Dominic Conlon - Arctic Firepath

'Nope — just that. Thought it might be useful to your, ah, research.'

'Fine, and thank you.'

'Please be sure to let me know if you discover anything relevant to my investigation.'

'I will, and thanks again.' DD pocketed his mobile and mentally began to kick himself. Why hadn't TRIP WIRE alerted him to the missing yacht? Nevertheless, it was a good lead; one he would follow up with the coast guard and local shipping authorities. He would also have to contact French coast guards and police and ensure they sent out a bulletin to all harbour and police authorities along the north coast of France. Once completed, there was nothing else he could do except wait.

So much for the web site, he thought. The idea was great in theory, but when it came to practice it would need more than a few tweaks.

Captain Gerry White clicked on the intercom to broadcast the message throughout the boat. 'You will all be pleased to learn the flooding has been contained. We also finished pumping out water from the control spaces. The forward section, which took the brunt of the collision with the sea bed, is sealed off.' The Captain didn't mention this was where four of the five deaths had occurred.

He continued. 'Sparks patched up a communication channel through an undamaged hatchway near the tail. No work has been possible on the masts in the sail because the damage was too extensive. We hope to send up a radio antenna in the next ten minutes, so we can report directly to Groton.'

Headquarters were already aware the sub was not able to communicate with them because they were unable to return ELF signals. The emergency would be classified as DISSUB, or Disabled/Distressed Submarine. Privately the Captain thought that wasn't much help to them at the moment. Until they made direct communications with base they wouldn’t be able start compiling a shopping list of requirements for the rescue.

'Yes Thomas?' The XO had come to stand next to him.

'Sir, there's not much time left.' Thomas spoke quietly so as not to be overheard by the crew.

Captain White nodded. 'What is your point?'

'I wondered about the SEIE Mk10.' He was referring to an escape procedure based on a whole body suit called Submarine Escape and Immersion Equipment. This included a one-man life raft and an inner lining to protect against hypothermia.

The Captain shook his head. 'I did consider it. Even if we could find a way through the ice, the suit wasn't designed for the hostile weather in the Arctic. I fear many would die before being picked up by any passing ship. Right now no-one apart from Groton knows we're at the bottom of the sea. So I discounted the idea — unless you think we might stand a chance?'

Thomas thought for a few moments and indicated his agreement. He shivered, more from the grim prospect ahead than the cold in the boat.

Five minutes later he came upon the Captain in the radio room. The communications buoy had been released and the link with the home port was established. The XO overheard the talk on the loudspeaker. 'Hang in there Captain. We've already prepared SRDRS. Should be with you in 72 hours.'

The Captain glanced at Thomas and spoke into the mike. 'Understood. Please make it sooner if you can.' He regarded the XO. 'I know what you're going to say — 72 hours will be too late for us.'

Thomas shrugged.

'Don't give up hope Thomas.'

'Sir, the temperature has dropped to just above freezing. I'm thinking of the men; could we divert more power from the reactor into heating the sub?'

'That would compromise the ability of the scrubbers to remove CO2. And we also need the energy to communicate with base. I recommend you break out the survival suits — at least they will keep the crew warmer.'

'Right, sir. Was there anything else?'

'Groton asked us to stabilise the air pressure inside the sub before they arrive.'

'Sir, I don't think it’s such a good idea. The crew are already frightened. They're not going to be too happy when they learn we're letting air out of the boat when they need every last breath.'

Captain White frowned. 'Headquarters say this is essential in order to minimise the time to transfer crew to the rescue vessel. If we don't do this, many more will die.'

Thomas paused to think. 'I suppose we could release the air out gradually through the valves. No-one might notice.'

'No, I'll talk to the crew and explain what is necessary and why we’re taking this measure.'

'Good luck on that one sir.'

The Captain glared at his XO. 'I shouldn't need to remind you we are all in this together, Thomas. Give the men credit — once I've talked to them, they will understand.'

'Sir.'

'Right now I need maximum cooperation from everyone — especially my second in command.'

'Yes, sir. There is one more thing. It won't help with the build-up of CO2, but it might provide us all with extra oxygen.'

'Go on.'

'The cylinders used to blow the ballast from the main tanks. I'm considering re-routing them to force some air back into the sub.'

'Good idea.' The Captain paused. 'Keep thinking like that XO, and you'll have your own boat before long.'

'Thank you skipper. I'll get engineering onto it straight away.'

Sean’s first beating lasted an hour.

They struck him with fists, working up to a rhythm. Then they found some rough wooden planks in an outbuilding. One of the men, called Urilenko, took particular enjoyment in causing pain. He stopped occasionally to twist Sean's testicles until Sean thought they would separate from his body. When Urilenko pushed his face up close his acrid breath stank.

They left to rest and eat. Sean's head hung down on his chest. Blood and saliva dribbled down his chin and onto his shirt. The attack on his genitals had caused him to pee, much to the amusement of the gang. Through puffy eyes Sean took in the surroundings. He was alone in the stone built kitchen of the farm, tied to a wooden chair. Rubbish lay on the floor — old newspapers, empty tins, pools of water from the leaky roof. The place had obviously not been occupied for some time. A sturdy rough wooden table stood opposite a large open hearth fire. Once this was the heart of a loving home he thought as he spat out a gob of blood. The pain failed to mask an overwhelming sense of dread.

The four came back for a second session. By now Sean could identify the individuals. Desny appeared to be the leader who asked the questions while Urilenko worked on Sean. Desny sometimes referred to Markow, and given his responses Sean guessed Markow had access to Russian intelligence. Petrov stood quietly in the background, observing everything, but not speaking throughout the interrogation.

Urilenko's face was lit up with anticipation. He withdrew a rusty bread knife, presumably one left by a previous occupant. He made cutting motions with it — suggesting he would start by sawing off one of Sean's fingers. As Urilenko advanced, Sean decided now was the time.

'Stop,' he called out weakly. Desny studied Sean as Urilenko grabbed Sean's left hand, forcing his index finger to lie straight on the wooden arm of the chair.

'Stop. I'll tell you whatever you want to know.'

Desny pulled Urilenko roughly away and moved in front of Sean. He questioned Sean directly. 'Why are you looking for us?'

Sean raised his head with difficulty. 'Our police became upset when you killed two Russian couples.'

'How did you find us?'

'We spotted your car at the funeral.'

'Where is Khostov?'

Sean stopped. 'Who is Khostov?'

Desny looked back towards Urilenko. 'Khostov, the Russian traitor who came here.'

Sean shook his head. 'I don't know him. What is he supposed to have done?'

Desny nodded to Urilenko. Urilenko picked up the bread knife again with a big grin. Together they forced Sean to spread the fingers of his left hand on the wooden arm of the chair. Urilenko started to saw at his index finger. His face flushed with the effort and he began to pant with excitement.