Hunter Killer - Alex King Series 12 (2021)

He looked up as Simon Mereweather returned with his father’s Earl Grey and placed it in front of him. “Ah, Segwarides…”
“I really should have asked you to go outside,” Mereweather replied without looking at him. “I took the name Simon at university,” he explained somewhat reluctantly. “I wanted to at least stand a little chance with the opposite sex. I figured I could still sign my cheques with an S…”
“What kind of girls were you dating? I’ve never known any chicks who take a cheque.” Big Dave laughed and stood up, swilling the last of his tea down. “Right, I’ll get my coat…”
“For the best, I think,” Mereweather replied curtly. “Don’t steam up the car while you wait in the cold.”
Galahad Mereweather watched the man-mountain leave and said, “Interesting fellow, Segwarides. An interesting fellow indeed…”
Simon Mereweather nodded. “No respect for authority. But he’s a good man.”
“One supposes when you’re that size, nothing and nobody appears to be a threat.”
“He’s never going to be a front man for the Security Service. And he’ll never have his name on an office doorplate.” King nodded. “But you’ll never regret having him by your side in a pinch.”
“Well, that makes two of you,” Galahad Mereweather replied. “I can see that you are a behind the scenes man, too.”
“Father served in the service and later at GCHQ after a career in naval intelligence. He’s retired now,” Simon Mereweather explained.
“But not today,” King commented.
“Not today, no,” Galahad Mereweather replied. He placed the briefcase on the table, then using his signet ring on his right hand, unclipped the locks. “Magnetic,” he said quietly. “The magnet is the same size as the opposable magnets within the locks.”
“You see, Simon, this is what we need; a few gadgets to make the job more exciting,” King said humorously.
“And jumping out of helicopters isn’t exciting enough for you?”
Galahad Mereweather smiled as he took out several sets of plans on thick, folded paper. “That certainly doesn’t sound like the Security Service I knew.”
“We broadened our parameters and played a little faster and looser with our remit,” replied his son.
“We always had those slippery buggers across the river for that sort of thing. I was previously up at Oxford with half of the men and women who later went to work over at Six when I was in the service. Most of my peers thought I should have gone into bat for them, but I saw something a little less disingenuous about the Security Service. A little less self-serving and a little more tasteful.” Galahad Mereweather paused. “Do make sure you don’t go in for all the theatrics over substance, Segwarides. The games of cowboys and Indians will only do so much. Solid detective work is generally the best approach. Dogged, but inadmissible within the legal system when uncontrived and honestly sought.”
“We’ve just taken on a former detective with the Met to keep things the right side of legal,” Neil Ramsay ventured, seeing his boss looking at his father as awkwardly as a teenager would having the facts of life explained to them. “In the field, that is. God knows the lawyers are always there to tell you what you’re doing wrong. So far, we’re finding it’s been invaluable.”
Galahad Mereweather spread out the plans in front of him. They were of a British Astute class submarine and some of the sheets showed a dissected view. “I can see that this detective has a lot of work in front of him…”
“Her,” Ramsay corrected him quickly.
“…Her, then.” The older man paused. “Because showing you these plans… which I procured through a contact in the Admiralty… with a view of where to place explosive charges to make this boat unsalvageable, while keeping its nuclear reactor intact, and making sure that the crew… God rest their souls… are sucked out in the shockwave, isn’t exactly keeping one’s nose clean and flying straight and true before the law of the land.”
“Well, we’re a work in progress,” said King.
“I can see that. Far different in my day.”
Ramsay looked at the plans and said, “If the crew are sucked out, then surely they will float to the surface?”
“No,” replied Simon Mereweather. “I have it on excellent authority that if the vessel was intact, or at least watertight, then the air in their bodies would have vented by now. Decomposition would be slow, given the extreme cold temperature, but nevertheless, it would be a factor.”
King thought of the Russian woman. She had been brave and conscientious. She had been a good person, and he couldn’t bear to think about the horrific end she would have had, nor how her body would have reacted to time and temperature and environment. Clinical terms like venting and decomposition didn’t fit with the bright and vivacious young scientist who had been chased through a polar vortex by a Russian Spetsnaz hit team to get to her rendezvous.
“That’s quite right,” said Galahad Mereweather. “Also, the saline level at that depth and the water temperature is a sure way for bodies to sink, rather than float. From there, well predators and bottom feeders will clean things up in no time. From a practical point. From a moral point, it’s reprehensible. May they rest in peace. The poor, unfortunate buggers…” He paused, looking at King, then pointed at the charts. “The charges will need to yield a minimum of eight thousand metres a second detonation rate per kilo with a force value more than four-point-seven kilos per charge. That’s standard PE-four. Here, here, here, and here. Four points, all crucial for the submarine to shift off the bottom, then two charges, here and here, for her to break apart and expunge its… er… contents.”
“From a practical point, Semtex could mean smaller charges,” said King. “Around three-point-five-kilos by my reckoning.”
“EPX-One would have an edge further still. Three kilos, dead,” replied Galahad