Darke Mission (60 page)

Babikov had a clear plan. He was going to have his men capture JJ, beat the holy shit out of him, torture him into revealing the whereabouts of the money owed to Neil Robson and by prior gambling association, his good self. Then he was going to shoot the northern motherfucker stone dead, a pleasure that he may also visit upon any family or friends that happened to be accompanying this most annoying Scot. Boris had expressed an unhealthy interest in Darke's kid. His driver was a fucked up deviant thought Babikov but depending on the degree of the Scot's resistance, he may well humour the ex-FSB thug and today's chauffeur.

* * *

“Hello?” said JJ, answering his cellphone.

“Hi Dad, it's Cally.”

JJ was immediately surprised to get the call but happy and relieved that his daughter was clearly alive. His second derivative thought was that there could have been a more propitious moment to get the news.

“Carolyn! How are you? Still in Seoul?”

“No, I'm not in Seoul, Dad. I'll give you three guesses,” replied Carolyn.

JJ sure didn't have time for guessing games like ‘I spy' or whatever, he was sorting out the weapons he had brought with him and figuring out how to allocate his supply among the Bute six.

“New York, Washington, Tokyo,” replied JJ quickly. He didn't want to be rude to his daughter especially since he had only become properly re-acquainted with her a few weeks ago. However, he also didn't have the mental focus to answer her question properly. He blurted out the first three place names that came to mind and did not stop for a micro-second to consider time zone differences or the fact that Carolyn sounded very clear indeed.

“Rubbish guesses Dad, I'm in Scotland!” exclaimed an excited Carolyn.

JJ put his crossbow on the desk in the library. He had been re-loading it, checking the tautness of the pull, cleaning the reticle and generally ensuring that it was good to go. His mind, however, had now moved onto a different tack.

“Me too Cally, whereabouts are you?”

Carolyn had expected more of a happy audible tone of excitement from her dad. He sounded pre-occupied.

“I can't tell you precisely, Dad, all that need to know malarkey, but I'm on the west coast, not that far from Dunoon. If you're in Scotland too, can we meet up?”

JJ paused before replying. It seemed like the pause of a hundred years. Of course he wanted to see his daughter but if they were to meet up today or tomorrow she could be landed right in the middle of one whole heap of trouble. Balanced against that was the fact that he knew Carolyn was CIA-trained so could handle a gun and herself.

“Carolyn, I understand that you can't tell me precisely why you are in Scotland. Let me fill you in briefly on my current position and then you can decide. I'm at your grandparents' house on Bute. I can text you the address if you want it. The problem, and I don't know of any way to make this sound better, is that I suspect a gang of Russian Mafia thugs are on their way here. They want information from me, which I cannot, actually will not give them. They will try to kill me. Cyrus, his nanny and a friend are here, as well as my mum and dad. We're fortifying the place now as best we can and I have some weapons with me. In all likelihood we will be outnumbered and outgunned. It's a long story and what I've told you is very much the tail end of it.”

“Can I bring a friend?” asked Carolyn.

“Can he or she shoot?”

“Yes,” said Carolyn.

“Most welcome then.”

Carolyn's dad told her that if she was near Dunoon then the best way to get to Bute was to take the back road to Colintraive and then cross on the small, open aspect ferry to Rhubadoch on the island. The back road would take over half an hour and the ferry a few minutes as it needed to travel only one hundred yards.

Carolyn was standing on the banks of the Holy Loch, a few yards from Mark O'Neill and the rest of the Borei's crew, just beginning to find their land legs or, in Joe Franks' case, land leg.

History or maybe folklore has it that in the sixth Century, Saint Munn had landed on this part of Scotland, having sailed from Ireland. Hence, the loch's apparent holiness. More pertinent to the US Navy SEALs was that there was a secret, cavernous tunnel, eked out of the very rockface that surrounded parts of the loch. This tunnel, with the loch's dark, cold, water as its floor and ancient mountain rock as its ceiling, had been constructed by US and British naval forces in the 1960s. It was intended to hide a ship or submarine from the air.

At the height of the Cold War, both allied countries decided that they needed to have a ‘last strike' option. If nuclear war broke out between the Soviet Union and the USA then one, final, decisive blow may bring hostilities to an end, or at least that was their military hierarchies' thinking at the time. While to the public, the media and most personnel in the US and UK armed forces, the Polaris base in Scotland had been shut down in 1992, the truth of the matter was that it had not. All the US nuclear subs had gone, the navy personnel too. The secret tunnel, however, remained. Its facilities were abandoned, dilapidated, or rusted, but it was good enough to house a guest Borei and keep it undetected from land, sea and air.

Commander Mark O'Neill and his SEALs team had completed their mission successfully. Associate CIA Director John Adams briefed O'Neill by phone and told him that an elite unit from Britain's SBS (Special Boat Service) would relieve him of his command later that day. The SBS team would come from X Squadron and they would be responsible for keeping the Borei safe and out of harm's, or its rightful owner's way.

Billy Smith and Yang Dingbang had already left Seoul and were back in California. Joe Franks and Evan Harris, accompanied by Gary Whitton, were on their way to Glasgow's Royal Infirmary Hospital. The former two SEALs needed to have their injuries and wounds checked by professionals with all the necessary equipment to hand. The medic, Whitton, wanted to go with them, partly as company and partly to oversee whatever Scottish medicine had to offer his buddies.

Barry Minchkin and Tommy Fairclough were ordered to remain until the SBS unit arrived. Tommy may need to manoeuvre the Borei within the tunnel's confines. It would also be safer for all concerned if he gave his SBS counterpart a hands on demonstration of the submarine's controls, capabilities and idiosyncrasies. He had just driven the submarine over 5,000 miles, avoided a direct missile hit and scraped along the bottom of the Suez Canal. He knew what this submarine could and could not do. Barry Minchkin needed to remain on the Holy Loch too. His engineering skills, the checks on the Borei's nuclear power unit and its missiles' nuclear warheads, were necessary. He too would need to impart his knowledge and experiences directly to X Squadron's incoming chief submarine engineer.

David McCoy was reclining on the banks of the Holy Loch, cushioned by some bright yellow gorse and purple heather. He was studying his tablet, investigating a detailed map of Scotland. He wanted to find out exactly where he was and also where the nearest airport was located. He wanted to go home and see his family.

Commander Mark O'Neill was standing, breathing in lungfuls of fresh, nippy Scottish air. He was admiring the rugged beauty of the local landscape and, on occasion, the much less rugged beauty of NGA Officer Reynolds. Carolyn saw him looking at her out of the corner of her eye. She cosied up to him.

“Mark, you know our date on Loch Lomond?”

“Of course, Carolyn. Once we're finished here let's go!” he said with deep enthusiasm, keen to get to know his new paramour even better and to improve his language skills.

Carolyn informed the Commander of her necessary change of plan. Her dad was in trouble and she could not just walk away. Carolyn did not expect Mark O'Neill to join her. She re-affirmed that her dad was ex-MI5 and said there was likely to be a firefight. She didn't know all, in fact hardly any, details but it didn't sound good.

“Hey, Big D,” shouted O'Neill casually addressing his teammate and friend by his nickname. “You're on your tablet. See if you can rent any cars in some place called – what was it Carolyn?” asked O'Neill.

“Dunoon,” said Carolyn.

“Dunoon, Big D,” said O'Neill.

David McCoy exited his map app and browsed for car rentals. A minute or so elapsed. “There's a garage called Stewart's on Wellington Street. We could get something there called a VW Touran or a Toyota Aygo. Are we going sightseeing?” asked McCoy.

“Not exactly,” replied O'Neill.

The centre of Dunoon was less than three miles away, a six minute drive. The remainder of the Borei's crew still at the Holy Loch, however, did not have any vehicles with them. The plan was that the SBS unit would drive them to the nearest town, which happened to be Dunoon, after they arrived and assumed responsibility for the submarine. That could be a couple of hours away gauged O'Neill and time was short according to Carolyn.

“Big D, can we hike to Dunoon?” asked O'Neill.

“Yes, it will take us half an hour or so, if we're carrying kit.”

O'Neill told McCoy about Carolyn's predicament. The Commander had decided to go with Carolyn to help her dad. It was shaping up to be one of those memorable first dates. O'Neill commended McCoy on a job well done in getting the Borei from North Korea to Scotland. He emphasised that the mission was now over. He was free to go home to the United States and no one would think the worse of it. He had earned a break, the right to see his family and the unacknowledged thanks of all the civilians who would now not be blown to smithereens or die agonisingly from radiation poisoning.

David McCoy had a ponder. He surely did want to go home, see his girlfriend and baby daughter, have six Buds and a giant T-bone steak. The SEALs' motto, however, was:
The only easy day was yesterday,
and David McCoy was a committed and honoured Navy SEAL. If his Commander, on or off mission, was going to put himself in danger, then he'd need back-up. This wasn't a part time job. He was in.

The trio made their farewells to Fairclough and Minchkin. They could handle the sub's handover to the SBS unit. Commander O'Neill did not give the two staying SEALs much detail, not least of which because he didn't have it. The trio wished the duo well and vice versa. They all hoped to meet up in the warm Californian sunshine in the near future.

O'Neill, Reynolds and McCoy changed into their casual civvies and trekked pacily into Dunoon. Stewart's Garage had vehicles available to rent and McCoy opted for the Touran. They hired it for a week. The titanium grey VW was bigger than the three of them needed, even allowing for kit and weapons. McCoy's rationale was that the rear seats of the seven-seater could go down and if they had to take cover in a shooting fight they could at least have their heads out of plain sight.

McCoy got directions from the garage owner. Carolyn drove. She didn't know any more than the indigenous Americans about driving on the left side of the road but the two SEALs seated behind her were weapons checking and assessing. It was a pleasant spring day. The garage owner was sure the back road would be open with no natural debris blocking the road. On leaving Dunoon and then Hunter's Quay, the drive to Colintraive would take thirty-five to forty minutes Mr Stewart said, much the same as JJ had indicated.

As Carolyn was taking the left onto the back road, Vladimir Babikov and his entourage were in the Wemyss Bay car park awaiting the ferry for Rothesay, Isle of Bute. The ferry to Rothesay was substantial, a proper ship and could carry over forty sizeable vehicles including HGVs, buses and the occasional ambulance. This ferry crossing would take thirty-five minutes.

If the weather was good, specifically the winds calm and they were today, then this ferry was never late. If the Rothesay ferry and the Colintraive flat-bed were both on time then the Russians would beat the Americans to the Darkes' Ascog house by fifteen to twenty minutes.

* * *

Neil Robson had moved quickly following his brief call to Babikov. He left his hotel in Amsterdam, went to a charity shop in the town and, essentially, swapped all his clothes and shoes for some more casual attire. The Dutch homeless got the better of the deal from a valuation and quality perspective but needs must and the fugitive Robson's needs were great indeed. Suitably attired to mingle with the masses, Robson caught a coach and made his way to the Europoort in the Port of Rotterdam. The Europoort was situated on the south side of the rivers Rhine and Mease and was one of the busiest ports in the world. In addition to exuding the style of an ageing CND supporter he had donned a pair of heavy-rimmed spectacles and had not shaved since
The Sound of Music
night. He looked nothing like his Treasury mandarin persona nor would he be recognisable from his passport, not that his passport was coming out to play any time soon.

Neil Robson knew that the game was up as far as his political life was concerned. He assumed that MI5 and Interpol would be looking for him. Robson had ditched his mobile phone and tablet because of their GPS tracking capability, but he had read an English language newspaper and there it was:
Wanted for murder and attempted embezzlement.
He needed to get back to England, to get money, weapons and, most importantly, revenge.

The best thing about busy seaports is that, compared with airports or even train stations, their security is lax. Robson had discovered that the P&O line ran two overnight ferries from Rotterdam to Hull. He had spotted a furtive youth mooching about in the seaport's shops, approached him and promised him €100 if he bought Robson a one way ticket, €50 straight away and €50 when he returned with the ticket.

Neil Robson was on
The Pride of Rotterdam
later that night.
The
PoR
made Caledonian MacBrayne's
Argyll
or
Bute
ferries look like rowing boats. The P&O ship could carry 1,350 passengers, 250 cars and 400 trailers. It was enormous but could still power through the waves at 22 knots. The crossing would take eleven hours, plenty of time for Robson to catch up on some sleep yet remain anonymous among the heaving mass of tired, unfocused night time passengers.