James Barrington - Overkill

‘Ross. Where are you?’

‘Coming down from the Radio Room. They signalled Moscow, so if they’re going to detonate the weapon we can expect it at any time.’ He paused, still catching his breath. ‘Have you reached the hold yet?’

‘No. We’ve eliminated most of the opposition apart from a group on the first deck of the accommodation section. I’ve got men above and below them, but we can’t get them out.’

‘Don’t worry about them,’ Richter said. ‘If we can’t get into the forward hold we’re all going to die.’ He had reached deck level. ‘I’m on the main deck now, starboard side. Can you meet me there?’

‘On my way.’

Richter saw a trooper standing beside the guard rail, and a figure in civilian clothes seated beside him. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

‘Ship’s officer. He wasn’t on board – we caught him as he came running down the Mole when the fire-fight started.’

‘Good,’ Richter said. ‘Bring him along.’ The trooper yanked the man roughly to his feet and pushed him forward. ‘My name is Beatty,’ Richter said in Russian, ‘and I would like your help.’ The Russian spat at Richter’s feet. The trooper kicked him behind his left knee, then dragged him to his feet again. ‘Please listen to me,’ Richter said. ‘The hold of this ship contains a very powerful nuclear weapon which I believe will be detonated within minutes by radio signal from Moscow. You and the Spetsnaz troopers were probably never intended to get off the ship or unload the weapon. You were unknowing suicide bombers. Can you help us disarm it?’ The Russian continued to stare. ‘Right,’ Richter said. ‘Bring him.’

Ross stepped out of the accommodation section. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

‘A ship’s officer – or maybe a Spetsnaz officer,’ Richter replied. ‘He was grabbed by your men on the Mole. I’m hoping I can talk him into unlocking the forward hold for us.’

‘You’re sure it won’t be in the aft hold?’

‘No,’ Richter said. ‘That’s for bulk cargo – it’s got no security at all. The weapon will definitely be in the forward hold, and the hold will certainly be locked.’

They descended three decks before they found it. A steel door labelled, in Cyrillic characters, ‘Forward hold. No unauthorized personnel’. It had concealed hinges, two large padlocks, one top and one bottom, and in the centre a combination lock. ‘Shit,’ Richter said. The padlocks wouldn’t be much of a problem, as long as they could find some bolt-cutters, but the combination lock was a different matter. Richter turned to Ross. ‘Get someone to find some bolt-cutters and a welding kit – try the engine room. And I need my nav-bag. It’s on the Mole behind the crate opposite the gangway.’

While Ross gave the orders, Richter turned his attention back to the Russian, who was watching with a slight smile on his face. Richter opened a door behind him to reveal a small storeroom. ‘In here,’ he told the trooper. The SAS trooper roughly shoved the Russian into the room. Richter followed, switching on the light and closing the door behind him.

‘What’s your name?’ Richter asked.

‘Zavorin,’ the Russian said.

‘Well, Comrade Zavorin. We will get through that door into the hold,’ Richter said. ‘The only thing I don’t know is how long it will take. What I do know is that if we can’t get in before your masters in Moscow decide to press the button, we will die. All of us on board this ship will die. So will most of the population of Gibraltar, and of La Linea and Algeciras in Spain. People you’ve never met, people who know nothing about this, people sleeping peacefully in their beds. Innocent bystanders.’

‘There are no innocent bystanders,’ Zavorin said. At least he was talking.

‘I have only one question. Do you know the combination of that lock?’ Zavorin said nothing, just stared. ‘I’ll ask you again,’ Richter said, ‘but if you don’t know or won’t tell me you’re just going to get in the way.’

He moved the firing selector on the Hockler to single shot, slipped the safety catch off, and levelled it at him. ‘Five seconds, Comrade Zavorin. Do you know the combination?’

Zavorin said nothing for ten seconds. He was probably relying on the fact that English gentlemen don’t shoot unarmed men. Richter had never claimed to be a gentleman, and was more Scots than English, so he lowered the Hockler and fired one round through Zavorin’s right thigh. It probably shattered the femur, because the Russian fell instantly, screaming.

Kutuzovskij prospekt, Moscow

The alarm bell rang softly and persistently in the top-floor apartment, but it was several minutes before Genady Arkenko heard it. He had drunk perhaps a little too much vodka the previous evening, and had been deeply asleep. When the sound finally penetrated, he rolled over in bed, glanced at the bedside clock and got groggily to his feet. Cursing, he walked across the living area and into the small back room of the flat. Arkenko sat down in front of the short-wave radio set, turned off the alarm, put on the headphones and played back the message which had been stored on the automatic tape recorder.

Three minutes later he was back in the main room, notepad in hand, pressing the speed-dial code of Dmitri Trushenko’s mobile telephone. His hands were shaking, and it wasn’t because of the vodka.

Anton Kirov

‘There’s a reasonably good hospital in Gibraltar,’ Richter said, raising his voice above the noise Zavorin was making. ‘You can be out in a few weeks. You’ll be limping, but you will be able to walk.’ He paused. ‘If I put the next round through your knee, you’ll probably never walk again. Let’s try one more time. Do you know the combination of that lock?’

Zavorin stopped screaming and spat at Richter.

‘I’ll take that as a “no”, shall I?’ Richter said. He raised the Hockler again, and pointed it at the Russian’s left knee. ‘This really is your last chance,’ he said.

‘Wait, wait,’ Zavorin shouted.

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t know the combination,’ Zavorin lied. ‘It was sealed when we left Varna.’

‘Was that where they loaded the device?’

The Russian nodded. ‘The crate was supposed to be off-loaded here, tomorrow.’

‘This is your last chance. You really don’t know the combination?’ Zavorin shook his head. ‘Then I’m sorry,’ Richter said, shot him twice in the chest, opened the door and stepped back into the passageway.

‘Any luck?’ Ross asked.

‘No,’ Richter replied. ‘He said he didn’t know, though I’m not certain I believed him.’

The noise of firing from above stopped abruptly, and Ross used his radio to find out what had happened. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘The last of the Russian crew have been secured.’

‘That’s secured as in shot, right?’ Richter asked.

Ross nodded. ‘What we call nine-millimetre handcuffs,’ he said.

Three minutes later an SAS man severed the hasp of the second padlock, while another dragged an oxy-acetylene kit down the passage. ‘Cut around the lock,’ Richter said. ‘If we can punch it out, we can probably lever the bolt out.’

Razdolnoye, Krym (Crimea)

The sound of a telephone ringing was skilfully woven into Dmitri Trushenko’s dream, and only gradually impinged on his conscious mind. Then he woke rapidly. Only Genady Arkenko knew the number of his mobile telephone, and he had strict orders to ring him only in an emergency. Trushenko reached out, picked up the mobile and pressed a button. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s Genady, Dmitri. I’ve had a message from the Anton Kirov . They claim—’ Arkenko swallowed ‘—they claim that the ship is under attack.’