outfits were discreetly hidden beneath dark blue Royal Naval raincoats that Richter had liberated from the cloakroom at HMS
The two men had reached the stern of the
The three men met more or less in the middle of the gangway, and Richter could clearly hear the Russian’s voice as he remonstrated with the intruders. ‘This wrong ship,’ he said, in heavily accented English. ‘You must get off.’
‘It’s a bloody foreigner,’ one of the troopers said, in a thick Glaswegian accent. ‘Where’s Jock? He should be on duty tonight.’
‘What have you done with Jock, you German bastard?’ shouted the other, and lunged clumsily at the Russian. Richter saw a second figure approach the gangway from the deck, and as he reached the side of the ship the decoy operation was completed. Richter heard two almost simultaneous subdued coughs from the silenced Browning Hi-Power 9mm pistols carried by the troopers, and both the sentries fell.
‘Anything?’ the President asked, walking back into the underground bunker, the Marine major on Football detail a respectful five paces behind him. The President had been spending a few minutes up in the house with his wife as the children were put to bed.
The senior officer present, an Air Force general, stood up as the President approached, and shook his head. ‘Nothing, sir. We’re just sitting around here waiting. We’re at DEFCON ONE, we’ve got just about everything airborne and heading east that’s got wings and an engine and can carry anything bigger than a grenade, and the Russians are doing zip.’
‘No response at all?’
‘Nothing, Mr President. Our technical resources – principally the Keyhole satellites – show absolutely no unusual activity anywhere in the CIS. The Russians must know that we’re holding at maximum readiness, but they’re not responding in any way at all.’
The President looked at the tote boards and video screens ranged along the longest wall of the bunker, and shook his head. The general was right. Every board showed long lists of American strategic military assets – the teeth of the Triad – in the air, out at sea or sitting, primed and ready, in underground silos. All were waiting for his single word of command, translated through the Gold Codes, to deliver a blow from which Russia might never recover.
‘I never thought I’d see this,’ he muttered, almost inaudibly. ‘At least, I hoped I never would.’ The enemy activity totes were, as the general had said, completely empty. Nothing that could in any way be construed as hostile was moving anywhere within the Confederation of Independent States. The President shook his head again, walked across to a leather armchair and sat down. The general watched him for a few seconds, then turned back to his console.
‘Go,’ Ross said into his helmet microphone, and the SAS troopers behind Richter began to move forward, Ross in the lead, Dekker a few yards behind him. Even with no apparent opposition, they still moved in combat fashion, one group stationary, weapons at the ready, while another group moved. One trooper slid down beside Richter and covered the ship with his 7.62mm Accuracy International PM sniper rifle fitted with a Davin Optical Starlight scope.
The first group had boarded the ship and was regrouping on deck when it all started to go wrong. Richter heard a muffled noise from somewhere near the bow, and then the distinctive metallic crack of a Kalashnikov AK47 assault rifle firing single shots. Two SAS men fell immediately, and the others dropped, rolling into what cover they could find while they searched for the gunman. The trooper beside Richter found him immediately. His rifle fired once and the Kalashnikov fell silent, but by then the advantage of surprise had gone, and lights were coming on all over the accommodation section at the stern of the freighter.
On deck, Ross was deploying his men ready for the firefight to come. The accommodation section was accessed by a door on the centreline of the ship, and Richter knew there was at least one other door on the starboard side because he could see it. He guessed that the starboard door was mirrored by one on the port side, which meant the SAS had three entrances to cover. The plan they had hoped to implement was for a stealthy entrance to the accommodation section and, as far as possible, silent elimination of the opposition, cabin by cabin. But that was before the man with the Kalashnikov alarm clock woke everyone up.
Ross had briefed two contingency plans. The first had assumed that the assault team would be detected after boarding the ship, and the second that they would be spotted on approach to the vessel. As Richter watched, the troopers swarmed silently around the accommodation section, smoothly implementing the former. Brief commands and acknowledgements sounded in his earphones.
From behind his crate Richter had a good view of the centreline door. Two troopers stood by it, and even at a distance Richter could see the characteristic stubby shape of the Arwen carried by one of them. The second man was working on the door, on the hinge side, moulding plastic explosive and implanting detonators. As Richter watched, the troopers moved away from the doors, into shelter, and seconds later three explosions ripped through the night. Ross’s contingency plan had called for simultaneous assaults on all possible entrances, and it sounded as if that had worked.
Through the smoke and debris Richter saw that the centreline door had gone, replaced by a gaping black oblong. The troopers ran back to their previous position, and one lobbed something through the doorway. The flat crack of the stun grenade sounded louder than the plastic explosive, magnified by the steel bulkheads of the accommodation section. The whitish fumes of CS gas poured out of the doorway, and when Richter could finally see clearly again, both the troopers had gone.
The SAS man beside him was quartering the ship with his Starlight scope, looking for signs that any
The deck area appeared quiet, two troopers covering a third as he worked on the two SAS men who had fallen when the AK47 had opened up – all SAS personnel receive comprehensive medical training – but the accommodation section of the
‘This is Beatty,’ he said into the microphone. ‘I’m coming aboard.’ As Richter stood up he saw a brief flash from the bridge wing, and dropped flat behind the crate. Half a second later a bullet whistled through the thin wood beside him and ricocheted off the concrete of the Mole and away into the night. One of the SAS troops fired his sniper rifle. Richter cautiously eased his head out from behind the crate and looked up. Another flash, and two more shots from the Mole. Richter saw a dark figure tumble backwards and slump against the bridge wing door.
‘Thanks,’ he muttered, left the nav-bag where it was, moved the Hockler into the firing position, stood up and ran. He reached the gangway and ducked down beside it. No shots. He stood again, sprinted up the gangway and crouched down against the steel side of the accommodation section. One of the troopers on deck raised an arm in acknowledgement.
‘Beatty. I’m going up to the bridge.’ A steel ladder ran down the side of the section, and Richter ran over to it. He looked up, but could see no signs of opposition. One SAS trooper moved to the side of the ship to provide covering fire if needed, and Richter started to climb. The ladder was in three sections, joined by intermediate platforms of perforated steel, and he made the first without problems. Richter waited briefly on the platform,
