by Ralph Kern
***
Rough hands hauled him onto the deck of the ferry which had pulled alongside him. Too weak to help, he let them maneuver him, content to let his rescuers do the work.
“Well, he is in a sorry state,” a woman’s voice said. She had not an ounce of sympathy in her tone. “What do you want to do with him? Throw him back overboard?”
What the fuck? His head was buzzing with dehydration, and he had that vague feeling his brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders but still, that didn’t exactly sound like the kinda thing a rescuer should say.
Summoning the last vestiges of energy, his hand creeped down his thigh, seeking the vicious serrated combat knife still strapped there.
“No, Kristen,” a Spanish-accented voice replied. It came from the other man silhouetted above him. “You know Eric’s view. That is no longer our... default position. We let him prove his worth or not first, then decide. After all, you never know who he might be and what skills he has to offer our community. If he doesn’t have any...”
The silhouette trailed off with a shrug.
“You’ve become soft, Urbano,” Kristen said. Grayson squinted at her. Steadily, her features resolved from a silhouette to that of a person. Her dark hair was tightly scraped back, and she had hard, angular features.
She was possibly the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
Grayson relaxed his hand, letting it drop away from his knife’s handle. He felt it thud onto the wet deck. He was real glad he didn’t have to kill this angel.
“Maybe,” the other man, Urbano, replied. “But just look at what Eric has done for us when we gave him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Hmmm,” Kristen gave a dubious retort. She brought a water bottle to Grayson’s lips and he felt a trickle of tepid water enter his dry mouth. It tasted simply divine, even better than a bottle of Budweiser on a hot summer’s day. “Easy. Not too much.”
She popped the cap closed and laid the bottle next to him. His eyes followed. God, he wanted more of that delicious nectar.
“He best be more than just a pretty face,” Kristen said, ignoring him again. Uncaring that he was there and listening.
“Get him up and to the sick bay.” Urbano turned away and gestured at the other figures Grayson saw crowded around.
They fussed around him and he felt an arm slip under his shoulders. With a groan, they hoisted him up. He moved his legs under him, trying to help.
“Easy, you,” Kristen muttered through her effort.
“Thank you,” Grayson croaked. He lifted his head, finding himself looking out over the side of the ferry.
The craft had angled back into a collection of other ships, large and small, ferries and fishing boats, all clustered around a huge supertanker. On top of it, a jury-rigged collection of pipes and tanks belched black smoke.
His addled brain struggled to discern what he was seeing. These ships weren’t all gathered in a harbor.
They were operating as a fleet. A huge, rag tag fleet, sailing across the seas.
Shipping didn’t operate like that. Did it?
“What’s... what is this?” he rasped through his parched mouth.
“My new friend,” Kristen replied from his shoulder. She twisted him away from the railing and into the darkness of a hatch. “You are really down the rabbit hole now.”
Chapter Thirty-Two – The Present
“Who the fuck is Grayson?” Wakefield shouted as he stormed into the undersea lounge. He was angry, real angry. He was supposed to be told this shit so he could plan for it, not have to react to being blindsided.
The boy looked up from his couch. His hands were clasped placidly on his lap, not even flinching before Wakefield’s fury.
He cocked his head, contemplating Wakefield as he paced before the kid’s couch. On the window, a photo ID image of a face, Grayson’s, appeared, obstructing the darting fish behind.
“Karl Grayson. He was commissioned into the US Army in 2010. He subsequently successfully earned his Ranger tab and was posted to the 1st Ranger Battalion where he rose to the rank of captain. He completed the Special Forces Qualification Course in 2015 and joined the 3rd Special Forces Group based at Fort Bragg. While there, he completed several tours, numerous operations and a MA in Political Science. In 2021, he was handpicked by a Colonel Millard to join the CIA’s Special Activities Division Special Operations Group based out of Langley, Virginia. His skills and qualifications list is extensive and varied, however has a particular focus on foreign internal defense, what you might call partisan warfare.”
“Well, thank you for the bio,” Wakefield said scornfully. “But what I really need to know is just what the hell is he doing here?”
“His final mission with the SOG was to investigate John Reynolds, the movement of illegal military grade weaponry, and rumors of weapons of mass destruction.”
Wakefield felt his teeth grind in frustration. This little prick should really have been sharing this information a little sooner than this. “Yeah, well, he was the asshole who attacked us in Nassau.”
“Yes. Following which, he pursued the Osiris to sea having sought the aid from elements of the Royal Bahamas Defence Force.”
“And you didn’t think to mention this prick is hunting us? Why?”
The boy looked at Wakefield for the first time. His eyes calm but piercing. “I wasn’t aware that he was still alive. Two F-35 fighters were tasked to defeat his attempted assault upon the Osiris. I understood that they were successful. This new information suggests he was instead caught in the Higgs-Singlet stream—what you have taken to calling the Locus.”
“Clearly he was.” Wakefield couldn’t keep the exasperation from his voice. “He’s been tagging along with those pirates and managed to make a name for himself as the biggest asshole in the world on Atlantica. And I didn’t know a fucking thing about the fact he’s after us, too.”
“Perhaps if you’d allowed me aboard Atlantica.” The boy raised an eyebrow. “I could have found out he had survived.”
“Always my fault, huh?” Wakefield massaged his temple. The damned thing was, it was his fault. If he’d allowed the boy to watch when he’d first met the fleet leaders, the kid would have had Grayson’s name and probably put it all together. Or maybe he would have just sat on the information and parceled it out when he thought it was important.
The fact of the matter was, Wakefield trusted the kid as far as he could throw him. And throwing him was impossible.
Wakefield tapped on the table touchscreen. The window image of Grayson was replaced by an icon of a green phone receiver ringing for a video conference.
The call was answered. John Reynolds’s face appeared, backdropped by his office wall.
“Can you talk?”
“What do you want, Conrad?”
“I asked, can you talk? That was a not-so-subtle hint that if there’s anyone in there with you, tell ’em to go take five,” Wakefield snapped.
Reynolds leaned back in his chair, his lips pursed for a moment before he spoke. “Conrad. Yes, I am alone and yes, I can speak.”
“Good. Because we have a major problem. What do you know about Karl Grayson?”
“Grayson is one of the pirates who infiltrated Atlantica and—”
“No, I mean from before,” Wakefield interrupted. He already knew what this bastard had done since he got here.
“Before when? By all accounts, he’s been here for years.”
“Before he got here, John? Do you know his history?” Wakefield said quickly, the words spilling out. “The man’s a goddamn CIA agent sent to hunt you—to hunt us—down.”
Reynolds looked away from the screen, massaging his chin. Wakefield gave him a moment to process it. He felt himself calming as he slowly shifted from reaction to action.
“How much does he know?” Reynolds asked finally.
“We have to assume everything.”
Reynolds gave a sigh and looked down. “I knew we wouldn’t get away with what
we did, Conrad. Even here.”
“What we did was for the good of humanity.” Wakefield felt another sudden surge of frustration and slammed his fist into the back of the couch. Why did no one get that? Not even John Reynolds, one of his co-conspirators.
“Tell that to the millions we killed coming here,” Reynolds responded in a quiet voice.
“They were dead anyway,” Wakefield said insistently. “When Perses hit, they’d all have been killed.”
“But they would have lived for years before that happened.”
Wakefield felt himself about to rebut, to enter into the same philosophical debate they’d had a dozen times before. And it would have been the same end result. Reynolds would play the hypocritical bleeding-heart card. And they’d get no further forward.
Frankly, why the hell bother?
“We need Grayson gone,” Wakefield settled on, “or we’re going to be in deep shit when the others find out just what happened when we flicked the switch to come here.”
“They’ll find out anyway,” Reynolds said quietly. “You’ve span such a web of lies and half-truths. About the Locus, about the others, about the caches. I mean, Conrad, the bloody caches? What about them? Just when were you going to make them public? When were you going to make all our lives easier? And what happens when you do? You think people are going to be happy that you withheld them?”
“I’ll release them when there’s a need for them.” Wakefield rubbed his temples. He could feel the mother of all stress headaches coming on. But those caches were power. And at the moment, he controlled them by the simple virtue no one else knew about them.
Reynolds gave a bitter chuckle. “And you know you can demand whatever you want for what’s in them.”
“Stop deflecting. You need to deal with Grayson before he becomes any more of a goddamn problem.”
***
A gilded prison, that was what this place was. Ten girls, held hostage in some billionaire’s fantasy harem. The thump of her feet on the treadmill mirrored the monotony of her life the past few ten weeks. Her days were spent lounging around in one of the few “approved” areas or here in the yacht’s tiny but well-kitted gym, trying to keep the fine food off her hips.
They’d been allowed no contact with the collection of ships they could see through the tinted windows. No shore leave to visit land. The doors to any section Bradley and her fellow “guests” weren’t welcome in were locked with biometric readers. When the crew or guards approached them, they opened. But not for her. And not for the other girls.
They were prisoners. Very well kept, very well pampered prisoners, but prisoners nonetheless.
The only sight they’d had of anyone outside of the yacht was the collection of ships beyond the windows her and her fellow prisoners were trapped behind. Some of the girls almost seemed disinterested, content with living this faux highlife. Others inconsolable.
And then Wakefield had spun some tale about why they were out of contact with their homes and family. That, in order to save their lives, Wakefield had gallantly taken them into the future with him—the unstated reason being it would be for the good of humanity if there were young women aboard.
Lia wanted to call bollocks on Wakefield’s story. It sounded a load of cock and bull—inconceivable, unbelievable.
Yet whatever Wakefield’s strange plan was with this ship, this heavily armed floating palace, either hadn’t yet come to fruition...
Or it had, and this was it.
Lia—Celia Bradley—slowed the treadmill to a walk and swung her arms in wide circles, loosening up before grabbing her towel from the rail and stepping into the small changing room. Like everything in this place, it took opulence to new levels. The finest marble, the swankiest fittings, and all the mod cons.
She tapped on the mirror, opening a touchscreen window and pressed her finger on a tile labeled “Lia Jones”. The shower began hissing out water, warming to her favorite temperature and jetting at the needle-like pressure she preferred.
A gilded bloody prison. Who the hell needs a computer interface for a shower?
She peeled off her t-shirt and shorts and leaned against the basin for a moment. Wherever she turned, there were armed guards. As far as she’d counted, at least a couple of dozen of them. Wakefield seemed to have recruited almost 50-50 men to women among his employees. Maybe that was part of his grand plan to repopulate the Earth.
Well, I suppose it wouldn’t be strange if he was telling the truth. But I’m not sure if I’m willing to believe it yet.
Where were Grayson and Dillon? Even if they’d been taken out, Millard should have sent the cavalry. Unless whoever was dirty at the CIA had somehow dark-holed the mission. But, except for the motley collection of boats and ships out there, there had been nothing. Other than that first night when there had been the unmistakable roar of fighter jets, that was. But that had come to nothing, either.
I need a plan. I’ve been here for the better part of three months and have gotten nowhere.
A soft chime from the interactive mirror caused her to look up. Her heart skipped a beat. Her face reflected back at her, eight words overlaying it.
Celia Bradley. I know who you are now.
Shit! In some detached part of her brain, Bradley felt proud at how composed her face remained. As far as she was aware, this mirror interface had no means of communicating out. No keyboard, nothing. That left only one thing to try.
“My name is Lia, Lia Jones...” she whispered.
The words disappeared, replaced by others. No, it is not.
Holy shit. An image of her Royal Air Force ID card appeared. Her face from ten years ago on it, the collar showing she was wearing dress blues. And damningly, her real name and old rank.
Flight Lieutenant Celia Bradley.
Wait, if Wakefield knows, he wouldn’t play this game. Let’s try a different tack. She gave her most disarming smile. “That’s a fair cop. So, what are you going to do with this scoop?
I have not decided yet.
“Who are you?”
I may contact you again. Please keep this communication secret.
“Your secret is safe with me.”
The words disappeared.
Bradley stood upright and smoothed her hair back, thinking hard.
Was this an ally? Or something else?
Perhaps it was an opportunity.
Chapter Thirty-Three – The Present
The helicopter had come to a hover alongside the vegetation-clad face of the lonely mountain Laurie had indicated she was on.
“Okay, good.” Jack gripped a handle above the cabin door to steady himself as he looked out. “We’re looking at your aspect. Aim up and shoot, honey.”
The helicopter had yawed to present its broadside, to get as many eyes on the mountainside as possible. In the cabin, everyone was pressed against the windows, eyes looking keenly to spot the flare.
From halfway up the slope, a piercing bright red star arced silently up.
“We’ve got you. We have your posi—” Jack broke off then exclaimed, “What the hell?!”
Before the flare had reached the zenith of its arc, a black cloud bloomed out from the side of the mountain and engulfed the burning point of light.
“Laurie? Laurie, are you okay?” Jack pressed the earpiece tight to the side of his head.
“Yes, Yes. I think they all just took off.” Laurie was panting. “They were disturbed by the flare. I’m back inside now.”
“Good. Stay inside. We have your position.”
The slope of the mountain was a dense churning fog of creatures. Jack was reminded of the million strong flocks of starlings which permeated through the USA. Only this was on a much, much bigger scale.
“That explains what downed them. They kicked the hornet’s nest.” Grayson frowned. “Jack, we ain’t flying through that crap. If we disturb them, they’ll rip us apart.”
Jack nodded in agreement and rubbed his eyes. He turned to look up toward the coc
kpit. “How close do you reckon you can get us without disturbing all that?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know?” The pilot’s voice was exasperated.
“I need your best guess,” Jack pressed, fighting to keep the annoyance out of his tone.
“If they settle again, I wouldn’t want to take us more than... say three miles from the mountain base.”
“Sounds fair enough. Start looking for a landing site to put down.” Jack turned to Grayson. “Time to go for a walk.”
Grayson held his wrist up and looked at his watch. “Considering that terrain, we would probably be struggling to cover a mile an hour, averaging for the slope. We have around five hours of daylight left. Whatever happens, we’re covering the last stretch after nightfall. And it looks like there’s a shitload of horrible nasty things out there.”
“We’re not waiting till tomorrow if that’s what you’re hinting at.”
“Not at all.” Grayson grinned widely. “What I’m saying is we need to stop talking about it and get it done.”
“Fine.” Jack nodded. “Pilot, put us down at the nearest viable landing position. Then I’m going to need you to circle back to within communications range of the fleet and tell them what we’re looking at before coming straight back to us for pick up.”
“You really want to burn that fuel?” Grayson asked.
“Yeah,” Jack replied. “If they lose us, they have to know not to risk anyone else.”
***
The small rock bluff was as good as it got. Jack, Grayson, and the two other members of the security team watched wearily as the Airbus lifted, yawed around, and tilted its nose down. Within moments, it had disappeared out of view, heading back to the fleet at full speed.
Jack lowered himself down the boulders and scree to the soft earthen ground and drew a machete from his backpack before slinging his rifle over his shoulder.
“Do I get one?” Grayson looked at the viscous blade as the two other security officers dropped to the ground behind him.
Jack simply raised an eyebrow in response, before turning and trotting into the forest. He began hacking with a frantic abandon, forcing his way through the undergrowth.
