Dominic Conlon - Arctic Firepath

An hour later Chris spoke. 'The site’s in this industrial estate.’ He peered through the windscreen. ‘Strange!'

A pall of smoke rose over the units. As they turned the corner, a policeman stopped them. Two fire engines were pouring water onto the remains of a warehouse, and a crowd had gathered outside.

'That's our archive store!' Chris yelled.

'Serge Zlotnik?'

'Speak.'

'It's Desny. We have some bad news.'

'Don't waste my time.'

'We lost Khostov.' Desny dreaded Zlotnik's response. Mentally he had rehearsed what to say. The scientist had gone to ground, disappearing into the milling masses of London's workers, holiday makers and residents. He anticipated Zlotnik would order him to search amongst the Russian community again, but he was not likely to be found there. The police were already on the alert following the murders of the Novosi and Petrovich families.

After a long silence Zlotnik responded, his deep voice icy cool. 'You know this is disappointing to me.'

'We're running out of things to try. He's either holed up in London, or he’s left the country.' Desny was desperate for a lead, and he received it from the last person he imagined.

'Tyler's widow came to collect the body of her husband, accompanied by a British agent. His name is Sean Quinlan; late thirties, 5 feet 11, brown hair, blue eyes. If the British don’t have him already, Quinlan will be looking for him.'

'I'll keep an eye out for him.' Desny didn't sound hopeful — attempting to track an agent was a much taller order than trying to find a civilian like Khostov.

'They will be holding a burial service for Tyler soon. If Khostov is not in custody, I expect Quinlan to be there.'

'Ah, thank you sir.' Desny's mood brightened.

'Don't fail me this time.' Zlotnik's voice carried a distinct warning tone.

The phone went dead.

'Attention. All crew listen up, the Commanding Officer has an announcement to make.' The XO passed the microphone to the Captain.

Gerry White thumbed the mike. 'I have some good news for you. We’re going to break surface for a few hours.' He heard some muted cheers.

The Montana's mission was a light one: tasked to patrol under the Arctic ice cap on a shakedown after its first refit. Its payload of 40 weapons, including cruise missiles and torpedoes, had been overhauled and its S9G nuclear reactor had been uprated.

The Captain continued. 'We will get some R&R on the ice.' This time the cheering was louder. 'Please don't stray further than the camp guards!' There was laughter. 'You know I like to run a tight ship, so after we blow we will make preparations for an emergency descent. That means no-one is allowed off until we are fully prepared.' Captain White heard several good natured groans. 'The Chief of the Boat is arranging a rota so you will all get a chance to let off some steam. That is all.'

'See to the arrangements would you Thomas?' The Captain eyed his XO. 'And remind the COB to post some men topside with rifles. We don't want to lose anyone.' There was a growing threat from polar bears as the ice-cap shrunk and broke up during the spring months.

Designated SSN-812, the USS Montana was the 12th in a long line of Virginia-class submarines, capable of underwater missions lasting longer than a year. Even so, whenever an opportunity to surface presented itself the Captain took it, believing in keeping the 120 enlisted men and 14 officers active and as free from boredom as possible.

'Shall I take her up?' Thomas asked.

'No harm in going through the procedure again, is there XO?'

'Happy to oblige, skipper.'

Midway out in the channel, Atlantic waves tossed the Anastasia around like an oak barrel. Khostov observed a lot of shipping traffic, but with the help of the high-spec radar they were easily avoided.

He discovered an AIS receiver, a system for tracking his location and that of other ships. He became fascinated with the display. Each vessel showed on the monitor, together with a little tail indicating its relative track. Khostov imagined they looked like tadpoles.

But while the information was valuable to him, it was also useful to everyone else — including the people chasing him. The AIS transponder on board the Anastasia was constantly broadcasting his position.

He started a search, not really knowing what to look for. After fifteen minutes he found a black metal box bolted to a shelf underneath the main computer screen. Various leads were plugged in and he spotted the power cable and switched it off at the socket.

Khostov inspected the navigation and engine controls to confirm nothing had been affected, heaving a sigh of relief when he finished. That left him with one other problem. Anastasia’s direction was towards Cherbourg, but anyone monitoring his AIS might work out his destination.

He had a few options. Le Harve was closest, or he could alter course for St Malo. Further west lay Roscoff. Khostov checked the fuel gauge. There was enough diesel to motor to France’s west coast. He contemplated the larger seaports on France's Normandy coastline, reasoning they would offer the best links with Paris. Suppose he chose a smaller town instead? That might well delay notification of his embarkation to the authorities and give him a head start.

After landing, he would make for the capital. He would have to change the clothes he bought in London to maintain his cover, but that meant changing his money.

He remembered the name of the district where he might find shelter. Sainte-Geneviève-des-Bois was a southern suburb of Paris some 15 miles from the centre. Many of the so-called 'first-wave' émigrés from his homeland went there following the political, social and religious persecutions of a hundred years ago. He would fit in better, and if all else failed he could lose himself in the cosmopolitan city centre.

The decision made, Khostov plotted a course and turned the wheel on the compass bearing.

Captain Grigori woke up with a start from a deep sleep. He dreamt he was in a formal ceremony and the President of Russia was about to pin the Order of Honour to his uniform. At the moment the medal was fastened, cannons sounded a 21-gun salute.

'Captain.' The knocking on the door grew louder. 'Captain!'

'Yes! Stop that row!'

The Steward entered. 'I was told to request your presence on the bridge.'

'What’s the problem?'

'The lookout has spotted something on the horizon.'

'Right. Give me 5 minutes.' The Captain did not normally want to be called every time they came across a ship. But after reading the confidential directive from Vice-Admiral Kostya Duboff, Grigori left special instructions to inform him whenever they sighted a vessel. Nothing would come between him and the objective outlined in his orders.

He dressed quickly. Even though the bridge wasn’t far, he pulled a parka on. A recent polar depression heralded a new weather front from the north. He entered the bridge in a blast of cold air. 'What have you got?'

'We are too far away to get a good view, Captain.'

'Radar?'

The helmsman shook his head. 'Just a blip on the screen, Captain.'

Grigori motioned towards the binoculars. 'Give them to me.'

He screwed them into his eyes, twisting the knob to adjust the focus. After a minute he left the bridge to observe the object from the lookout's position. He stayed a while, then strode back.

'Any change?'

'It's a puzzle, Captain. I find it hard to comprehend how anything so small could travel so far north.'

'Hm. I think I’m beginning to understand,' murmured Grigori.

The man observed the Captain expectantly.

'Come 12 degrees to port. Increase speed to 16 knots.'