Hunter Killer - Alex King Series 12 (2021) A BATEMAN (fiction novels to read .TXT) 📖

and opened the calculator app. “The charge should reach one hundred and fifty metres depth in thirty-seven seconds. So, if you want to hit the sub travelling at twenty knots, we need to get approximately three-hundred and twelve metres ahead of it. But if we can be sure of reaching it at a speed of thirty knots, then we need to be in the ballpark of five hundred metres, which allows for the submarine’s speed of travel.”

“Approximately and ballpark?” King asked incredulously, as he attached the detonator cord to the RDX detonator and pushed it through the rubber seal.

“Give or take,” she replied. But it’s a large vessel, longer than a jumbo jet, and the variables are better for a shorter distance as it will still land on top of it, whereas if you drop too early, it will miss, and the submarine will sail over the charge.” Madeleine paused. “Is the underside of a submarine softer or harder than the top of the hull?”

“I wish I knew,” King replied lamely. “I was briefed to attach the charges to the side as there is a seam and it’s the weakest spot. The idea being that it split open like a peeled banana.”

“You were always going to blow it up?” she asked. “Why?”

King shrugged. “Not this one, another… It’s complicated…”

“Hardly,” she retorted. “You were sent to blow up your own submarine? Jesus, this is why I steer clear of politics.”

“It would be better for you if you could forget you heard anything and don’t ask anything else,” Rashid replied, giving her a wink.

“Great…” she sighed, exasperated.

King taped each charge to an anchor with the lengths of Velcro from his kit, then wrapped the chain around and tucked the loose end of chain through itself to make a knot. Rashid followed suit, and they attached the electronic timers, setting the first three to thirty-three, thirty-five and thirty-seven seconds, respectively.

“The only problem I can see is that after the first explosion, they’ll change their course,” said King.

“Really? That’s the only problem you envisage?” Rashid countered in good humour. “They could zig-zag, adjust their depth or speed.” He paused. “Or of course, just send a bloody torpedo or two up to us to round off a pretty shitty day…”

“Okay, well all of that, then,” King shrugged. “It sounded better in my head.”

“What if the nuclear reactor is damaged?” Madeleine asked.

“It’s a diesel submarine,” King replied. “It works by a diesel generator system charging an electric motor. Even if it was a nuclear-powered sub, it would still only meltdown, it would never explode.”

“Tell that to the crew of the Kursk,” Madeleine replied.

“Perhaps our subs are better than the Russian’s subs.”

“But the warheads, then?” she protested.

“They wouldn’t explode either, not even in the event of them being blown up directly. The thermonuclear detonation can only initiate in a three-stage process.”

“Well, as a committed marine biologist, I’m not comfortable with blowing up a submarine in a UNESCO World Heritage environmental zone.” She paused. “But I’m guessing from all of this, there isn’t much choice?”

“The Iranians have stolen some British cruise missiles, or at the very least, the warheads inside. Those missiles are armed with illegally installed dial-a-yield nuclear warheads. Believe it or not, treaties and conventions dictate the way in which nuclear weapons can be used. The Iranian threat with those warheads in their possession is bad enough, but they’re about to drop a few off to North Korea when they get the chance, so no. Nothing else is springing to mind.” King picked up the first charge and said to Grainger, “Okay, so to get us approximately three hundred and twelve metres ahead of the submarine when we drop the charges, we need to get five-hundred metres ahead of a blip on Madeleine’s laptop.”

Grainger shook his head. “The GPS doesn’t make such small calculations,” he said. “I won’t know if we’re four-hundred or approaching five-hundred metres ahead.”

“Shit…” King frowned, looking at the screen.

“What about these buoys?” Rashid suggested. “They’re about the size of a man’s head. Drop them out one at a time, and I’ll tell you if we’re five hundred metres away.” He shrugged and looked confidently at King. “I can do it.”

“You’ll barely be able to see them without a scope.”

“They’re brightly coloured and the sea and sky are grey. I can do it.”

King looked at the buoys, then back at his friend. He knew that if anyone could judge that sort of distance, then it would be Rashid. “Do it…” He looked at Grainger. “Are we over them now?”

“Yes.”

King turned to Rashid. “Drop the buoy!” He then looked to Grainger. “Hit it! Thirty knots!”

Madeleine kept her eyes on the screen. “Keep on that course,” she said. “No change…”

King readied the first charge. It seemed like an age for the boat to get a five-hundred metre advantage, but Rashid raised his arm and lowered it quickly as if starting a race.

“Five-hundred!” Rashid shouted.

King tossed out the first charge. He bent down and picked up another, then dropped it as he had the first. “Keep on this heading but slow to fifteen knots,” he told Grainger.

“Why not drop another?” asked Madeleine, not taking her eyes off the screen.

“We might be wrong. We only have four more and it’s going to take at least two to damage that hull, and they’re going to have to get pretty damned close.”

The explosions came one after another. Even at a depth of one-hundred and fifty metres, two large plumes of water cascaded high into the air, spraying them with a fine, icy cold mist.

“Bang on!” Madeleine exclaimed. “Right on top of the beacon!”

“It’s impossible to know if it has been damaged!” Rashid shouted. “We need to hit them again!”

“Only a mile until they enter the channel and then they can dive!”