by David Barker
CHAPTER 2
“Relax, kid, we got you.”
Sim Atkins was being helped on board the orbital rocket that had picked up his moon-base craft. The other escape pod, containing Doctor Payne, had already been collected. But the lifeless body inside had told of a man wanting the easy way out rather than the rest of his life behind bars. Sim cursed when he had heard this news. He had wanted to question the doctor further. The plan to blow up the moon base that Sim had helped foil – who was behind that? Was there any remorse for those murdered workers? And was it connected to his son’s death? A deadly disease let loose upon the residents of Moon Lab One. It had claimed only two victims: Sim’s son and the host body, Yusuf. A new form of suicide bomber. How had that even been possible? Was there a secret agent working at NASA? Moon Lab One was supposed to be a shining example of international co-operation. Why would it be targeted?
It had taken three days to travel back from the moon into orbit around the Earth. Three lonely days, surrounded by the emptiness of space with the guilt of failure to save his son gnawing away at his stomach. The crew of the orbital rocket guided Sim’s weightless body through the docking area and strapped him into his seat for re-entry. He let them do everything, as if he were as lifeless as the doctor. Questions continued to tumble through Sim’s mind even as the rocket plummeted back to earth. The violent shake barely registered on his senses. The rocket slowed, re-oriented itself and gently landed.
“OK Sim, lay still there, buddy. Earth gravity is gonna feel pretty rough for a while. The team will come to help you in a few minutes.” The Commander patted Sim on the shoulder and headed for the exit door while Sim lay back under the mountain of pressure bearing down on him. He wanted answers. He wanted revenge. But that would have to wait for his body to recover.
“Wait. Take these,” he said. Sim pulled the foil-wrapped seeds from his chest pouch. Seeds that might help combat a virus the terrorists wanted to spread across Europe’s wheat fields. The effort of lifting the packet out and stretching his arm was exhausting. He tried to remember the name of the woman who had been leading the research into plants on the moon base, but it was too hard. He closed his eyes and slept.
Alan Wardle looked out from his office on the sixth floor of City Centre Tower, over Birmingham, wishing he was in a tent on the banks of the Dee, and that fishing for salmon was today’s agenda. But he was Director of Overseas Division, OFWAT. The man to whom Sim Atkins and Freda Brightwell reported. Stress and pressure came with the job. Like a football manager, once you’ve sent your team out onto the pitch, there’s not much you can do. Just hope they stick to the plan and adapt when adversity strikes. Well, the Russian rescue had only been a partial success. Freda, Gopal and Rabten were still stuck deep in Russian territory and now Wardle was going to have to bring on his substitutes. And he still needed to do a full de-brief with Sim Atkins. Those were just two of the holos occupying his in-box. The right-hand side of his desk glowed with reports he needed to read, assess and prioritise.
His wife had gone to stay with her sister for a break, giving up on the brief, sporadic evenings Wardle managed to spend with her. That, actually, had been a relief. Not that he didn’t love his wife any more. Just that it was easier to be selfish and switch off when he had the chance, not having to worry about making polite conversation. Wardle looked up as the handle on his oak door turned. David Feinberg, his IT expert, barged into the room, clutching a roll tab. “Sir, I’ve done it.”
“Done what?”
David’s beam quickly vanished from his face. “The roll-tab we recovered from the Terror Formers. I managed to crack it open. Even logged in as one of them. We can start to monitor their messages.”
“That thing? You’ve had it for two weeks. I thought you must have given up by now.”
“Triple-layer of security. Encryption. Plus a sandbox.”
Wardle tutted. “Fine, it was difficult. Have a gold star. Now tell me something useful.”
“That virus they stole from Russia. They’re planning to sell it to a rogue government.”
Gopal and Rabten had boarded a Russian airship last month, one that had been hijacked by the Terror Formers. The agents had escaped with a sample of the virus, a stolen roll-tab and their lives, but only just. Despite all efforts to track it, the airship had simply vanished.
“If you can tell me when and where the exchange will take place, I might even give you another gold star.”
David rolled his eyes and turned to leave. “You’re welcome,” he muttered as he strode out of the office.
Three days later, Sim was finally allowed to fly back home. He had been tested for diseases. Standard procedure but an extra test was carried out in case the Ebola virus had spread further than realised on the moon base. His physical condition had been thoroughly and painfully assessed. His muscles were beginning to recover their strength.
Some quack had asked him a bunch of inane questions about butterflies and beetles. Even used a Rorschach test on him. The blobs of ink had been nothing like the mottled skin of his son’s chest as he had lain dying in Moon Lab One. But if the quack had been any good at her job, she would have noticed the twitch in Sim’s left eye.
After that, NASA representatives had had more questions for him. This time about Yusuf, the man who had carried the virus to the base. The CIA had got involved. These questions Sim had not minded. He wanted answers too. And he wanted to be involved in the investigation. But he had been met with a stonewall defence. Every request to be included, to be assigned to the inquiry, had been deflected and ignored. Well, he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
There had been a real-time holo with Rosie, his wife. She had seemed a bit distant even allowing for the time delay and the awkwardness of talking to an avatar instead of the real person. She had appeared to be pleased to see him, but there had been something else. A coolness, something being held back.
Sim just hoped that Rosie had forgiven him for accepting the mission to the moon base. To see his son and the woman who had borne him, Elsa Greenwood. She had been left behind at Moon Lab One, amongst a handful of survivors. Physically OK, but mentally crushed from the loss of their son. James had not even reached his sixth birthday. Sim had got to know him for a few precious days. Until a couple of months ago, Sim had not even known James existed. But for Elsa, the boy had been her whole universe. And now there must be a black hole right where the sun used to be.
Sim knew how difficult these past three years had been for Rosie, trying for a baby. The months when she was late, and the disappointments when the test came back negative. Perhaps it would never happen. Perhaps James had been his only chance to experience fatherhood. And perhaps things would never be the same again between Sim and his wife. The plane touched down, jolting Sim out of his reflective mood. Rosie had been told his flight details and should be waiting for him in the arrivals lounge.
Too short to look over other people’s heads, Sim struggled to spot her at first. The group of students blocking his view dispersed. And there she was. His bonnie blonde lass. A smile for him, yes, but also a gaze half averted. A hint of shyness, maybe reluctance even? Public displays of affection had never been his strong point, but Sim could not help breaking into a run and gathering her into his arms.
“Oh, Rosie. My love.”
She returned the hug. “You came back, then?”
“Course. Try keeping me away.”
“How did it go?”
Sim unwrapped his arms and put his hands on her shoulders. “It was... bad. James is gone.”
“What do you mean, gone? Where has that woman taken him?”
Sim shook his head and blinked hard. “He’s dead.”
Rosie’s face creased. “But. What happened?”
“I can’t say. The whole thing is still very delicate. Maybe one day I’ll be able to explain. Explain it all. The mission. Me and that woman. She has a name, you know. Elsa.”
Rosie opened her mouth to reply and then st
opped. She grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the car park. They walked in silence for a while.
“So. What have I missed back home?” Sim rubbed Rosie’s hand with his thumb as they walked along. “Have Callie managed to win a game yet this season?”
“Football? You’ve just been to the Moon and back and you want to talk about football?”
Sim shrugged. “I want to talk about life. Normal stuff. It’s so weird up there. Artificial. Controlled. Would’ve done me head in if I’d stayed much longer.”
Later that evening, back home in Dornoch, they snuggled on the sofa. Not saying much, just enjoying close physical contact. Remoulding their bodies to one another. A bowl of snacks on the table, which Rosie devoured. Something inane on the TV screen. A moving image that required no strain, no mental effort.
Sim leaned across and stroked Rosie’s cheek, moving a stray hair away from her eyes. “I thought about you. Every day.” His hand caressed her hips, then her ribs and continued moving upwards. “Whoa. Have you got a special bra on, or something? Because these puppies have definitely grown.”
“Sim.”
Before Rosie could say anything more, Sim was pressing his mouth to hers. And for a while at least, everything was back to normal. Afterwards, they slept.
It was still dark outside when Sim noticed Rosie get out of bed. He rolled over and tried to make sense of the clock. 5am. And then he heard a retching noise from the bathroom. He sat up.
“Rosie? You alright?” He rubbed his eyes. They had not drunk last night, so it couldn’t be a hangover. “You have a dodgy burger at the airport, or something?”
Rosie came back into the bedroom, her face flushed. Sim stared at her, in her underwear. Definitely more curves than a few weeks ago. Putting on weight? Comfort eating?
Lightbulb.
He looked at her belly and then up into her beautiful face.
Rosie looked back and nodded.
Sim’s eyes began to water. He tried to smile, despite his wobbling chin. “Oh Rosie. My sweetheart. Are you sure? When?”
Rosie just shrugged and blinked back her tears. “The doctor’s confirmed it. Ten weeks gone. I’ve booked in our first scan for next week.”
Sim jumped out of bed and hugged Rosie like she was the most precious thing in the world. “Oops, not too hard,” he said, shifting away from her body fractionally.
Rosie shoved his shoulder. “Daft bugger. If we survived last night’s pounding, I think we can survive… Oh, Sim. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
Sim’s smiled had vanished. He looked at the ground and sniffed. “It’s OK. Not your fault.” He looked up and smiled again, taking a deep breath. He placed his hand on Rosie’s belly. “You are amazing.” He kissed her lips. Soft and slow.
CHAPTER 3
The North Sea
Captain Euan Hamilton was on the bridge of The Endeavour, feeling hungry. He was roughly halfway between breakfast and lunch, while the boat was roughly halfway between The Orkney Islands and the Norwegian port of Bergen. Hamilton always ate five meals a day when on assignment. Had done while in the Royal Navy and kept it up now that he had become part of Overseas Division. A unique asset, Director Wardle had called his boat. Flattering Hamilton’s pride and joy – the submersible vessel he had designed – was an easy way to win him over.
So far, Wardle’s missions for The Endeavour had been boring surveillance work. Hamilton’s appetite had stayed in check. But not this day. Today there was a chance of some proper action. Catching some terrorists. Or at least preventing an attack. That meant a full English breakfast. A second breakfast around mid-morning and onwards to lunch. The captain was not sure if it was nervous energy that used up all the calories. Or was it merely a sensible survival strategy? In battle, you never knew when you would be able to stop for your next meal. So, load up while you can. Whatever the reason, Hamilton was making short work of the toast, fruit and coffee that had just been served.
The intel from the roll tab that David Feinberg had managed to crack suggested an imminent attack from the Terror Formers. The information was not perfect, but implied that some part of the Norwegian Carbon Capture and Storage facility was at risk. For over ten years now, European industry had been capturing its CO2 emissions, compressing the gas and shipping it to the Mongstad industrial site, near Bergen. From there the gas was piped across the sea bed to a drill site where it was pumped into salt caverns deep below the North Sea.
The Norwegian government had been bold enough to invest billions into the project at the turn of the century and was now turning over a tidy profit, charging other European countries to deal with their emissions. Those countries were happy to pay because at a stroke it made their Paris Accord emissions’ targets easy to meet. The shipping industry was happy to have a new stream of cargo now that the Chinese conveyor belt had dried up. Everyone, it seemed, was happy except for the Terror Formers. Hamilton scratched his chin, reviewing the evidence.
Attacking one of the ships that brought the compressed gas to Norway seemed like an obvious target but not exactly spectacular. Somali pirates had been doing that to oil tankers for decades. They barely even made the news these days. More often than not, the pirates would be repulsed by the ship’s robotic defences. At least that’s one good thing about progress with automation, thought Hamilton. Even if the terrorists did attack one of these boats, it would not achieve much. All that non-flammable gas in the middle of nowhere? Like farting in a farmyard, it hardly seemed worth the effort. No, the captain was convinced that the target had to be something else.
An assault on the coastal storage site? Certainly, that would represent a bigger target. There would be huge disruption to the whole chain of infrastructure if the site was destroyed. And undoubtedly a better candidate for media coverage. But still, Hamilton had read the briefing notes on the installation. It was guarded like a nuclear power plant. Round-the-clock armed guards. Razor-wire fencing, motion sensors, buzz drones. And a third-generation Kongsberg surface-to-air missile system. Even a suicide squad would have a hard time getting near the site.
No, for Hamilton’s money, it had to be the entrance to the undersea caverns themselves. Where there was no protection, except for the 400 metres of sea sitting above it in the Norwegian Trench. Which is exactly the sort of place that The Endeavour could show her worth. If the intel was correct, the attack would occur this evening, which meant that they had a few hours to get into position and wait. Hamilton rested a hand on the stomach that was starting to bulge over his belt. A bulge that didn’t used to be there.
Oh well, maybe just a small snack to keep me going until lunchtime.
At a depth of 200 metres, there was nothing to see in the Norwegian trench. Unlike some of the exploratory craft that operated at this depth, The Endeavour did not have any external lights. Inky blackness is a common phrase, but really has anyone ever put their head in a bucket of ink and tried opening their eyes? Hamilton shook his head, looking out through the graphene toughened windows and seeing precisely zip. About the only equivalent experience that the captain could think of was when he’d visited the dungeons at Norwich Castle and the guide had switched off the lights. After a while, your mind begins to play tricks on you and ghostly images start to appear. Even as a youth, Hamilton had loved gadgets. As soon as the lights had gone out, he’d slipped on a pair of night-vision goggles and smirked at the other tourists looking weird in the darkness of the dungeon.
This time, he was relying on sonar buoys. They were deployed and programmed to spread out, encircling the site of the valve arrangement at the entrance to the undersea caverns. There’s a limit to how fast a craft can travel underwater, but even so, Hamilton wanted all the forewarning he could get. About the same time as supper was being polished off, the Sound Room alarm went off. Passive sonar had detected multiple contacts closing from the west.
“What have we got, Hansen?”
“At least ten bogies, Captain. They all have very small signatures
, so I can’t get an accurate count yet. Range five kilometres, depth 50 metres, speed 20 knots.”
“Must be droids, travelling at that speed. OK, launch the counter measures. And, Hansen, keep working on that total. We can’t afford to let any slip through.”
The klaxon sounded for action stations and a dozen pairs of shoes drummed the beat of Hamilton’s favourite tune. Four times, the Warfare Officer pressed the button on her console that launched The Endeavour’s own deep-see drones. Greatly out-numbered by the incoming drones, but these were built for combat, not speed.
“Sound Room, make sure we stick to passive sonar for as long as possible. We don’t want to give away our position until the last possible moment.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
All of the crew were now in position and the waiting game began. Range had closed to 3000 metres and the drones had dropped to a depth of 200 metres.
“Damn, they are diving fast. Helm take us down to 300 metres.” The captain stabbed a button on the arm of his chair. “Hansen, when are you going to confirm the number of targets?”
“They’re spreading out now, sir. Right. We have twelve, no thirteen, fourteen. Hang on. Damn. They keep crossing in front of each other. As if they know we’re looking for them. Range 1000 metres. Fifteen of them, all told, sir.”
“Shit. That’s too many. Can we use torpedoes?”
The Warfare Officer replied. “Drones are probably too fast. And we’d risk damaging the Carbon facility if the explosions were too close to the valve.”
“Let’s hope our own robots are up to it. And get word up to Mongstad, tell them to seal off the pipes at their end for now. Don’t want this to get any worse than it has to.”
“Surface link deployed,” said the Comms Officer.
“OK, target and destroy. Sounds Room, bring in the active sonar. All hands, full battle stations.”
The lights on the bridge dimmed and turned red. The screens of the four drone controllers flashed up multiple contacts as the officers twitched their glove readers and manipulated the 3D screens in front of them. The drones received their instructions and tried to ward off the unwanted visitors. Several hits were registered and the Sounds Room counted down the targets from fifteen to eleven. But then one of the drone controllers cursed.
