Unfathomed (The Locus Series Book 1)

by Ralph Kern

  Maine turned and looked at Solberg. The captain gave a nod and she turned back to her console. “Unidentified vessel, this is the M/S Atlantica. We stand ready to assist. Please state the nature of your emergency.”

  “Thank you Atlantica. I am the Liliana. We have a number of casualties on board from a ship’s fire. Any assistance you can offer would be gratefully received, Atlantica.”

  “Goddamn it, is this stretch of the fucking sea cursed?” Solberg muttered, before saying more loudly. “Helm, come about and make back toward the Liliana.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” the helmsman called out.

  “Engine room, this is the bridge. Prepare to go to emergency dash. Again.”

  The ship began to turn ponderously. The only thing to show her changing heading was the sun moving slowly across the sky.

  “Liam, get back up here. Looks like we have more casualties on board that ship who need rescuing.”

  ***

  The pain in Jack’s head had subsided to a dull ache and his stomach had settled now that he had filled it with scrambled eggs and toast.

  The breakfast and lunch buffet room, Beachcombers, was high on the stern of the Atlantica, directly above the main dining hall. A vast panoramic window curved around the room, showing the ocean behind. Extending into the distance was the foamy wake of the ship, a white road on the azure blue water.

  As Jack watched, he saw the road begin to curve to the left. Dabbing his napkin to his lips, he leaned against the straight-backed chair. Why the hell were they adjusting course again? Apparently they were heading back to Nassau. Maybe they had fixed what they needed to fix and were resuming their original course?

  ***

  “No, Doctor, I haven’t managed to get a straight answer out of them about the number and nature of the casualties yet other than it’s the result of some kind of fire.” Solberg was frustrated. The Liliana’s master was just being plain obtuse when it was coming to giving them any kind of information. At the moment, Solberg was putting that down to language difficulties, but he sure as hell would be writing a long and strongly worded letter to whoever her owners were.

  “Understood. We will prepare as best we can for multiple burns and smoke inhalation,” Dr. Emodi replied.

  Disconnecting the call, Solberg placed his phone on the console and gave an exasperated sigh.

  Solberg’s sixth sense was telling him something was wrong about the situation. Well, even more wrong than it already fucking is.

  The Liliana was dead ahead. Soon Atlantica would have to cut engines to make a rendezvous with her. A cruise ship didn’t exactly stop on a dime—she would need a good couple of miles to come to a halt relative to the ferry.

  “Mister Kendricks?” Captain Solberg said, his nervousness causing him to be more formal than the norm with the closest thing he had to a friend on board. “Bring her along our port side mid-ship loading hatch and prepare for rescue and recovery.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “And Mister Kendricks, make sure we have a security detail at the station.”

  “Yes, sir. And the LRAD?” Kendricks asked.

  “Yes.” Solberg nodded. “Get that manned, too.”

  Plucking his phone out of his pocket, Kendricks dialed the head of security. “Mister Singh, meet me down in the security center. And bring along a detail.” He paused as he listened to the response. “Yes, a full team. And bring your key.”

  ***

  The utilitarian security center was deep in the bowls of the ship, just off of one of the main crew corridors, affectionately called “Route 66”. The walls were adorned with everything from white boards displaying rosters scribbled in marker to posters warning the crew to be aware of suspicious packages and people.

  The nine men and women of the security team were primarily of South Asian or Eastern European descent, attracted to the life on a cruise ship for the relatively high wages despite the relentless working hours imposed upon them. All were well trained and many had some kind of military experience.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Liam Kendricks briefed them. “We are about to engage in rescue and recovery operations on a distressed ferry. We have an unknown number of casualties on board.”

  Pulling a keychain from around his neck, Kendricks caught a confused look in Haroon Singh’s eyes. “Something doesn’t feel right about this. The distressed ship has been late in communicating with us, evasive in its communications when it finally did, and suspicious in its maneuvering. Hopefully this is going to be exactly like it appears, but we are not going to take any chances with the four thousand passengers and two thousand crew on board.”

  Kendricks nodded at Singh and the two men went to an innocuous bulkhead hatch. There were two locks on it, and each of them had a key for one of those locks. Only Captain Solberg had both keys to open the door on his own.

  Looking in Kendricks’s eyes, Haroon Singh said formally and for the benefit of the CCTV which recorded the access to the hatch. “Staff Captain Kendricks, do you have the real and honestly held belief that the ship may be under threat?”

  “I do,” Kendricks replied, equally formally.

  “I concur. I note the time to be 1247 hours and I am using my key on the armory.” Singh slipped the key into one of the locks and turned it, before stepping aside for Kendricks to do the same.

  “I note the time to be 1247 hours, and I am using my key on the armory,” Kendricks repeated, slipping his own key into the second lock.

  Grunting with effort, Kendricks swung the heavy door open and stepped inside the room which was little bigger than a walk-in closet. Inside, racks of handguns and several shotguns rested against the bulkhead.

  Picking a Heckler and Koch HK45 off the rack, Kendricks turned to the solid-looking red metal bullet catcher tube angled against one wall. Checking that the safety catch was on and there was no magazine in the handle, he drew back on the black slide and released it three times before locking it back and looking into the chamber, ensuring there were no rounds within.

  Gesturing with his free hand for one of the security officers to join him, Kendricks tilted the handgun to show the empty chamber and said, “Clear.”

  “That is clear,” the woman said and took the weapon from him. Taking a magazine from the shelf, she slid it into the grey handle of the gun and pressed the release catch. With a thunk, the slide locked forward.

  “Take four spare magazines and a Taser,” Kendricks said before reaching for another handgun. “Next.”

  Chapter 10 – Day 3

  The breakfast had sorted Jack out and he decided to skip lunch. Instead he was seated at a table in Art Deco, a café on the promenade. As its name suggested, it was inspired by the 1930s. Gaudy paintings were intermingled with stylish cityscapes of buildings and ships of the period. The decorations were something that would have been lost on Jack, other than the fact he was flicking through the ship’s magazine which explained all of this.

  Taking a sip on his coffee, he heard the bing-bong chime of a ship’s announcement. One of the cityscapes, showing a black and white image of the Chrysler Building, revealed itself to be a TV screen with the captain now on it.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, as you may be aware, we have performed another maneuver. This is to effect rescue operations on a distressed ferry we have encountered. There is no cause for alarm, so please enjoy your day.”

  The screen blinked off, reverting to the image of the Chrysler Building.

  Two rescue operations in as many days? Jack’s mind whirled. There has got to be something bigger going on here. We’ve had no contact with the outside world in days, and have now encountered two distressed ships.

  Downing his lukewarm coffee, he stood and made his way out onto the promenade, heading for the elevators which would take him to the deck, forgetting for the moment his resolution to only use the stairs.

  ***

  The squat Liliana, as large as she was, was dwarfed by the vast bulk of Atlantica. The two ships were appr
oaching head to head, offset slightly so they would draw parallel with each other.

  Liliana’s hundred-meter-long double catamaran hull was painted white, her name emblazoned on the side in multi-colored lettering. Nestled on top of the twin hulls was the passenger section, three enclosed decks with small portholes along the side, and a bridge window visible at the front. Structurally, she seemed new; an advanced catamaran of a type which many of the sailors on board the Atlantica recognized as only having been plying the Caribbean for a few months.

  Her paintwork told a different story—it was faded and discolored by sea spray and the sun. Rust was visible around her ports, giving all the signs of long years of service.

  ***

  “Open the loading hatch,” Kendricks called out. There was none of the refinement of the passenger sections of the ship down in the working decks. The walls were metal bulkheads and exposed piping, and the only adornments to them were safety notices and posters. The room they were in was nearly fifty meters long and twenty deep, full of pallets of supplies. The tons of dry goods that went into providing for six thousand people were stored in ten similar bays nestled in the ship’s hull. Everything from flour to dishwashing powder was stored in such chambers.

  With a loud whine, the massive cargo doors rumbled open, exposing the glistening blue ocean and ferry beyond. The crewman on the control panel pulled another lever and a platform extended from under the cargo bay doors, locking into place with a mechanical “thunk”.

  Kendricks and the security detail were wearing long wax raincoats to hide the fact they had shoulder holsters containing handguns and Tasers. Dr. Emodi and his medical team were waiting to one side, along with a dozen wheeled stretchers they had already brought down in anticipation of casualties.

  Kendricks stepped out onto the platform, exposing himself fully to the scorching hot midday sun. He was already sweating and mopped the perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand. The hatch to the top deck of the Liliana was nearly flush with the platform. Kendricks waved over a couple of crew members who, carrying a gangplank between them like a ladder, jogged over and fastened one end to the eye bolts on the edge of the platform.

  The hatch on the flank of the Liliana opened, two figures visible within. They waved to Atlantica’s crewmen, who lowered the gangplank, letting it drop neatly into the open hatchway. Liliana’s crew fussed over the end of it, securing it to the door, creating a bridge between the two ships.

  One of Liliana’s crew, a muscular Hispanic man in his thirties, wearing a black t-shirt and faded blue jeans, walked across to the platform, extending out his hand as he did.

  “Good afternoon,” Kendricks shook the man’s hand. “Staff Captain Liam Kendricks, executive officer of the M/S Atlantica, and you are, sir?”

  “I am Urbano Bautista, master of the Liliana. My sincere thank you for your assistance, Staff Captain.”

  “We understand you have casualties,” Kendricks said, cutting to the chase. “Our medical facility is at your disposal.”

  Bautista gave a nod. “If we may get them across as soon as possible?”

  “By all means.” Kendricks stepped aside, gesturing toward the entrance of the bay.

  Bautista turned and shouted back at the gently rocking Liliana, “Llevarlas, rapidamente.”

  A parade of men and women emerged from the hatch of the ferry, carrying a stretcher between each pair. Kendricks stood to one side, letting them pass. “Take them into the cargo bay, we have a triage facility set up there.” And our security team, Kendricks thought to himself.

  There were six stretchers in all, each with a moaning man or woman on them, specks of blood visible on the faces, the rest of their bodies covered by green woolen sheets tucked up around their necks.

  “What happened, Captain?” Kendricks stood next to Bautista as the stretchers and bearers passed them.

  “A fire, below decks.” Bautista shrugged. “Probably a cigarette? Who knows, our priority is their medical condition rather than investigation.”

  “Fair enough,” Kendricks had to agree with the sentiment. Apportioning blame could come later. “Okay, that’s enough. Let my medical teams process them. Then we can take more on board if need be.”

  Bautista gave a nod. “As you wish.”

  Kendricks and the Latino man walked back into the cargo bay as the stretcher-bearers laid the first of the casualties down on the red-painted floor.

  “You’ll forgive us if our security officers just perform a routine check?” Kendricks asked.

  Bautista paused for a moment. “Of course, by all means.”

  A security officer approached one of the prone figures and hunkered down next to him. With a quick motion, he pulled aside the sheet. On the stretcher alongside the casualty lay a pair of automatic rifles.

  The “sick” man’s eyes flashed open and he lifted the handgun already in his hand, and fired it twice into the security officer’s chest. Blood splatters blossomed on his white shirt and the security officer looked down, a confused expression on his face before falling backward. The man on the stretcher sprang upwards, firing wildly as his comrades dived for the rifles

  The security team had been ready, knowing this was the moment in which if anything were to happen, it would. They drew their handguns from their holsters.

  Haroon Singh fired twice into the man who had shot his security officer. The man fell to the floor with a cry.

  Bautista turned and drew a small pistol from his waistband where it had been hidden. Smoothly he drew a bead on Kendricks and opened fire.

  The staff captain was already twisting away as he heard the first shots. He was fast, but not fast enough. He felt a sharp lance of agonizing pain in his left shoulder. Drawing his own sidearm, he fired wildly toward Bautista as he stumbled back toward the cover of a cargo pallet. Every shot missed, but it did succeed in forcing the man back behind the cover of a crate.

  The first exchange of fire was brutal at such a close range. The dead and wounded dropped to the floor and puddles of blood spread around them. What was left of the security team dove behind whatever cover they could find while the medical team bolted toward the exits. Then the automatic fire of the boarder’s rifles began. Bullets ripped through the cargo crates, turning the hold into a maelstrom of burning hot lead.

  Hunkering behind a support stanchion, keeping his right hand on the gun, Kendricks reached into his pocket with his left. His arm felt weak and trembled as blood trickled down it.

  Pressing the bridge speed dial on the screen of his phone, Kendricks barked into it, “Terrorists, they’re fucking terrorists!”

  ***

  “Terrorists, they’re fucking terrorists!” Kendricks’s voice bellowed out of the bridge’s speakers.

  “What the fuck?” Solberg whispered. The CCTV from the cargo bay had been piped up to the bridge and the officers watched events unfold with shocking rapidity.

  “Sir? Orders?” Maine called out.

  “Fucking terrorists?” Solberg growled, repeating Kendricks. His shock turned to a burning anger. Terrorists, on his fucking ship! “Maine, send out a Mayday. Announce we are under attack.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied. Hunkering over her console, she began to call into her mic, “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. We are under attack. I am a cruise ship with an unknown number of threats boarding us.”

  “Helmsmen, flank speed. Get us away from that ferry. Now, damn it!” Solberg barked.

  “Aye aye, sir.” The helmsman pushed the rarely used manual throttle lever wide open. The engine noise rose from silent, through a purr to a deep rumble, creating a vibration throughout the whole ship.

  “Get any other security we have to the armory. Tell one of them to pick up my keys on the way!” Solberg called out.

  ***

  Atlantica slowly began to accelerate as more boarders ran across the gangplank. The metal structure gave a sound of tortured metal being warped and twisted before the end sprang from the eyebolts on the Liliana.
Along with a screaming person, the gangplank plunged into the ocean with a splash.

  The two ships bounced of each other, grating and sparking as Liliana began to grind backward along the Atlantica’s hull.

  ***

  “Jesus,” Jack muttered as he heard the unmistakable sound of gunshots and the rattle of automatic weapons from amidships. Leaning over the side, he saw the ferry that had pulled alongside bounce repeatedly into Atlantica’s hull, slowly pirouetting as the cruise ship’s greater mass pulled it around.

  All around him were cries of panic from the other passengers. Some were running away from the sound of the shooting; others were frozen in fear.

  “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. All hands, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” A panicked voice shouted from the ship’s PA system.

  Looking around, Jack caught sight of a young woman, dressed in the polo shirt and shorts of one of the children’s play workers running by him.

  He just managed to catch hold of her arm, stopping her and twisting her around.

  “Hey, hey,” he said. “Listen, I’m ex-marines. I can help. Can you take me to the security office?”

  “No, I have to get to the children. That’s my job when there’s a Charlie.” The girl’s eyes were wide in fear and her voice had an edge showing she was on the verge of tears. “I have to look after them if something like this happens.”

  “Okay, that’s good,” Jack glanced at her nametag. “Clarice. You get to your station. But I need you to tell me what deck the security office is on?”

  “It’s on Route 66-B,” Clarice tried to tug her arm free. “That’s crew deck two.”

  “Got it.” Jack released her arm and in his slight limping run, headed for the stairs.

  Chapter 11 – Day 3

  The battle in the cargo bay had quickly turned into one of bloody attrition. It was a battle the heavily armed and more numerous terrorists were winning with their military-grade weaponry.

  “I’m down to two mags,” Singh called from where he was hunkered down next to Kendricks. “We aren’t going to win this.”