Apex Predator

By Kelvin Kwa

A future winter November 2018. Th e Eye of Heavena prototype Chinese satellite with next
generation technology falls and is lost in the polar icecap. Th e race begins when two superpowers
face off , one to learn secrets, the other to keep them. And they will send their greatest weapons wielded
by their fi ercest warriors to reach the prize.
Special Agent Greg Cole, a man of lethal skill, pathological appetites, and a Machiavellian intellect,
who engineered the theft of the satellite. For him, retrieving its secrets would be a career-making coup
and nothing; no one was going to stand in his wayfriend, foe, or innocent bystander.
SEAL Command Master Chief Carter Boheman aging warrior given one fi nal chance to prove he
can still run with the wolves, never questioned his orders or his purpose . . . until this mission. Until
his orders called for murder.
Colonel Xiang Lai Peng of the Peoples Republic of ChinaTasked by his government to retrieve
the satellite at all costs, this elite unit commander will lead his men into an unimaginable nightmare
where the price of success will be all too high.
Captain Marcus Cartaneo USNCommander of the USS Seawolf, a submarine bristling with
a frightening array of weaponry and the combined technological might of a superpower. Yet, its
weakness lies in the tragedy haunted crew on the verge of mutiny against a commanding offi cer who
has lost their trust.
But natural enemies are the least of their worries for as the Arctic winter storms close in; something
else has awakened deep within the ice. An elder force that once roamed ancient seas with impunity,
now consigned to the realm of myth and legend has returned. Th e stories speak of its savagery;
pure, insatiable and untainted by conscience or reason yet possessing immense power and fearsome
intelligence.
In this cold, unforgiving wasteland, man and machine will come face to face with a malevolent,
unrelenting entity who will hunt them across ice, across oceans to the very doorstep of their homes.
Only the survivor, only the triumphant will be the Apex Predator.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Oct 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499024425

Book preview

Apex Predator

Kelvin Kwa

Copyright © 2014 by Kelvin Kwa.

ISBN:      eBook         978-1-4990-2442-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 10/08/2014

Xlibris LLC

1-800-455-039

www.Xlibris.com.au

695536

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Praise for Apex Predator

‘Kelvin Kwa has the streak of inventiveness and originality that rivals some of the established sci-fi writers that I know. Full of gripping twists and turns, Apex Predator will keep readers turning the pages.’

Lit Amri for Readers’ Favourite

‘A thriller with the speed and precision of a tightly edited action film, headlined by a colossal monster that could give the kraken a run for its money.’

Kirkus

Dedication

(in no particular order)

To my father, who told me stories and taught me

the love of the narrative.

To God, who gave me the dreams, the words, and the audacity to believe in my limitless potential.

To Catherine, who dragged me kicking and screaming across the finish line.

Acknowledgements

My thanks to Google and Wikipedia for the wonderful font of information that fuelled and inspired many of the technical and historical aspects of the story. Special appreciation goes to the Navy SEAL official website, www.sealswcc.com, as well as the official US Navy website, www.navy.mil, for providing much-needed material from which I was able to create the memorable characters and jargon prevalent in Apex Predator. My sincere respect for those who serve and my apologies for any factual inaccuracies or errors; they are purely a product of my own ignorance and imagination.

I would also like to thank…

my brother, Adrian who has always provided the fuel for this book by constantly reminding me that he believes in me;

the people at Adrenaline for an inspirational jet boat ride in Sydney Harbour a few years ago, a ride that gave me some of the major ideas for this book;

PADI and Paul Byham, who helped me with dive times, decompression protocols, and air mixes;

Ann Chew Wong, a dedicated fan and thorough editor (I hope);

friends and family, all of whom encouraged me over the years; you know who you are;

my enemies, for providing the motivational boost for the violent action sequences and other gory bits;

And last but not least, the authors and movie makers who have inspired me all my life.

And he laid hold on the dragon, that old serpent, which is the Devil, and Satan, and bound him a thousand years— Revelation 20:2

Apex Predator—(Synonym) Alpha Predator

(Definition) A carnivorous or destructive organism with no natural enemies or predators of its own

—Top of the food chain

Prologue

Is she with you?

Yes, old friend. We’re on a transport. She will have a good life, as promised. Would you like to speak to her?

No, she would not understand. Just tell her that I love her.

We can still get you out.

Too late. They will find me soon. The package is being delivered, but you will have to hurry.

Where is it?

North. Your tracking stations will give you a more precise location. I’m sorry, that was the best I could do.

Understood. Goodbye, old friend.

Greg Cole placed the handset back on the bulky backpack of the satellite phone unit and looked across the cavernous interior of the C-130 transport plane at the small Chinese woman seated a few feet away. Her diminutive form was almost lost in the camouflage netting and boxes of military supplies piled in neat pallets around her.

She had been crying for a while now, and as Cole looked into her tear-reddened eyes, he said the two words she feared the most: I’m sorry…

Broussard Ice Shelf North of Ellesmere Island

Arctic Circle 1530Hrs GMT

Joe Obrinuk could not tell you exactly what mood he was in. Depressed? He was that. Angry? That too. Worried? Definitely. In actual fact, the Inuit was at that very moment experiencing a whole rainbow of emotions that seemed to bleed their flavors into each other until there was nothing left but the, cold, stark, bleach white apathy that mirrored the expanse before him. If he had to sum it up in one word, that word would be: winter.

The elephant seal herds were sparse this year, and it was becoming more difficult to track the remaining few through the treacherous ice packs forming at the edge of polar twilight. Game had become scarce of late, since the government declared a large area a protected nature reserve, and UN-subsidized ranger patrols increased around the new borders, effectively sectioning off a major portion of the traditional hunting grounds. As a member of the tribe, Obrinuk himself had a healthy respect for nature’s level of intelligence, and, true to his fears, it had not taken the herds long to figure out where the safe places were.

Damn those well-meaning qablunaaq(outsiders, southerners). The road to hell was being well paved. Whatever open ground was left didn’t have enough wildlife to support the local community’s livelihood this far north. More and more of the People were moving south to the cities and towns, finding jobs with the oil companies that dotted the other side of the continent. Maybe that was their plan all along. It seemed too good to be true when several of these same companies banded together to finance and lobby for the creation of the Helgelund Arctic Nature Reserve. Maybe they knew the game would dry up for the rest of the Inuit, and anyone else whose economy depended on the disappearing animals would leave their tribal lands, rich in untapped resources.

The lone hunter turned off the engine on his longboat and allowed its momentum to carry him quietly to the white shore that marked what was left of the dwindling legal hunting areas not too far from the reserve’s borders. The sea was calm today, a vast, undulating sheet of glass cast in a thin layer of mist.

The moment the boat’s hull scraped against the grainy snow, Obrinuk was out and pulling on the mooring ropes. He dragged the boat further onto the field to ensure that the ice would not melt away and leave him stranded. Hefting the .308 rifle, the Eskimo checked his handheld GPS. It was late; he was cold. He would give himself two hours to look around, and then he would head home.

Five minutes after he started walking, the hunter felt a faint wash of heat from above. He would not have noticed it except that the exposed skin of his face had been subject to chill for quite a while, and any contrast in temperature was immediately felt. The Inuit pulled the large fur-lined hood of his coat up and stared into the sky at the second sun that had just appeared. It moved from one horizon to the next—northeast, as far as he could guess—and disappeared behind a ridge in the distance. A dull orange flash changed the grey-white color of the heavens for a moment to a reddish-golden hue, followed seconds later by a deep rumble.

Obrinuk knew instantly what it was and could not believe how his luck had changed so quickly. A meteor. This was better than elephant seals. He once read that rocks from space fell on the arctic tablelands all the time, but rarely enough to leave any remnants those scientists and museums down south would want to purchase—for a hefty sum, of course. A piece of Mars! Or even a chunk of an asteroid made of gold! The fantasies exploded in the hunter’s mind as he sprinted toward the distant ridge.

It could not have been more than a few miles away, judging by the interval between the flash and the thunder. Joe hoped that it had landed on a solid mass of formed ice and the heat would not melt it through to the deep ocean below. He was still running when he heard the telltale crack! beneath his feet. In his excitement, the Eskimo had run onto a fragile plate of frozen water. His boots began to sink, and the quick-thinking tribesman dove backward and slid spread-eagled onto the hard, blue surface to distribute his weight across the brittle layer. His forward momentum halted, Joe found himself staring into the deep blue of the Arctic Ocean with only the thinnest of shells separating him from a cold demise. It was surprisingly clear, and he could see deep into the distance from the small transparent patch of ice near his face. The glassy surface stretched for at least a mile in front before he could see stalactites forming under the water toward more solid ground. The Inuit slid slowly and carefully backward, each movement creating a myriad of cracks beneath him, until finally his body rested on ice that did not undulate alarmingly with every little subsurface wave.

He was considering the merits of going back for the longboat when a gust of wind from above threatened to lift him once again onto the biscuit-thin frosted surface. He turned quickly onto his back and stared into a sudden storm of snow that appeared out of nowhere, a deep roar filling his ears. A shadow passed above him and the wind began to subside, allowing Obrinuk to see the thing that assaulted him with noise and sleet as it flew in the direction of the fallen star. The shadow resolved itself into a large silvery-grey twin-rotor helicopter, and the roar became the steady rhythmic throbbing of blades as they cut through the air at high revolutions.

He could not make out the markings under the fuselage but cursed the unknown intruders, as he realized that they were also after the meteor. They would reach the prize long before he could even get back to his longboat. The frustrated hunter knew he was going home empty handed… again.

The helicopter disappeared over the ridge, and silence once again claimed the frozen wasteland. The Eskimo lay on his back for a while and watched the mist of his steady breathing puff into the grey sky. The light chill of wind touched his cheek, and he turned his eyes to the south. A storm was coming. Snow began to fall, and the Inuit decided that he had better get off the ground before he froze to death on his back. The hunter was about to sit up when he heard it.

At first he thought it was the howling of the freshening wind…except…the sound was coming from beneath, under the ice. Perhaps it was a whale; he had heard their calls many times as he journeyed through the wastelands of the north. But no, this was different. It was a deep bass moan ending in…almost a growl. Something moved the thin ice beneath him, and Obrinuk was on his feet almost instantly. As the Eskimo gazed at the ground, it was darkened by the shadow of something gargantuan moving sinuously through the waters below. It howled again, and this time the Inuit could feel the vibrations of its cries through his feet. The sole of his boot crunched softly into the snow as he took an involuntary step backward, and suddenly the deep moan stopped, leaving Obrinuk with the sound of his own shallow breathing. In frozen terror, he realized that all forward motion of the shadow beneath him had also stopped. Some part of the Eskimo made a quick calculation and concluded that whatever it was measured at least a hundred and fifty feet in length, and that was only the part that he could see. Also, it, in turn, was watching him.

At this point he realized that it is actually quite difficult for a man in abject terror to remain completely motionless. Every fibre of his being was screaming for him to run, yet some deep, unexplainable primal instinct was holding him in place. His heart was pounding in his ears and sweat poured from him in the midst of the arctic cold. The silence stretched, and just as he thought he could not stand still any longer, the shadow vanished.

Obrinuk released a long sigh of relief. Suddenly the rotten hunting season he was having did not seems so bad after all. Glad for his life, almost buoyant, the Inuit tribesman resolved to head into town at the earliest opportunity and treat himself to a steak dinner. Then maybe…just maybe…move his family south and never come back to this godforsaken place again.

He bent down to pick up the rifle he had dropped in all the excitement, and that was when he saw the shadow growing large once again beneath the ice. The ground around the Eskimo cracked, and shards exploded upward at the impact of something huge hitting it from below. He was thrown high into the air and fell—right into the middle of the field of thin ice. His body was not even slowed as it passed through the glasslike surface and into the deep blue ocean below.

The freezing cold was everywhere in Joe’s world as the water seeped rapidly through his clothes, weighing him down toward the depths. He was strangely calm, as an all-encompassing lethargy gripped him. A part of his awareness noted with vague and fading interest that he was dying from extreme hypothermia.

A shadow loomed in the darkness, its body coiling as he stared straight into the burning red eyes of the devil, and suddenly an ocean of teeth stretched out before him. The Eskimo embraced the sub-zero oblivion—willingly, thankfully, moments before his body disappeared in a cloud of masticated crimson.

The darkness remained still as what was left of the Joe Obrinuk was slowly ingested. And then, something in the distance caught its attention, an awareness, new and dangerous at the edge of its senses, it turned slowly northeast. The thing that knew no fear, having roamed the oceans with impunity long before recorded history, now felt an unfamiliar rush of terror. Its instincts screamed, and in an instant the gigantic shadow flashed toward the distant trail of smoke rising into the air. The wake it left in the water as it sped away shattered the ice on the surface and sent shockwaves that engulfed the frozen shards in the turbulent waters of the Arctic Ocean.

The surface returned to its glass-like state, broken only by the occasional resurfacing of various broken fragments of ice. A few moments passed before the wind sent ripples across the calm, and light flakes of snow again fell across the uncaring landscape.

Chapter 1

SSN-91 USS SEAWOLF

Northwest Passage, Between Canada and Greenland

***************************VLF***************************

1-0835ZULU/11/11/2018

FROM: CNO FLEETCOM NORLANT THEATER OPERATIONS

TO: COMMANDER SEAWOLF SSN-91

FLASH      FLASH      FLASH

CEASE ALL CURRENT ACTIVITIES.

PROCEED IMMEDIATE TO 76°25'03"N 080°53'W FOR RENDEZVOUS.

FURTHER ORDERS TO FOLLOW.

MESSAGE: ENDS

AUTHENTICATE: SBEE314D

****************************VLF***************************

Captain Marcus Cartaneo ran a hand through his greying hair while he re-read the cryptic message, as if he would find more information beyond the torn bottom edge of the sheet of paper. It had been almost an hour since he had received the Action Message through the VLF (Very Low Frequency) antennae.

VLF transmissions were slow and cumbersome. Used only in emergencies, single characters that make up a message of this size took minutes to receive. The entire text itself could sometimes take hours to complete, but this was the only dependable form of communication between Naval Command Control North Atlantic Fleet and the captain of a vessel thousands of miles away and under a thousand feet of ocean. And Fleet Ops only used VLF when they were getting ready to order a missile launch.

Marcus stared imploringly at the low bulkhead ceiling of his cramped cabin. He had been hoping that this would be an uneventful patrol, but the communiqué in his hand put that hope in an early grave. The tone of urgency and cryptic nature of the AM meant this patrol was going to be anything but quiet.

Marcus Arthur Cartaneo surprised his parents when, at the age of sixteen, he announced his intention to join the navy. What was most surprising was that he was announcing it from the living room in the land-locked state of Wyoming. Marcus was expected to carry on the long tradition of farming that had served his family for well over three generations, but even at an early age he found his eyes drawn to the horizon, searching for adventure beyond the immediate beauty of the countryside.

And so it was that Marcus came to hold the works of Jules Verne and Buck Rogers in higher esteem than all the other seemingly frivolous interests of his contemporaries in the small farming town he grew up in. He was especially fascinated by the adventures of Captain Nemo and the Nautilus, the seafaring tales made all the more enticing by the fact that he had never seen the ocean except on posters or TV. Then one day, on his fifteenth summer, he found himself standing on the beach in Santa Monica. The sunset over the foaming waves of this vast mystery was enough to seal the deal for the farmer’s son. Two years after the living room announcement, he was accepted into a scholarship program at the naval academy in Annapolis.

Graduating top of his class in nuclear propulsion, he was immediately assigned a junior midshipman’s billet on the USS Arkansas, a Los Angeles Class submarine. But he didn’t just confine himself to the reactor room. Marcus had fallen in love with the very nature of the sleek vessel and took it upon himself to learn its most intimate secrets. Every weld, every bolt became a matter of deep and almost reverent study. He memorized the vibration of the pipes and conduits, the sounds, groans, and pitched crackles as the hull passed through kilobars of pressure or the shockwaves of battle. The Arkansas spoke to him in attrition and in the tranquillity of those long, uneventful voyages home.

It did not take long for the young Cartaneo to earn his dolphins in the engineering spaces of the ballistic missile boat that frequently patrolled the Gulf of Oman and the South China Sea. Battles of silence were fought in these depths, miniature wars where the weapons ranged from the fearful silences of a deadly game of underwater chess to the screaming megahertz pings of incoming torpedoes. Midshipman Cartaneo distinguished himself at these times by becoming the calm eye in the center of the storm that was the frantic reactor room of the submarine.

As the years passed, one patrol became another, one ship became the next, and Junior Midshipman Cartaneo became Captain Cartaneo. He’d had two command postings since then, but he took the second only three years ago. That one was high visibility and came with his official designation, taken one overcast morning in dress whites on a Groton submarine pen in Connecticut: Commander Seawolf of the newly recommissioned and refitted hunter-killer-class nuclear predator, SSN-91. He had liked the sound of that. It made him feel like a pirate. That was three years ago next week. A year later it may have broken him.

Marcus raised his wire-rimmed reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes tightly and trying to dispel the migraine he knew was coming anyway. When did he lose the taste for this life he had loved for so long? The sudden vision of a limp body hanging from overhead piping flashed into his mind. With the memory came a wave of pain and the recollection of the stench of voided bowels in the enclosed crew spaces…

He opened his eyes and found all the reasons he needed in a small plastic photo frame secured to the bulkhead wall above his desk. The two faces staring back at him were lit with radiant joy, on a sunny day years ago in Maine. The blonde curls framed her opal eyes that flashed with intelligence beyond her years, an impression reinforced by the mischievous half-smirk that seemed a constant feature and extension of her personality. In every way, Kate was a mirror of her mother. On Stephanie Cartaneo, the hints of gray in the ash-blonde hair made the smile more enigmatic and at the same time more knowing. Marcus knew that when she looked at him in that way, she took in his whole being. It was a look that in a moment devoured everything about him and yet accepted and loved in its entirety. The first time he saw that smile, seventeen years ago on a cold New England morning in a seaside café; Marcus Cartaneo knew that he had finally found something he could love more than the sea. On the day he took his first command, before the Seawolf, Marcus caught himself daydreaming about walking away from it all. Sixteen years next week, and one last patrol before he could drown himself in those eyes forever. He had really been looking forward to a quiet patrol.

A soft knock sounded on the bulkhead door.

Come. Marcus left his reverie behind and once again became the impeccable captain.

The door opened to reveal the tall, lanky form of the ship’s executive officer, Rudi Jessen. Standing in the corridor, the XO bent slightly at the waist to avoid banging his head against the ceiling and overhead piping. It was a well known fact that because there weren’t many places onboard a submarine where the towering commander could truly stretch his frame, he preferred to hang out in the Tomahawk missile bay, where the only things taller than him were the weapons.

Captain, we’ve arrived.

Contacts?

"Single surface contact. Twin screw. Three nautical miles southwest. Sonar identifies her as the Aurora Huntress out of Seattle."

"Aurora Huntress. That name sounds familiar," said Marcus, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

The last news dump from Fleet Ops covers all maritime activity in our AO. She’s a Greenpeace research vessel that’s been out in these waters about a month supporting various research teams and stations out on the Broussard Shelf. Tree huggers, skipper.

Marcus smiled. He knew that Rudi didn’t like to advertise the fact that he was a bit of a closet environmentalist himself. He didn’t think it fit the image of the perfect naval officer with ambitions to command a ship of war.

Nothing wrong with tree huggers, XO. Marcus winked. Besides, they’ve been known to be right about things from time to time.

Yes, sir. What are your orders?

Keep us on station but at present depth, should hide us from satellite recon. We’ll wait here for further instructions, which I assume will be forthcoming.

How long should we wait, sir? Rudi didn’t like staying in one place for too long. As far as the XO was concerned, submarines should remain mobile whenever possible.

I’d say we’ve got a window of a couple of hours before spy birds with better eyes pass over our position. Before then, I’ll shoot off a message to CINCLANT and go deep. Until that time standing orders from further up the chain are for us to sit tight, so that’s what we’ll do.

The commander stood silently for a moment before Marcus realized that he was still out in the corridor.

What’s on your mind, Rudi?

I was wondering if you’ve had a chance to make your recommendation to CINCLANT, Captain. The tall XO hesitated since the next words that had to be said might seem inappropriate. Admiral Shelbourne—

Marc held up a hand and exhaled. Trading on the captain’s informal friendship with the commanding admiral of the Atlantic fleet was a breach of etiquette at best, but that wasn’t really the issue. He could handle a little horse trading. What Marcus dreaded was turning down his executive officer for reasons that he wasn’t quite sure were legitimate to begin with. Get in out of the walkway, Rudi. And shut the door.

The hatch closed with a muted metallic thunk, the sound reminding the XO of the finality of an executioner’s guillotine. The look on the captain’s face did nothing to dispel that impression. Jessen looked around the cramped quarters for somewhere to sit and, since Marcus was occupying the only chair around, finally settled on the edge of the bunk,.

I haven’t submitted any recommendations to the admiral, Rudi. said Marcus. Shelbourne’s going to pick my replacement without any help from me.

The tall commander didn’t betray the disappointment on his face. Only a slight stiffening of his spine and a brief awkward silence, then, May I ask why, sir?

You’ve been on this boat for, what, eighteen months?

Yes, sir. Three patrols.

We’ve seen a lot of action in that time. A couple of SEAL insertions and extractions off the Iranian Coast, not to mention that tango diesel we engaged in the Persian Gulf. All that time I’ve never doubted that you were a good XO. Hell, you’re probably the best this boat’s ever had. No hesitation. Your fitreps are through the roof, so you obviously don’t need me to tell you that you’re the best executive officer any captain could ask for.

But…

But in my opinion you’re going to need a bit more time before you’re ready for your own command. More…seasoning.

The word sounded lame even as it left his lips. He knew it, and so did the executive officer sitting in front of him. Commander Jessen opened his mouth to protest, but Marcus wasn’t finished.

You asked me to be honest, and I’m doing that. As an XO of any vessel in the fleet, you’re faultless, but being a captain of a nuclear sub isn’t just about following orders. When you’re in command of the most powerful weapon on earth cruising at a thousand deep and ten thousand miles from the chain of command with your finger on the ‘gone to hell’ button, you and your XO are all the chain of command there is. Fleet can give you all the orders it wants, and a skipper can actually tell them all to shove it if the situation so warrants.

If I’ve done something wrong—

No. You haven’t. Everything’s by the book, Rudi. And that’s the problem. Marcus sighed. He was trying to articulate thoughts that seemed less and less coherent when voiced in the light of day. Being an XO isn’t just about backing me up. It’s also about defending your crew. Sometimes it means defending them from me.

Jessen sighed. It always came back to that. Ensign Mulcahy—

That was only one of the many times that I had wished for an XO who could take me aside and tell me that I had my head up my ass. Don’t get me wrong; I probably would have made the same decision anyway. But… Marcus looked up and sighed. "I could have used a devil’s advocate, Rudi. You played it safe. Good enough for an exec, but it’s a luxury that a captain can’t afford. You need to learn that before you get your shot at being the big dog on any vessel, let alone the Seawolf."

Permission to speak freely, sir.

Marcus thought it only reasonable that the XO have his chance to respond. Spit it out.

Well, since we’re having such a candid conversation, thought the commander…

Played it safe? That whole incident with Mulcahy—that was you following rules and regulations, skipper. You don’t get to put any of that on me.

Some part of Jessen knew that the disappointment he felt was taking on a life of its own, and he tried to reel it in. What came out instead was I’ve watched you too, Captain. Since Mulcahy, maybe even before that. Sometimes I see the hands shake. That look in your eyes when you think no one notices. Afraid that someday, sometime, the secret’s out and they’ll all know the truth.

And what truth would that be, Commander?

That you’re only pretending to be the damned good captain that you really are. That you’ve lost the edge, the hunger. Maybe you’ve come to hate the life, or even resent the navy…

There was a ring of unrealized truth to the words, and Marcus felt the temperature in the cabin drop. That’s enough, Rudi.

But the Seawolf’s executive officer saw his captain go pale and moved in for the kill. I’ve been in this man’s navy long enough to see the signs. I’ve just never seen it in a submarine captain before. You’re a short timer. Counting the days before rotating home—

Marcus’s fist slammed down on the desk even before he realized he had done it. Red light, Commander!

Aye, aye…sir. Rudi seemed to snap back to reality, abruptly ending his uncharacteristic tirade. Standing to his feet, the commander whispered, Will that be all, Captain?

Yeah, I think that’s more than enough, XO. Marcus slowly unclenched his fists and turned back to his desk.

The speakerphone on the wall sounded a tone before either of them could say anything else. Captain, this is the conn.

Marcus reached over and pressed the button at the top of the speaker box. Go ahead, Conn.

Sonar’s picked up something. I think you should come up.

On my way. Marcus turned around in time to catch a glimpse of the XO’s shoes disappearing out into the walkway.

*     *     *

Unlike the Antarctic Continent, the Arctic Circle isn’t really a landmass. It is, essentially, a large chunk of floating frozen sea, kept in place by the northern edges of Asia, Greenland, Iceland, and the Americas. And unlike its relatively stable twin to the south, the polar ice cap is always in motion, always battling against the crowding of its neighbouring continents. Icebergs the size of small countries break into the raging Pacific and Atlantic with thunderous cracks that echo for hundreds of miles. Where the ice meets the land, leviathan glaciers raise their jagged peaks into the sky as tidal forces push the stark landscapes together in a slowly grinding dance of white jutting shards. These savage natural forces have been at war far longer than human history can record and, as such, have been taken for granted of late as being part of the awesome majesty and mystery of nature.

But something new was happening. The polar ice cap was shrinking, and with it the tenuous stability of the frontiers of neighbouring continents that held it in check. Below the surface, changing tidal patterns began to redirect warmer streams of water from the south deep into the arctic tablelands. The ice was melting faster than the ocean was freezing and somewhere deep in the north, where nothing but white should exist, large swathes of darker blue began to appear.

Here and there ice began to fall into the sea, creating jagged canyons and signalling the formation of a major new fault deep within the pack. Years of global warming and the last century’s heavy industrialization undoing what it took nature thousands of years to create…or imprison.

*     *     *

The twin rotor blades of the large polar special-operations variant transport helicopter had only just begun to slow their revolutions when the rear-loading ramp opened to the swirling snow. From deep within its cargo hold, sixteen figures in arctic gear, bearing Chicom Type 57 assault rifles, emerged. They charged off the ramp, half crouched, each taking up an equidistant position to form a semicircular perimeter around the aircraft, rifles ready and eyes scanning the white horizon. After a pause of about thirty seconds, one of the figures signalled the all clear, and a loud growling emanated from within the helicopter as two large vehicles resembling grey buses cut in half rumbled forth. The rear attached to the forward sections by free-moving hydraulic links, and both parts travelled on tracked wheels that had the ability to move over rough arctic terrain, soft snow, and with the low riding inflatable bumpers, even water. The SUSV (Small Unit Support Vehicle) was a Chinese copy of the Swedish-designed M973 mainly used by the US Army and Marines. The men operating these vehicles were neither Swedish nor American soldiers. Four more armed guards flanked the SUSVs as they slowly rolled out of the transport helicopter’s hold, coming to an idling stop at the base of the ramp.

Another figure emerged from the aircraft, in his left hand, a black box resembling a small computer and connected by a coiled wire to a wand held in his right hand. The figure extended the wand horizontally into the driving snow and slowly swept it left to right while he watched the screen. The box began to emit rhythmic pulses of sound.

The wand froze as the pulses suddenly increased in volume and frequency, until only a single uninterrupted tone could be heard above all else. The wild weather abated for a moment to reveal a rising column of steam some distance beyond a low ridge, only a few hundred meters from the helicopter. The soldier brought the handheld closer to his face and examined the readouts before turning it off and stowing the equipment away in one of the many pouches on the front of his flak jacket.

Colonel Xiang! a voice called from behind him. Colonel. Beijing would like an update of our progress, sir.

Xiang Lai Peng reached up, pulled the hood of his coat down taking the satellite phone from the comms officer as he caught up with the colonel.

This is Storm Tiger One to Sky Lord actual. Xiang removed his goggles and pulled his facemask below the chin to reveal the grey, weathered features of a Chinese special operations officer. Yes, sir. We have located the package and will have it secured within the hour. A pause. I thank you for your confidence, Comrade Minister. We will not fail.

Xiang handed the sat phone back to the radioman as a second white-clad figure approached. Captain Huang, move your men and equipment up to the site and prepare to break out the diving gear.

Sir, would it not be easier to land the transport closer?

Xiang shook his head The ice may not be stable at the location. We were lucky to find a suitable landing site this close, but time is short. We must retrieve the package before it sinks too deeply into the ocean below.

I have not been briefed on what it is we are retrieving, sir.

Our friends from The People’s Aerospace Command have lost one of their toys.

As Huang turned to give orders to his men, Xiang grabbed his arm. Captain, there may be danger of radiation. Ensure that the men take the proper precautions.

Yes…yes, sir. Huang hid his surprise. Normally, for something this important, an officer would not give the welfare of the men under his command a second thought. The mission’s priorities superseded all other considerations. It will take a little longer for the retrieval divers to don the anti-radiation gear.

Then do not waste time questioning my orders. Get it done, Captain.

Chapter 2

USS SEAWOLF SSN-91

165 W 74.35 N

Captain on the bridge!

As you were.

Marcus stepped into the muted blue lighting of the bridge. Around him, the bustle of activity continued at various stations lit by multi-colored red and yellow indicators. Crewmen’s faces reflected wall-mounted liquid crystal displays, their graphics scrolling out continuous streams of information concerning every aspect of the ship and the surrounding ocean.

Across the compartment, Commander Jessen and the COB (Chief of the Boat) were hunched over the shoulder of Lieutenant Ortiz, the wiry senior sonar operator seated in a partially walled-off cubical filled with even more screens bracketed by rows of hi-fidelity speakers. Ortiz was wearing a set of bulky sonar headphones, with the addition of a grey rectangular VR unit over his eyes so that he could not only listen to the sounds of the ocean around him but also see a graphical representation of the objects making and reflecting those sounds. The carbon-fibre hydrophones that ran the length of the ship on either side enhanced the aging AN/BSY-2 combat system, and the towed sonar array picked up every ambient sound in or out of the water for miles. But the true heart of the system was VESPA—Virtual Environment Signals Processing Array, a highly sophisticated next-generation AI mainframe that could sort the ebb and flow of tidal acoustics and distinguish objects in the water merely by the almost imperceptible vibrations of fluid dynamics around the surface material. In addition, the wide-aperture and spherical receivers in the conning tower of the Seawolf fed data about objects above the ocean, such as aircraft and ships, as it was doing at that particular moment.

Marcus came up behind the gathered officers. Report, sonar. What have you got?

"It’s that surface contact, skipper. The Aurora Huntress. She’s come about and is heading right for us."

Ortiz put a hand to one of the headphones. I’m getting an active ping from her. And she’s closing at twenty-eight knots. Five minutes to contact, skipper.

It’s got to be some kind of mistake, the COB chimed in. She’s a civilian vessel. How could she know we’re here?

Rudi turned around and faced Marcus. This could all be just a coincidence. Maybe she’s chasing whales.

Ortiz pulled the headset off and turned around to meet the commander’s eyes. She’s dead center on our bearing, and whales don’t move that fast. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s on an intercept course, skipper.

Marcus walked to the plotting table behind the command chair.

Lieutenant, feed that telemetry through to the table.

Ortiz turned back to his sonar station and tapped on the keyboard in front of him. A few seconds later, a holographic image of the ocean appeared to rise out of the blank surface of the plotting table. At its center was the Seawolf, a small grey cylinder floating in mid-air with a set of numbers blinking continuously, showing depth and heading. To the south, the holographic image of the Aurora Huntress blinked blue and red as it approached their position on the virtual ocean’s surface.

Marcus turned to the COB. Chief, what’s the depth of the salinity layer at this position?

It’s at eight hundred feet, skipper.

Thank you, Chief. I’ll take the conn. Marcus turned and stepped around the railing to the Command Chair, followed by Jessen and the COB.

The COB called out to the rest of the compartment, Captain has the conn!

Marcus turned in his seat to face the helm station, where two sailors in blue overalls sat with their hands on the helm and depth controls, watching the maneuvering screens intently.

Diving officer. Come right a hundred twenty-seven degrees, ahead one-quarter. Make your depth nine hundred fifty feet. Thirty degrees down bubble.

Aye, Captain. Helm, come right one twenty-seven. Making depth nine hundred fifty feet. Thirty degrees down bubble. Dive! Dive! Dive! The deck tipped downward as forward momentum increased and the ship angled its dive to thirty degrees.

Commander Jessen moved to stand behind the captain’s chair. "Sir, we’re heading toward the Huntress."

What’s our current torpedo munitions load-out?

Twenty-four Mark 68, sixteen SIGMA yield-variable plasma warheads. Standard Mark 50 Interceptor, mines and decoy countermeasure load-outs. The 68s are Hi-Ex. A look of worry grew on the executive officer’s face. Skipper, she’s a civilian vessel…

As far as we know. I’m just hedging my bets. We’ll go under her, below the salinity layer where her sonar can’t get a clear fix. Then we’ll see if she passes us by.

And if she doesn’t? Rudi leaned in close.

Worst-case scenario, we disable. Then we find out what the hell is going on. For the moment, we can still outrun her. Right now, rig ship for battle stations torpedo, Exec.

Behind them, the XO could hear the COB calling depth. Passing six five zero feet.

Rudi nodded in agreement then turned to the weapons officer seated at his console. "Load Mark 68s in tubes one and two. TSO Reyes, give me a firing solution on the Huntress."

The tactical systems officer entered a series of commands on the keypad at his console and then removed a set of keys from a chain around his neck. Selecting a red key, he inserted the flattened tip into the console in front of him and gave it a quarter turn to the right, lighting up a new set of LEDs and bringing to life a weapons status screen.

The speakerphone next to the captain’s chair suddenly squawked. Conn, radio! Priority incoming message!

Marcus turned to Jessen, who immediately moved forward into the radio compartment. He returned with a sheet of teletext a few moments later. Skipper, you’re not going to believe this.

Marcus read the message twice before turning to the helm station. Helm, all stop, zero bubble. Diving officer, bring us up to a depth of one hundred feet.

As the commands were repeated by the helm and diving officers, the captain turned quickly to the TSO. Secure from battle stations torpedo. Stand down weapons.

The red key was given a quarter turn to the left and extracted. By the time the Seawolf had come to a complete stop, the weapons board was dark.

Inform the standby divers on watch to prep for a lock-in, said Marcus without looking up at his XO. We’re about to receive a guest.

*     *     *

20 Feet Below The AURORA HUNTRESS

165W 74.32N

The wetsuit felt surprisingly warm in the arctic waters, and the fully enclosed facemask afforded the luxury of being able to speak into a radio while submerged. Still, the cold burned a few small patches of exposed skin as Greg Cole descended through the murky depths of the northern Pacific.

With the Aurora Huntress behind him, Cole paused to look up briefly at the receding rectangle of light against the dark contrast of the ship’s hull and imagined that he could see the relieved faces of the crew staring at the moon pool he’d gone through a few minutes earlier. Well, he was glad to see the last of them too.

The skipper of the Huntress was especially unhappy with his presence aboard her vessel. She was an old crone whose wrinkled leathery features, hardened by years of exposure to the cold northern air, matched her disposition. Or at least that was the way she behaved toward Cole. Well, Captain Emma Sorensen of Greenpeace only had herself to blame. She was, after all, an asset of the Central Intelligence Agency…retired, of course. It wouldn’t do for her hippie friends to learn about her past, so there was still a chain that could be yanked. Part of an obsolete program to place informants within seemingly innocuous domestic interest groups that may or may not evolve into national security threats, she was no longer considered a high-value agency cover, so it was easy to pry her file from the boys at Langley. The pull from the chief of naval operations helped.

Cole smiled behind the dive mask. There was no such thing as retirement, especially for non-official cover operatives who could only hope that when they stopped drawing their paycheques the agency ignored them for the rest of their lives. Sorensen wasn’t so lucky. Her vessel, the Aurora Huntress, steaming toward the Broussard Shelf five days out of Seattle at twenty knots, happened to have all the right curves for the agent’s needs. Her wide deck had a landing pad that could accommodate a Seahawk helo during a window in Chinese satellite surveillance coverage. That made the ship useful as well as convenient. At least the captain could be grateful that all he needed from her was a ride.

The arctic waters grew dark around the solitary diver as the light of the surface receded. Cole felt a touch of fear as he gazed down at the abyss, imagining for a moment the unseen things waiting for him in the darkness below. He checked his dive gauge: thirty feet. The numbers provided the only luminescence, as visibility was lost in a world of dark blues shot through with deep blacks. Cole held up the gauge and squinted, not at the numbers but at the small insistent light blinking in an ever-increasing frequency as he descended. A soft pinging sounded in his earpiece, in time with the beacon he had just activated. The signal travelled downward to an encrypted receiver and interrogated the target. Having verified the authenticity, the target then replied with a signal of its own. The indicator said he was close, practically right on top of the transponder. So where the hell was his welcoming party?

The diver reached into one of his thigh pouches and pulled out a chemical flare. He twisted the cap on one end as the other end exploded into white light with a hiss. Something pale with teeth slammed into Cole’s facemask, leaving a streak of slime and causing the diver to reel backward, screaming obscenities as he fought to hold onto the flare. Cole twisted in the water, looking for his assailant, and as he held the light outstretched he caught a brief glimpse of the silvery form of an eel, no larger than his forearm, swimming indignantly away, temporarily blinded by the intruding diver. For the first time, Cole was glad that he was alone in the darkness. At least here no one could see you shit your pants.

The one that got away, huh, sir? The voice that crackled into his earpiece seemed incredibly loud in the silent gloom around him.

Cole almost lost the flare a second time when he turned to face the floating forms of two more divers, appearing from the shadows. One of them was holding a large underwater lamp that illuminated the area around him, chasing away the darkness and revealing a gargantuan form looming in the background. As more details became clear in the light, Cole could make out the smooth, dull contours of sound-absorption cladding towering above him. He reached out to the honeycombed black panels, which felt almost like hide except for the perfectly symmetrical lines and the tall stencilled lettering: SSN-91.

Realization dawned that he had been swimming right next to the submarine’s sail, and the bulk of the vessel remained a few feet below him. The beacon had been right on the money.

One of the divers waved. If you’ll follow us, we’ll get you aboard in no time, sir.

And with that, the two navy divers turned and headed downward. Cole followed them into the depths.

*     *     *

Onboard the AURORA HUNTRESS

Captain Sorenson…

The sailor turned in his high chair on the bridge while holding the ship’s intercom handset to his ear. He was addressing the grey-haired woman as she stared out the large plexiglass windows at the mist-shrouded Arctic Ocean. In the distance, through the dirt-speckled windows of the aging research vessel, Emma Sorenson could just see the beginnings of the ice pack in the hints of floating white fragments on glassy calm water.

The thought of returning to the cold wasteland brought an involuntary shiver as she pulled the faded leather jacket around her thick woollen turtleneck. No matter how many times the seasoned Greenpeace captain made the trip up to the polar ice cap, the cold never failed to impress her. But it was a good impression, and the shiver was more of pleasure and anticipation than discomfort. Especially since she knew what the sailor was going to say next.

Captain…

Yes, what is it? Emma didn’t turn from the window. Her glacial features were not going to betray anything other than stoic command.

Jane’s calling from the submersible bay, the sailor replied. She says Mr. Cole has left the ship.

Good riddance, another voice on the bridge intruded, cracking Emma’s icy demeanour. That’s one big prick off the ship.

A smile wrinkled Captain Sorenson’s age-weathered features. The heavily French-accented voice of Raul Valier, her second-in-command sounded so funny, especially when he enunciated the word prick. Apparently the rest of the bridge crew agreed, because she could hear a few muted snickers around the room. Or maybe it was the relief at having that reptile Cole off the ship. She glanced briefly down at the handheld beacon locator that the agent had given her when he first came aboard. The small digital display had a red light blinking dead center on the screen, indicating that they had arrived at their destination: the middle of the Arctic Ocean, nothing visible as far as the eye could see. Nothing on the surface, at least. Which meant whatever was happening was transpiring beneath their feet. Likely, a rendezvous with a submarine.

How long do you expect us to stop here, Mr. Cole? Emma had asked the intelligence agent earlier, as he donned the scuba gear.

Not long, Captain Sorenson. Wait fifteen minutes, and if I don’t come back, you and your crew may continue on your way.

Emma arched an eyebrow. Just leave you?

Believe me when I say, if I do come back, then I may have to…impose on your hospitality a little while longer. Cole smiled and the last thing he said before disappearing below was Better for you if I don’t.

Even now, after the man had left the ship, the Greenpeace captain still felt a little dirty. Cole had a way of leaving that kind of greasy wake. Emma was tempted to throw the beacon locator overboard or at least destroy it for operational security as instructed, but, against her better judgment, she turned off the device and slipped it into her jacket pocket instead. Never know when you might need a submarine.

The captain of the Aurora Huntress turned to the man standing beside her. Well, Raul, now that the dead weight’s off, we can continue on our mission. What’s our first stop?

Raul pushed the wire-rim spectacles up the bridge of his nose and consulted the clipboard in his hands. Dr. Nichole and her team have requested we check on the Helgelund Arctic Nature Reserve.

Bit of a side trip on short notice. Emma raised an eyebrow. This would delay their arrival at the Broussard Shelf, where another team was already in place taking ice core samples. Did the good doctor give any reason why?

Apparently they’ve lost telemetry on some of the wildlife they tagged last year, and they just want to confirm that it’s not because some poachers got by the ranger patrols. She says it’s only happened over the last few days, but they’re not getting any signals out of the reserve, Raul shrugged. My opinion is that they have a loose wire in their receiving equipment, but you know the doctor.

Emma sighed then turned to the navigator perched over the chart table. All right, then. Plot us a best-speed course to the Helgelund ANR and let’s be on our way.

*     *     *

Onboard the SEAWOLF

"Conn, Sonar. The Huntress is resuming her course north."

Marcus was leaning over the chart table when the call came through the intercom. Very well, Sonar. He turned as Commander Jessen entered the Conn. Our visitor?

Couple of steps behind me, sir. He insisted on seeing you as soon as he came aboard. The tall officer stepped aside to make way for a man still clad in his dripping wetsuit.

Average height, average build, average dark hair. In fact there was little in the way of defects or outstanding features to pin down a solid description. The ideal intelligence operative. The only thing that Marcus noticed was the smile, which could only be described as an upturning of the lips as they peeled away from the teeth. Like a predator, the smile never reached his eyes. He extended a hand still soaked with seawater, and Marcus took it, slightly surprised at the firmness of the grip.

"Welcome aboard the Seawolf. I’m Captain Cartaneo. You’ve met Commander Jessen."

Thank you, Captain. The name’s Cole. Greg Cole. It was said in a way that reminded everyone of a famous fictional spy.

Marcus and Rudi exchanged a look. Of course you are.

Chief Morgan managed to stifle a laugh by turning it into a nervous cough.

Cole reached into a waterproof Ziploc bag that was cuffed to his wrist and handed a piece of paper to Marcus. I have orders for you from the chief of naval operations, Admiral Donner.

The captain read the words while Cole continued talking. This comes all the way up the chain from the secretary of the navy, Captain. We’re short on time, so if you can show me to your conference room, I’ll brief you and your exec.

This way, Mr. Cole.

The three men went through the aft hatch of the command center and walked through narrow corrugated passageways. Finally they arrived at a small cramped compartment. A square rectangular table took up most of the space in the room. Marcus and Cole squeezed inside and sat on the bench on either side of the table while Jessen closed and dogged the hatch. The tall executive officer turned but did not take a seat; instead he leaned his back against the door and crossed both arms over his chest.

There was silence for a moment before Marcus spoke. Am I being relieved?

You misunderstand, Captain. Cole smiled. "It’s still your boat, your crew. I think we all agree that any unnecessary disruption to the chain of command on the Seawolf would be detrimental to the mission."

And what is the mission, Mr. Cole?

The agent passed out two blue folders to Marcus and Rudi, each sealed with red transparent tape marked with the words TOP SECRET CLEARANCE ULTRAVIOLET—NOFORN. The smaller stencilled words on the cover read OPERATION BLIND SWORDSMAN.

We’re to proceed northeast underneath the polar ice cap at best speed to rendezvous and extract a SEAL team from the listed coordinates.

That’s nothing new, Jessen interjected. We’ve run SEAL extractions from North Africa to the South China Sea, frequently under fire.

What my XO is asking is; why this is any different? Why are you here, Mr. Cole? And why am I holding orders from the chief of naval operations that says that you have superseding authority…on my boat?

Cole leaned back against the wall and drew a breath. Gentlemen, what I am about to tell you is highly sensitive and complicated way beyond your clearance level, but…my personal opinion—you guys are going to be the ones in the firing line, so I’m going to go out on a limb to bring you into a very small circle.

Jessen scoffed. This should be good.

Cole ignored the tone. Operation Blind Swordsman. For some time now, naval intelligence has noticed an increase in the incidence of Chinese fast-attack subs shadowing our ballistic missile boats. At first it was thought that the Chinese had deployed some sort of new sonar technology on their submarines. At approximately the same time, the China Aerospace Agency launched a new satellite from their facility in Xichang. They say it’s a communications payload, we say it’s a surveillance bird. Round and round she goes, but hey, it’s not the first and it won’t be the last. So State makes a little diplomatic noise and then ignores the whole thing.

Cole took out a small laptop and powered it up. He turned the screen so that it faced Marcus and Rudi. "What you’re looking at is a representation of our ballistic missile fleet disposition in and around the South China Sea as it was two weeks ago. At the top left-hand corner is the USS Orlando. An Ohio Class, and she’s been deep submerged since she left Pearl forty-eight hours before this current position. At this point, she hasn’t entered disputed Chinese territorial waters…yet." Cole pressed a button and the picture scrolled downward to a southern representation of the same area.

"At about the same time, an AWACS out of Okinawa, tracking a contact about a hundred miles due south. A Hai Lung, that’s Sea Dragon Class fast-attack sub patrolling all nice and lonesome down here. For some unknown reason, she’s sitting right on the surface where everybody can see her, but we figured the Chinese are just trying to get a tan or venting bad air, whatever. That would be the closest contact within a hundred miles of the Orlando. Now watch this…"

Click.

"The Orlando crosses what we believe is the demarcation point, which the Chinese consider is a comfortable buffer zone between their territorial waters and any…um…unauthorized shipping incursions…"

Like a ballistic missile submarine with twenty-four Trident Omega SLBMs pointed right at Beijing. Marcus shook his head. "I know the skipper of the Orlando. Hard to believe she agreed to this idiocy."

Cole got defensive. "The captain of the Orlando was ordered into the area to ascertain the new capabilities of Chinese sonar. Just a quick skip in and out of the buffer zone. She would not have crossed into their territory at all, and at this point our boat was still in international waters."

Marcus leaned forward on the table. "Everyone including the Chinese know that from that distance the Orlando could easily launch and hit targets deep within the mainland, and let me tell you, Beijing doesn’t have a sense of humor about these things. If they ever found out that you snuck a nuke launch platform that close—"

"Well, that’s the problem, gentlemen. They knew about the Orlando the moment she crossed over. Maybe even before that."

Both captain and XO looked at the intelligence operative with raised eyebrows.

Remember that Sea Dragon fast-attack boat? Cole pressed another button, and the screen showed the small, blinking red graphic representing the Chinese submarine suddenly stop its westerly movement and abruptly turn northeast. "Fifteen seconds after the Orlando crossed into the buffer zone, the AWACS crew monitored heavy encrypted traffic from the mainland to the Sea Dragon. We caught it because the sub was on the surface and received the transmission direct from the source. Their mistake. In less than five minutes, hatches are closed and she’s diving. Reactor noise from the Chinese sub increases, and she’s changed course to intercept the Orlando at an estimated thirty-five knots."

"But they didn’t catch the Orlando, right?" Rudi had an edge to his voice. Marcus remembered hearing somewhere that the commander had a brother who was a junior officer on the Orlando. This wasn’t an unusual story, since the submarine service was still a relatively small community.