he had written.

  Ten Little Indians, Filipson thought. Someone else can take care of that problem, someone on the upsurge of their career, someone willing to sacrifice their honor on behalf of Swedish business interests. That had been the tradition in the nation ever since Tage Erlander had been Prime Minister. It was either the U.S. that would want something done, or the business world. He was tired of it all. He breathed a sigh of relief. Then he looked out of the window and saw the department’s black SUV coming back from some mission or other. Better to leave the castle before they arrive. He felt he’d packed everything. He had copied the material about the Zetterman murder investigation and put the papers in his briefcase, along with a lengthy string of emails between his own department and Special Ops; emails that would be handy to have, almost like life insurance.

  He turned around and looked at his phone, which was protected against eavesdropping with fancy technology he didn’t understand. He took a few brisk steps, picked up the receiver, and dialed a short number.

  “Hi, J-O, would you be so kind as to e-mail me the signal surveillance material for the Grisslehamn case last Christmas. No, just here to this department. Just want to check something. Thanks.”

  He replaced the receiver and wondered whether J-O Grahn at Defense Radio would suspect anything. Doesn’t matter, I’ll be far away anyway.

  He got up when the documents from Defense Radio were printed out, put them in the box along with his other belongings, and grabbed his jacket. Time to jump ship and leave.

  When he got home, he would burn his three brown suits and Paisley patterned neckties. They would no longer be needed. Soon he would be fishing for pike in the archipelago off the city of Trosa.

  With the box under his arm, he locked the door from the outside.

  CHAPTER 121

  NORTHERN BALTIC SEA, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 11

  The NR-2, successor to the NR-1, has the following necessary specifications: The NR-2 should be able to:

  1. Transport weapons and other equipment to units far behind enemy lines,

  2. Transport personnel for Special Operations (e.g. Navy Seals),

  3. Document the seabed for future operations and battle areas,

  4. Covertly put in place acoustic surveillance equipment in waters controlled by the enemy (e.g. SOSUS equipment),

  5. Covertly investigate or sabotage enemy communications cables,

  6. Search the seabed for enemy sensors or warning equipment.

  (Section on NR2 Military Mission Profiles,

  in: A Concept of Operations for a New Deep-Diving Submarine,

  Frank W. Lacroix, Robert W. Button, Stuart E. Johnson and John R. Wise)

  Good Morning Mr. Modin. Breakfast?”

  Commander Harrison Bolt on the NR-1 came forward and greeted him. He was smiling broadly and showed an even, unreal row of front teeth as he shook Modin’s hand more firmly than necessary. Right behind him stood a thin bald man, shorter than Bolt, who was presumably his second-in-command.

  “We have met before,” Harrison Bolt said.

  “Less than a year ago,” Modin answered, “far inside the Swedish archipelago.”

  “Borders don’t matter to us the way they do to you, Mr. Modin. What counts is not being detected,” Bolt said and laughed loudly.

  Harrison Bolt had come to unload cargo at Black Island the previous summer. The submarine that had saved them back then had been a Los Angeles-class vessel. This one wasn’t, yet Modin had no idea what it was instead. Harrison Bolt was the Commander but this was a small reconnaissance submarine, a midget sub Modin had never seen before, at least not in reality.

  “Is this an NR-1?” Modin asked, in order to say something in his confusion.

  “Absolutely right! It’s been our faithful servant since back in the Cold War. The NR-1 submarine, one of the wonders of the world.”

  The U.S. Navy nuclear submarine NR-1

  “I thought it was decommissioned some years ago,” Modin said.

  “One was.”

  “Are there more of them?”

  “We have two, which is a well-kept secret. Officially, we’re scrapping it, but we’re keeping it in secrecy. That’s better if you want to sneak around in foreign waters unnoticed. We are cruising around in a submarine that does not exist.”

  Modin knew that the NR-1 was a fantastic invention belonging to the U.S. Navy. According to all the open submarine registers, there was only one of them and that had only been made public after the Cold War had ended in the 1990s. In the 1980s, the world at large did not even know it existed.

  The NR-1 was just over 130 feet long, had a crew of seven, and could stay under water for months at a time. It would be transported to its scene of operations on board a mother vessel like a large civilian tanker or container ship. It would be strapped under the mother vessel or towed behind. It had robot arms in the bow, which could work on the seabed, laying mines for example, or installing SOSUS equipment, or assisting in salvage operations. The NR-1 had searchlights all around its hull and wheels so that it could lie still on the seabed or move around in shallower waters. It could also carry a mini submarine on deck, and presumably a Sea Tractor for seabed operations. It was the only larger midget submarine that could run along t
he seabed.

  Modin knew that Harrison Bolt was his ticket to paradise. The NR-1 was taking them to the M/S Estonia.

  Kim joined Modin and Bolt in the small kitchen area. A tall black American came in and served greasy bacon and scrambled eggs made in the microwave. The NR-1 didn’t have a proper galley and the food consisted of semi-fabricates that where warmed up in the microwave. The faint hum of fans could be heard in the background.

  Modin noticed a portrait of President Ronald Reagan on the wall of the small kitchen, but no picture of Barack Obama. It smelled of cooking fat and there was the noise of the nuclear reactor in the background. It was obvious that the crew spent long periods of time in there. They tried to get used to the claustrophobic machine. Seven men stuck in a few cubic feet of submarine could break the strongest will. It was much more physically demanding being on board the small NR-1 than it was on board larger submarines. And the constant risk of attack on covert operations didn’t make things easier.

  “How are you, Anton,” Kim asked. She didn’t seem concerned about the submarine. “It’s nearly time. Are you prepared for what’s to come?”

  Modin, who had decided to take a nap before the dive, looked up from his plate.

  “As prepared as I’ll ever be,” he said.

  “You must be careful down there, please promise me you will. There is life after this. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  Modin didn’t reply. Instead, Harrison Bolt interrupted, when he saw a lull in the conversation.

  “See you in the Control Room, when you’re finished, Mr. Modin.”

  He blinked his large, friendly eyes and left. His bald second-in-command followed. He stood far too upright for it to be his natural gait. Tense and grim, he looked as if he was hanging from invisible strings as he followed Bolt.

  “Okay,” Modin said, his mouth full of bacon. “I’ll be there.”

  The submarine started to move. They were presumably going in a northeasterly direction. Strait across the Baltic Sea lay the Finnish island of Utö. He calculated the voyage would last about nine hours. They would be steaming ahead as quietly as possible and therefore slowly to avoid being detected by the Finnish or Russian coastguard.