by Paul G White
“Get me the chopper crew,” Commander Fenwright ordered the radio operator.
Seconds later, he was informed, “You’re through, Sir.”
The pilot responded, “Awaiting orders, Captain.”
Still calm, as if they were engaged in a simple training exercise, Commander Fenwright said, “Find the ship and report what you see. Do not, I repeat, do not engage. Is that clear? We have no intelligence concerning the armament of our quarry. Where there is a cruise missile, we may also find ship to air defences.”
“Aye, aye Sir.” The rotor twitched, spun once, and then picked up speed. Moments later, with its rotors biting the air, the Merlin lifted off the aft helipad and clawed its way noisily into the sky. At a height of three-hundred metres, the pilot adjusted his bearing, dropped the chopper’s nose and thrummed off almost due south into the darkness at rapidly increasing speed.
The Forthright scythed through the dark waters of the Caribbean, beneath the ghostly arch of the Milky Way. Dead ahead, in the cloudless sky, amongst the scattered stars and constellations, Jupiter shone brightly, seemingly beckoning them onwards towards their destiny.
Commander Fenwright entertained the thought that it was good to be alive on an occasion like this, where the forces of right were about to confront the perpetrators of evil. The telemetry on his vessel had indicated a delay of around thirty minutes from the missile’s launch until the moment the nuclear warhead unleashed its terrible destruction. His observers would record the event by means of every medium available. If the perpetrators ever came to trial, Fenwright intended to ensure that every atom of evidence had been logged and recorded exactly by the book.
A voice broke into his thoughts. It was the pilot of the Merlin. “I see running lights ahead. It’s a coaster, approximately thirty-five metres long, eight metres beam. No sign of a missile launcher. I’m circling now, range one hundred metres.”
Fenwright could hear the whining of the Merlin’s three Rolls Royce turboshafts as background to the pilot’s voice. A series of sharp cracks punctuated the background noise and the whine of the engines rose in pitch and volume.
“We’re taking small arms fire, Sir. Requesting permission to return fire with missiles.”
“Permission denied! Haul off to three-hundred metres and await our arrival. We are two minutes away and we have the target in view.”
The navigator looked over his left shoulder and saw the dark shape of the Forthright ahead of a broad silver wake that stretched to the far horizon. The naval vessel changed course to bring her parallel to the fleeing coaster, and gradually slowed her speed to match that of the smaller vessel. Powerful lights speared out from the warship, bathing the whole of the port side of the smaller vessel.
A loud hailer boomed out from the warship, “Ahoy, coaster, Pride of the Caribbean. This is Commander Lionel Fenwright of the Royal Naval frigate, Forthright. You are commanded to stop engines and prepare to be boarded. Refusal to comply will be considered an act of aggression and you will come under fire.”
The Forthright’s remote-controlled ‘Kryten’ four point five inch gun, whimsically so called because of the turret’s resemblance to a robot of that name in a science fiction series on television, swivelled menacingly around to line up on the bridge of the coaster. The ‘Kryten’ was joined by a pair of forty millimetre cannons.
“The loud hailer boomed again, “You have one minute to comply with my order. The clock is ticking.”
Thirty seconds later, the foaming wake trailing behind the coaster died, dissolving like a ghostly spectre into the dark surface of the sea. The vessel’s forward motion slowed visibly, and the Forthright effortlessly matched her speed and maintained a parallel course.
Once more Commander Fenwright’s voice sounded across the hundred metre gap, “Collect all your weapons together and place them on the forward deck. Do not attempt to deceive us by retaining anything that can be construed as a weapon. I am prepared to order the use of extreme force if necessary. A boarding party is on its way, and you will lower a ladder over the side to enable boarding.” He turned to Lieutenant Raines. “Lower the inflatables!”
“Aye, aye Sir.” Lieutenant Raines issued the order and two high-powered inflatables, each bearing six heavily-armed marines and one carrying an extra passenger, a junior officer, descended to the surface below.
The boats hit the water and their twin outboard motors burst into life. Seconds later, they were speeding across the dark sea to the coaster. As they approached, a ladder unfurled and dropped down almost to water level. So far, the criminals appeared to be complying with the orders of the navy vessel’s captain.
The first inflatable halted at the bottom of the flexible ladder and men began to climb up the side of the ship. First one marine clambered over the rail and then another. As a third joined them on deck, a burst of semi-automatic fire tore into them and they fell to the deck. A fourth marine returned fire from a precarious position at the top of the ladder, half on, half-off the deck. He took a shot in the shoulder, lost his grip and his footing and plunged eight metres or so into the warm waters of the Caribbean.
Three men leapt from concealment on the deck and raced to the rail. Leaning over, they opened fire on the inflatables below. But the occupants returned fire, forcing them to keep their heads well back from the edge of the deck.
Commander Fenwright had seen enough. He had no intention of seeing his men murdered out of hand. By their action, the crew of the coaster had demonstrated what they thought of his ultimatum. The time had come to show that he wasn’t bluffing.
“Get the boarding party out of there and take out the bridge!” he called, and the twin inflatables surged away from the ship.
The four point five inch gun belched fire three times in a little over six seconds, and in a trio of violent explosions of twisted metal and glass that rumbled like thunder across the surface of the Caribbean, three metres of the bridge vanished, leaving behind a few gaunt metal spars and twisted plates as testimony that anything had ever occupied that space. From their elevated position, the rapid-fire forty-millimetre cannons raked the deck from bow to stern, inflicting substantial damage and putting an end to all further resistance.
Fenwright took up the loud hailer once more. “Coaster, Pride of the Caribbean,” he called, “all survivors will assemble on deck immediately and submit to arrest or your vessel will be sunk. You have sixty seconds to comply before the torpedoes are launched. Use the time wisely because there will be no more warnings.”
Thirty seconds into the period of the ultimatum he issued a sharp reminder, his amplified voice carrying easily in the still air over the short distance between the vessels. Five seconds later the first of Craithie’s replacement crewmen staggered onto the debris-strewn deck. He was joined by one more, and then another, until seven of the original eight were on deck.
“Is that your full complement?”
“Yes, but one of us is dead,” one of the men shouted.
“We are coming aboard, and this time you will not resist or your vessel will be destroyed.”
The captain nodded to Lieutenant Raines and his order was relayed to the inflatables, which came about and headed back to the coaster. An armed marine scaled the ladder and peered over the edge onto the deck. He saw seven members of the ship’s crew standing with their arms raised. Near the rail were the feebly moving forms of his fallen comrades.
He called down to the inflatables below, “We need medics, NOW!”
The request was relayed to the Forthright and soon a third inflatable, carrying medical personnel, was skimming across the dark waters. Meanwhile, the prisoners presented a ragged and dejected bunch on the deck of the Pride of the Caribbean, watched over by heavily-armed Royal Navy marines.
The officer in charge demanded, “Is there anyone else on board?”
One of the men, with blood seeping from a perforated eardrum said sullenly, “Only the captain. You’ll find him on the bridge if there’s anything left
of him.”
Sub-lieutenant Best detailed two marines to carry out a search of the vessel, starting at the bridge. “Take no chances,” he ordered, “I don’t trust these bastards and there could be more of them waiting for you.”
“Aye, aye Sir,”
The armed marines headed for the remnants of the bridge, a steely glint in their eyes betraying their anger at the cowardly nature of the attack on their comrades. They mounted the metal companionway up to the floor level of the bridge. Only a few jagged spars and plates remained, but miraculously, on the walkway at the top of the steps, the bloodied form of Captain Montez lay moaning in pain; he was barely conscious. His uniform had been shredded by the explosions around him and his back was a jigsaw of cuts and slashes from waves of passing shrapnel. His wrists were still handcuffed around the remnants of the metal rail, and it appeared that he owed his survival to the blast and shrapnel from the explosions having ripped over him as he lay prone on the metal plating, protected to the smallest degree by a ten centimetre high steel kick plate around the edge of the platform.
“We’ve located the captain, Sir. Looks like he was a prisoner because he’s handcuffed to what’s left of the rail. He needs a medic, urgently.”
“Check that the handcuffs are actually restraining him and search him to see if he’s armed. If he checks out, leave him and continue your search.”
“He’s not armed,” the marine called down moments later, “and the handcuffs are pretty tight. We’re going below, Sir.”
Fortunes of war, thought Sub-lieutenant Best. Some are lucky, some aren’t, and it seemed the captain of this vessel had been extremely fortunate to survive three four point five inch shells at such close range. “Carry on with the search and the medics will get to him soon.”
The two-man search party located a door to a narrow companionway leading to the lower deck and descended very carefully, automatic weapons at the ready, maintaining several steps’ distance between them. At the bottom of the steps, the narrow passage led to an open galley on the right, with containers of food strewn over every surface including the floor. Sounds of movement came from inside the small room. The lead marine pointed to his chest and then to the open doorway, and then slipped silently forward. At the last moment, he burst into the galley, yelling, “Get down! Get down on your face.”
The second marine was beside him instantly and saw a short, fat man in a chef’s white cotton jacket, with his face pressed into the unyielding galley floor. He was hysterically complaining in French that he was merely cleaning up the mess on the floor of his domain.”
“Didn’t you know that you’d been boarded by the Royal Navy?” one of the marines demanded.
From his position on the floor, the chef protested, “Monsieur, I am a chef. Nobody tell me nozzing!”
Maintaining careful watch on the chef, the first marine said, “Search him anyway.”
His comrade complied, running his hands all over the Frenchman’s body. The search revealed a nine millimetre automatic pistol jammed tightly into the waistband of his trousers.
“Only a chef?” the marine commented. “How many chefs do you know who carry a handgun?”
The Frenchman, most improbably considering his uncomfortable and restricted position, gave a Gallic shrug. “Not many, Monsieur, although I have worked in some restaurants where—” A prod from an automatic weapon halted his reminiscence in its tracks.
The marines stood back. “All right, stay where you are and don’t even twitch. My mate here’s a bit peeved at the way your friends on deck gunned his pals down without warning. If you so much as move an eyelash, he’ll put a bullet where it’ll pain you for a long time, comprenez?”
“I understand, Monsieur.”
With his rifle at the ready, the sailor searched the remainder of the living quarters, finding them completely deserted. It was time to join everyone on deck.
On board the Forthright, Commander Fenwright received the news of the capitulation of the coaster’s crew without further incident. “Excellent!” he commented. “Are the casualties on their way?”
“Yes, Sir,” Lieutenant Raines informed him. “They are being brought on board as we speak.”
“And the coaster’s captain?”
“Amongst the casualties, Sir.”
“How much longer to the nuclear detonation?” In the heat of the action Commander Fenwright had allowed it to slip his mind.
“We should have seen the flash ten minutes ago, Sir. Either some geographical feature has masked our view, which is highly unlikely, or the explosion hasn’t happened yet. If it hasn’t already happened, in the absence of any other likely target, it would appear the nuclear strike has failed.”
Fenwright closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer of thanks. In his view, the world wasn’t ready for nuclear madness. At this point in the interaction between the Sha’lee and the human race, he had no inkling that long-range nuclear weapons had become obsolete. When a nuclear bomb could be detected and destroyed far from its intended target by a more potent force, it had, at a stroke, lost its effectiveness as a weapon.
“That is welcome news, Lieutenant Raines,” Fenwright replied. “Now, let us do what is necessary to get that hulk out of the shipping lanes and into the harbour at Belize City. Under no circumstances is anyone to damage the deck fittings, because we need to preserve any remaining evidence of the missile launch tube and the chemical residue of any rocket propellants. It is our duty to ensure that these men do not escape justice due to lack of evidence.”
“Aye, aye Sir.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The medical teams, still wearing their Sha’lee clothing, were all gathered around Shenna and Phil Makeman. Carter was finding it difficult to believe the level of empathy and compassion displayed by his ofttimes recalcitrant and spiky friend. When this episode of first contact with the alien race was written into history, Makeman’s contribution would doubtless inspire future generations of would-be explorers.
The AI’s sweet voice cut into his thoughts. “Parel is one hour from awakening.” The virtual clock appeared above the sleep unit, glowing bright blue, with the flicker of the ever-changing seconds marking the remorseless passage of time.
Throughout the crisis presented by the cruise missile attack, displaying an unmatchable ability to perform many tasks simultaneously, Hela had quietly and calmly continued with the awakening of Parel, the astronomer. Shenna was now strong enough to oversee the resuscitation programme and, in an emergency, bring her medical knowledge and expertise, allied to the deftness of her hands, to bear on any problem that occurred. As soon as Parel was awake and fully active, they would raise Captain Lessil out of cryogenic sleep together.
Shenna was edgy, and she was not controlling her thought transmissions as well as would normally be expected of an adult Sha’lee. The resulting telepathic wash of emotion impacted on the humans around her to varying degrees: some felt nothing, but others experienced a vague and inexplicable sense of disquiet. Phil Makeman, having been in mental contact with the astronomer, however pale and insubstantial the contact had been in comparison with the true telepathy enjoyed by the Sha’lee, was forced to sit down with his head in his hands.
Carter noticed his friend’s distress. He placed his hand on Makeman’s shoulder and asked gently, “Are you all right, Phil?”
Makeman looked up. “Of course I am, you idiot,” he growled. “I just can’t help feeling Shenna’s happiness because her mate is going to be OK.”
“By ‘mate’ do you mean friend or husband, or whatever the equivalent is for Sha’lee?”
“Husband, I think.”
Margaret Blythe ghosted up beside Carter. “Did I hear you say it’s Shenna’s husband who’s awakening. How do you know that? Has she told you?”
“Not directly, no. It’s just that Shenna’s really worried and elated at the same time, and I don’t think she realises she’s telling everybody about it. It’s making it difficult to think. Can
’t you feel it?”
Carter and Blythe both stared blankly at Makeman. Eventually, Margaret said, “Feel what?”
Makeman grinned and looked around all the humans in the cold sleep area. No one else appeared to have been affected by Shenna’s emotional broadcast. It seemed that he alone possessed the ability to link telepathically with the Sha’lee, however dilute the connection. “I can sense Shenna’s thoughts and emotions,” he said. “Not very well, I must admit, but better than everyone else here if their reactions are anything to go by.”
Carter couldn’t hide his delight. “You know what this means don’t you, Phil?”
Makeman wore a broad smile. “You bet I do! I’ve been wondering how I could justify staying on the site, bearing in mind the fact that there’s no longer any call for geophysics. I know I discovered the Comora, but I can’t imagine I’d be allowed to remain for more than a few months. Now I have a real job again, one that’s as important as any other, and you don’t know how good it feels.”
Makeman felt a light touch on his arm. It was Shenna. She spoke a few words to him and Hela’s translation followed immediately. “I see your happiness, Philip Makeman. Let us talk together as we wait for Parel to complete his journey back to consciousness.”
With a grin, Makeman placed his arm around the Sha’lee astronomer’s slim shoulders and the ill-assorted pair ambled across to the outer wall of the huge chamber. Shenna touched a spot on the smooth surface and a padded seat unfolded for Makeman. Another touch and a second seat appeared. Both had clearly been designed to accommodate the Sha’lee, and Makeman wondered if they would be strong enough to bear his weight.
He felt the feather touch of a thought and he saw himself in the act of sitting down. He sat, and the seemingly insubstantial furniture bore his weight without protest. “Thank you,” he said, and Shenna experienced little difficulty in discerning the meaning, although the AI provided an instant translation anyway.
