by David Barker
Gopal and Rabten joined her for breakfast, eating at the table just behind her perch at the window. The caffeine was starting to revive Freda, but the lack of sleep still left her confused. She was looking at their car across the parking lot. Well, she was almost certain it was theirs. She vaguely remembered choosing that spot in the car park the night before because it was highly visible. But there was definitely a man doing something to the vehicle, trying to get in. He jammed something into the lock on the driver’s door. Freda frowned.
“Hey, guys, I think somebody is trying to steal—”
The man pulled open the door and slipped into the driver’s seat. He reached down to do something with the bottom of the dashboard and then closed the door behind him. A fireball erupted from under the car, tossing the vehicle up into the air. All of the windows in the hotel breakfast bar shook. Freda saw the car enveloped by flames, and then as the fireball continued upwards, the vehicle arced back towards the ground, landing on its side. The metal frame had buckled and all of the glass in the windows had smashed. There were flames inside the car and a blackened torso with a stump, like a spent match.
Gopal ran outside even as Freda sat there staring, trying to process the carnage. That was their car. A car bomb set off prematurely by a thief. They’d had a very lucky escape. She blinked as the noise of approaching sirens snapped her out of the trance. The agents needed to make themselves scarce. And they needed to watch their backs. That ancient revolver might have been a bargain after all.
The three agents walked for a few hours, away from the scene of explosion. They knew the authorities would be keen to question any witnesses – they needed to be miles away before that happened. And whoever planted the bomb would find out soon enough that the intended victims had escaped. The panicked crowd near the explosion helped them flee without picking up a tail. It turned out to be surprisingly easy to hitch a lift. Bored, lonely truck drivers seeing a western woman with strawberry blonde hair tended to stop. The truck drivers were disappointed when Gopal and Rabten sprung out of nowhere to join Freda in the cab.
The journey towards Nepal was broken up into three separate lifts from truck drivers, who were happy to share their life stories with Freda via the Babel app. At least driverless vehicles were not yet the norm in this part of the world. Freda envied Gopal and Rabten, able to rest in the back of the cabin, while she played the part of interested passenger up front. At one of the many stops for drinks and toilet breaks, she managed to send off a field report to Wardle, while Rabten re-affirmed his infinite capacity for food.
As the road climbed towards the Tibetan plateau, the drivers gradually nudged up the heat controls in their vehicles and the journey developed a backing track from the whistle of wind through the trailer coupling. The agents had no choice but to keep hitch hiking. The wait between willing trucks became longer and more unpleasant as the temperature dropped along with the frequency of traffic. Freda did not need acting skills to look like a forlorn, vulnerable female as she hunkered down into her hooded coat by the side of the windswept road.
Their hurried escape from Russia and race along the silk road had left little time for the agents to re-equip themselves. AppCore payments were not accepted in this part of the world. The four remaining gold sovereigns were not enough to buy a vehicle and too flashy to spend on small items of expense. The little local currency they had was being saved for food and drink. The next truck driver who stopped was looking to drive all night. He was especially welcome as a source of free accommodation.
Within a couple of days, they were getting close to the border with Nepal. The road to Kathmandu was just showing on the edge of the driver’s map that projected onto his screen. Gopal’s mood was improving with every hour. But Rabten was becoming restless for another reason. At the next roadside station, he stopped eating halfway through his meal.
“What if I take some leave?”
“Yeah, think I might do the same, once we get back to Kathmandu,” said Gopal.
“I mean, what about taking leave now.”
“What?”
“I carry on hike-hitching along this road.”
“Why would you want to do that?” asked Freda.
Gopal looked at his friend and put his cutlery down. “It’s not a good idea, Rabten. They might still be looking for you.”
Rabten shrugged. “I have to see it again.”
“Can somebody explain, please,” said Freda.
Gopal turned to her. “If you carry on along this road, and don’t turn for right for Nepal, you eventually get to Lhasa.”
Freda looked blank and Rabten played with his food.
“That’s where he was born and raised. Where he became a monk. And it’s where his master’s shrine is.” Gopal reached across the wooden table and gripped Rabten’s upper arm. “Wangdue was a great man. Generous, strong and wise. He wouldn’t want you to walk into a trap.”
“They not still looking for me.”
“You don’t know that.”
CHAPTER 10
Inside the Arctic Circle
The Endeavour was crashing through high waves. The Arctic Ocean in summer meant constant sunlight, little ice and strong winds. They had found themselves caught in a particularly nasty storm. The boat lurched up into the slope of a seething slab of water that towered above the bridge. Captain Hamilton leant forwards to counteract the motion and wondered whether to submerge the vessel and sit out the storm. His crew were experienced sailors but even some of them were starting to look unwell.
The captain was searching for more evidence of Terror Former activity within the Arctic Circle. And he knew that diving below the waves would restrict the use of radar and surveillance equipment. Yesterday evening he had spoken to Director Wardle. A debrief about the mission to the iceberg and the stolen airship.
“How did they know we were coming?” Hamilton had asked.
“Maybe we were just unlucky,” Wardle had said, not sounding very convinced at his own answer. “Perhaps they had abandoned the base a while ago.”
“Or, they were tipped off. Bloody bastards.”
Wardle had just shrugged. The video conference had not lasted much longer. Hamilton had thought that his boss had seemed very distracted. His implicit agreement to the mission had been all the captain needed. He had gone to sleep that night thinking about the marines who had lost their lives on the mission. Soldiers he would have thought of as comrades when he had still been in the service. The authorities may have thrown him out of the Navy, but he was determined to see that the marines’ sacrifice had not been in vain.
The mess was a mess. The chef was struggling to serve up food and keep crockery from sliding off the surfaces as the boat continued to pound through mountains of water. Captain Hamilton was almost alone in the dining room, tucking into a large plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. One of his crew ran into the room. He paused and bent over one of the tables. The captain wondered if the sailor was going to be sick and lifted his plate out of the way. The man stood up again, after he had caught his breath, looking a little green.
“Sir, the bosun thinks you should come and see this.”
Hamilton grabbed two slices of bread, scooped the rest of his breakfast in between them, and followed the sailor back to the bridge. The sandwich had vanished by the time the captain walked onto the bridge.
“Report.”
“Sir, radar has picked up something unusual. Just on the edge of the Franz Josef archipelago.”
“Unusual, how?”
“It looks like a very large vessel. But it’s so close in to the coastline. A ship that size must have a ten-metre draught at least. Our charts show only five metres of water where she is.”
The captain looked at the radar screen. “OK, so she’s run aground. Always a risk in weather like this. Any distress signal?”
“Radio silence,” said the comms officer.
“Hah, maybe their captain is too embarrassed. What about other vessels coming to their a
id?” asked Hamilton.
“Nothing at all,” said the bosun.
“Well we better investigate, then.” The captain sat in the chair on his dais in the middle of the bridge and stroked his chin. “Of course, this could be the result of a terror attack, instead of an accident. Or a trap. Helm, take us down to twenty metres. Half-speed. Let’s approach nice and quiet.”
Hamilton was observing coastline through the periscope. Just in front of the island Zemlya Aleksandry, he could see the stricken vessel. Too much hull above the waterline. The boat was listing at least 15 degrees from vertical. Definitely grounded. The captain zoomed in on the hull and snapped a picture. His onboard computer analysed the image and reported a few seconds later.
“Arktika is a nuclear-powered Russian vessel. Originally commissioned as an ice breaker, it is now registered as a cargo ship. Length, 173 metres long. Beam, 34 metres. Twin nuclear reactors, running on low-enriched Uranium 235.”
The captain continued to watch the waves crash into the hull of the ship. The midnight sun cast a faint glow across the vessel. Hamilton smiled at the colours: a thin strip of red was visible at the bottom of the hull, blue above that, and a white superstructure. A perfect match for the Federation’s flag. Whatever you think about their policies, the Russians sure are a patriotic bunch.
He continued to watch the vessel through the periscope, zooming in on the infrastructure. The image was fuzzy for a moment and then the stabilizing software kicked-in and Hamilton could see lights on the bridge, and a couple of crew members running about on the deck.
“Doesn’t look like a terrorist attack. No obvious damage to the superstructure. Comms, hail them and see if they’d like some assistance.”
“Aye, Captain.” The comms officer relayed the message three times, but there was no reply.
“You sure the Babel app is working?” Hamilton asked.
The comms officer nodded.
“Ask them for permission to come on board.”
The response to this was almost instantaneous. “Negative, Endeavour. This vessel is under quarantine. Nobody is to come on board. Keep a minimum distance of 500 metres. We have a medical emergency. I repeat, nobody is to approach the Arktika.”
“What’s the Russian for bullshit?” the captain wondered out loud once the speaker had been turned off.
The radar operator looked up from her screens and turned to Hamilton. “I’m picking up quite a bit of radiation from that ship. Far more than should be coming from their reactor engines.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said the captain. “A leak? Probably some of the crew have radiation sickness. And with the engines out, they’ve been driven onto the rocks.”
“Surely they’d welcome some help getting the rest of the crew off the vessel. And try to stop the boat breaking up, losing its cargo,” the bosun said.
“What is their cargo?” asked Captain Hamilton.
“Hang on, searching now.” There was a pause. “Nothing on the Lloyds of London list or the Marine Traffic site,” said the comms officer.
“The radiation signal is odd, not the right mix for low U-235. Seems to match rich plutonium,” said the radar operator.
“So, they swapped fuel sources?” suggested the captain.
“Not possible, sir. The radiation must be coming from their cargo.”
“Well that’s just great. We’ve got an environmental disaster waiting to happen and the Russians are too proud to admit it. Welcome or not, we’re getting on board.”
The Endeavour remained just below the surface and had closed half the distance to the stricken vessel when the radar screen lit up.
“Incoming bogey, altitude 300 feet, speed Mach one point five. Range one click and closing fast.”
The sonar operator shouted. “Screws in the water, acquiring, acquiring. Locked onto us. Impact in twenty seconds.”
“Launch countermeasures,” said the captain. “Sound collision alarm.”
A claxon filled the Endeavour with its warning while more than a dozen micro drones were fired out of tubes at the prow of the ship. The drones immediately adopted a tight formation like a trio of hexagons and linked frail metallic arms. They swam straight towards the incoming torpedo. The impact triggered the torpedo’s detonator, instantly wiping out the drones. On board the Endeavour, the explosion rocked the ship. Captain Hamilton was thrown out of his chair.
“Damage report!”
“Nothing sir, the explosion was too far away,” said the bosun.
“Bogey is changing course, coming around for another pass.”
“Full speed ahead, helm. Get us right next to the Arktika. They’ll never risk another torpedo there.”
“But the depth sir.”
“Blow the ballast tanks. Up planes, ten degrees. Get us on the surface.”
The submarine immediately began to tilt upwards as orders were followed. The captain got back in his seat. “Sonar, anything?”
“Negative, sir.”
“Bogey is heading back for the mainland,” said the radar operator, as she wiped her sleeve across a glistening forehead.
The captain and the chief engineer boarded the Arktika along with two armed escorts. After a standoff with the Russian crew, Hamilton was finally able to convince them that he was here to help. The cargo hold was full of nuclear waste and one section had been damaged when the ship ran aground. One of the Russians was suffering from radiation sickness and was taken on board the Endeavour for medical treatment. The chief engineer was appalled at the state of the engine room. The loss of power seemed to be the result of excessive wear and tear. Multiple components were fatigued and most had been patched up several times already.
“It’ll take me at least a couple of days to get anything out of these engines, even just to float it off the rocks,” the engineer confided to Hamilton.
“She’ll have broken in half by then, with this storm on us.”
“Can’t the Russians get the cargo airlifted off?”
“Can’t use planes, and it would take thousands of helicopters to lift this lot. There won’t be time.”
The Russian captain asked after his sick crewman.
Hamilton put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “We’ll do everything we can to make him comfortable, but it doesn’t look good. Where were you taking this cargo?”
The other captain just shrugged and the Babel app translated. “We found big cavern on sea bed. Near the pole. Can bury lots there. No problem.”
“No problem, or somebody else’s problem?” replied Hamilton. “Hang on. I’ve just had a thought. What we found a few days ago. That giant airship. It’s Russian after all. That had a huge cargo hold. Could be here in a few hours. No runway needed.” He turned to look at the chief engineer.
“If the winds die down a bit, aye, it might work.”
“Spasiba, spasiba.”
Hamilton did not need to wait for the translation. “You’re welcome.”
CHAPTER 11
Pasadena, Texas
Sim’s hotel was near Strawberry Park in Pasadena, just a few miles from the Johnson Space Centre. Close enough to get there in a hurry if the investigation team made a break through, far enough away to avoid accusations of cramping their style. His cheap accommodation did at least include air conditioning that worked. As Sim walked into his room, the wet patch between his shoulder blades started to dry and his shirt unstuck from his clammy skin.
He cracked open a can of some brand of sugary American drink he’d never heard of while his roll tab rendered a replica of the key he had found into its software. Once the key had been washed, Sim could see a set of numbers etched into its bow, just above the shoulder. And there had been some sort of emblem on the keyring, possibly scratched away with a file. He turned the key over, or rotated it, every time the machine beeped, showing a different aspect to the tiny camera lens built into the roll tab.
The computer finally finished running its programme and Sim could see a 3D image of the k
ey and its keyring, twisting and turning on the screen. He encrypted the file and sent it to OFWAT HQ for analysis. He ordered a T-bone steak with fries and rings from room service and flicked through endless channels of mind-numbing nonsense on the TV.
The results came through just as a spotty teenager delivered a slab of beef that could have fed a small village in Scotland. The key was of a type used throughout America in both domestic and commercial settings. The numbers on the key were too generic to pinpoint any specific location or owner. Sim’s appetite for his steak was fading fast as he read the bad news. But the end of the report gave a glimmer of hope. The emblem had not been filed away completely. After some digital enhancement, a set of initials had become legible.
TCYC
Sim tucked into his steak while his mind tried to think of combinations of words that might make sense of those initials. Sleep came uneasily as his stomach tried to digest half a cow and his brain tried to process images of words fluttering around that keyring like butterflies with letters on their wings.
Sim returned to the investigation unit at the Space Centre to see if the CIA had made any progress with the dead man. Unlike the weather, the trail had gone cold. For the past eighteen hours, Roberts and his team had investigated the impostor from the NASA medical team. The rental agreement on the property had provided a financial route into the dead man’s history. A legend, which had been well put-together, sufficient to get a credit rating that had passed the landlord’s due diligence, but not one that led to a real person.
So, they were looking at a ghost in both senses of the word. The autopsy had shown death by strangulation, but nothing useful under the finger nails. No struggle, but there had been needle marks on his arm. Dental records drew a blank. Even Border Control had no match for the fingerprints. If this person were foreign, they had sneaked into the country through unofficial channels.