by Rob Jones
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Nordkapp, Finnmark
The flight from Kebnekaise to Honningsvåg took them to the very edge of Europe and even deeper into Arctic territory. The transport was a long-range AugustaWestland AW101 belonging to the Royal Norwegian Air Force base at Andøya and flown by a genial young lieutenant named Trond Ljunggren who showed them aboard with a cheery wave before flying the powerful helicopter north.
Victoria looked out of the window for a few moments and then turned to the others. “Welcome to Asgard!”
They flew fast and low over some of the sparsest landscape on earth, and it wasn't long before the craziness of the last few hours conspired with the gentle roar of the chopper’s engine and caught up with Victoria Hamilton-Talbot, sending her into a deep sleep.
Hawke was still fuming from his failure to protect Ryan back in Thor’s tomb and stop Sala and his trained chimp Smets from taking him hostage. Not only did he fear for Ryan’s life, but it also meant the enemy would be able to use him to get the location of Valhalla. Things were bad enough when they thought Sala was seeking a Tesla Coil in Thor’s tomb, but now they knew he wanted the terrifying array of divine weapons in Valhalla itself things had taken a bleaker turn.
He wondered for a few seconds if Ryan was still alive, but quickly dismissed the thought for the reason he had just considered. Ryan Bale was no fool, and he would know how to use his knowledge to keep himself alive until the rest of the ECHO team could put together a rescue plan. But like everything else in life, it would all come down to a matter of timing. Hawke knew better than anyone that one screw-up could mean the difference between life and death, and having Ryan’s death on his conscience was unthinkable. He had a duty to protect everyone in his team, and that included Ryan Bale.
They’d made use of the flight time by studying some classified oceanographic surveys liberated from the CIA by Alex Reeve, and after putting their heads together they’d chosen the best place for them to start their search for the missing Hall of the Slain. The maps had revealed an ancient landslide exactly where Alex had described, and closer study showed what looked like a tunnel obscured by an underwater cliff.
Whatever it was, it was large – around fifty meters wide and thirty high – and it hadn’t taken the ECHO team long to decide it was what they were looking for. The only problem was that Sala was also looking for it, and he had a substantial head-start on them.
They raced ever closer to the coast, and Hawke rolled his eyes as Scarlet clambered forward to the flight deck to get more intimately acquainted with some Norwegian bedroom vocabulary.
He turned to Lea. The former Irish Ranger hadn’t been herself since her last journey to Ireland and Hawke knew why, but he also knew there was little he could do to change things.
When they finally reached the coastline, they saw they weren’t the first, but none of them was surprised by the revelation. Sala was not only in the lead but had Ryan’s mind to exploit, and now a remarkable vessel was rising and falling in the sea’s tumultuous swell. On the deck Hawke saw half a dozen men, some studying the coast with binoculars from the portside of the vessel. Written along the bow in black letters was the word “Rán”.
“What the hell is that thing?” Lea asked, astonished.
“It’s a Migaloo,” Hawke said.
“A what?”
“A submarine-yacht. The latest must-have for the mega-rich. No international villain would be without one.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it before,” Victoria said, her eyes crawling all over the beautiful vessel in the water below.
“It’s a pretty amazing piece of kit,” Hawke said with appreciation. Contains a library, gym, bar, cinema – you name it. Plus it can dive to two hundred and forty meters as well.”
“What does Rán mean?” Lea asked.
“Goddess of the Sea,” Victoria said. “I can’t believe how enormous it is!”
“So big, in fact,” Hawke continued, “that it has its own mini-sub.”
“Now you’re just joking with us,” Lea said. “A submarine with its own submarine?”
Hawke nodded. “Yeah – a Triton 1000/3. This is for the seriously discerning ego.”
“I’ll say,” Lea said. “How much?”
“The whole package is over two billion,” Hawke said flatly.
“How much?!” Lea said.
“That’s absurd,” Victoria said. “That’s even more than Daddy has.”
Scarlet emerged from the cockpit with smudged lipstick and raised an eyebrow. “And how much has Daddy got?”
“If Sala’s already got two billion,” Lea interrupted, “just imagine what must be in Valhalla.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Hawke said.
Lea looked anxious. “Anyone see Ryan down there?”
Hawke ran his eyes along the smooth, long deck. “There!” he shouted.
“Is he all right?”
“He looks fine,” Scarlet said. “But I’m worried he might have bored Sala to death thereby denying me the pleasure of killing the bastard.”
Lea pointed out of the chopper’s open door. “Woah – looks like they’re diving!”
Hawke watched anxiously as the Migaloo prepared to dive. Sala was dragging Ryan toward the aft hatch.
“Listen up,” Hawke said. “I’m going down there to get Ryan before that thing goes under. After I touch down you get this chopper to shore and start to unload the sub.”
“But our sub’s shit compared to that!” Scarlet said.
Hawke looked at her, but before he had time to respond their chopper lurched violently to starboard as Trond increased power to the rotors and executed a sharp turn.
“What the hell’s going on?!” Hawke shouted through the headset.
Trond’s reply was calm but grim. “We’re under attack!”
Hawke stepped into the cockpit and saw another chopper racing from left to right and turning hard to make another sweep at them. It was a Eurocopter Super Puma. Its portside plug-door was wide open and revealed a man inside who was operating a nasty-looking M60 machine gun.
“It must be Sala’s transport!” Hawke shouted. “And there’s a door gunner just waiting to drill us full of holes and send us into the sea!”
“What do you want me to do?” Trond asked.
Hawke put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Keep this bird in the air, Trond – Lea and Scarlet will do the rest.”
Hawke stepped into the main cabin and told the others what was happening. Lea told Victoria to strap in and stay out of the way while Scarlet loaded up a Heckler & Koch MP7 and pulled a coin out of her pocket.
“What’s that for?” asked Lea, looking at the small copper coin.
“Got it in my change back in Stockholm.” Scarlet nodded her head at the heavy machine gun mounted at the door of the chopper. “We’re tossing for the M2.”
“Tails,” Lea said.
Hawke rolled his eyes as the coin flipped over in the air and landed on the back of Scarlet’s wrist. She smacked it down with the palm of her other hand and grinned when she saw the sombre profile of Carl Gustav XVI looking back up at her. “Too bad – it’s heads and that means I’m having the M2!”
“Great,” Hawke said. “Let’s get on with it then shall we?”
He opened the side door and Scarlet swung the long perforated barrel-shroud of the M2 out into the cold, rainy Norwegian air. On the other side of the chopper, Lea opened her door and cocked the MP7 while Victoria looked on in abject horror.
“I say – it’s not going to be too loud is it?” she said.
Ignoring her, Hawke secured a descent-control nylon Type 4 rope inside the chopper and slipped on a pair of double-leather rappellers’ gloves. He checked the hookup, rappel seat and rappel ring as Trond evaded another burst from the Puma’s M60 and navigated their chopper over to Sala’s yacht-sub.
As they approached the Rán, Hawke checked the anchor point connection – or what rappellers liked to call the
donut ring – one final time and then dropped the deployment bag out the door of the chopper into the rain, swinging his legs outside.
Trond swooped the chopper down to one hundred and fifty feet and gave the signal to go. Outside they heard the clang clang clang of the Puma’s bullets striking the side of their chopper’s steel exterior and Trond began to pull up to evade them.
Scarlet swung the M2’s barrel at the Puma and returned fire. The noise of the heavy machine gun was intense but muffled by their ear defenders. The spring-activated ejector spat out the empty .50 caliber shell casings as she raked the bullets all over the side of the enemy helicopter, forcing them to break off their attack and pull away. “I could do this all day!” she shouted.
“Now!” screamed the Norwegian pilot.
Hawke looked up at Lea. “Back in a jiffy,” he said, and pushed away from the chopper. He used his guide hand to control his descent and was on his way.
Buffeted wildly by the downdraft of the AW101’s mighty rotors, he looked above and saw only gray skies and rain, and the muzzle-flash of the M2. Below there was only the slim outline of Sala’s submarine-yacht as it sailed toward the coast and prepared to dive.
Hawke used his brake hand to slow the descent and then when he was low enough he released himself from the rope, crashing into the tumultuous ocean and disappearing into the black waves.
Times were getting interesting, he thought.
*
Lea watched Hawke disappear into the raging sea but had no time to dwell on his safety. In the cockpit, Trond was working like a devil to evade the Puma’s vicious attacks, muttering Norwegian expletives every now and again when he had time to take a breath.
On the other side of the chopper, Scarlet Sloane seemed to be having a whale of time firing the M2 whenever she got a shot good enough to justify the ammo, while strapped in at the rear a terrified Victoria Hamilton-Talbot was sitting with her eyes closed and mumbling what Lea presumed were prayers.
Now, Lea stared out into the dark stormy sky. Her hair whipped around in the hail-streaked Arctic wind as she used the MP7 to pin down some goons who were standing near the Rán’s forward escape hatch and taking pot-shots into the water.
They must have seen Joe! she thought to herself as she raked the sub’s outer casing with bullets. In contrast to the pressure hull beneath it, the light hull was made of steel only four millimeters thick. Its only function was to provide a smooth hydrodynamic contour to the sub’s design. Lea’s bullets chewed into it with ease and made the men dance around like fools as they tried to evade the rounds.
She continued firing with quiet determination. Somewhere down in all that gloom was the man she loved, but her thoughts were interrupted by the chopper veering violently to the portside. She reached out to grab hold of anything that would save her, but it was too late.
She tumbled out of the helicopter into the dark, freezing night.
*
Hawke swam toward the Rán. The storm was rising and the swell was difficult work as he plowed onward with the salty spray lashing his face. On the deck, Sala looked less than impressed at the sight of Lea Donovan drilling holes all over the deck casing of his two billion dollar rubber duck. He began ranting and raving at Smets, barking orders to go below decks and get the sub underwater, but then the woman fell from the chopper.
By now, the storm was raging and knocking the Migaloo all over the place. By the time Hawke had touched down beside it, the sub was already partially submerged and the sea water was beginning to slosh over the deck. At the bow, the freezing water was churned into milky bubbles by the forward hydroplanes and with every second it moved deeper into the water.
Hawke knew he had to act fast. In a few minutes there would be no submarine – just him and an awful lot of freezing, tumultuous water. He’d paddled ashore from subs enough times in the past to know how quickly they could vanish from sight, and he didn’t fancy it happening in the middle of a storm.
Then he watched grimly as Sala, Smets and Ryan disappeared inside the aft hatch and went below decks.
He knew the deck would be awash in seconds now, and he swam hard for the rear of the boat. As he swam around to the hangar he heard the sub’s klaxon ring out the unmistakable sound of a diving alarm. This was followed seconds later by the sound of men screaming and the other airlock hatches slamming shut, and he knew from long experience in the Royal Marines and Special Boat Service that Sala had ordered a crash dive. This was a maneuver used by sub captains to submerge beneath the surface as fast as possible to avoid being seen or even to avoid colliding with another vessel.
With the bow planes at the maximum possible downward angle, Hawke knew the crew would be flooding the forward ballast tanks as fast as they could and forcing the submarine down into the icy water at double quick speed. He only had seconds to react. Being stranded in the hangar when the sub dived was a bad idea, so he sprinted across to the hatch door and spun the wheel to open it. He swung it open just in time to see a man running toward him with his fist raised. Hawke dodged the blow, ducking to one side then he brought his fist into the man’s face and knocked him out in one punch.
With seawater rushing into the hangar, Hawke slammed the door shut and secured it before moving along the corridor in search of Ryan, but he didn’t have to look for long. A few moments after entering the corridor he heard the sound of Ryan shouting at some of the men, and then the sound of a heavy punch which was followed by silence. It seemed to be coming from the control room up on the right.
Hawke peered into the room and his eyes confirmed what his ears already knew – Ryan was being held captive by one of Sala’s mercs and it looked like he’d been struck in the face. The young computer hacker from London could add a black eye to the wounded arm this mission had already given to him.
Sala was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Smets, but he counted only one guard in the room alongside a handful of technicians.
Hawke entered the small space and marched right up to them.
The man recognized Hawke from Thor’s tomb, and reacted fast, grabbing Ryan and reaching for something to use as a weapon, but all he could find was a pen which he fumbled, sending it to the floor with a clatter.
Hawke made his move.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Joe Hawke pushed Ryan out of the way and lunged forward hard, punching the guard in the stomach. The man doubled over in agony but the former Commando gave no quarter, powering a devastating uppercut into his lower jaw which cracked shut hard and broke several of his teeth.
The merc staggered back with a wild look in his eyes and waved his arms frantically behind him in a bid to find something to arrest his fall. His right hand caught the edge of the forward auxiliary switchboard but slipped off, and he fell down hard, scarring his back deeply on the corner of the low pressure air manifold gauge. He screamed in agony as he tried to stagger back to his feet.
A technician stood to confront the Englishman but Hawke knocked him out cold with a single punch. “Sorry, no time for introductions…”
Another of the men looked at his unconscious colleague and ran from the control room, presumably to get back-up.
Hawke knew he had no time to waste and padded forward, snatching a wrench from the top of the diving control station. “If you want to fight someone, then have a go with me and leave the kid alone, got it?”
The guard was up now and stared at Hawke hard with a bloody smashed-tooth grin. He wiped a gnarled hand across his mouth and left a smear of engine grease and blood on his face. “You will pay for this!” he said, spitting a thick glob of blood on the mesh floor.
Hawke glanced at Ryan’s black eye and then back to the man. “If you think I owe you something, then come and get it, you dick!”
The man’s beady eyes swivelled around the control room in search of a weapon, but before he found one Hawke stormed forward and swung the spanner at him a second time, striking him across the nose. This produced a terrible wet crunching sound th
at made Ryan wince.
With more blood now pouring from his smashed nose, the man’s face warped into a rictus of hatred for Hawke. His eyes wide now, and neck veins pulsing with high-pressure blood, he stormed forward, nothing on his mind but revenge.
Hawke showed no mercy, lashing out with the spanner again and hitting the technician on the right temple with a savage backhand swipe.
The man staggered backwards and crashed into the dive controls, sending the sub lurching forward to the sea floor.
“That’s handy,” Hawke said, pulling the unconscious man from the yoke and levelling the submarine. “Right, let’s get out of here!”
Ryan looked confused. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Like what?”
“We’re underwater!”
Hawke tapped the depth gauge. “We’re only at twenty meters, mate. You’ve seen You Only Live Twice, right? These gauges here indicate Sala put in a nice bespoke torpedo room.”
“Yes, but…” a look of horror and disbelief spread over Ryan’s face. “If you mean the scene where Sean Connery is fired into the Sea of Japan as a human torpedo, forget it!”
Hawke shook his head in disappointment. “Where’s your spirit of adventure?”
They ran to the torpedo room and Hawke slammed the bulkhead door shut. It was a modest affair for a private submarine, presumably built so the Andorran could take out commercial ships, but today it would serve another purpose. With Sala’s goons hammering on the internal door, Hawke swung open the hatch of one of the tubes. “In you go.”
Ryan peered inside. “But what about you?”
“I’ll fire you out, then open the hatch and swim out the same way.”
“Won’t that flood the submarine?”
“Sort of what I’m aiming for, Ryan, but they could contain the flooding easily enough so let’s hurry. Get in!”
“I cannot believe I’m doing this! At least Bond got to meet Blofeld at the end of it.”
