Dominic Conlon - Arctic Firepath

‘Oh God. How long would the fallout last?’

‘The half-life of strontium is nearly 30 years.’

Grey was stunned into silence.

‘Perhaps now you understand why we need an expert on this reactor.’ The engineer lifted his eyes to regard the Colonel. ‘We need the person who designed the safety systems to stop it happening.’

‘How long have we got?’

‘The reactor temperature is rising rapidly.’ The engineer inspected his watch. ‘We have about three hours.’ He caught the horrified look on the Colonel’s face and added, ‘we can pump some seawater into the primary coolant loop, which might delay things.’

‘For how long?’

‘Twelve hours, maybe a little longer. We’re not sure. Unless we talk to the man who designed the reactor, we are all going to die.’

At the National Geospatial Intelligence Agency, Peter Lint was about to go for his lunch when a colleague caught him. ‘Call for you sir.’

Lint frowned ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s from the CIA’s Special Activities Division.’

Peter signalled he would take it in one of the offices surrounding the open plan work area. He closed the door carefully, not wanting anyone to overhear the conversation.

He picked up the handset. ‘Go.’

The person at the other end gave a brief background to the rescue of USS Montana, and the plight of the reactor in LK-80.

‘Wait a moment.’ Peter went to the window and beckoned to his assistant. As soon as she entered the room he briefed her, then turned back to the phone.

‘John, I’m putting you on conference. I have Sarah Giles here. She knows more about LK-80 than I do.’

‘Hello Sarah,’ said the caller. ‘This is urgent and top secret. Tell me what you know about this ship.’

‘It’s an Arktika-class icebreaker,’ replied Sarah without hesitation. ‘That means it’s nuclear powered, has a double hull up to 5 cms thick in places. Let me see.’ She tapped the tablet she had brought with her. ‘Length 150 metres, beam 50 metres, draft 6 metres; it’s a monster. It has two power plants, type KLT-80C, which are pressurised light-water reactors. Top speed is 25 knots. Crew is normally 14.’

Peter regarded Sarah with surprise; she was on the ball today.

‘How do you know all this?’

‘I’ve been tracking it since it left port in Arkhangelsk. It began by following the North-East Passage, but turned north on a heading for the pole. That raised some questions here; hence our interest.’

‘Good. Now for the most important question. We need to know who designed the reactors in that ship. It’s vital we track him down urgently.’

‘Wait a minute.’ Sarah tapped her tablet. ‘The reactor was designed by NuclearAtomProm. It’s a state-owned Russian holding company.’

‘And the chief designer?’

‘Sir, this might take a little while longer. Hold on please.’ Sarah moved to the terminal on the table and began to tap queries on the keyboard. Peter Lint watched the clock as it ticked off a full minute and a half.

‘Got it sir!’ Sarah said triumphantly. ‘He is Alexei Khostov. He works at the Joint Institute for Nuclear Research in Dubna, Russia.’

‘Thank you Sarah. I have to go now, but I will speak to Peter later.’

The line went dead. Peter moved around the table so he could see Sarah properly.

‘Sarah.’

‘Yes sir?’

‘That was remarkable. I’m really surprised — and delighted — at how you handled that call.’

‘Thank you. I promised you I would study hard.’

The place stank. A potent mixture of urine, vomit and excrement assailed Lomax’s nostrils. He had the cell to himself, and sat with his injured leg resting full length on the steel bed frame. The thin blanket underneath was the only item in the room that wasn’t bolted to the floor. From time to time he could hear Russian voices swearing and the metallic clink of chains.

The sound of footsteps approaching sent a shiver up his spine. The bolts were withdrawn with a resounding clang, and his interrogator entered. He was a tall man with a large lopsided head, and he carried a metal tray. Stooping to lay the tray on the table, he sat on the only chair.

‘I hope you are feeling better.’

Lomax sighed. ‘Yes, thank you Serge.’ A white coated medic had inspected his wound and removed the bullet. ‘The doctor wasn’t very forthcoming. Does he speak English?’

Serge Zlotnik smiled. ‘His English is excellent. You have a complaint?’

‘He’s really good. I watched him. He’s skilled in cleaning and stitching injuries; just not very talkative.’

‘Well, he told me that the round tore through the calf muscle, and narrowly missed your fibia. Your body will repair the damage to the blood vessels and muscle fibre, but you must keep the wound clean and dry.’

Lomax gazed around at the walls, opening his hands out as if to say ‘how will I do that in this place?’

‘Lomax.’ Zlotnik’s deep voice took on an air of sincerity. ‘Haven’t we already treated your leg? You must realise we will look after you in here.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

Zlotnik sniggered and lent over to pat the bandage. ‘You will survive.’

‘What time is it? The guards stole my watch.’

‘You are wondering if Sean Quinlan and the boy succeeded in escaping?’ Zlotnik checked his watch. ‘Don’t worry. He will be picked up at the airport.’

‘You don’t have them?’

Zlotnik smiled. ‘I must go now.’ He glanced at the table. ‘And don’t forget your food — you’ll need your strength.’

Lomax returned the smile.

Zlotnik paused at the door. ‘You know the old Russian saying: “Eat breakfast yourself, share dinner with a friend, but give supper to your enemy.”’

‘But I am not your enemy.’

‘And this is not your supper. Eat the breakfast and I will be back for you.’ Zlotnik closed the door gently after him.

Lomax poured a cup of strong black tea from the pot. He understood there would be dark times ahead, having been through a similar process before. They would start with a formal interrogation. When they became dissatisfied with his answers they would change to more aggressive strong-arm treatment. And when that failed they would do the stuff they shouldn’t — the dreadful water-boarding and other tortures he sometimes dreamed about.

He was not overly concerned. Years before he was forced to retire from the service following a breakdown. Soon afterwards his sister informed him she had cancer. He cared for her throughout the treatment. Somehow he managed to cope. Surprisingly, nursing her gave him a new strength. He squinted at the clothes they’d put out for him. The colour reminded him of the nurses’ uniform at his sister’s hospital.

His mind drifted back to when he started at the Section. Then he was considered to be one of the toughest agents, and was proud of his hard-earned reputation. At the time he felt indestructible, but when the breakdown occurred he found himself staring down the blackest pit in hell. Somehow the news of his sister’s illness reminded him that however bad things got, others were worse off. She died after a couple of short months, and though the grief was painful, he found his old self again.

Now he faced a bleak future of pain, exhaustion, and loss of dignity. Yet he hoped that in the forthcoming interrogation he would never again lose the core that kept him from his true self.

The bolts on the door flung open with a crash. He was about to find out.

‘Excellent job.’ Sir Anthony congratulated Sean while shaking his hand. ‘Do take a seat.’ He indicated a chair. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear father and son were reunited. They’re both really glad to see each other.’