Hunter Killer - Alex King Series 12 (2021) Read online

  The Virginia class Submarine was America’s deadliest and newest hunter-killer in the US Navy’s arsenal. The sonar warning system had identified the propeller as a Yasen-class Russian submarine, and both the sonar operator and the Commander had confirmed the pulse. A team of US Navy SEALS had rigged recording buoys under the surface of the water outside Murmansk in the extreme north-west of Russia, home to their nuclear submarine base, with the sole intention of recording the pulse and pitch of the new Yasen-class submarines. Months of classroom-based scenarios had taught US submarine officers and sonar operators what to look for, but this was the first time Commander McClure had been so close to a Yasen-class submarine, and the feeling was unnerving to say the least, although he did not show his concern to his crew. The Yasen was Russia’s newest, fourth generation nuclear powered attack submarine. A hunter-killer.

  The vessel’s distinctive design with such a forward placed and low conning tower, was state-of-the-art. The Yasen-class nuclear submarines were presumed to be armed with land-attack cruise missiles, anti-ship missiles and anti-submarine missiles, as well as anti-ship and anti-submarine torpedoes. The Yasen could also detach mines and retaliate with countermeasures to missile and torpedo attack. It was also the first Russian submarine to be equipped with a spherical sonar. CIA intelligence reports had shown that the Yasen was crewed by just sixty-four, while the US Virginia class submarines were typically crewed by one-hundred and twenty-eight – indicating that the Russian’s had a great deal more sophisticated computerised systems and technology than previously thought.

  “Hard to port, maintain speed.” Commander McClure ordered quietly. “WEPS, Harpoon Torpedoes in tubes one and three,” he said quietly, then added. “Maintain silent running.”

  The Weapons Division Officer passed on the order, nodding that he’d heard. Normally he would have repeated the order loudly to confirm but with a hunter-killer submarine directly below them, he did not dare risk it.

  “Do you think they know we’re here, Commander?” His second in command asked quietly.

  McClure shook his head. “They’ve stumbled into us, I think they’re oblivious. They’re not taking any defensive action…”

  “And we should continue to stalk them?”

  “Lieutenant-Commander Jacobs, it’s always better to keep your eyes on a predator rather than to turn your back…”

  “Yes, Commander…”

  Commander McClure looked at the digital map above him. They were heading on a south-westerly course. He could see the marker indicated by Svalbard and the Aurora Project rigs. He could draw an imaginary line directly on their present course. All the way to the sunken British Astute class submarine, some fifty miles south of the Aurora rigs. “Okay,” he said quietly to himself. “Let’s see how this plays out…”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Aurora Project

  “I’m Thomas Grainger,” the man said. Nobody shook hands anymore, so King gave an extra meaningful nod. “Call me Tom,” he added.

  “King.”

  “Simon said you were a man of few words. He also said that you tend to make up for that with your actions.”

  “Mereweather wants you to keep an eye on me?”

  “Not in the slightest. Not sure I could, anyway.” He paused. “I’m here to lend a hand, help you navigate Aurora, the protocols et-cetera.”

  King nodded as Grainger turned and led the way down the painted metal corridor and up a flight of galvanised mesh steps. “You and Mereweather were at university together?”

  “Indeed. The good old days.”

  “Post or pre-Segwarides?”

  “Oh, post! I can’t believe he told you that!” Grainger laughed. “No, I’m in the Simon camp, always known him as that.”

  “He didn’t tell me his real name,” King replied. “That was his old man.”

  “Sir Galahad!” Grainger paused at the top of the steps. “Wonderful man. Helped get me some useful contacts. A true Royal Navy man, then went into the secret squirrels, rather like yourself.”

  King started to climb, not enjoying the vulnerability of talking to a stranger while still on the stairs. Surviving in his profession was all about the advantages of position and holding ground. “It’s moved on, by the sounds of it.”

  “I imagine so,” replied Grainger as King passed him and paused in a recess in the corridor. He eyed King with a tentative respect. It was clear to him that King wasn’t walking in Simon Mereweather’s shoes. The two representatives of MI5 could not have been more different. “He’s a real Sir, as well. So, a real-life Sir Galahad!”

  King nodded. He wasn’t knowledgeable about the court of King Arthur, but he understood it was far more mythical than historical. Although the Mereweather family had seemed to have taken it all quite seriously. “What has Simon told you?” he asked, as Grainger continued down the corridor. Either side of the corridor there were health and safety posters for everything from gas leaks, power cuts and water ingress to full scale evacuation procedures. The metal walls were painted in cream enamel and reminded King of the bowels of a ship.

  “He’s requested I assist you, as has Sir Galahad. Naturally, I didn’t need persuading, I’ve been a surrogate family member for years! I first went down to the estate to have a sort of assignation with Simon’s sister. She was horse crazy and mother Mereweather thought I could get her out of the saddle. We ended up riding horses of course. She was practically born in the saddle.”

  “A spot of fox hunting, what?” King replied sarcastically, trying his best at an impression of the landed gentry.

  “No. But we did draw some pegs and join the pheasant shoot for a few birds,” Grainger smiled wryly. “To be honest, it’s a different world and Horsey Harriet wasn’t really my type…” He paused. “Simon is solid, though. And the thing about Simon being in his line of work, well I imagine one could always trust him.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, the family is richer than Croesus.”

  “Who?”

  “Ancient Greece, around six-hundred BC. He was the King of Lydia who, according to Herodotus, reigned for fourteen years until his defeat by the Persian king Cyrus the Great.”

  “Why do I always get a bloody history lesson?” King muttered.

  “Well, he was colossally wealthy, hence the expression.”

  “Was he as rich as Bill Gates?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Well, that would still have been a better analogy, then.”

  “School of hard knocks, university of life?” Grainger grinned.

  King smiled. “Got expelled from the school of hard knocks, still at the Open University version of life, as a mature student. In a crap subject. Probably won’t graduate.”

  Grainger chuckled. “I expect there are more than a few things you could teach me.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” King paused. “We are what we are…”

  “Never a truer word spoken,” Grainger said with a smile.

  “So, what has Mereweather being wealthy got to do with anything?”

  “Why, don’t you see? The man is completely incorruptible. I mean, his family have a net worth more than some countries. Nobody could ever hope to bribe the man…” King thought of Mereweather’s position, how he occupied the chair of a man who had been bribed. Not everything came down to money. King had been put in a similar position, too. In this business your loved ones would always be the most effective leverage, but he got Grainger’s point. Grainger caught hold of the door handle on his right and said, “My office…” He paused. “Now, your extra bags have been taken to my dive unit. They will be quite safe. I will see that they’re padlocked anyway.” He sat down behind a small wooden desk and gestured for King to take a seat opposite.

  King closed the door behind him and pulled out the chair. The office was cramped, with a few photographs of various marine expeditions on the wall, the obligatory health and safety posters and curiously, a golf bag and clubs.

  Grainger s
aw King looking and said, “The helicopter landing pad is a great place to drive a few balls.”

  “Not very environmentally friendly.”

  Grainger smiled. “I suppose not…”

  King stared at him for a moment, watching the discomfort in the man’s eyes before saying, “You’re here for something else, aren’t you? No self-respecting eco-warrior would drive golf balls into the sea. What’s the depth here, three-hundred metres?”

  Grainger smiled. “More than ten times that in places. That sub is lying on a ledge that drops off to over twelve-thousand feet.”

  “So, you’re here for reasons other than the submarine, but you’re not a committed member of Aurora?” King said quietly. “And you’ve obviously been here for a while.”

  Grainger nodded. “I check for listening devices twice a day, but I’ve never found anything, we should be fine.” He paused, resting his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers. “I took the marine engineer job with Aurora because Aurora subcontracted the company I work for, but Simon asked me to look into the operation. He’s not satisfied that Aurora is on the level. Well, not him per se, but the British government.”

  King nodded. “Too good to be true?”

  “Exactly.” Grainger paused. “But while I’m here, I am uniquely placed to give you the assistance required.”

  “You know what he has planned?”

  “Yes. I can get you down in our submersible, and I can get you onboard through our dry-docking system. It’s quite simple, really. You see, the water pressure would mean that the hatch could never be opened. Either from the inside or outside of the submarine. Our system uses a gaiter which surrounds the hatch, the pressure is equalised to that inside the submarine and the pressure holds the gaiter in place. We open our hatch, then we open the submarine’s hatch, and you slip inside. I’ll be at the controls of the submersible. You do all your secret squirrel daring-do heroics, get back on the submersible, hatches replaced, pressure restored, gaiter removed and back to the surface for tea and medals…”

  King smiled and nodded. He just couldn’t help thinking that it wouldn’t be that simple.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Captain Gerrard Durand waved them over, his eyes on the screen of the laptop. He stared transfixed, as if taking his eyes off the screen even for a moment would have a detrimental impact on events.

  “Noventa has sent his first message to Fortez through the dark web. It is an integrated messenger service bypassing traditional surface internet mailing hosts.”

  Ramsay and Thorpe gathered round, but Caroline was slow to move. She winced as she straightened up, seeing that Thorpe had noticed. She did her best to walk over unaided, but in doing so earlier at the café on Quai du Mont Blanc, she had aggravated the injury. She continued, ignoring her crutch but she knew that if Thorpe hadn’t seen, then she would have willingly used it to take the weight off her leg. Both legs had been broken in the incident, but there had been extensive surgery to her right leg with multiple plates and pins and her recovery had been slow.

  “You really should use that stick of yours…” Thorpe said somewhat unsympathetically without looking up from the screen.

  “Yeah, I might well do that…” she replied, imagining her smashing it against the woman’s windpipe.

  Durand read out the message, despite the three of them already reading it over his hunched shoulders. “Contact made…”

  “He’s sent it,” Thorpe said, eyes transfixed on the screen.

  “That’s it?” Durand asked quietly.

  Ramsay took out his phone and dialled. He watched the screen as it rang, then switched the phone onto speaker. “Dave, it’s Neil. Where is Milo Noventa?”

  “Right in front of me, not going anywhere.”

  “You’re with him? You were meant to keep him under surveillance.”

  “What’s the point? The man has been given an ultimatum. I’m just making sure he does what he’s told. Besides, it was hot in the car and the man makes a damned fine cup of coffee, too. He’s got one of those steam machines baristas use…”

  Ramsay scowled and shook his head despairingly. “So, we’re seeing he’s sent the email.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Look, it makes sense not to divulge too much,” said Caroline.

  “Why?” Thorpe asked briskly.

  Caroline shrugged. “Fortez has to think he’s in control. If Noventa throws a recommendation at him too hard, then he may get spooked. Noventa is on a commission, but if he seems biased, then Fortez may think there’s more to it. He’ll assume that Noventa is on the take. Sharing the contract with the assassin.”

  “That’s what I said,” Big Dave’s voice echoed out of the phone in Ramsay’s hand. “Slowly, slowly, catchy monkey…”

  “Okay, it makes sense.” Ramsay paused. “Are we sure Noventa isn’t under surveillance from Fortez? As an insurance policy?” He looked at Thorpe and said, “Sally-Anne, get round there immediately and keep watch. Dave, when you leave, be friendly with Noventa. Make it look like two friends having a catch-up.”

  Caroline beamed a grin. “The file shows that Noventa is actually a practising bisexual and not currently in a relationship,” she mused. “Give the guy a kiss when you leave, Dave. Make it look like you were there for a reason…”

  “Fuck off…” Big Dave jeered.

  “No, it’s a good idea,” said Durand. “It will look convincing if Fortez has surveillance on him.”

  “And you can get fucked as well. You Frenchmen may go in for all that kissing each other, and you can keep it…”

  “It’s called taking one for the team,” Caroline chided.

  “Well, make sure he’s not under surveillance first,” replied Big Dave. “Sally-Anne, get around here quick smart!”

  “No, good surveillance can always be missed,” Ramsay said firmly. “That will teach you to go off-piste.”

  “You’re bloody enjoying this…”

  Tell me more… The words appeared in the text box and everybody simmered down, except for Sally-Anne Thorpe, who was getting the car keys and checking her phone battery as she readied to leave.

  “I’ll get round there now,” she said, but only Ramsay nodded.

  Noventa: A man and a woman. The woman seems to be in charge. The man is huge. They said there was a sniper covering them.

  Fortez: You have met them?

  Noventa: They found me and used that skill as part of their interview. Impressive.

  Fortez: Or a trap…

  Noventa: No, I doubt that. If they were law enforcement, then they would have enough on both of us by now. They are far from the type, anyway.

  Fortez: What do you mean by both of us?

  Noventa: If they could find me, then they can certainly discover who you are and find you.

  CONNECTION BROKEN

  “Merde!” Durand cursed. “He’s scared him off!”

  Ramsay held up a hand. “Dave, the connection has been lost. Watch Noventa and make sure he doesn’t leave.”

  “On it.”

  “Sally-Anne is on her way to check on the area around Noventa’s place for any physical surveillance.”

  “I’m not kissing this dickhead…”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have gone beyond your remit.”

  “Bugger off…”

  “He’s back.” Durand paused. “User Man Child, that’s Noventa, and user Orcus, that’s Fortez.”

  “What the hell is Orcus?” Ramsay frowned.

  “Roman god of the underworld. The Greeks had Hades, the Roman’s had Orcus,” Caroline said matter-of-factly.

  “Oh,” Ramsay said tersely.

  “Delusions of grandeur, I think,” Durand commented. “Considering he was spared and has been exiled. Consequently, he cannot see his grandchildren or either of his daughter-in-laws. Hardly a god of anything, let alone the underworld…”

  “I imagine it could be taken a number of ways. You may
see the underworld as meaning he is a god of organised crime, deviousness and anything that pushes against the system.” Caroline paused. “Or, he could be living in purgatorial Hell, so much so that he is god of the place. The ultimate person living such an existence.”

  “Oh.” Durand shrugged. “Okay, I like your one better…”

  Fortez: What guarantees can you make that this is not a trap?

  There was a minute before the response, with all three staring at the screen, waiting impatiently. Caroline realised she was gripping Durand’s shoulder, but he hadn’t seemed to notice. She released her grip, embarrassed that she didn’t really know him that well. Ramsay’s phone rang and he ignored it. It must have gone to answerphone but rang again instantly. Ramsay sighed, fumbled for the phone, and stared at the screen.

  “It’s Dave,” he said, but nobody was taking any notice. “Hello, Dave… what the hell’s going on with Noventa’s response?”

  “Thank god! I was shouting down the phone, but you can’t have heard me. I rang a couple of times, too. Look, I’ve got a bit of a situation here…”

  “What?” Ramsay switched to speaker for everyone’s benefit. “Tell Noventa to get his response sent. And tell him he’s in it up to his bloody neck, so he’d better make it good!”

  Eventually, the response appeared on the screen.

  Noventa: They were convincing. The woman was injured quite badly. Law enforcement wouldn’t allow an agent to work in that condition.

  “Fuck it, I can’t multitask,” said Big Dave. “I’m typing here and talking to you!”

  “Why, what’s happened? Why the hell are you typing?”

  “Noventa pulled a knife on me. It’s my own fault, I should have checked. I checked his drawer for a gun, but didn’t think he looked the type to carry a flick knife, much less have the bottle to use it…”

  Fortez: What kind of injury?

  Noventa/Big Dave: Recovering from a broken leg. Don’t let that put you off, as I said earlier, she is part of a team. My guess is disgruntled law enforcement and ex-soldiers.