Survival

by David Fletcher

  ‘…just as they have let us know that the official advice is still to carry on with our cruise. The only new piece of advice of any sort is that, if we do need to bring our cruise to an early conclusion – for whatever reason – we should sail back to Ushuaia and not to the Falklands. As the authorities there have made very clear, the resources available to deal with the unscheduled return of any number of ships are very limited, and it will be much better if we were to head back to Argentina, where there will be all the resources we will ever need…’

  ‘…if they’re not all dead there,’ suggested a new voice in the crowd. ‘And what about what we want to do? How about asking us where we might want to go…’

  ‘That’s enough,’ interjected a now severe-looking captain.

  Here, he took the microphone from Jane, and immediately put it to use.

  ‘Before this meeting,’ he started, ‘I agreed with Jane that, as your expedition leader, she should brief you on what we’ve been told. But I think that might have been a mistake. It seems that some of you may have forgotten what I said yesterday, which is that, as captain of this ship, I have absolute control of its movements and no one – and I mean no one – is going to dictate what I do. So, may I just say myself – as your respectful but recognised captain – that I will be taking this ship to Antarctica as planned, until such time as I am advised to do otherwise, when in all likelihood I will take it back to Ushuaia. And my apologies if that all sounds a little autocratic, but ships do not do very well with multiple captains. That’s why they go to sea with only one.’

  Here, the captain glared at the assembled company, before handing the microphone back to Jane to allow her to resume her role as the softer face of authority. And nobody in the audience said another word. Instead, they listened to Jane explaining that, in thirty minutes’ time, there would be a lecture on the early days of the British Antarctic Survey, and that, as most people would have realised, the Sea Sprite was already on its way further east and south along South Georgia’s coast. This was to allow it to arrive at Drygalski Fjord in the late afternoon, in order that the ship’s passengers could take in the splendour of this dramatic seven-mile-deep inlet before they readied themselves for dinner. Furthermore, as this fjord was at the southern tip of South Georgia, it would provide the Sea Sprite with an ideal overnight anchorage before it set sail for Antarctica in the morning. Or, just possibly, for Ushuaia…

  That was it. After the delivery of no actual bad news but no good, reassuring news either, the lounge was soon empty. And back in their cabin, Alex and Debbie were attempting to process what they’d been told. They would certainly have welcomed some rather more positive news, but they had been heartened to a degree simply by the captain’s attitude and determination. He had sounded both competent and confident. Indeed, they both agreed that ‘he knew best’ and that now, with no access to any outside news via the telly, they had to trust him more than ever to do the right thing. And if this involved ploughing on to Antarctica, then that was quite all right by them. Hell, going to Antarctica was the primary purpose of their coming on this cruise. And, in their minds, Antarctica had a great deal more to offer than Argentina. Like Adélie and chinstrap penguins, and crabeater and Weddell seals – and all those promised icebergs, and so much more.

  Derek, Elaine and Roy all agreed. Having taken in the delights of Drygalski Fjord, they were now together at a table, taking in some of the delights prepared in the Sea Sprite’s galley, and they were all being surprisingly upbeat about their rather novel situation. After all, one could not dispute that if the world was being devoured at great speed by some terrible contagious disease, they were sitting on the very edge of its platter. And, as Roy continued to maintain, the disease might become completely satiated before it employed its cutlery anywhere near them. They might easily survive as the most fortunate leftovers ever.

  Alex, back in his cabin and lying next to Debbie, tried to persuade himself that Roy could well be right; that he and everyone else on this ship might be amongst the luckiest people on the planet. But it was difficult. And anyway, he asked himself, weren’t most leftovers either consumed later on or just consigned to a bin…?

  seventeen

  Stuart was awoken by a knock on his door. This had never happened before, and it took him more than a few seconds to remember where he was, let alone to wonder who might be indulging in such an extraordinary action so early in the morning. Nobody knocked on his door at… ten to six. By glancing at his clock, he had now confirmed just how early it was, and this caused him to catch his breath. What the hell was going on? Shit! Was this a call to get him into one of those damn bunkers? Had there already been deaths on the base?

  Well, there was only one way to find out. Get out of bed, step into some jeans, and then open the door. This he had done within only a very few seconds, and when he opened the door, he was a little surprised but very relieved to see that it was Gill. His absent friend from yesterday was now his very-much-present friend, and a friend who was clearly expecting to be let in.

  Stuart didn’t hesitate, and in no time at all, Gill was sitting on the solitary chair in Stuart’s room, and Stuart was sitting on his bed. Then Gill spoke.

  ‘Jesus, I’m knackered,’ she started. ‘I could sleep for a week.’

  ‘I heard. You’ve all been sealing up the base and God knows what…’

  ‘Bloody right. Thirty hours solid. I’ve never worked so hard in my friggin’ life.’

  ‘I thought you signals guys had it easy – one screwdriver turn every twenty minutes and that was it.’

  ‘If only,’ retorted Gill. ‘You wouldn’t believe what’s been going on. And the stuff we’ve been doing with the comms kit. And all the comms that have been coming in. Well, I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘Yeah, I can imagine. We civilian types got a briefing from an RAF guy, and he did indicate you’d been a bit busy.’

  ‘Mmm… more than a bit busy, I can tell you…’

  And here she stopped herself, before asking Stuart a question.

  ‘What did he tell you about what’s going on outside?’

  ‘You mean in Stanley?’

  ‘No. I mean in the rest of the friggin’ world.’

  ‘Nothing that I didn’t know already. You know, shedloads of people dying. And all over the place…’

  ‘And in Britain?’

  Stuart felt a lump in his throat. It made him hesitate for a second, and then he spoke.

  ‘Nothing, but I did infer that it might be really bad news.’

  This time it was Gill who hesitated. She was evidently deciding how to proceed. And then she spoke. In almost a whisper.

  ‘I could get court-martialled for what I’m about to tell you. But… well, you’re my mate, and frankly, even if they find out, I don’t think convening court martials is going to be a top priority any time soon…’

  ‘You mean “courts martial”,’ corrected Stuart without even thinking.

  ‘Yeah. Whatever. But I’ve just got to tell you. You see, I’ve seen some of the transcripts of some of yesterday’s comms. And, well… pardon my French, but we’re fucked. And when I say we’re fucked, I mean Britain’s fucked. I don’t know quite how bad, but I suspect really bad…’

  Here she stopped herself, and looked at Stuart intently.

  ‘Hey, mate, I didn’t think. I mean, about your family…’

  ‘Come on. Don’t you remember? I lost my parents even before you did. We’re both two lonely orphans in a big, bad world.’

  Gill looked relieved, if a little bit embarrassed. Then she laughed.

  ‘God. How could I have forgotten that? Too many hours on the job…’

  Stuart hardly heard what she said. He was too intent on formulating a question for his friend.

  ‘So, you’ve seen something which… well, which says that this flu thing has got to England�
��?’

  ‘And Scotland and Wales, and Ireland as well. I think they shipped some people out to Canada, but I’m not really sure. All I’m pretty sure of is that we’ve essentially had it. And I doubt any of your lot are still alive. Unless they’re all down in some big Cheltenham cellar. Although I’m not so sure that even that would be enough.’

  ‘Christ!’

  ‘Yeah. Christ indeed. A bit more than effing scary, ain’t it?’

  Stuart nodded in agreement. He couldn’t think of anything more to say. Then, somehow, he did have a thought.

  ‘Gill, did any of the stuff you saw say anything about what’s actually killing everybody? I mean, somebody must at least have a theory. There must be some sort of info on it. Something that gives an indication of how it spreads, for example…’

  ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Gill. ‘I’ve just remembered why I’m here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There was this attachment, see – this super-encrypted attachment to one of the signals to the colonel – that I reckon might have been to do with that very subject…’

  ‘How can you know?’

  ‘I can’t. It’s just that it was referred to as ultra-secret, and later on I heard that the colonel nearly went white when he read it. You know, after it had been decrypted…’

  ‘So?’

  Gill looked untypically bashful. Then she spoke.

  ‘Stuart, we’re in a hell of a pickle. We might be in a very out-of-the-way place here, one that’s been made as safe as possible. But out there, in the wider world, there has been absolute carnage. And I just don’t think anywhere is now quite out-of-the-way enough. Or safe enough…’

  ‘And you want to know what was in that encrypted attachment?’ offered Stuart. ‘So that you – and I – might… have a better chance of surviving. If it all goes tits up…’

  ‘Yeah. Something like that. Although it might be nothing. Or even if we do find out what’s going on, it might be a waste of time…’

  ‘Can you get hold of the message? The one with the attachment?’

  Stuart sounded both excited and impatient.

  ‘Yes, I can. But I’m not sure…’

  ‘Could you forward it to… errh, let me think. Yes, I know. Could you forward it to the President of Colombia? If I get you his details.’

  ‘To the President of Colombia?!’

  ‘I should be able to decrypt it. But only if I pick it up as an intercept and use the firm’s magic box to do the decryption. And, of course, I can’t intercept it unless it’s sent.’

  ‘Yes. But to the President of Colombia?’

  ‘Gill, he’s probably dead. And even if he isn’t, who’s going to spend time attempting to decrypt an attachment to a message in English, when outside on the streets of Bogotá there are piles of bodies or some sort of uncontrolled mayhem? We could probably just as safely send it to the FSB. Only Moscow isn’t on my patch…’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ pronounced Gill. ‘I’m with you. I’ll get on to it right away. And then I’ll start work on my defence…’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘For the court martial.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother. They’ll just shoot you.’

  Gill laughed out loud, and Stuart smiled. Then the laugh and the smile evaporated. Nothing about what they planned to do was in any way funny, and they both knew it. No, this was desperate stuff, and only yesterday the idea of broadcasting serious military communications – to Colombia or anywhere – would have been totally beyond their combined imagination. However, that was yesterday, and today the world was not the world they had known, and it never would be again. Sending a message to the leader of a nation noted for its drug exports, no matter how sensitive and how important the message, was now just something that had to be done. The consequences of doing so could hardly be any more daunting than what was happening around the world. And, most important of all, they both knew that it might result in their gaining a real insight into why all this was happening. Which might just be crucial in their attempts to avoid two further unscheduled deaths.

  Five hours later, when they met again in Stuart’s room, they had indeed gained this insight. Gill had managed to forward the ‘ultra-secret’ message to Colombia’s head honcho, and Stuart had been able to intercept it and then decrypt the all-important attachment. Now they both knew the nature of the beast that was threatening their lives. And maybe even a way to evade it…

  eighteen

  Alex had been dreaming about Shackleton. He had been with him aboard the James Caird, the ridiculously small lifeboat that had been used to navigate the eight hundred miles of Southern Ocean between Elephant Island and South Georgia. There were two others on board this boat. One was Jane and the other was an unknown gentleman with Chinese features and a tendency not to face his fellow crew mates. For most of the time he just looked out to sea. And this was a very rough sea, somewhere, according to the irrational dream script, between Elephant Island and mainland China. Shackleton, it appeared, had decided that the fate of all four in the boat lay somewhere in that ancient country and not on the much nearer, albeit bleak, island of South Georgia.

  Jane had agreed with this choice of a faraway destination, and was now dividing her time between cleaning the soles of her boots and toasting Shackleton with a small tot of Scotch. Alex, in contrast, had not reconciled himself to a trip to China, and was trying to convince Shackleton to sail to the Falklands instead, and there replace the withdrawn Chinaman with Debbie. She, he claimed, knew the way to South Georgia, and she would not look out to sea all the time. Alex’s efforts were, however, unsuccessful, and it was only when the coast of China came into view – lined with hundreds of dead bodies – that Shackleton even acknowledged his presence. And he did this by telling him that he didn’t like living in that cemetery in Grytviken. It was far too cold, he said – just before Alex woke with a start, and the realisation that he was on a rather bigger vessel than the James Caird, but one whose navigation might be similarly problematic. Or possibly even more problematic…

  The Sea Sprite was still at anchor in Drygalski Fjord, and the ship’s position was the first item in Jane’s tannoy address, just after her normal breezy greeting.

  ‘Good morning everybody, and, as you are all probably aware, we are still in the shelter of Drygalski Fjord. And I hope its calm waters gave you all a very comfortable night. I certainly slept very well myself.’

  At this point there was an unusual hiatus, as though Jane had mislaid her script. But it was only fleeting, and she resumed her address with a piece of vital information.

  ‘At ten o’clock, there will be a further meeting in the lounge, where Captain José will announce his plans and where there will be an opportunity to ask him any questions you might have. Obviously, this is a very important meeting, and I would encourage you all to attend and to arrive in the lounge in good time for that ten o’clock start. Following the meeting, we will be weighing anchor, and our captain will want to do this as soon as is practically possible, and certainly well before lunch. So please, if we can all be seated in the lounge ready for that ten o’clock kick-off, it will be much appreciated. And meanwhile, please enjoy your breakfast.’

  Alex had been sitting on the bed listening to this address, and now, at its conclusion, he turned to Debbie, who was sitting at the dressing table, and gave her the benefit of his interpretation of what Jane had just said.

  ‘We’re going back to Ushuaia,’ he announced. ‘I’d put money on it.’

  ‘How do you know?’ responded his wife.

  ‘Whatever old José’s heard from Stanley, I reckon he wants to get back to a port – any port – and make us all somebody else’s responsibility. I also suspect that even Jane has had to admit to herself that the idea of pottering around the Antarctic Peninsula while the rest of humanity is in its death throes might become increasingly difficult to swallow. At som
e point, we’re going to have to engage with whatever is left of our world, and that means accepting that this ride around the bay has got to come to an end. Probably sooner rather than later.’

  Debbie sighed.

  ‘Mmm… you’re probably right. But I so much wanted to see Antarctica.’

  ‘Me too. But we do need a ship to do that, and I don’t think this ship will be going anywhere near it. No, it’ll be making a beeline for Ushuaia. There’s no doubt about it…’

  Irritatingly for Debbie, he was right. It was only seconds into the lounge meeting – this time hosted by the captain, with Jane at his side – when the poker-faced captain announced that the Sea Sprite would be retracing its passage along the north coast of South Georgia and, after picking up a number of BAS and government personnel from Grytviken, it would be making its way directly to Ushuaia, where it would arrive in just three days’ time.

  This announcement created an immediate buzz throughout the room as the entire complement of the Sea Sprite absorbed his message and began to consider why he had come to this decision. What had his guiding hand in Stanley told him that had made him abandon his ‘just carry on’ approach?

  They didn’t have to wait long to find out. He was just about to enlighten them on exactly what he’d been told.

  ‘As you know, the government in Stanley has been our main source of information – and guidance. And up till now that guidance has been to carry on with our cruise, with the proviso that, if this advice was to change, we would be encouraged to head back to Ushuaia rather than to Stanley. Well, the advice has indeed now changed. It is now to head back to Ushuaia. Which is exactly what we’ll be doing…’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  This was one of a group of four Welsh people on the ship, a comparatively young-looking chap, who was clearly rather more impatient than most of the other passengers. He simply hadn’t given the captain any opportunity to finish his explanation. This he now did, somewhat clinically albeit suitably politely.