Dominic Conlon - Arctic Firepath

By the time they rounded the clinic at the corner, they were knee deep in seawater and the ship had a pronounced list. But there in front of them stood the helicopter, tied to the deck by four lines. Sean breathed his thanks. ‘Get in!’ Sean opened the door and shoved him through, then set about undoing the lines. The first three were easy to unhook, even under water, because they were slack. But the fourth was under tension, and impossible to release. Sean looked around for something to help. He recalled they had passed a fire extinguisher and axe on their way aft, and he returned to the fire station, wading through water a foot high. He broke the glass with his elbow, pulled out the axe and ran back.

Sean saw Khostov sitting helplessly in the cockpit. Knowing it could take up to a minute for the engines to reach full thrust, he left the taught line in place. Wading around the other side, he dragged open the door and climbed in. As he went through the start-up procedure, he glanced at his passenger, pale and shivering.

‘Do you know how to fly this?’ Khostov asked through chattering teeth.

‘I used to fly them in the marines. Remember?’

The ship lurched with a new explosion that seemed to originate directly underneath, and the deck tilted further. Sean planned to get the engine to the lift-off point before leaping out and hacking the last remaining tether, but before that happened, the line snapped.

Sean pulled the stick back, but it was already too late. Without enough power he couldn’t pull away from the sucking action of the seawater. The machine began to slide along the deck. By now the level had risen above the bottom of the doors. They were not water-tight at the best of times, and seawater leaked into the cockpit. The copter continued its relentless slide until it hit the bow rail and swung round.

Sean knew from experience that the moment a rotor touched the water it would break up. While they were stuck, the angle of the deck steepened, and it would only be a matter of seconds before the blades made contact.

‘Here, hold this,’ Sean commanded Khostov, giving him the stick. ‘Keep it pulled back.’

Sean pushed the door open against the press of water. He grabbed the axe and jumped out into the freezing seas, held his breath and ducked under the machine. It was difficult to see anything in the swirling chaos. Sean ran his hand along the underside until it met the ship’s rail. There was no doubt; the undercarriage had caught in the railing.

Sean grasped the strut and pulled. No good. He swung the axe, but it was hopeless.

It wouldn’t budge.

Sentinel leader observed the red trail crossing his visor, indicating the release of a Russian air-to-air missile. Another American plane had been hit, and the squadron was taking a hammering. He surveyed the battlefield picture again. US warplanes, scattered over the sky, were retreating from the onslaught.

‘Bandit on tail. Advise.’

He estimated Sentinel three was ten kilometres from his position. Another red trail traversed his field of view. He clicked the mike.

‘Take him out Sandy.’

‘Roger.’

Sentinel three applied emergency boost to the Pratt & Whitney F135 engines, and began a random weave pattern to try and confuse his adversary, and force him to apply more power. He checked the heads-up display inside the visor helmet, waiting until he was sure the Russian plane had reached near maximum speed. Then he hit the controls in a manoeuvre known as ‘viffing’.

The F135 engine was considered to be the most powerful ever installed in a fighter aircraft. In this version, the exhaust was capable of being deflected downward at the tail. Over 50,000 lbf of thrust was now being vectored through the nozzle, creating a huge break on the jet’s forward speed. The pursuer overshot rapidly, frantically scanning for the missing F-35.

‘Bingo one,’ Sentinel three breathed as he touched the button to launch an AIM-120 Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missile. The Amraam’s solid-fuel rocket motor accelerated the missile to Mach 4. Less than a second later it contacted the MiG-29 and blew it out of the sky.

Immediately Sentinel 3 performed a high loop, coming behind another MiG. He blinked. The targeting software in his helmet acquired the Russian and launched an Amraam in the same split second.

Sentinel leader watched as the MiG vanished from his screen. He couldn’t stop an involuntary whoop.

‘Take that, Mother Fucker!’

Sean came up for air, holding the ship’s rail under the water. He breathed twice, deeply, and ducked under again. Placing his legs square against the stanchion, he heaved. It still refused to give. He felt the vibration from another explosion through the soles of his feet. The ship made a sudden lurching movement and canted over more steeply.

Sean knew this was the moment. If he didn’t release the undercarriage now, he never would. He gripped the strut with renewed force, pushing hard with his legs, pulling with his arms. Nothing else mattered; Sean was oblivious of everything except the pain.

The strut moved slightly and despite the numbing effect of the ice cold seas, a sudden and excruciating pain shot up his arm. He knew immediately what had happened; his index finger had snapped where the bone had been weakened by the saw cut, courtesy of Urilenko. Now his left hand was useless. With one last exceptional effort he hauled the ironwork with his right hand. It gave way suddenly and unexpectedly. He was so surprised it took several moments to realise the helicopter was free. Using the deck, he propelled himself to the surface and gasped for air.

He wiped his eyes. Where the hell was the copter? The tail pivoted overhead. Sean realised that the whole aircraft was swinging in a slow circle, just feet away from the deck. He waited, timing his leap, and jumped onto the fuselage while grasping the door latch with his uninjured hand. The aircraft swung round, Khostov unable to control the machine. Sean lent in to reduce the centrifugal force, slipped open the cockpit door and threw himself in.

‘Let me have it now.’

Khostov turned to look at the man beside him, water pouring from his clothes.

‘Thank God you’re back,’ was all he could say.

Both Presidents entered the room on time and were greeted by the British PM.

‘Sit down gentlemen.’ Prime Minister Terrance Ashdown indicated two chairs. ‘I’m sorry I had to bring the meeting forward, but we are in danger of being overtaken by events in the Arctic.’

‘Pleased to help in any way I can, Terrance,’ responded President Donahue. He noticed a single black file lying on the table behind them and wondered if the Russian President had observed it too.

‘I believe things are getting out of hand. I have evidence that both American and Russian war planes were ordered into the Arctic, and may be engaged in a confrontation.’ He eyed President Duskin. ‘I’m not sure how much our colleague Pavla understands what is at stake?’

President Duskin’s face remained fixed. ‘Perhaps if you were to explain, I might be able to tell you.’

‘Well it’s certainly disturbing news, I’m afraid.’ Ashdown looked closely for signs Duskin was conscious of the events he was talking about. ‘There is a very high probability that a huge explosion of toxic radioactivity will occur on the icebreaker, LK-80. The fallout is likely to be greater than ten times that of Chernobyl and Fukushima put together. You should be aware the British Government has sent a professional to investigate, at the request of the American State Department.’ Ashdown nodded towards President Donahue, and waited for the reaction.

The Russian President cleared his throat. ‘I am conscious that the American military forcibly boarded LK-80 when it was going about its lawful business.’