White Gold

by David Barker

  “We’ve lost number three, sir.”

  “What?”

  There was silence on the bridge. Then: “And number two.”

  Captain Hamilton stood up and looked out of the windows, catching a faint glimpse of something. An explosion? An acetylene torch? “What the hell kind of weapons are they packing?”

  Sounds Room interrupted. “We’ve got three of theirs, sir. But that still leaves eight heading to the seabed and the main valve structure.”

  The Chief Engineer came up on deck. “It’s just occurred to me, sir. What they might be up to.”

  “I know what they’re up to, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I meant when they get to the valve. These drones seem pretty powerful. What if they’re not going to destroy the valve, but open it up and reverse the gas flow?”

  The captain sat down heavily. “But… why? That would be environmental suicide. All those greenhouse gases rushing to the surface. Surely even the TF aren’t that stupid.”

  “Yeah well, maybe we can ask them after we’ve stopped this attack. If we can.”

  Hamilton bowed his head. “It’s too late. Unless…” He grasped the arms of his chair. “Spin up the EMP.”

  The Warfare Officer turned around in her seat. “At this depth, sir?”

  “No, deeper. Need to make sure we’re close enough to get the little shits.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “And Comms, tell Norway what’s about to happen. They might get a diving bell to us in time. And they’ll need to collect up the drones in case they can reboot themselves.”

  The bridge fell silent while preparations were made. Captain Hamilton watched as each of his crew went about their duties, proud that none of them had challenged his order. Just accepted their part in the chain of command. The Electro-Magnetic Pulse would knock out all of the drones but also incapacitate the submarine’s own controls.

  The Sound Room broke the silence. “Drones have reached the valve, sir.”

  “Fire.”

  As the EMP detonated on board The Endeavour, the screens on the bridge went blank. The lights went out, and for once, the backup lighting failed too. A wave of blue energy radiated out from the ship in all directions. Within a few seconds it had reached the seabed and the drones attacking the Norwegian Carbon Storage facility fell inert. The boat creaked and continued to sink towards the sea bed.

  A chain of voices from down below relayed a message. Finally, somebody at the bottom of the stairs shouted up to the bridge. “Leak in the torpedo room.”

  “Get everyone out. Seal all bulkheads.”

  The loudest ever game of Chinese whispers was repeated back down the chain and the captain heard through the darkness the clang of metal doors closing and pressure clamps being spun into place.

  “Chief, did you get a look at the O2 reading before it went dark?”

  “We’ve got about twenty hours left. Should be able to reboot systems. If we don’t suffer any more damage.”

  Hamilton’s vessel was unique in being equally at home on the surface and underwater. But some compromises had been required, and one of those was a much shorter reserve of oxygen than a normal submarine. The ship continued to glide deeper into the Norwegian Trench, creaking as she went, before finally settling on the seabed with a jolt. Amidst the carcasses of sea creatures and drones. The captain shifted in his chair. The temperature was already beginning to drop.

  At least I won’t grow hungry, he thought, patting his stomach.

  The first four hours passed quietly, as most people just sat around trying to conserve oxygen. A few whispered conversations between friends. The next four hours were more restless. With communication links severed there was no way to know when the rescue team would reach them, assuming there was one on its way. The temperature had become bitingly cold. It was impossible to sit still anymore. But moving about used the oxygen more quickly. In the following four hours, signs of panic were starting to emerge. The crew began to vocalise their morbid thoughts, the darkness allowing them some anonymity.

  “Why is it taking them so long?”

  “There’s gratitude for you. We come down here to save their precious facility and they can’t be bothered to come and rescue us.”

  “Stop hogging the blanket, you’ve got more than enough insulation on you.”

  “Fuck you and your skinny ass.”

  The captain stumbled his way through the ship, talking to his crew, telling them how well they had performed during the attack and reassuring them that everything would be fine.

  And he was right. The Norwegian response was first-rate. No doubt fine-tuned after decades of deep-sea operations, their rescue team was able to drop a diving bell to The Endeavour in just under twelve hours, pulling out those who were suffering most from the cold and the claustrophobia. A skeleton crew remained on board with the captain, reinvigorated by some warm food and drinks. There was even some Akvavit, a spiced schnapps, that was handed round as thanks for saving the Norwegian facility. The boat’s O2 tank was topped up and the emergency lighting kicked back into life.

  Six hours later, all systems were back online. The boat slowly rose back towards the surface while the captain composed his report for Wardle. There was a knock on his door.

  “Come.”

  The Comms Officer entered. “Sir, when we were under attack, I managed to trace some of the signals being sent out by their drones. And intercepted an incoming message. I’ve triangulated its source. Middle of the Norwegian Sea, near the Jan Mayen Islands.”

  “Good show, Martel. Give the co-ordinates to the bosun and tell him to set course straight away.”

  It took them nearly two days of continual sailing to arrive at the destination suggested by the Comms Officer. The Endeavour was far from peak performance even though the worst effects of the EMP had been repaired.

  “The co-ordinates don’t indicate a land mass. Those drones must have been controlled by a ship,” said the captain, surveying the sea ahead. The neck strap on his binoculars was made of dark brown leather, frayed and thinning after years of use. There were other, better, sets of binoculars onboard but the last person who suggested that the captain try them had been quickly sent below decks. He rubbed the soft leather between finger and thumb. “Chances of the vessel still being around seem rather slim.”

  “Overseas Division has sent us satellite imaging of the area at the time of the attack. No ships in the vicinity,” said Martel.

  “A submarine, then?” asked the captain, looking at a copy of the photo.

  The Comms Officer shook his head. “Too far away to communicate underwater.”

  Hamilton pointed at something on the picture. “Is that an iceberg?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Distinctive shape.” The captain looked through his binoculars again. “How come that lump of ice hasn’t drifted at all in the past 48 hours?” He pointed at an iceberg that was starting to show itself between the swells of grey, foam-flecked sea. “On these currents, it should be leagues away by now. Let’s take a closer look.”

  The boat stopped a few hundred metres from the icy behemoth. It had a curious, flat top on the right half of its body and a bulbous, curved hillock on the other half.

  “Instruments suggest it is hollow, sir. Nasty, dangerous sort. They can topple over with just a shift of the wind. We ought to keep our distance.”

  “What’s sonar say about its profile?”

  “Hmm, that is unusual, sir. Almost the same underwater as above the surface.

  The captain shook his head. The Endeavour was still damaged. It had a skeleton crew. But an iceberg that didn’t drift and didn’t sit seven-eighths below water? This needed investigating. “Scramble a message to HQ. I think we’ve found us some damned Terror Formers.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Frontera, El Hierro.

  Mattias Larsson paced the small apartment while dictating notes. His close and very personal assistant, Precious Osundare, made sure that the vo
ice recognition app was transcribing accurately and added thoughts of her own. It had been easy to find an apartment to rent on the smallest of the Canary Islands. Harder to find a block of six contiguous apartments. Three to house security, one for Mattias and herself, and two just to act as a buffer zone from the general public. Precious was used to these sorts of requirements. They were by no means the strangest thing she did for Mattias.

  “So. Rendezvous point is the Faro de Orchilla. Is the lighthouse operational still?”

  “Yes,” replied Precious. “But automated. No maintenance visits scheduled for another week. Basically, some tourists stop by most days.”

  “Let’s get a closed-for-maintenance sign put up then to keep them away.”

  “On it.” Precious made an extra note in her roll-tab.

  “And the local beach, the Embarcadero de Orchilla. Is that where they’ll be landing?”

  “Seems that way. It’s about a klick from the lighthouse. A steep dirt track between the two spots.”

  Mattias shook his head. “I don’t like this set up. Seems too cramped. No easy way out if the devils get in the machines.”

  Precious paused for a moment. Mattias’s English was excellent but literal translations of Swedish idioms were sometimes confusing. “Relax Matty. We have somebody on the books in local law enforcement. Basically, I can get the beach, the whole approach, barred. We’ll say there’s been a rockslide or something.”

  Mattias nodded. He looked out of the window, down at the tourists and the local residents. He smiled in a way that reminded Precious of a scientist watching rats run through a maze, glad that she was his confidante and not one of his experiments.

  “I thought we needed this virus for population control?”

  Her boss shook his head. “Better to sell it while we can. Besides, I have a better plan. And if I can get approval from the Arabs they’ll fund the whole project while we get to keep the golden share.”

  Business school had been full of smart students but none could hold a candle to Mattias’ razor-sharp commercial mind. Barely out of teenage years, his superiority had been obvious even at that early age. And like a midnight moth, Precious had been drawn to the flame of his intellect. She jolted out of her memories and looked at her notes again.

  “The usual fireteam accompaniment?” she asked.

  “Of course. Better include some SAMs in case we get buzzed by helicopters. And fix up a drone dome on top of the lighthouse. Exclusion zone at least a klick.”

  Precious looked up at her boss. His brow was creased and his pacing across the room had intensified. She rose from her seat and took hold of his hands. “Let us finish off the details later. You need therapy, big time.” Mattias nodded and let her lead him into the bedroom.

  Two days later, a procession of 4x4 vehicles rumbled along the Calle Lomo Perejil. It was a rough track even for these capable transports. A barren, steep slope down to the sea on the right. And an impressive view to the left, along the crescent-shaped ridge that formed the spine of the island. The crates of weapons, ammunition, and special equipment in the back of the vehicles scraped together as the cars tilted sideways on the rough terrain. Normally, even the small risk of being stopped by a police spot check would have made Precious nervous. But with local law enforcement in the terrorists’ pocket, there was little danger of that. The vehicles ignored the Spanish signs that said, ‘Rock slide, track closed.’ The grey granite tower and smartly painted white buildings around the base of the lighthouse sat proudly amidst the plateau of pumice stones.

  An hour before their rendezvous with the Africans, the team had set up look-out posts and broken into the locked tower. At the top, they had set up the equipment that would establish an invisible electronic shield to render lifeless all drones within a thousand metres.

  The phials of pre-historic virus, stolen from Russia weeks ago, were packed in a temperature-controlled, double-skinned crate. The package was unloaded and deposited in the small courtyard formed by the old lighthouse keepers’ cottages. A larger crate was laid out near the base of the tower.

  Quite what the buyer had in mind for the virus was not entirely clear. A virus that had the potential to devastate the wheat fields of the buyer’s enemies. Precious assumed that he was the dictator of one of the smaller African states, or perhaps a local warlord. Maybe they wanted the disease simply as a deterrent. Nuclear proliferation, in theory, had ended after North Korea had joined the list. So, if you couldn’t threaten your neighbours with nukes, maybe biological destruction was the next best thing. As long as they paid up, who cared? Not Precious. Mattias had a vision for achieving a better world and the ends would always justify the means in her eyes.

  Within half an hour, the approaching speed boats were spotted. Three ribs loaded with men in sunglasses, Kevlar jackets and bearing guns. Radar showed up a larger vessel out to sea, presumably where the ribs had launched from. The African coast was at least 250 miles away, too far for a journey in small craft.

  Precious looked across at Mattias and he nodded. “Send the guide down to show them the way. And when they get here, you do the talking.”

  Precious tutted.

  “What?” said Mattias. “No harm in using your heritage to break down barriers. Practically neighbours, aren’t you?” He slipped on a bio-mask and handed one to Precious. The disguise moulded itself to Precious’ face, changing her contours. Just in case the buyers tried to record the transaction through hidden cameras.

  She flexed her jaw and arched her eyebrows, getting used to the second skin. “As long as they’re not from Ghana.”

  The meeting was, despite Precious’ efforts, a very tense affair. Armed body guards on both sides bristled with muscles and weapons. An initial handshake. Digital palms exchanged encrypted codes, ensuring both parties were who they claimed to be. The diamonds that would form the payment were checked for quality. A laborious and slow affair. One random phial was removed from the ice box and examined by one of the Africans under a microscope.

  “You figured what your boss plans to do with this virus, yet?” asked Mattias.

  “You figured what you plan to do with all those diamonds?” came the reply.

  Mattias shrugged. “Sell them. The security business is very expensive these days.”

  “You make joke? Funny guy, yes. Ha hah ha.”

  “No reason we can’t be civil. I have some cold beers in the pickup. Anybody fancy one?”

  The sun was beating down from a cloudless sky. The temperature was nudging 40 degrees. A couple of the African body guards licked their lips, but held their ground. The man who seemed to be in charge shook his head. “I’d rather be back in international waters as soon—”

  “Sir, we have incoming aircraft. Too big for drones, too slow for jets. Must be choppers.”

  Mattias looked at the African party. “Not yours, then?” The scared look on their faces gave him his answer. He pulled the tiny microphone from the end of his sleeve. “Code red.” He caught Precious’ eye and ran towards the unmarked crate while his body guards took up defensive positions around the low buildings at the base of the lighthouse.

  The Africans started running back down the path towards the tiny beach. One of them lunged towards the bag of diamonds first, but was met with the butt of a rifle in his face. Four helicopter gunships swept into view, hugging the side of the island, nearly low enough to skim the water. One peeled off. A stream of bullets spat out towards the rib boats waiting on the beach. There was a series of explosions as fuel tanks ignited. The Africans stopped running down the hill.

  The other three helicopters slowed to a hover in v-formation, facing the lighthouse, guns bristling. A megaphone burst into life, above the wocka-wocka-wocka of their blades. “This is the Club of Rome. Put down your weapons. You are under arrest.”

  One of Mattias’ soldiers popped up from behind the lantern room at the top of the lighthouse. He squeezed the trigger on a tube that rested over one shoulder and a surface-to-air m
issile streaked towards the middle helicopter. All three choppers tried to take evasive action. Bright phosphorescent flares filled the sky. But there was not enough time. The missile accelerated unerringly toward the lead helicopter, which plummeted down into the sea even as the fireball of the explosion soared upwards.

  The remaining helicopters opened fire with chain guns, saturating the side of the island with a lethal stream of bullets. The glass at the top of the lighthouse shattered and the man holding the missile launcher screamed as he was showered in deadly shards. The brickwork of the tower and the walls of the cottages began to fragment as they were pummelled by ammo. Two more soldiers fell. Another guard ran towards one of the 4x4s but stopped when he saw an armoured truck appear over the horizon on the only track away from the lighthouse. The African party had thrown away their weapons and were lying flat on their bellies, arms covering their heads.

  Inside the unmarked crate, Mattias and Precious were shuffling into position, feeling their way in the darkness. They could hear bullets clunk into the armour-plated sides of the box.

  “You ready?” said Mattias. He tucked the bag of diamonds inside his flak jacket and pressed a button without waiting for a reply. Outside their box, the other crate exploded, killing one of their own guards and two of the Africans who had been sheltering next to the cargo they had come to buy.

  Mattias and Precious slid into their respective coffin-like tubes and closed the lids. There was a whine as ram-jet engines span into life and small stubby wings folded down from each of the tubes that they occupied. The sides of the crate fell outwards, clanging onto the ground.

  There were no windows in these fat missiles. Precious simply stared at the inside of the lid and hoped the auto-pilot that Mattias had programmed earlier would work. She did not have long to wait. A surge of acceleration pressed her back and down.