by E. R. Torre
Agnes grabbed her purse and locked her desk drawers. Hedley accompanied her to the doors leading out of the office. She used her security pass to open the door and stepped out. Beyond the doors was a long white corridor. At the end of the corridor and standing beside a fortified metal double door, the facility’s exit, stood two armed military guards.
“Have a good time,” Hedley said.
“I will,” Agnes replied. She walked to the end of the corridor and officially signed out. She looked back once more and waved to her boss before exiting.
The warm smile on Hedley’s face disappeared the moment she was gone. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and hit a button. After a few seconds, he was in contact with his superior.
“Mister Vulcan, this is Corporal Hedley,” he said. His voice was low, his words to the point. “We found something.”
Hedley was silent for a few seconds.
“Yes sir,” he continued. “You most definitely should take a look.”
He was again silent and nodded before hanging up and pocketing his cell phone.
“This room is on lockdown,” Hedley said to the guards at the end of the corridor.
He then retreated into the office and approached Agnes’ monitor. He turned it on. After a few seconds, the thermal image reappeared. Hedley stared at it.
As he did, a shiver ran down his back.
CHAPTER THREE
THE MARISE TRENCH, ATLANTIC OCEAN.
THREE WEEKS LATER
The HMS Avenger crawled along the Marise Trench at a steady five knots. Though the powerful British nuclear submarine was equipped with state of the art Rolls-Royce pressurized water reactors and capable of speeds exceeding 29 knots, it maintained the very reduced pace over the last twelve hours. During that time, the submarine literally hugged the sea’s bottom, rarely rising more than twenty feet from the muddy silt some two to three hundred feet below the surface of the Atlantic Ocean.
While normally capable of holding over one hundred officers and servicemen, the submarine was staffed by a skeleton crew of forty three. They went about their business quietly, most amazed at the amount of space there was within the normally tight confines of a vessel such as this.
The ship’s Captain, Jonathan Elliot, watched his staff go about their business from the confines of his chair on the bridge. His weary face reflected what on the surface appeared to be only a detached interest. His crew, however, knew better. While on the bridge, the Captain’s thoughts were sharp and focused. Any screw up, however small, would be pointed out and, depending on its level of severity, quickly –maybe even harshly– dealt with. The person responsible for said screw up would either efficiently correct their error or be forced aside. If the latter occurred, there was a good chance the service man’s –or woman’s– days in the Royal Navy were over. When traveling in a submarine whose cost spiraled a billion pounds over its already sky-high budget, only the very competent need apply.
At that thought, Captain Elliot frowned. It seemed almost everything in the military nowadays was judged, first and foremost, by its cost. He entered the Navy just after the Cold War ended. Then, nations were focused on self-preservation far more than the funds needed to pay for this survival. Things changed as the Cold War receded in time. The fear of global annihilation was, for the most part, gone. Few worried about all out nuclear conflict. Dangers still existed, of course, but attitudes had changed…
Captain Elliot sighed.
He wished those attitudes by the people in power remained more consistent. Today, bean counters carefully eyed every expenditure. New programs and innovations took longer to approve and initiate. During the Cold War, departments were aggressive, inventive. Today, the military felt like it was in neutral.
Until, that is, they call you out to carry on a mission like this one.
Captain Elliot cradled a cup of lukewarm, sugarless black coffee and considered taking another swig. He was awake and on duty for over thirty hours and needed every bit of help he could to stay focused on the task at hand. The mission, to put it mildly, was intriguing as hell.
On paper, the Avenger was still under construction at one of the massive docks in Barrow, on the east coast of Great Britain. In actuality, the newest member of the Astute class of submarines was secretly launched a full two weeks before. Though he was now the Captain of this vessel, Elliot was not involved in her launch. It was only afterwards that he was briefed on her departure. The story had him in awe as it was a thing of clever beauty and worthy of the Cold War era stories he read or the programs he watched on the BBC when he was much younger.
For just before her launch, the Avenger was replaced with a massive hallow frame mounted on a platform within the secure construction site. Large opaque curtains disguised elements of the supposed construction, while several hundred “workers” filtered in and out of the work site, giving the impression the naval vessel was still in the process of creation. The deception was made for any ground level spies, as the construction site was inside an enormous closed hanger and all but invisible to satellite imagery. This intrigue was authorized by officials in the highest levels of government, and all because of this current mission.
While heavy boat traffic filled the area around Barrow, the Avenger was silently released. She used a noisy trawler as surface cover and mirrored that ship’s movements from below, eventually slipping out of port and hitting the high seas. For a week a skeleton crew comprised of technicians and scientists ran the Avenger through her paces to ensure the submarine was seaworthy. She was. The only equipment on board that remained unfinished were her torpedo and missile systems. For this mission, such offensive and defensive systems were unnecessary.
From there, the crew headed south and east across the Atlantic and, in a circuitous route, made their way farther and farther west. Four days before the submarine met with another trawler. On board were Captain Elliot, his handpicked staff, and two very special passengers.
In the dead of night the group boarded the Avenger and Captain Elliot officially took over. Off they went, traveling farther west and south, until they were within hours of their destination. When this mission was over, the Avenger would retrace her path and a few days later return to her birth at Barrow and conclude her construction. In a matter of weeks and with the usual official fanfare, the Avenger would be formally launched, with no one knowing she already had one mission under her belt.
Until then, Captain Elliot and his crew were like phantoms crawling along the ocean floor, existing where they should not, performing a mission no other nation, and very few within Britain herself, knew about.
Captain Elliot sipped some of the cold coffee.
This whole situation, when looked at from a distance, seemed just like the type of adventure he longed for. Yet after that initial adrenalin rush was gone, the prevailing emotion within the vessel was one of constant, oppressive tension. For out here, the submarine and her crew were most certainly on their own. Should the Avenger be damaged or disabled, it would be up to Captain Elliot and his personnel to resolve the problem. Radioing for help, unless and only if the situation was deemed life threatening, was strictly forbidden, for any outgoing signal, even in coded form, would be heard by the many ears out there whose job it was to listen. Locating the source of that signal, while not without its difficulties, could be achieved to within a general area by any foreign power. And even if those powers couldn’t locate the submarine’s exact position, the fact that there was a phantom signal sent from a phantom vessel was enough for a clever intelligence agency to guess the Avenger –or some other “nearly” complete submarine– was already in operation.
More investigation might expose the vessel’s mission and this was not an option.
Captain Elliot finished his coffee and stifled a yawn. It was because of the delicate nature of the mission he remained on deck after so many continuous hours. Everything had to proceed smoothly. Everything. Even if he knew almost nothing about the mission’s ultimate goal.
&
nbsp; “We’re exiting the trench,” the Navigational officer said. “No traffic detected.”
Captain Elliot nodded.
“Bring her up slow, to one hundred feet,” he said. He took a deep breath and added: “Follow the plan. Absolutely no deviations.”
There was nothing more to say. Captain Elliot glanced at his watch. Local time was 2:14 P.M. It would take at least two more hours before the Avenger reached her destination. From there, he would have to consult one of his two onboard “special guests” about the mission’s next stages. If all went well, he was told, this guest would finish whatever he needed to do precisely twelve hours later, at which time the submarine would have its man back on board and would begin the journey back home.
That time can’t come soon enough, Captain Elliot thought.
Just under two hours later, Captain Elliot wandered through the main corridor of his vessel. Like his staff, he was not immune to marveling at the lack of personnel he normally dodged while making his way through these tight corridors.
In the Captain’s hand was a fresh cup of coffee. Though the deep drag of exhaustion was almost crippling, the fact that the Avenger had reached her destination without incident provided some small measure of relief…and renewed energy.
He chuckled.
It’s either that or I’m suffering from a severe caffeine overdose, he thought.
Regardless, the level of tension within his vessel was noticeably diminished, and several crewmembers sported actual, honest-to-God smiles. With this phase of the mission over, all that was left for the Captain and his exhausted crew to do was enjoy a few minutes of well-deserved rest. Their next orders would come soon enough.
Captain Elliot walked up to one of the many metal doors lining the personnel corridor. For a second he paused. For several seconds, actually. The exhaustion, he realized, was getting to him. For a moment, his mind felt like it was stuck in quicksand.
Easy now, you’ll be able to rest soon enough.
Captain Elliot rubbed his face with his free hand and, gently, knocked on the door in front of him.
“Come in,” a voice called out.
Captain Elliot slid the door open and stepped inside. He stood in the first of the submarine’s twelve private quarters. On the left side of the room was a bed. On it was a fresh set of clothing. On the other side of the room was a small metal desk. Directly in the middle and on the opposite wall was an open door leading into a cramped bathroom. Stepping out of that bathroom was a handsome young man in his early thirties. He wore form fitting bicycle shorts and was drying his dark, damp hair.
“You’re early,” the young man said. His voice was pleasant and energetic. In the very little time Captain Elliot had talked with him, he found it hard to dislike the lad. Hard, but not impossible.
Captain Elliot handed him the cup of fresh coffee.
“Yes, we’re ahead of schedule,” Captain Elliot said. ““We thought you’d—”
“—like to know,” the young man concluded. He took the offered drink. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Captain Elliot folded his arms and looked the room over. It wasn’t the Grosvenor House, certainly, but it was positively luxurious compared to private quarters on either the Swiftsure or Vanguard-class submarines.
The Captain’s gaze and attention eventually returned to the young man. He drank from the cup and placed it on the metal desk. He then turned to the clothing on the bed and dressed. Every item he wore was jet black and made of a dull, non-reflective material. It was a perfect covert ops outfit: form fitting and difficult, if not impossible, to spot in darkness.
The young man grabbed the black shirt. As he put it on, Captain Elliot noticed a series of scars along the lower left side of the man’s back. Had he not been paying attention, the Captain might have mistaken the scars for an elaborate, if abstract tattoo.
The wounds were deep, yet not deep enough to hinder the young man’s movement. Given their pattern, they appeared the result of some kind of shrapnel tag. The Captain wondered how close the young man was to the source of the explosion that caused these wounds. A little closer and he might well have been cut in half.
Where did you get them? The Captain wondered. Afghanistan? Iraq? Or perhaps somewhere a little more exotic. Somewhere we, at least officially, aren’t supposed to be. Like we are now.
The Captain scolded himself for wasting time on such thoughts, yet his eyes lingered on the young man’s wounds. He noticed another, darker scar higher up on the right side of the man’s back. With a start, he realized it was an old bullet wound. The Captain forced his eyes away. The wounds were another fascinating element which added to the overall mystique of this quiet passenger.
Quiet passenger.
It was as good a description of both the special passengers on board his vessel. However, while Captain Elliot had access to the young man, the other older passenger might as well be quiet and invisible. Captain Elliot was first introduced to them on a deserted, windswept coastline near Ilfracombe. They, along with Captain Elliot’s skeleton staff and another senior official, were waiting for the transport which eventually delivered them all to the Avenger. At the time, Captain Elliot approached the young man and the other, older passenger and offered his hand. Their handshakes were firm and impersonal. When he introduced himself to them, only the young man reciprocated.
“You can call me Michael,” he said, while the older man stood to the side.
It wasn’t his real name, of course. Given the parameters of the mission and the way information was delivered, that much was obvious. Captain Elliot took the hint and decided to keep the conversation very short. He ultimately left his special passengers alone and focused on his staff. He made damn sure everyone was ready for what was to come. When the transport finally arrived, the entire group boarded in silence. A few hours later, they were transferred to the Avenger. The young and older man retired to their individual rooms and remained there for the length of the trip. Only once, late in the first day of travel, did Captain Elliot see Michael walking the ship’s corridors. He appeared lost in thought and paid little attention to the scant personnel passing him by.
Captain Elliot shook his head.
When he was Michael’s age, he was approached by the SIS and offered a position most likely in line with that of this young man. In Captain Elliot’s case, the SIS proved the wrong path. His true love and devotion was to the sea. In the years since his entry into Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, Captain Elliot’s rank and reputation grew, until he had a reputation for being one of the more capable senior officers in the fleet. Standing before this young man, Captain Elliot couldn’t help but wonder about the path not taken.
Captain Elliot looked up, and was surprised to see Michael looking at him. How long, the Captain wondered, had he been staring at the young man’s wounds? He cleared his throat and said:
“We are currently at a depth of one hundred feet and at the proper coordinates.”
“Exactly?”
“Yes, exactly,” Captain Elliot said a little more irritably than he wanted. “We can bring the Avenger up for insertion within fifteen minutes of your say so. Assuming, of course, you desire such action.”
The last words came out even more strained. If Michael noticed, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he looked at his watch.
“Excellent,” he said. He was fully dressed in his inky black outfit. It made him look compact, smaller. “You’re certain we haven’t been detected?”
“Absolutely.”
Michael reached under the bed and produced a backpack. It was compact and made of a dull green plastic and had a heavy duty seal which, no doubt, kept the contents within dry. The young man unzipped the top of the backpack and reached inside. Though he couldn’t help himself, Captain Elliot noticed a change of clothing within. The clothing had a familiar green camouflage color.
The young man pushed past the clothing, revealing several pieces of dull metal equipment. As with h
is current clothing, they were all black. He grasped something at the bottom of the backpack and retracted his arm. In it was a Heckler & Koch USP handgun in a black leather holster. The young man pulled the gun free and conducted a quick check. As he did, Captain Elliot stiffened.
“Guns make you nervous?” the young man said.
“We’re in a nuclear submarine under a hundred feet of water and a stranger on my craft is holding a handgun.”
“We’re on the same side.”
“So I’ve been told. Despite this, you’re not a member of my crew. Seeing someone I know so little about carrying a handgun makes me very nervous. Usually.”
“Usually? Are you implying you’re not quite so nervous right now? Am I that trustworthy?”
“No.”
“Then why the lack of concern?”
“Because you’re carrying blanks.”
The young man leaned back. A knowing smile worked its way onto his face.
“Am I?” he said.
“Of course. I’ve taken the mission seriously from the very beginning, but clearly what we’re engaged in is a training operation.”
“And you know this because?”
“Because of our current location.”
“You assume we are near our destination.”
“Aren’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re carrying blanks. There’s no doubt about it.”
The young man removed the clip from his gun and drew a single cartridge. He handed it to the Captain. The Captain looked at it for a few seconds before handing it back.
“If you wish, you may look through all my ammunition,” the young man said.
“I…I don’t understand,” the Captain muttered.
The young man replaced the very real cartridge back into the clip and slid the clip back into the gun. He then thrust the gun into its holster and tightened the holster’s strap around his shoulder. He once again reached into his backpack and produced a small flash drive. He handed it to Captain Elliot. Despite its small size, it felt heavy.