Dominic Conlon - Arctic Firepath

Sean closed his eyes and grunted with the pain.

President Robert Donahue stared angrily at his Secretary of Defence Brindle Harris. 'What are you saying — a Russian icebreaker sank a state-of-the-art American submarine? Why the hell would they do that?'

CIA director Henry Alfred Jones was first to respond. 'We’re still holding eight Russian air crews from the two Blackjack bombers.'

'You're saying the Russians sank one of our submarines because we detained a flight crew?'

Jones pulled a face. 'Maybe. Our submarine was well outside Russian territorial boundaries and on the surface. The ship deliberately aimed for the sub. The Captain is adamant the icebreaker saw them, and altered course to collide with them.

Brindle Harris held up his hands. He had been friends with the President since their college days, but when Donahue was angry there was no room for friendship. Perhaps he could draw Jones into the line of fire. 'What info have you got about the incident?'

Jones gave Harris an annoyed glance. 'We had no warning whatsoever.'

'Then this was a deliberate and provocative action,’ interjected the President, ‘taken by a Russian vessel on an innocent and unsuspecting American warship.' The way the sentence was phrased left no doubt in Harris' mind where he was heading with this.

'Correct,' replied Harris. 'I confirmed it personally when I spoke to the Captain.'

'Who is he?'

'Captain Gerry White. He's been in the navy seventeen years, the last five driving subs. He's as reliable as they come.'

'What have the Russians been saying?'

Harris glared across at the CIA director. 'We don't believe they know anything about the incident.'

'What!' the President exploded.

'It's true,' Jones replied. 'The lines between the ship and the Russian North Atlantic Fleet command should be hot by now, but there's no traffic out of the ordinary.'

'Jesus! They'll know soon enough when I speak to the Russian President. I want you to raise the navy's level of DEFCON. Show them we're taking this seriously.'

Brindle Harris leaned forward. 'I appreciate you need to take some action Mr President, but I think you are forgetting one thing.'

Donahue glared at his Defence Secretary. 'I suppose you are going to tell me?'

Harris coughed discreetly. 'No matter how provocative the act, the Russians can't have any general intention to start a war — otherwise we would know by now. The priority must be to rescue the crew. Time is running out.'

The President took a deep breath and appeared to calm down. 'What's their position?'

'The sub's lying on the sea bed. The latest count is five dead. They've stopped up the major hull breeches, but they're running low on oxygen.'

'How long have they got?'

Harris shrugged. '36 hours, maybe.'

'How many men?'

'116 enlisted crew and 13 officers, not counting the deceased.'

President Donahue blew out his cheeks and paused a moment in thought. 'I'm sorry Brindle. You're right. We should concentrate on the rescue effort. Tell me what we are doing.'

'We're sending submarine rescue equipment and operators. It's called the Submarine Rescue Diving and Re-compression System, shortened to SRDRS.'

'ETA?'

Harris sighed. This was the worst bit. 'The team is based in San Diego with 200 tons of kit. The first problem: it takes 72 hours to deliver.'

'Jesus' muttered the President. 'You said that was the first problem?'

Harris nodded. 'There is an even bigger problem. The kit can be loaded on huge transport aircraft and flown anywhere in the world within 72 hours. But once the kit arrives we need a Vehicle of Opportunity. They call it a VOO.'

'What's that?'

'Basically a ship near the downed sub where all the equipment is installed. A special crane is mounted on the rear, which lowers a pressurised container down to the sub. A tunnel mates with an escape hatch on the sub and sixteen people can go up at a time. The crane lifts the cylinder up to the ship, and the whole process is repeated until everyone is rescued.'

The President pulled a face. 'Sounds really complicated.'

'It's a tried and tested system Mr President. We know it works.'

'Has it ever been tried in the Arctic?'

Brindle Harris opened his mouth, but no words came out.

'And have we got a Vehicle of Opportunity in the vicinity?'

'That's the second problem Mr President. There isn’t a suitable vessel anywhere near.'

'Suitable — what do you mean?'

'The VOO must meet a certain spec. It has to have enough deck space, load bearing capability, stability, etc.'

'Well, what about Russian ones — or vessels from other nationalities?'

Harris shook his head. 'I said this was the biggest problem. There's nothing nearby.'

'There must be plenty of ships in Russian ports.'

'Yes Mr President. But they would need the permission from the Russian President to go to the rescue. Even if we had consent, we think none of them could reach the area in time. The ship that downed USS Montana took several days to get to its current position.'

'Well, what about the icebreaker — is it still in the area?'

'Yes. It appears to have stopped. The ship meets our spec, but we're not sure the Russians would allow it to be used.'

The President drew a deep breath. 'I want an aerial survey — now — to see what's available. And get that Submarine Rescue system on its way.' He looked at the CIA director. 'I want you to make contingency plans. Get a full team working on this now! I am going to phone President Duskin and demand an explanation for this outrageous attack on our submarine. I will also demand to use the icebreaker as a VOO. We'll meet again in the situation room with a full crisis team in 3 hrs.'

Sean's head slumped forward and he pretended to faint. To make it appear realistic, he was forced to prevent the involuntary gasps and grunts from the pain being inflicted on his injured finger. Curiously he found it easier to manage by completely relaxing his body and letting himself go into an almost trance like state. The sawing continued for several seconds longer before Desny told Urilenko to stop. He ordered a bucket of water from an outside tap.

Within a minute Urilenko returned, throwing the entire contents over Sean's head. Urilenko picked up the knife again, but Desny stopped him once more. He told them to strap Sean face up on the table, and sent Urilenko out for another bucket of water. Urilenko came back with a bowl and a filthy rag he found in the kitchen pantry. He slapped the cloth roughly over Sean's face. At a nod from Desny, Urilenko poured water over the material. Sean's body twitched violently, muffled sounds leaking through the grimy cloth. Desny checked his watch, timing the process. After twenty seconds he signalled Urilenko to halt.

Sean was drowning. A flash memory seared his brain. He was six years old at the swimming pool when a friend dared him to dive for the first time. Most of the other kids had gone in to the changing rooms. One last teacher was gathering up spare towels.

'It's easy,’ said his friend. ‘You just stand on the edge, like so, hold your arms together, jump and dive hands first!' Sean obeyed, but after entering the water he continued to somersault, banging his head on the side of the pool. Two seconds later he was laid unconscious at the bottom.

His friend ran to the teacher who fetched the swimming instructor. Within a minute he was out, coughing up lung fulls of liquid. The first thing Sean saw was a blue sky. His friend was leaning over him, fear and concern written all over his face.

There the memory ended, and reality began. Sean wretched until his sides ached. When he opened his eyes Urilenko was leaning over him. For a whole minute Sean continued to heave until the spasms died down. Urilenko's broad hand pushed his face back and the stinking cloth went over his mouth and nose. Water poured down in a cascade, and within seconds he relived the experience of drowning.