Hunter Killer - Alex King Series 12 (2021) by A BATEMAN (mind reading books .txt) 📕

the most secretive wing of the United States Navy, and he could not comment on a vessel’s location, but he knew the USS South Dakota - America’s most advanced and deadly hunter-killer submarine - was en route from Alaska, travelling under the Polar Icecap to form an albeit covert ‘presence’ near the Svalbard archipelago. “Director Lefkowitz, rest assured, the United States Navy will have the means necessary.”

Lefkowitz nodded. “Good. We can’t be a day late and a dollar short on this one.” He paused, rubbing the area around the cannula in the back of his hand. It was bruised and raw and the skin on the back of his hand was flaking from the itching to soothe the irritation. “Once it’s signed off and we have the backing, the CIA will commit its asset in the region. Any intelligence cultivated will be shared with Naval Intelligence. I move to reconvene to Joint Intelligence Committee Clandestine Affairs tomorrow at zero nine hundred. By then, Admiral, you will have word on your submarine and Becker, you will have contacted our asset to give JICCA some meat on the bone.”

Chapter Fourteen

 

Longyearbyen, Spitsbergen Island

Svalbard Archipelago

 

He opened his eyes, the bright light above him forcing him to blink defensively. His eyes were dry, although not as dry as his mouth, which felt somewhere in the region between flour, dust, and sand. There was a good reason for that, and he rubbed his mouth with the back of his right hand, noticing grains of the distinct looking black and grey sand glisten on his skin. He moved his left hand, but it stopped short, secured to the bed rail by a handcuff.

“What were you doing in the storage depot?” A woman’s voice, out of King’s view.

King strained his neck to see, winced as his shoulder seared with pain. His neck was stiff, too. “Show yourself,” he said tiresomely. “I’m not talking to someone I can’t see. Where am I?”

“Longyearbyen Hospital. The northernmost hospital in the world.” A woman of around thirty-five stepped out from behind the separating curtain. She was blonde, a little weathered in the face from the climate and her activities but looked fit and athletic. Like a chalet girl who’d done too many ski seasons and not acquainted herself with sunscreen or moisturiser. “I am Politiførsteinspectør Karlsson,” she said with authority. “Anna Karlsson. I am in charge here.”

“Of the hospital?”

“Of the police.”

“Like the sheriff,” King mused.

“Like a sergeant in your own police service. It’s a small and remote posting. No call for a more senior rank. Not much crime here. ” She paused. “Until now…”

“I was shot at on the beach.”

“I have witnesses who say you drove recklessly on the beach and narrowly missed hitting a polar bear.” Karlsson paused. “Nobody said anything about hearing a gunshot.”

King shrugged, but it hurt. “I want to see a doctor.”

“You’re fine.”

“I’ve been shot.”

“Not nearly enough.”

“Why are you detaining me?”

“I’m not. Not yet at least.”

King raised his left hand until the handcuffs chinked on the metal rail. “I beg to differ.”

“Just a precaution.”

“Then get it off me. Now!” He stared at her and she smiled, not in the least intimidated, but then again, he was cuffed, and she was the one with a Glock 17 pistol in the holster, next to her right hand which hung casually alongside it. “I want to see a doctor,” he added, a little calmer after seeing her reaction. There was no sense sticking with the wrong approach when he was chained to a bed. He wasn’t exactly holding any cards.

“You will,” Karlsson smiled. She stepped out of his view and came back a moment later with the Browning rifle. The bolt had been removed, as had the magazine. She held up the stock for him to see. It had been struck by a bullet and as she spun it over, King could see a bulge in the synthetic material on the other side. “I’m surprised it stopped the bullet,” she said. “It looks like a small round. I dug it out and have scanned it and emailed the images to the forensic laboratory in Bergen. I suspect they’ll confirm it as point two-two-three, or five-point-five-six millimetre. Not a calibre we use up here, on account of the legal ballistic performance requirement for the threat from polar bears.”

“Well, I’m sorry I got shot with the wrong gun…” He paused. “Now, unshackle me and fetch me the doctor.”

“Ah, don’t be such a wimp,” she said quietly. “You have extensive bruising from the rifle stock, and bruises from falling off the container, but nothing else. No broken bones. It’s a good job that rifle was hanging over your shoulder on the sling.”

“Great, so unlock this and let me get out of here.”

“All in good time.” Karlsson paused. “Why would someone shoot at you?”

King shrugged. “No idea. I’m normally such an affable character.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m a marine diver and salvage engineer.”

She nodded. “So, you say. But tell me, why would someone who has been shot at go looking for the gunman?”

“I’m a vengeful son-of-a-bitch…”

“Most people would run away.”

“I did. Or at least I drove. Ask the polar bear.” King paused. “Apparently I got pretty close.”

“Where’s the gun, Mister King?”

“You’re holding it.”

“There were shell casings found on top of the container. Nine-millimetre. Where is the gun you used against the other gunman?”

“So, you now admit there was a gunman to start with, although the bullet in my gunstock already told you that.”

“A gunman at the yard, but there’s no proof you were fired at on the beach. I should write you up for dangerous driving.”

“Take a look at my truck and you’ll see it was shot up. Someone was shooting at me.” King frowned. “And you say there were casings from the