Hunter Killer - Alex King Series 12 (2021), A BATEMAN [urban books to read TXT] 📗

Mereweather. “But it’s still developmental. Personally, I’d stick with the PE-Four or C-Four. It’s less volatile than that Czech stuff, anyway. That’s the thing with Semtex, at least it blew a few of the Paddies up for us while they were making their homemade bombs during the Troubles.”

“That’s still getting thirty kilos or so of explosive, another six kilos of blasting caps and say, around five kilos of detonation cord down there. What’s the depth?”

“The central charges will need to be closer to ten kilos each.” Galahad Mereweather paused. “So, work on forty kilos, or ninety pounds in full fat, full cream imperial.”

“Depth?” King asked again.

Simon Mereweather coughed to clear his throat, then said, “The submarine is on a ridge, rather like the top of a mountain. Each side of that ridge drops down close to three-thousand metres. Now, with a Rolls-Royce nuclear reactor, or more accurately a PWS2, pressurised water reactor on board, as well as Tomahawk cruise missiles and the Spearfish heavy torpedoes it was carrying, the plan with the charges is to shift the vessel off the ridge with the first series of charges, while two secondary explosions do the required damage on its descent into the deep.”

“What’s the depth?” King repeated.

“The ridge is three hundred metres across, but HMS Armageddon is on the very edge…”

“But, what’s the depth, Simon?” King asked, staring at him curiously.

“It’s seven-hundred and eighty metres…”

“For fuck’s sake!” King sat back in his chair and shook his head. “I can’t dive that deep!”

“You’ve got a PADI certificate,” Ramsay said quite seriously.

“What?” King snorted. “Pay And Die Immediately? That’s okay for holidays in the Red sea or the Mediterranean. I do have rather more than that, but I’m still only certified to two-hundred metres. And that took specialised air, a dive buddy, boat crew and a detailed ascent plan with decompression chamber on standby. No, it can’t be done.”

“No, it can’t. Not practically, at least,” Simon Mereweather conceded.

“Just as well, really,” replied Galahad Mereweather. “Because this entire plan can only be done from inside the submarine.” He paused. “And the team operating the salvage recovery program have a mini-submersible quite capable of reaching that depth and getting someone inside via a rescue hatch.”

“Is that all?” King replied sarcastically.

“Well, there is the question of initiating the self-destruct sequence on the missiles and torpedoes,” Galahad said nonchalantly. “Can’t have them lying about for any Tom, Dick or Harry to salvage. Oh, and bringing up the data-logger for inspection. That’s like the black box on an airliner.”

His son nodded. Two decades younger, but essentially a facsimile of his father without the grey hair or moustache. “So, time is of the essence. We need to get you up there and embedded in that team before they make a move without you.” He glanced at his watch, then said, “Finish your tea first…”

Chapter Four

 

Caroline stood with her back to King, watching the angry sea beyond the edge of the cliff half a mile away. Directly in front of her on the driveway below, Ramsay and Simon Mereweather waited awkwardly in the black Jaguar saloon. Big Dave sat behind the wheel of an identical vehicle, parked nose out and looking unbothered, unhurried, and completely at ease. He’d waved at her through the window, and she’d waved back, but ignored the other two. Dave Lomu was a foot soldier and was here as security for the acting director of MI5.

“It won’t be long,” said King. “And besides, you’ve made it pretty clear that I’ve been getting under your feet lately.”

“Do you want to go?” she asked incredulously.

He shrugged. “It’s important…”

“I get it,” she said, turning around and looking at him. Her eyes were moist, glistening with tears. “You’ve been couped up for a few months and you need the action.” She shrugged. “You’ve been great helping me get back to health and planning our escape has really helped me heal mentally.” She pointed at a world atlas on the wall. It was torn, had been well-folded and was busy with drawing pins and handwritten notes, dates and destinations circled in red pen. “That is what’s important. Buying that yacht and heading out for an adventure at the end of this summer.”

King nodded as she walked from the bay window to an upright leather chair. She favoured her right leg, but she was managing inside without the crutches, which were propped up against the wall behind her. He went to help her but stopped because the action seemed ridiculous considering he was about to ship out and leave her on her own. Since Caroline had been involved in a traffic collision three months ago, caused by a man chasing her to get to King, she had undergone daily physio and had various follow up appointments with surgeons. She had ditched using the crutches a month before they thought she would, for all but the walks outside that she took every couple of days, such was her dedication to her physiotherapy and well-being. The trip they had planned over the past weeks and months had helped her to reset mentally, enabling her to deal with the PTSD from her experience, as well as previous missions, tragedies, and misadventures. They had both been learning and training online in the theory of seamanship and sailing and they had a series of intensive courses booked throughout the summer at a local sailing club. Caroline had sailed as a child, and King had used a few powerboats and RIBs over the years. It was a crazy plan, but like most things they did, they would bluff through with determination and fluidity, changing the plan along the way to suit them best.

“It’s a matter of closing the circle,” he replied eventually, the silence between them uncomfortable. “I put that poor woman on that submarine and ninety-eight submariners did not come home to their