Achilles heel, p.1
Achilles' Heel, page 1
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Prologue - THE BARENTS SEA NORTH OF POLYARNYY, RUSSIA
PART ONE
1 - WASHINGTON, D.C.
2 - NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY FORT MEADE, MARYLAND
3 - WASHINGTON, D.C.
4 - WASHINGTON, D.C.
5 - WASHINGTON, D.C.
6 - WASHINGTON, D.C.
7 - WASHINGTON, D.C.
8 - WASHINGTON, D.C.
9 - WASHINGTON, D.C.
10 - WASHINGTON, D.C.
11 - WASHINGTON, D.C.
12 - NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY FORT MEADE, MARYLAND
13 - WASHINGTON, D.C.
14 - WASHINGTON, D.C.
15 - WASHINGTON, D.C.
PART TWO
1 - LONDON
2 - HYDE PARK
3 - LONDON
4 - THE CHANNEL ISLANDS
5 - LONDON
6 - CLARIDGE’S
7 - CLARIDGE’S
8 - CLARIDGE’S
9 - HYDE PARK
10 - THE ENGLISH CHANNEL
PART THREE
1 - LONDON
2 - LONDON
3 - LONDON
4 - LONDON
5 - LONDON
6 - LONDON
7 - LONDON
8 - LONDON
9 - LONDON
PART FOUR
1 - LONDON
2 - GUERNSEY
3 - LONDON
4 - LONDON
5 - LONDON
6 - LONDON
7 - LONDON
8 - LONDON
9 - LONDON
10 - OXFORD
11 - OXFORD
PART FIVE
1 - LONDON
2 - GUERNSEY
3 - LONDON
4 - LONDON
5 - GUERNSEY
6 - OXFORD
7 - ZÜRICH
8 - ZÜRICH
9 - ZÜRICH
10 - ZÜRICH
11 - ZÜRICH
12 - OXFORD
13 - OXFORD
14 - OXFORD
15 - ZÜRICH
16 - ZÜRICH
PART SIX
1 - HEATHROW
2 - OXFORD
3 - OXFORD
4 - OXFORD
5 - OXFORD
6 - OXFORD
7 - OXFORD
8 - OXFORD
9 - OXFORD
10 - OXFORD
11 - OXFORD
12 - OXFORD
13 - OXFORD
14 - NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY FORT MEADE, MARYLAND
PART SEVEN
1 - GUERNSEY
2 - ABOARD THE CHARISMA
3 - ABOARD THE CHARISMA
4 - ABOARD THE CHARISMA
5 - ABOARD THE CHARISMA
6 - LONDON
7 - LONDON
8 - ABOARD THE CHARISMA
9 - ABOARD THE CHARISMA
10 - 283
PART EIGHT
1 - OXFORD
2 - LONDON
3 - LONDON
4 - LONDON
5 - LONDON
6 - LONDON
7 - LONDON
8 - LONDON
9 - LONDON
10 - LONDON
11 - LONDON
12 - LONDON
PART NINE
1 - NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY FORT MEADE, MARYLAND
2 - THE WHITE HOUSE
3 - 10 DOWNING STREET
4 - SCOTLAND YARD
5 - SIS HEADQUARTERS
6 - LONDON
7 - LONDON
8 - LONDON
9 - SIS HEADQUARTERS
10 - SIS HEADQUARTERS
PART TEN
1 - ZÜRICH
2 - ZÜRICH
3 - KLOTEN AIRPORT
4 - GUERNSEY
5 - LONDON
6 - LONDON
7 - LONDON
8 - LONDON
9 - LONDON
10 - GUERNSEY
11 - ABOARD THE CHARISMA
12 - OFF SARK ISLAND
13 - ABOARD THE CHARISMA
14 - OFF SARK ISLAND
15 - ABOARD THE CHARISMA
16 - ABOARD 283
17 - GUERNSEY
PART ELEVEN
1 - BERKELEY SQUARE
2 - PORT OF LONDON
3 - THE SAFE HOUSE
4 - ON THE ROAD TO PORTSMOUTH
5 - PORTSMOUTH ROYAL NAVAL AIR STATION
6 - PORTSMOUTH ROYAL NAVAL AIR STATION
7 - PORTSMOUTH ROYAL NAVAL AIR STATION
8 - PORTSMOUTH ROYAL NAVAL AIR STATION
9 - EN ROUTE TO LONDON
10 - SIS HEADQUARTERS
11 - SIS HEADQUARTERS
12 - GUERNSEY
PART TWELVE
1 - PORTSMOUTH ROYAL NAVAL AIR STATION
2 - ABOARD 283
3 - ABOARD 283
4 - IN THE ENGLISH CHANNEL
5 - IN THE ENGLISH CHANNEL
6 - ABOARD THE HARRIER
7 - HMS BEAVER
8 - ABOARD THE HARRIER
9 - HMS BEAVER
10 - PORTSMOUTH ROYAL NAVAL AIR STATION
11 - ABOARD 283
12 - ABOARD 283
13 - HMS BEAVER
PART THIRTEEN
1 - GREENWICH
2 - LONDON
3 - ABOARD 283
4 - HMS BEAVER
5 - LONDON
6 - LONDON
7 - ABOARD THE HARRIER
8 - ABOARD 283
9 - LONDON
10 - ABOARD 283
11 - HMS BEAVER
12 - ON THE ROAD TO EXETER
13 - HMS BEAVER
14 - ON THE ROAD TO EXETER
15 - HMS BEAVER
16 - EXETER AIRPORT
17 - PORTSMOUTH ROYAL NAVAL AIR STATION
18 - LONDON
PART FOURTEEN
1 - LONDON
2 - ABOARD THE GULFSTREAM
3 - LONDON
4 - RABAT, MOROCCO
5 - LONDON
6 - U.S. EMBASSY
7 - RABAT, MOROCCO
8 - LONDON
9 - MOROCCO
10 - RABAT, MOROCCO
11 - LONDON
12 - RABAT, MOROCCO
13 - ON THE COAST WESTERN SAHARA
14 - ON THE COASTAL HIGHWAY
15 - THE PHOSPHATE FACILITY
16 - ON THE DIRT ROAD
17 - THE PHOSPHATE FACILITY
18 - THE PHOSPHATE FACILITY
19 - THE PHOSPHATE FACILITY
20 - THE PHOSPHATE FACILITY
21 - THE PHOSPHATE FACILITY
22 - THE PHOSPHATE FACILITY
23 - THE PHOSPHATE FACILITY
24 - THE PHOSPHATE FACILITY
25 - THE PHOSPHATE FACILITY
26 - THE PHOSPHATE FACILITY
PART FIFTEEN
1 - ABOARD 283
2 - THE PHOSPHATE FACILITY
3 - LONDON
4 - RAMSTEIN AIR FORCE BASE GERMANY
5 - ABOARD 283
6 - FF1065 STEIN
7 - ABOARD 283
8 - FF1065 STEIN
9 - RAMSTEIN AIR FORCE BASE HOSPITAL
PART SIXTEEN
1 - NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY FORT MEADE, MARYLAND
2 - ABOARD 283
3 - ABOVE GUANTÁNAMO BAY
4 - THE WHITE HOUSE
Also by
Praise
Copyright Page
This book is for
Laurie
Prologue
THE BARENTS SEA NORTH OF POLYARNYY, RUSSIA
Captain First Rank Aleksandr Rulov watched from the bridge of his destroyer Uporny as the submarine, riding low in the water and wallowing in the steep seas, made a wide turn to port, bringing its sail into the wind.
“Poor bastards,” he said to his executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Selyutin.
“Makes me sick just looking at them,” the sallow-faced man replied. “But they’ll be aboard us soon enough.”
The captain lowered his binoculars for a moment and gave his XO a hard stare. He was about to make a sharp reply but thought better of it. Even here aboard his destroyer, and in this day and age, the walls had ears. Silence was easier to explain than a misspoken word. The growler phone buzzed, and Rulov picked it up with a meaty paw.
“This is the captain.”
“CIC, Captain. We’re in position.”
“Da,” Rulov replied. He hung up the phone and looked at his XO. “We’re there, and I don’t want to stay long. Have the recovery crew stand by to launch on my order. See to it personally, would you, Yuri? Those are good men out there.”
“Yes, sir,” Selyutin said. He left the bridge.
In actuality Rulov had never met the scuttling crew of submarine 283 before. They were all new boys, sent up for this one job, and he didn’t envy them their task. Submarines in general gave him the willies; they were li
He picked up the ship’s comm. “Engineering.”
“Engineering, da.”
“We’re there. Give me turns for dead slow.”
“What’s it like up there, Captain?” the chief engineer asked. He was a tough old bastard, every bit as crusty as the captain.
“Rough.”
“Turn her into the wind, I don’t want to bang around down here for nothing.” The ChEng cut the connection. He was the only man aboard the ship who could talk to the captain like that and get away with it.
“Come left to two-seven-zero degrees,” he told the helmsman.
The big destroyer began to slow down as her engine revolutions decreased, and she turned into the wind and five-meter waves. The motion aboard became easier, as it undoubtedly had for the submarine five hundred meters out when she turned into the wind.
Rulov radioed the submarine. “Two-eight-three, this is Uporny. Are you ready for us?”
“Stand by, Uporny.”
Rulov could hear strain in the speaker’s voice. “Do you have a problem?”
A second speaker came on. “This is Captain Lubiako, and you’re damned right we have a problem. The high-pressure air system is wrecked, and we’re taking on ballast water. The son of a bitch is going to sink out from under us.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Rulov said. “Abandon ship now, and I’ll send a launch for you.”
“There’s no guarantee she’ll go down unless we blow the bottom out of her as planned.”
Rulov switched the radio to the overhead speaker so that the helmsman, first officer, and others on the bridge could hear.
“Say again the nature of your problem, Captain?”
“Our ballast tanks are flooding!” Lubiako shouted. In the background someone else was shouting something.
“I’m sending over a launch. I suggest you abandon ship,” Rulov said. He got on the ship’s comm. “Launch the recovery crew now,” he told Selyutin. “I’ll patch over comms to you from two-eight-three. It sounds like they’re in trouble.”
“For real?”
“Da,” Rulov said, turning back to the radio. He flipped a switch which allowed the two-way conversation to be picked up aboard the recovery launch.
He walked to the port wing lookout station in time to see the thirty-foot rescue launch lowered into the sea, disengage, and peel away from the pitching destroyer. He went back to the radio.
“Two-eight-three, the launch is wet, and our rescue team is on the way.”
“Tell them to stay clear!” Lubiako shouted. “I don’t know how long I can hold this bastard!”
“I say again, abandon ship,” Rulov radioed, careful to keep his voice calm, unlike Lubiako, who was clearly panicking. He was sorry that his crew had to bear witness to what he felt was a disgrace on the part of an officer.
The radio channel opened, but Lubiako was screaming something unintelligible, while in the background they could hear what sounded like water rushing in, and men screaming.
“Abandon ship! Abandon ship!” Rulov ordered.
“Too late …”
The submarine was hard down by the bow, her conning tower almost completely submerged, when an underwater explosion geysered the cold October seas.
The Uporny’s launch veered left, heading into the steep waves a hundred meters from the stricken submarine, and her six-man crew watched in horrified fascination as the boat sank as if her bottom had blown out. A large oil slick came to the surface, and was blown off the tops of the waves and dissipated almost as quickly as it had appeared.
Several pieces of debris shot up, tumbling in the rugged seas.
“Bridge, sonar.”
Captain Rulov picked up the growler phone. “This is the captain.”
“Sir, I’m showing definite breakup noises. There’ve been two further explosions, and now the implosions as her pressure hull buckles.”
“Is there any other underwater traffic in the area?”
“Nyet.”
“Keep a sharp ear.”
At fifty-four, Rulov had spent most of his life around ships or at sea. He’d seen it all—from the warm Caribbean waters off Cuba to raging storms and towering seas in the middle of the Pacific. But for this place he had the utmost respect. This was the Russian navy’s graveyard, where her old, out-of-commission ships were sunk in a thousand meters of Arctic water. All sorts of naval debris littered the ocean bottom here, including a good number of nuclear submarines, and spent reactors cut from nuclear vessels. An unhealthy place to be.
God help the crew of any ship sunk here. Because if they somehow survived in an airtight compartment there would be no rescue attempts. Nuclear reactors began to leak sooner or later. Here and now this was the most dangerous piece of ocean in the world.
“Bridge, sonar.”
The captain picked up the phone. “Da.”
“I think she’s on the bottom. I’m not picking up a thing now. She’s dead.”
“Any chance of survivors?”
“No, sir,” the sonarman said. “I’ve never heard sounds like that before. She must have broken into a million pieces. There’s nothing left now but junk.”
“Very well,” Captain Rulov said.
Selyutin came in. “They fished out a couple of life jackets.”
“Are the jackets radioactive?” Rulov asked.
“Yes, sir. But not as hot as that scuttling crew.” It was gallows humor.
“Take it easy, Yuri,” Rulov said gently. “It’s the risk all of us take.”
“Especially submariners,” Selyutin said. “They’re all a bunch of crazy bastards.”
“We’ll hang around until it gets dark in case there are any survivors.”
Selyutin looked out the windows. “Shall I inform Polyarnyy?”
“It’s already been taken care of. Our orders are to make certain there are no survivors.”
“Are they sending help?”
“Nyet,” Rulov said.
PART ONE
1
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The evening was sparkling, traffic dense as the cab pulled into the circular drive in front of the elegant Hay Adams Hotel. Bill Lane, a husky, thick-shouldered man in his mid-forties, dressed in a dove gray Italian silk suit, an Hermès tie, matching pocket square, and hand-sewn Brazilian loafers, got out of the cab and paid the driver. As the bellman was getting his Louis Vuitton luggage out of the trunk, Lane stared at the White House through the trees across the far side of Lafayette Park, his deep blue eyes narrowing slightly as if he were measuring distances.
All of Washington was busy this Friday evening, with a reception for the prime ministers of all seven EC nations at the White House, and cocktail parties at every major hotel and many of the embassies. The United Nations General Assembly had just adjourned after one of the most contentious sessions in its history, and the diplomats and their staffs had come to Washington to celebrate. The trouble in the Balkans was finally over. The former Yugoslavia had been successfully partitioned into three independent nations, and although no one was overjoyed by the politics of the UN-brokered treaty, at least the killing had stopped.
The lobby was busy. A lot of people were dressed in evening clothes. A string quartet playing a Vivaldi piece was all but drowned out by the hum of conversation.
“You have a reservation for me. The name is Vandermeer,” Lane told a young woman at the registration desk.
The night manager, wearing morning clothes, came over smoothly. “Welcome to Washington, Mr. Vandermeer,” he said. His brass name tag read Mr. Wilson. “Indeed we do have a suite reserved in your name.” He glanced down at a computer screen. “Three nights?”
“That’s right,” Lane said. He handed an American Express platinum card to the manager, who deftly slid it through the card reader and immediately returned it.
“I hope you had a pleasant trip.”
“Tolerable.”
The registration form popped out of the printer and the manager laid it and a gold pen from his pocket on the counter. Lane signed under the name William Vandermeer, the Kruger Investment Group, Cape Town, South Africa.
The manager pocketed his pen, handed one of the room keys to the bellman waiting with Lane’s luggage, then came around the counter as the bellman headed toward the service elevator.
