by Dayle, Harry
• • •
The sonar control room on the Lance was the opposite in every way of the bridge. Where the bridge was stark, uncomfortable, and bathed in light from the huge amounts of glass, the sonar room was well appointed and dark, lit as it was by subtle spots set into the black ceiling. The walls and floor were black, too, reminding Jake of a cinema, although a very tiny one. Two walls were fitted with an L-shaped console, inset with screens, keyboards, and dials.
“This looks like the inside of the Ambush,” Jake said as he walked in.
“I bet the Ambush doesn’t have carpet,” Bodil replied.
“Actually, it does. Coote told me it was to deaden the noise inside. It helps make them even less detectable.”
The scientist nodded gently. “Makes sense.” She tapped some commands into a keyboard, and watched the screen directly in front of her for a response.
Jake came and sat down next to her. Two of the sailors were outside, managing a complex winch system that had lowered the sonar pod into the water. The other two were in the sonar control room, wheeling Bodil from screen to screen as she required.
“Is the sonar on? Sending out noise?”
“I’m just about to light it up now. One more test to run and then we’re off to the races, as you English like to say, yes?”
“Your grasp of our language is impressive.”
“My husband is from Yorkshire.”
“God’s own county.”
“So he tells me.”
“Were there many Solems in Yorkshire?”
“Funny.” She gave an exaggerated, obviously false laugh. “I kept my name. There.” She tapped another button. “Tests complete. Now, we go for it.”
Jake moved to the edge of his seat. “This is where we find out if they want to sink us, as well as the Ambush.”
Bodil’s fingers worked at the keyboard. Two of the screens on the console, previously blank, suddenly filled with colour. Against a deep blue backdrop, a swirling circle of reds, greens and yellows traced its way around the monitors. To Jake, it was indecipherable, but the woman appeared satisfied.
“See this blob of colour here?” A slender and unsteady finger pointed to an area on the screen nearest to Jake. “That’s the Spirit of Arcadia.”
“I’m glad you’re here, Bodil. I don’t think any of us would recognise a submarine on that thing if it started blinking at us.”
“It’s not that difficult. Just a question of experience is all.”
“So? Any sign?”
“Nothing so far. I hope you are a patient man, Captain Noah. We have a vast area to cover. Those submarines could have travelled many kilometres. My sonar is capable, but they are more capable. Searching this ocean is like…it’s like searching the floor of this room for a dropped earring whilst looking down a straw. We could get lucky, or we could pass right over, if it’s buried in the pile. Either way, it will take time.”
“That’s just it. We don’t have much time.” He checked his watch again. “Thirty-eight minutes left. We have to find the Ambush in less than thirty eight minutes.”
• • •
Max strolled up to the door of cabin 1124, his head buried in a glossy magazine, his face hidden from the spy hole he knew they would be watching from.
It hadn’t occurred to him to find anyone to come as backup. He was used to working alone. He’d done it all on this ship: busted drug dealers, broken up drunken brawls, fought off jealous husbands laying into their cheating wives’ lovers, fought off angry wives laying into cheating husbands’ lovers, and on one occasion had even fought off a pirate attack, for which he had been awarded an insultingly small bonus. Not that the money mattered to Max.
He reached around and felt the gun tucked into the back of his trousers. The security chief was more of a hands-on operator, but the weapon gave him added confidence.
He squared up to the door, standing close, too close for his face to be clearly visible. With a beefy, hairy hand, he tapped lightly.
“Who is it?” The voice was just the other side, close by.
“Customer. Fags.” He waved the magazine airily, as if chatting to an old friend in the street.
There was the unmistakable sound of a chain being undone, then the door handle twisted downwards.
Max’s timing was perfect. As the door opened the tiniest amount, he threw all of his considerable weight against it. Whoever was on the other side must have been at least as big as he was, but they were caught off guard and off balance. Their own weight sent them tumbling to the floor with a loud thump. Max pushed the door hard, sweeping aside the bulky body behind it, and marched inside. The gun remained in his trousers, his hands by his sides.
In front of him were two white armchairs, but the rest of the furniture had been stacked at the side of the room. To his left, the door to the bedroom clicked shut and he heard a key turn in the lock. He moved towards it, fully intending to break it down, when a voice to his right stopped him.
“Mister security man? Put your hands on your head.”
Max did as he was told, and swivelled slowly on the spot. He hadn’t noticed the badly dressed youth in the corner of the room, so skinny was he: a stubbly-faced man clad in a heavy-metal t-shirt that looked quite ridiculous on his bony frame. His face was strangely out of proportion, his eyes and nose too big to go with his other features. Max had to fight the urge to laugh, such was the oddity before him, but he did have one threatening feature, one attribute that made him dangerous. Max knew it was never a good idea to laugh at dangerous men. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the gun in the skinny man’s hands.
“Come on, son. Don’t do anything daft. Shoot me and you’re as good as dead. There’s nowhere to run.”
“I don’t want to shoot you, old man. It would make a terrible mess on the carpet, and that wouldn’t be good for business. I am going to have to dispose of you though.”
“Like you disposed of Grace?” Max took a step forwards.
“Hmm. Sorry about that. I hope you didn’t need her?”
“Honestly? You did me a favour. Couldn’t stand the woman. All ‘detective this’ and ‘detective that’, you know?” Another half step towards the skinny man.
“Well, she was American. I don’t like Americans.”
“I’ve nothing against them, just that one. I’m replacing her with a guy from Grimsby.” Half a step.
“That’s enough.” The skinny man waggled the weapon. “No closer, Granddad.”
Max studied the firearm. “Grace’s position was easy enough to fill, but I’m going to need her weapon back.”
A laugh, a tiny turn of the head. “Sorry…what? You think I’m going to hand over the gun and let you walk out of here?”
“I think nothing of the sort,” Max said. At the same instant he spoke, he moved, like lighting. He may have had thirty years on the scrawny young man, but Max was in good shape. His bulk made him look lumbering and slow. It was easy to underestimate him, as many had found to their cost. He pulled his hands from his head and darted forwards, ducking at the same time. His open left hand came up, palm connecting with the hands that clasped the pistol, forcing them upwards. His right hand, balled into a fist, powered into the skinny man’s belly. The black t-shirt, and the body inside it, folded in two. The gun fired, ripping a tiny hole in the ceiling. As the youth doubled up, Max pulled the firearm free. The boy was down but not out. He staggered backwards, winded, then — to Max’s amazement — came at him again. Max had plenty of time to prepare his defence. A well-aimed kick to the knee snapped the black-marketeer’s leg. He fell to the floor, howling in pain.
“Thanks for the gun,” Max said. He put on the safety catch, and shoved it into his empty back pocket. “Now to sort out your heavy mate.”
He turned back towards the door, but where he had expected to see the muscle of the operation on the floor, he saw only empty space. It wasn’t empty for long. Two feet stepped into view. He looked up to see who they belonged to just in time t
o see a golf club swinging at his head.
“Zhang!”
The club met its target, and everything went black.
• • •
There was light ahead. Narrow slits of light that bent around the curved sides of the pipe.
The classroom.
Lucya was almost there. Adrenaline flowed, giving her the energy to move faster than ever, but now was not the time for speed. Now was the time for grace, dexterity, and above all, silence.
She needed to get back onto her front before getting any closer. With her arms pushed back up over her head, she rolled over. In the almost total darkness it was easy to become disoriented, and for a few brief seconds she wasn’t sure which way was up. Then common sense kicked in, and she evaluated the effects of gravity on her body, and got herself turned round properly.
The ventilation pipe narrowed as it approached its destination, but Lucya was determined. She had one shot, and having come this far, she didn’t want to take any chances. The cold air blast, although very much evident, had lost its edge so far along. It was imperative that the virus escape through the correct grille, into the occupied room, and not get blown to the end of the pipe which was — she hoped — by now blocked off. And so, pushing herself with her toes, she advanced so far forwards that her hands were able to reach out and touch the grille.
The voices of the Koreans drifted into the tube. They were difficult to hear against the ever-present sound of the cold air. Not that it mattered; she didn’t speak a word of Korean.
She did speak English though, and understood perfectly when one of the children, voice quivering, asked to be allowed to go to the toilet. His request was met with a torrent of what sounded like verbal abuse. When it ended, she could make out the sound of the lad sniffling, and then the voice she most wanted to hear in the world: Erica’s.
“Shh, it’s okay, Tommy. We’ll be out soon, I promise.”
More Korean, this time directed at her. Then, a slap, a noise that filled Lucya with rage, spurring her into action.
She pulled her hands back, away from the grille, and retrieved the tiny plastic container of virus that was connected to a band wound around her throat — the only part of her body that was almost guaranteed not to touch the sides of the pipe during her expedition.
Vardy’s words echoed in her mind. Take a minute before you release the virus. But she didn’t have a minute to spare. It had taken far longer than anticipated to reach the room. A minute spent waiting was a minute less for the virus to get to work. Still trembling with anger, she unscrewed the cap on the container, and reached forwards again with both hands.
The container was a miniature atomiser, the kind used for dispensing air freshener, or perfume. With it lined up against the openings in the pipe, Lucya took a deep breath, and squeezed. She pumped four times, emptying the contents completely. In the narrow shafts of light that entered the grille like rays of sun, she could see the liquid turn to mist. The blown air from the ventilation plant did its job, carrying most of the fine spray out into the classroom. Some of it escaped further up the pipe, to be lost in the dead end. She knew that some might even be sucked back towards her as the airflow bounced and returned. It was a risk she had to take.
Lucya counted forty-five seconds before she had to take a breath. Not bad, she thought, but not great, either. One breath wasn’t enough though. The pent-up anger still held her in its grip, and she found herself panting, short, shallow breaths. A thin wisp of moisture blew back into her face. Instinctively she shut her mouth and her eyes, but her shortness of breath meant she couldn’t help but draw in air through her nose, minute droplets of liquid entering her nostrils along with the precious oxygen she so desired.
It happened before she could even think about it. A body’s natural reaction, an automatic reflex designed to expel the foreign invader. Her eyelids pulled themselves shut, and she sneezed.
Twenty-Nine
“WHAT’S THAT?” JAKE was on his feet, circling an area of the screen with his index finger. “It moved, right? It’s not my imagination. That moved!”
Bodil twisted a knob and the image on one of the monitors zoomed in on the spot Jake had highlighted. There was a frustrating wait while the sonar sent out its next pulse of energy and the screen updated.
Bodil shook her head. “It’s a shoal of fish. Big one, too.”
“But it looks like one object. You said this sonar could detect individual fish. Why aren’t we seeing them as dots or something?”
“At this resolution they appear as a single mass. We are looking for large objects. We can cover more ground at this lower resolution.”
Jake walked back to his chair. He looked at his watch again. Twenty-two minutes. He thought about Lucya, wondered if she had delivered the fatal dose. Wondered if the men were succumbing to the effects. Wondered if Erica was okay.
“I think I’ve made a terrible mistake,” he said, staring at a blank wall. “I shouldn’t be here. I should be back there, ready to negotiate more time.”
Bodil said nothing, remaining fixated on her monitors.
“This was a ridiculous idea. We’ll never find them in time. What was I thinking? Erica was in danger, now Lucya too. And if we can’t get that antidote, anyone who tries to help them is in danger.”
“We’re all in danger from the submarine, Jake.” Bodil didn’t look up. She tapped at keys, scribbled notes on paper, but her eyes never left the all-important screens. “You have others on the ship. Others who will take care of your loved ones, no?”
“Yes, but—”
“If we cannot find the submarine, their efforts might be for nothing.” She leaned forward, examining her monitor closely.
Jake felt something had changed. He turned to watch her. “What is it? You see something?” He took three steps back to her and squinted at the image. It still made little sense to him.
“More fish,” Bodil said calmly. “Sorry.”
Jake studied where she was looking. A darker patch among the circle of colour.
“Bodil, how big is that shoal? What scale are we looking at here?”
“It’s a small one, a few metres across, four or five. I could measure more precisely, but I’d have to stop watching the main screen.”
Jake rubbed his cheek with his right hand, and lifted his head to the ceiling, deep in thought. “Why would you think a shoal of fish four metres across was a hundred-metre-long, seven-thousand-odd-tonne submarine?”
“Because those subs are stealthy. We talked about this. They reduce their sonar signature. Even active sonar will have trouble seeing them. If we pick them up, they won’t look like a submarine, they’ll look like a much smaller object.”
Jake was nodding. “That’s what I thought. Yes…that’s what I thought.” He turned to the two sailors who were still with them in the room, sitting looking somewhat bored. “You, stay here and help Bodil with the lookout. You, go to the bridge and relieve Daniel. Send him out on deck to help me, and tell him to bring the radios. I’ve got an idea.”
• • •
Lucya froze. Her hands were still by the grille opening onto the classroom. If anyone looked towards it, they would surely see her.
The room beyond had become silent but for one man — the leader, she presumed — who was shouting orders. The children were afraid. A few began to wail and sob.
“What is trick?” The words cut through the air like a clap of thunder. “You try trick? We kill child!”
Another scream. Impossible to tell this time if it was Erica.
Then, Erica’s voice. Remarkably calm under the intense pressure. “It was me! I sneezed. It was me!” As if to prove the point, she sneezed, and then a third time. “I’m sorry, I had an itch. I didn’t mean to!”
“You go there. Corner. No help others.”
“Yes, sir. I will go to the corner.”
More words, this time in Korean. The men could be heard moving around. Were they checking the room, making sure nobody had so
mehow got in? Lucya wondered. She could hear the chairs and tables that hadn’t been used in the door barricade being moved, pulled back. Every corner of the room was being examined. Holding her breath, she pulled her hands back from the grille, and just in time. The light entering the shaft was momentarily blocked. Someone was in front of the grille. It rattled as the man on the other side verified that nobody could have come through it. He called to his leader, the voice so close, just inches away from her. Then he moved on, the light returned, and Lucya breathed out, very quietly.
• • •
The wind whipped around Jake’s face when he stepped outside. He could see the two sailors standing by the sonar winch equipment, idle, and called to them. “You men! Fetch one of those life-raft capsules and bring it to the bow section. Quick as you can!”
Without waiting for a reply he was off, jogging along the deck towards the front of the Lance. Daniel came out and caught up with him.
“Got those portable radios you asked for,” he said. “I thought we only brought them with us for emergency use. Have we found the sub?”
“Not yet. Daniel, see that harpoon gun?” He pointed towards a structure near the bow. A swivelling frame atop which sat what could almost have passed for a telescope, were it not for the pointed and lethal-looking arrowhead that protruded from the sea-facing end. Daniel nodded. “Ever used one?”
“No, Cap… No, Jake.”
“Then we’ll have to learn together. Don’t look so worried. Accuracy won’t be important.”
They approached the harpoon launcher cautiously, as if a misstep or too much noise would cause it to go off on its own. Next to the main assembly, in a frame bolted to the side of the hull, were an array of projectiles. Two of them carried warnings: Caution: Explosive.
“What’s a research ship doing with exploding harpoons?” Daniel asked.
“It was a fishing vessel before. I suppose they chose to keep this. It’s probably been used for whaling in the past.”
“Think it still works?”
