Dominic Conlon - Arctic Firepath

‘Dr Kovrov, Bezrukov Clinical Hospital. I’m afraid your wife Olga has been taken ill.’

There was a short pause as the target struggled to grasp the news. ‘How seriously — where is she?’

‘Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?’

‘Yes.’

DD saw the man place the phone on a side table, and pull out a notepad and pen.

‘Go ahead.’

‘Take this down.’ The specialist gave him a phone number formatted as a local Moscow number, so the target would not get suspicious. ‘Call this number, and they will put you through to the intensive care unit where Olga is being looked after.’

This was DD’s cue to press another button on his computer screen. The effect was to immediately drop the link between GCHQ and the target and then render the target’s phone useless. The man tried to ring several times on his mobile, evidently unsuccessfully. Eventually he picked an internal phone and dialled from there.

From now on DD would not need to intervene; GCHQ would do all the heavy lifting. The number the target was using would be redirected straight away to their communications centre, and once they had a link they could use a wide range of program tools to explore the telephone network at the airport. When the target replaced the handset, GCHQ’s software could keep the connection open. They could even upload bespoke viruses onto the system at their leisure, without anyone becoming suspicious.

DD wiped his forehead with relief.

Captain Grigori shivered, pulling his thin clothes tight around his chest. During the last ten minutes the wind had died away. The snow stopped falling, the air became clear and the temperature dropped like a stone.

The Americans realised he had a radio and they came looking for him. But Captain Grigori Burak prided himself that no-one knew the ship as well as he did. While the soldiers searched, Grigori kept moving one step ahead. When he heard them getting close he moved from the equipment locker on Bridge Deck 2 to the forepeak locker. Later he had to shift to the steering-flat and finally the forward anchor chain locker. Then they seemed to give up and he returned to his original hideaway where it was marginally warmer and roomier.

He had been stupid not to realise they would search for him, but the reward was worth it. The short wave transmitter he stole could be key to his salvation. Instead of returning to his homeland, branded a coward for sending an unprotected submarine to the bottom of the ocean, he would be a hero. They would welcome him back as the man who singlehandedly fought the American aggressors, providing the military with the intelligence they needed to return the ship to his command.

He opened the door and peeked out. There was no-one on deck. The small window of calm was over; wind speed was increasing, picking up frozen hail and flinging it horizontally across the deck. He peered up through the squall, imagining the flash of a wing-tip. It might be a Russian aircraft. He listened carefully; seconds later he heard the sound of a jet engine growing louder as the plane descended below cloud cover. Twin vertical fins mounted at the rear and a flattened nose-cone at the front told its own story; she was Russian.

Grigori switched on the radio set, his fingers blue and stiff with the cold. He would have preferred to use it in the relative protection of the locker, but he believed the reception strength would be stronger from an open space.

He turned the dial to the plane’s frequency and pressed the transmit button. With dismay, he realised the battery was almost dead.

‘LK-80 to Platypus Two.’ Grigori had to shout above the wind. ‘Are you receiving me?’ After two attempts, a burst of static came from the head phones.

‘Platypus Two. Please confirm your identity.’

Grigori felt a surge of adrenaline. Now he would bring hell and damnation onto the heads of the Americans. ‘Captain Grigori Burak of the icebreaker LK-80.’

‘Go ahead, Captain.’

‘We have been boarded by US soldiers.’

‘What is your position?’

‘I am in hiding. Battery is low. I want you to take back my ship.’

‘Conserve your battery. I will ask for orders.’ The pilot took the aircraft up through the cloud ceiling.

‘We have only seven minutes of loiter fuel left,’ warned the co-pilot.

The pilot clicked the mike on his headset. ‘Platypus Two to base. I have confirmation LK-80 has been forcibly taken by US military. Captain Burak has managed to evade capture, but his radio battery is almost gone. What are your orders?’

‘Message acknowledged. We will respond.’

Nearly five minutes passed, and the pilot spoke to his co-pilot. ‘Get onto base and find out what they are playing at.’

The co-pilot clicked his own mike. ‘Platypus Two to base. We have two minutes of loiter fuel remaining. If you are unable to give alternative instructions in that time we will return home. Please acknowledge.’

‘Message acknowledged. Reconnoitre the American base before you return.’

‘Will do.’ He turned to the pilot. ‘Better make it quick,’ he said, tapping the fuel gauge.

The pilot switched to the plane’s intercom. ‘How many hours of the deadline remain?’

‘The Americans have four and a half hours remaining from the twelve we agreed to.’

‘So why are we being asked to reconnoitre?’

‘No idea.’

The pilot toggled the radio mike to speak to base. ‘Wind speed is increasing. Ground visibility is zero. We are unlikely to get a good look at the encampment.’

‘Do it,’ came the brutally short reply.

The pilot glanced across at the co-pilot who appeared resigned to the last minute command. Reluctantly he nudged the joystick to overfly the base. The co-pilot prepared the sensors to capture as much information from the fly-past as possible. As the warplane descended the airframe started to shake in the turbulence. The pilot held the stick steady, and at his command the co-pilot operated the avionics, gathering and recording a wide range of the electromagnetic spectrum from the sensors.

At the end of the run-past, and without waiting for an order, the pilot pulled the stick up and headed on a bearing for home.

‘Platypus Two. We have an urgent message.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘We have just received a directive from Vice-Admiral Kostya Duboff. His orders are to turn back and bomb the American base.’

The lady checked her computer screen and updated it to indicate the couple had checked in. ‘No luggage?’ she asked in English as she handed the passports back.

‘No, thank you.’ Sean tucked both documents into a pocket.

‘Gate 14, but you will have to be quick. There is a long queue at passport control, and your plane takes off in an hour.’ The lady returned the boarding passes.

Sean put an arm around Levushka’s shoulder and steered him towards the queue. Sean was thankful he had stopped to disable Levushka’s three bodyguards in the car. That must have delayed headquarters by at least half an hour. However, it wouldn’t be long before an onlooker reported the abduction to the police. They joined the line, while Sean mulled over the probabilities. He wondered how many minutes it would take for the message to filter through the police bureaucracy to the right department.

The queue grew shorter. Behind the glass a bored official barely glanced at each passport as it was thrust over the counter. About to inspect the next person’s passport, the man’s phone rang and Sean watched him pick up the handset. He listened for a minute, inspected his computer, and replaced the phone with hardly a word. There was something about his manner which suggested he had been alerted to the abduction.