Atlantis - Return of the Nation

by Steven Cook

The jeweller considered for a moment before smiling and offering his hand.

  ‘Three thousand it is.’ They shook hands.

  Danny slipped the watch from his wrist, polished it gently on his T-Shirt to remove the faint finger prints left by Craig inspecting it and then handed it back to the salesman Whilst the man put it into its designer packaging Danny slipped the Tissot back onto his wrist then fished in his shorts back pocket and pulled out his wallet to get his credit card.

  As the assistant processed the payment Danny looked around the shop. Craig was following his usual shopping process of looking at prices in disbelief then moving onto the next item shaking his head.

  Danny smiled, and then turned back to the assistant to enter his PIN number and complete the warranty paperwork. He accepted the package in return and the profuse thanks offered. Transaction completed he made his way to the door, collecting Craig as he did.

  A few minutes later the two friends were heading down the street, leaving Cohen and Massias and the International Commerce Centre behind them. Their close-cropped hair, youth and physique signified to the locals and tourists that they belonged to the armed forces.

  Indeed the two were crewmembers of H.M.S. Daring, lead ship of the Type 45 Class Destroyer, currently docked in Gibraltar’s naval port.

  Danny was the taller of the two, just short of six feet tall with nondescript brown hair. He had a slim, wiry build. His open, honest face and bright eyes masked a rare intellect. His affinity with computers and especially the electronic warfare systems equipment he was tasked with using had raised the already high profile of the ship immensely. It had been a close choice between becoming a computer game developer or joining the navy.

  Craig was a few inches shorter and was stockier than his companion. His hard upbringing had left him with a permanent scowl and an attitude that required constant reining in. His shaved blond hair barely concealed a ragged scar on his scalp that testified to some of his earlier escapades. His innate mechanical skills previously reserved to tinkering with motorbikes and locks had been moulded and exploited well by the Royal Navy.

  The two had become firm friends after being bunked together during basic training at H.M.S. Raleigh and had been lucky enough to be posted together onto the newly commissioned H.M.S. Daring.

  The ship had spent the previous two months at sea on its first deployment undergoing a joint naval exercise with several ships from the US Navy. The joint taskforce had linked together in an exercise testing the two navies combined anti-air and anti-submarine defences.

  H.M.S. Daring had been the lead ship in providing anti missile and aircraft defence courtesy of its Sea Viper system, which had the ability to launch the ASTER 15 and ASTER 30 missiles capable of taking out low-level, high-speed targets such as missiles, as well as conventional aircraft.

  The successfully completed exercise had ended with the majority of the US fleet heading for Italy, whilst the smaller British flotilla disbanded.

  H.M.S. Daring had been lucky to be redirected to Gibraltar for restocking and debriefing, together with H.M.S. Talent, an ageing Trafalgar Class Fleet Submarine and the USS Boise, a Los Angeles Class Submarine based at Norfolk Virginia. The US submarine had joined them for a goodwill visit to promote the solidarity between the two nations.

  The taskforce has continued its work in a more relaxed attitude when the ships had docked. A number of sporting activities had been arranged on a ship vs. ship basis, together with roving groups of mixed crewmen heading into Gibraltar Town for socialising of a very hard nature.

  As a result of the crews having been on extended sea duty the colonies military police had been involved in more than one incident as alcohol, heat and high spirits took its toll. As a consequence, liberty had been cut back drastically as the captains of the vessels prepared their ships for setting sail again.

  Luckily Craig and Danny had avoided trouble with the MP’s on their last night on shore. They had had bumped into a like-minded group from the USS Boise who were also intent on avoiding confrontation.

  As they all turned out to be involved in missile warfare they had spent a quiet night away from the main naval haunts discussing the various merits of their ships systems.

  The evening had turned into a good-natured, alcohol fuelled debate about whether the ASTER missile system was capable of taking out a Tomahawk Cruise Missile. After several hours of table thumping and pointed fingers it had ended with both sides of the argument agreeing on the capabilities of each respective system, and hoping that the systems never came into conflict with each other as they were only in use by allied forces.

  The ended with the group exchanging email addresses and the promise to keep in touch. Whether they all still remembered the promises the following day would be open to debate.

  Walking slowly Danny and Craig meandered through Gibraltar Town. Strolling down the pedestrianised Main Street they sought the meagre shadows of the buildings to avoid the bright late morning sunlight. Both of them tracked the passing young women, exchanging grins as any particularly attractive examples passed by, much to some of the ladies disgust.

  As they reached the Royal Calpe public house they stepped inside, ordered drinks at the quiet bar then retired to the beer garden. As Craig boldly stared at a couple of girls at a nearby table Danny swapped over his watches, replacing his trusty Tissot with the new Chanel. He paused in packing the Tissot away to give it a quick shake, watching the mechanism whirl around through the glass panel on the back.

  Smiling to himself he packed the old watch away and admired the ceramic watch now gracing his wrist. The ceramic had a lustrous depth and sheen that gave it a wondrous appearance.

  ‘Life is good.’ He picked up his lemonade and took a sip.

  ‘It would be if I could get my hands on her.’ Craig nodded towards the nearby table.

  Danny stifled a laugh as one of the girls turned and gave them a withering look, obviously having heard the comment.

  ‘Way out of your league mate.’ he checked the watch again. ‘What time are we due back?’

  ‘Two, but Carl’s on duty so we have a bit of leeway.’

  ‘Time for another then?’

  ‘Get in, same again?’ Craig drained his glass and headed for the bar.

  An hour later they approached the Naval Base. They could see their own ship easily; it’s sleek stealthy lines different to the hulking Royal Fleet Auxiliary vessel moored beyond it, a pedigree race horse compared to a dray horse. H.M.S. Talent was tied up further away from H.M.S. Daring and the American Submarine was beyond that.

  They could see that the USS Boise was ready for setting sail, its goodwill tour over. A tug was holding station several metres from the dark hull, a heavy hawser joining them together. Seamen could be seen stowing the cables that had tethered the submarine to the quay.

  Quickly they came to a guard post. They quickly handed over their military identity cards and shore passes. Taking back their ID’s they moved from Civilian Gibraltar to Military Gibraltar.

  They headed along the quay towards their ship, watching as the Boise was slowly teased away from its berth. The submarine looked clumsy in the confines of the dock.

  ‘It was a good laugh last night,’ said Danny.

  ‘Shame we couldn’t have had a bit longer. I wouldn’t have minded having a look around one of their subs. I did a week on a sub a couple of years ago when I was in the sea cadets,’ mused Craig.

  ‘Did you really? I never heard you mention that before.’ Danny’s voice dripped sarcasm.

  ‘Did I make a prat of myself last night?’ Craig winced as a few fragmented memories of the previous night flashed back into his mind.

  ‘Not really. I think it only took them a few times before they realised what you were talking about. Not everybody understands the Queen’s Scouse.’ He referred to Craig’s tendency to drop deeper and deeper into his local accent a
s he consumed more and more alcohol. He took a deep swallow from the bottle of water he was carrying.

  ‘Ah’m sure I don’t know what ya meaning thar boy.’ Craig mimicked Fitz, one of the American Sailors from the night before. His natural accent confused the attempt at a southern drawl.

  Danny snorted in laughter and sprayed water from his mouth and nose. ‘That is the worst impression I have ever heard.’ He bent over, coughing and wheezing.

  Craig started to thump his friend between his shoulder blades.

  ‘We aim to please.’

  Gradually Danny’s choking eased and Craig started helping him along the quay. They arrived at the gangway to the Daring’s aft flight deck and all levity disappeared.

  Craig led the way up the gangway. At the top he turned, stood to attention and saluted the White Ensign hanging limply in the still humid air at the stern of the ship, then reported he was returning aboard and requested permission to board.

  The officer of the deck looked at the two men; one dressed in a bright red football shirt, the short sleeves barely covering a tattoo of the same crest that adorned the shirt, the other a plain white T-Shirt with a suggestive line of text across the chest.

  The officer of the deck accepted Craig’s request and granted permission for him to step onboard ship.

  Danny stepped to the head of the gangway and repeated the process.

  The formalities completed the Officer of the Deck, Petty Officer Carl Spencer looked around to check no other officers were around then relaxed and walked over to the returned seamen.

  ‘Alright boys?’

  ‘Absolutely fantastic Carlos,’ said Craig, with no respect for the non commissioned officer’s rank. ‘Danny’s gone and blown a stack of cash on a pottery watch and I tried a couple of cheeky glasses of the local brew.’ He ignored Danny’s evil glance as he took another dig at his friend’s passion for timepieces.

  ‘How many is that now Danny?’ asked Carl.

  ‘Eight I think,’ said Danny after a quick mental recount.

  ‘He doesn’t even know. I don’t know why you need another one. Mine cost twenty quid and tells the time and has the date on it too!’ Craig shook his head.

  ‘Why do you buy a Liverpool shirt every season?’ Danny countered.

  ‘Because they’re the finest team in the world, the kits are different and I support them,’ Craig stated with obvious pride, grinning broadly.

  ‘But you don’t really need one do you?’

  The grin disappeared. The two friends turned to face each other, oblivious to Carl who crossed his arms and watched them descend into an almost ritualistic argument.

  ‘Yeah, but you can only wear one watch at a time.’

  ‘And how many shirts do you wear at any one time?’

  ‘Half of them you can’t tell the time on!’

  ‘Your shirts are out of date after a year. Sometimes not even that long.’

  ‘It takes you a year to save up for them.’

  ‘The ways shirt prices go up it’ll soon take you a year to save up for one.’

  ‘Fair point,’ Craig conceded. The pair grinned at each other.

  ‘You two are like a married couple,’ said Carl. ‘Now piss off, there’s an officer coming.’

  The two seamen nodded and headed towards the portside of the helicopter flight deck. The stepped through an open hatch and headed down to their ward room towards the stern of the ship.

  *

  North Atlantic 20th May

  The USS Boise was in her element. As soon as the seabed beneath her keel had dropped away the crew had submerged the boat. A submarine on the surface was vulnerable, with what seemed like the whole world looking at them. Submerged she was, if not entirely safe, at least holding a distinct advantage.

  A week in port had been a welcome change in routine for the Captain and his crew, but now it was back to the business of being silent, hidden and deadly.

  The Los Angeles Class submarine was ideally suited to this sinister task. The crew of seventeen officers and one hundred and thirty four enlisted men were encased in a three hundred and sixty foot long tube armed with numerous Tomahawk cruise missiles and Type 48 torpedoes. The Sonar was sensitive enough to listen to shipping tens of miles away and also listen to the low frequency conversations of whales. Running deep and at low speeds the Boise was almost a hole in the water.

  She could remain submerged for months on end, limited only by the supplies required for her crew. During that time she could sneak within a few miles of a hostile shore completely undetected, launch a salvo of precision missiles and then disappear with nobody being any the wiser, until they hit.

  The crew had soon got back into the strange eighteen-hour day routine, with the shifts, drills and regular maintenance. The boat was one of the newer Los Angeles Class Nuclear Attack Boats. She had been launched in 1992 and had joined Submarine Squadron Eight on the East Coast of mainland USA. She had a reputation for excellence and the recent joint exercise had been the last in a long line of ventures with the Royal Navy.

  The boat was currently heading west at seven knots, two days out of Gibraltar. This would be increased when they reached less travelled waters. Her course would take her south of the Azores, across the Atlantic Ocean and back to her base at Norfolk, Virginia, where she was due for an extended overhaul and refit. At this point many of the crew would be assigned to different berths or, if their tours of duty had or were due to be completed soon, returned to Civvy Street.

  Throughout the submarine the crew quietly and efficiently carried out their duties. Within the command centre the Commanding Officer and his Executive Officer (XO) were poring over an illuminated map of the central Atlantic. The boat’s course out of Gibraltar was overlaid as a solid line and the proposed route a series of dotted lines to pre specified navigation waypoints.

  ‘OK Andy, you can go and get your head down if you want.’ The Commander was diminutive next to his XO, but commanded easy respect from him, the officers and ratings.

  ‘Conn – Sonar.’ A call from the small cubbyhole to the rear of the command centre caused the two officers to raise their heads. The Commander looked at the XO and nodded his head to indicate that he should investigate.

  Lieutenant-Commander Andy Warnett pushed back against the edge of the plotting table and pulled himself to his full six foot two height. He was tall for a submariner, more suited to being a professional athlete. His back cracked as he straightened up, his head almost touching the pipe work. He took the few steps to the sonar room and stuck his head inside.

  ‘What is it Fitz?’ He asked of Shane Fitzpatrick, the senior Sonar operator.

  Fitz absently held a spare headphone for the XO to listen to as he concentrated on the signals displaying before him and what he could hear through his headphones.

  ‘There’s something strange going on out there. It seems that all the sea life is heading away from a point bearing ten degrees to starboard. I’ve been monitoring a pod of whales for the last hour and they’ve changed direction with some urgency.’

  Warnett placed the headphone against his head and attempted to decipher the various swishing noises. Fitz also pressed his earphones tightly to his ears and looked intently at the array of displays in front of him. The sounds from the surface several hundred feet above gave Warnett no chance. He decided to rely on the more attuned ears of Fitz and the equipment distributed throughout the submarine.

  ‘It’s not volcanic. I can’t hear anything and the temperature is still within normal parameters, verging on the warm side. The storm on the surface is causing some distortion though.’ Fitz’ forehead knitted as he concentrated.

  ‘Any speculation?’ asked the XO, dropping the earphone from the side of his head.

  ‘Not yet. I’l
l keep you informed.’ Fitz carried on looking at the console, attempting to decipher the strange behaviour of the sea life.

  The XO looked at the displays for a few seconds, taking in the steady signals from below the surface and the jagged returns from the storm lashed surface, and then returned to the main command centre. As he rejoined the commander at the plotting table the lights flickered for a fraction of a second. He looked up at the lights immediately adjacent to him before leaning over the table again.

  As he was about to update the commander another call came from the Sonar Room.

  ‘Conn – Sonar. There’s something big coming up from the seabed. It seems to be an air bubble, but it’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen. Recommend an immediate heading of Sou’ Sou’ East to take us away from it. I’ll post a live feed on the tac.’

  Commander Artley took a quick look at the electronic map to see further information appear. He checked the suggested heading to make sure they had plenty of water in that direction before turning to the Helmsman.

  ‘Helm, come left to 225. Take us up to 15 knots.’

  ‘Aye Aye Sir,’ responded the Helmsman; he gently turned the yoke until the indicator in front of him showed the desired heading.

  The deck canted over as the submarine started to make the turn. Unconsciously the officers braced their legs and leant or held onto the fixtures.

  ‘Heading 225, speed 15,’ the Helmsman confirmed after a few seconds. The deck levelled out again.

  Commander Artley made a note on the plotting table then called out ‘Sonar, update.’

  ‘Sir, I’ve plotted the extremities of the bubble and we should pass beyond its projected boundary in ninety seconds. The thing is I can’t detect the far side. It’s beyond sonar range. Things may get a bit rough; there are some major changes in the thermals.’

  Fitz frowned again as a burst of static cut through his headphones. He lifted the earpieces in pain and annoyance then replaced them over his ears as the static cut off.

  He listened hard but was surprised to hear nothing. He turned to the sonar operator beside him to discover that he too was looking at his headphones.