by Alan Fenton
For several seconds he waited on the line listening to her breathing.
‘I just wanted to wish you luck,’ she said at last. ‘Good of you,’ he murmured.
‘Arthur . . . he, um . . . he thought . . . ’ She ran out of words. Message received and understood. She was comforting the troops, playing First Lady on hubby’s orders. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Well then, goodbye . . . take care,’ she said and cut the line.
In a matter of minutes the brief exchange was erased from his mind; except for that final take care. For some reason those two words stuck.
As the sun set, Eclipse lifted off from the launch pad and Kraken slipped from its pen into the Atlantic ocean. Eclipse, captained by Lancelot, carried its standard complement of miniature unmanned space vehicles, surveillance, tracker and destroyer robots, together with two Scuttles and two troops of actives. Kraken, captained by Gawain, had a similar load of robots and UAV’s, Sea Scuttles and actives, plus some high- tech equipment unique to Kraken. Supported by an umbrella of fixed and orbiting satellites and twenty roving UAV’s, the two craft hunted for the Sea Lords.
After two days, they had found nothing.
Tuning in on Arthur’s screen Agravaine looked tired and depressed. ‘We have robots on standby, fixed satellites, roving satellites, UAV’s, a thousand sensors – visual, aural, heat, light, movement, smell, you name it. If we had a sample of Mujahid’s fart, we would have tracked him down by now, but we have nothing on him at all. And to top it all,’ he moaned, ‘Galaxy has run out of coffee and doughnuts.’
‘Any hope of monitoring his communications?’
‘Neural Network and Techforce Ten are keeping a twenty- four hour watch on the internet, and on radio, landline and cellphone communications. It’s a mountain of input to handle, but we’re doing our best.’
‘How long will it take to locate him?’
‘Sorry, nuncle, no can say. Mujahid knows when to strike and when to hide. Right now, he’s hiding. How long for? There’s no way of telling.’
‘The Sea Lords must have a base somewhere,’ said Arthur. ‘Sooner or later we’ll find them.’
Agravaine eased off his pink-tinted glasses, scratched his bald head five times on one side, five times on the other, and one more time on either side for luck. ‘If they don’t find us first,’ he said, rubbing his tired eyes.
Arthur’s eyes widened. ‘What was that?’ ‘Did I say something wrong?’
‘On the contrary,’ said Arthur. And then, to Agravaine’s surprise, his uncle said abruptly, ‘Order Eclipse and Kraken back to Camelot.’
‘But they’re our only chance of finding the Sea Lords,’ protested Agravaine.
‘Do as I say.’ It was a command.
Shaking his head gloomily, Agravaine thumped his keyboard. Arthur had obviously lost it. Who would have thought he would crack under pressure?
When the eight Guardian Robots had confirmed that the doors of the Great Hall were shut and secured, the hum of conversation died suddenly as Arthur began to speak.
‘After discussions, the leaders of all the countries directly involved in this tragedy have reached a unanimous conclusion. From midnight tonight they will suspend the hunt for the Sea Lords for seven days.’
Incredulous looks greeted this statement. ‘As a condition of that agreement,’ continued Arthur, unruffled, ‘I have undertaken that before the seven days are up, Camelot’s armed forces will have located and destroyed the Sea Lords.’
Breaking the baffled silence, Leo Grant, the much respected Chief Justice of Camelot’s High Court, Arthur’s close friend, political mentor and father-in-law, expressed what almost every member of the Round Table was thinking. ‘I am sorry, Arthur, but I fail to understand how you could possibly have given such an undertaking – especially now you have ordered Eclipse and Kraken back to base. What makes you so certain we shall find the Sea Lords?’
‘I am not at all certain,’ said Arthur. ‘In fact I’m convinced we won’t find them.’
Leo was now totally confused. ‘Perhaps I am missing something here,’ he said, ‘but if you are sure we won’t find them, what is the point of looking for them?’
‘No point at all,’ said Arthur, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Suggestive glances were exchanged, harsh words muttered. Everyone was thinking the same thing; Arthur was making no sense. Had his mind been temporarily overwhelmed by the strain of the crisis and the harsh demands of decision-making? ‘If we don’t go looking for the Sea Lords,’ rumbled George
Bedivere, ‘then how in hell do we find them?’ ‘We don’t,’ said Arthur. ‘We let them find us.’
Twelve
The Sea Lords
In the south atlantic the mv Teal.com, a cargo ship carrying gold bullion from South Africa to the Eastern Seaboard of the United States, drifted helplessly, its engines crippled by a fire the crew had fought for half a day before putting it out. A rescue ship was scheduled to reach Teal.com in a matter of hours to evacuate the vessel’s crew and cargo, (said to be worth more than two billion US dollars at the current price of gold of approximately three thousand dollars an ounce), leaving a small team of specialists on board to attempt at least a partial repair of the ship’s engines.
About two hours before the rescue ship’s ETA, a gunboat raced to the scene, throttling back on a bed of white foam two hundred metres from the cargo ship. Minutes later a second gunboat pulled up half a kilometre away. Both boats flew the South African flag. A few hundred metres from the mv Teal. com a submarine’s periscope pierced the surface of the sea.
Mujahid whistled under his breath. ‘Can’t make out the name.’ He stood aside for his first mate. ‘Take a look, Ahmed.’
‘Teal.com – that’s her,’ said the first mate.
‘Unusual name.’
‘The owner’s website?’
‘Could be,’ said Mujahid. ‘She’s flying a South African flag, but that means nothing. Call her up on the radio, ask if they want our help.’
Thirty seconds later. ‘No reply.’ ‘Keep trying,’ ordered Mujahid.
A full minute passed. ‘Still no reply.’
A long look through the periscope. ‘No sign of life. Where’s the crew?’
‘Could be working on the engines,’ said Ahmed. ‘Or just staying out of sight. You don’t think they’re afraid someone might steal their cargo?’
Mujahid acknowledged the witticism with a dry chuckle. ‘Any more responses to the SOS?’
The first mate checked with the radio operator. ‘Only the ship we heard, and she won’t be here for a couple of hours. There’s no danger to life, so no one’s hurrying.’
Mujahid lowered the periscope. ‘Get me Kassim.’ Ahmed handed him the radio phone. ‘Kassim on the line, sir.’ ‘Kassim, there’s someone on that ship,’ said Mujahid. ‘Try to raise them. Tell them we’ve brought a team of engineers to repair the ship’s engines, that should do it. Ask for permission to board. Do it politely. Don’t scare them. Clear?’ ‘Yes, sir.’
A few minutes later Kassim, captain of the gunboat nearest the mv Teal.com, was back on line. ‘They’re not responding.’
Mujahid was puzzled. ‘You think they’ve abandoned ship?’ ‘And risk losing the ship and the cargo to the first comer?’ said Ahmed. ‘No, there has to be someone on board.’
Being defied made Mujahid fretful. ‘Here’s what you do, Kassim. Tell them if they don’t respond immediately to our calls, they’ll be boarded by armed men, and that any resistance will be met with force.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Two minutes passed slowly. Kassim was on speaker. ‘Still no response, sir.’
‘Tell Mohammed to scramble the helicopter,’ Mujahid told Ahmed. ‘We’ll take a closer look.’
As the two gunboats circled the mv Teal.com, the submarine surfaced and Mujahid stood in the open conning tower observing the cargo ship through binoculars. From the deck of the nearest gunboat a helicopter lifted off and hovered over the carg
o ship. The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. ‘No sign of life.’
Mujahid called down to radio control: ‘Check mv Teal.com in Lloyds’ Shipping Register.’
Seconds later the reply came. ‘Not listed, sir.’ Mujahid looked at his first mate. ‘Odd, isn’t it?’ ‘Could be a recent name change.’
Mujahid grunted. ‘Check the Teal.com for signs of fire damage,’ he told the helicopter pilot.
The helicopter banked, flew round the ship, banked again and did a second run twenty feet above the deck. ‘No indication of fire damage,’ reported the pilot.
Mujahid was growing increasingly uneasy. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’
‘The fire was in the engine room,’ the pilot pointed out. ‘It might not have spread to the decks.’
Mujahid was not convinced. No response on the radio, no indication of fire damage, no sign of the crew. Even if they were scared, he would have thought they would at least make their presence known. Through his binoculars he searched the ship from stem to stern and back again. No sign of life, no movement at all apart from the slow rhythmic rock of the vessel in the wakes of the circling gunboats. He ordered the helicopter back to the gunboat.
Mid-afternoon. A low bank of cloud moved across the sun. The only sound was the lapping of the sea against the submarine’s flanks. It was quiet, almost too quiet, thought Mujahid. He lifted his head like an animal sniffing the air for danger. An abandoned ship with a two billion dollar cargo of gold . . . was it too good to be true? Was he walking into a trap? But who was there to trap him? No one. Radar had picked up neither military aircraft nor ships of any kind anywhere in the vicinity. Yet again he checked with radio control. ‘Position of rescue ship?’
‘Approximately one hour, forty-five minutes away, sir.’
‘Still no response from Teal.com?’
‘Nothing, sir. Wait a minute. They’re acknowledging our call! No, they’re not, they’re asking the rescue ship to speed up. They’re saying it’s an emergency.’
Mujahid punched the air in triumph. ‘They’ve given themselves away. At least we know the crew is on that ship.’
‘But what’s the emergency?’ said Ahmed.
Mujahid chuckled. He was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘We are. They don’t believe our story, which explains why they won’t talk to us. They’re scared.’ He made a rapid assessment of the situation. The advantage of surprise was lost, but that was of little consequence. What could a defenceless cargo ship do against the mighty Sea Lords? At least now he knew what he was dealing with – not a trap – just a frightened crew. There was no time to lose. He intended to be well away with the gold bullion before the rescue ship arrived. He issued his orders briskly and clearly. The submarine’s gun crew made ready. Through the loudhailer he issued a crisp ultimatum to the cargo ship. ‘I want every member of your crew on deck with his hands raised. You have one minute.’
The seconds ticked by – a full minute – and not a single member of mv Teal.com’s crew had appeared. Either they were very brave or very foolish. Mujahid signalled the gun commander, and the submarine fired a salvo across the ship’s bows. He waited for the echoes to die away. Still no reaction. ‘They are dead men,’ he muttered savagely, ‘every one of them.’ The helicopter gunboat captained by Kassim stood off a few hundred metres from the mv Teal.com whilst the second gunboat captained by Mohammed picked up Mujahid from the submarine, edged cautiously forward and drew alongside the cargo ship. A dozen men armed with laser guns and carrying explosive charges boarded the mv Teal.com and searched the vessel, Mujahid remaining on deck, automatic weapon in hand. A few minutes later the men climbed back on deck. There was no one down below. The ship was deserted. If Mujahid was puzzled, his men, increasingly jittery, were beginning to ask questions he was unable to answer. If there was no one on board, who had sent the SOS messages? And who had spoken to the rescue ship barely five minutes ago? Scared looks and mutterings of a “ghost ship” angered Mujahid who ridiculed his men for being superstitious wimps – though even he had to admit to himself that it was a mystery. Where were the crew? They had to be on board the mv Teal.com. Where else could they be? He ordered his men to search the ship again.
One of the boarding party appeared on deck, followed by another and another, all of them shouting and beckoning to Mujahid to come below. What were they so excited about? Had they found the crew? No. Something much better. In a dark corner of the cargo hold they had stumbled on several wooden crates marked ‘Product of South Africa’. Grinning triumphantly Mujahid rushed down the stairs after them.
‘That one there. Open it!’ Prized open with a jemmy, the lid fell back to reveal a white plastic sheet. Pulling back the cover with a flourish Mujahid revealed the contents – OUTSPAN ORANGES. For a moment or two his mind was blank, then, galvanised afresh, he scrabbled frenetically in the crate, hurling oranges in all directions, convinced that somewhere underneath them was the gold.
But there was no gold, at least not in that crate, only oranges, and yet more oranges. Lights flashed in front of Mujahid’s eyes, shooting pains stabbed his head. Seeing his men standing idly by, not knowing what was expected of them, he startled them into action. ‘Get back to work! Open all the crates!’
The lids of another four crates were jemmied off, and now there were oranges everywhere, splattered on the walls and trampled on the floor, until the hold and the men in it reeked of the smell of oranges. When the crates were empty, the men stood around, red-faced, resentful and baffled, looking accusingly at Mujahid. They did not like being tricked, nor did they expect their leader to fall for tricks, unless of course it was he who was tricking them.
He sensed danger. The look on his men’s faces and the attitude of their bodies threatened violence. He was taking no chances. ‘Everyone on deck,’ he snapped. Accustomed to obeying orders and to fearsome punishments if they did not, the crew hesitated for only a few surly seconds before backing away and climbing on deck.
Though he was jittery, Mujahid was too clever to show it. Had he walked into a carefully laid trap? The gunboat sped him back to the submarine, leaving behind the twelve man boarding party to set the explosive charges below deck in preparation for scuttling the mv Teal.com, now rocking gently in a sea stirred by a moderate west wind. As he levelled his binoculars for one last look at the ship, something strange caught his attention.
The South African flag had been lowered and a new flag now flew from the mast, one he could not immediately identify as it flapped and rolled in the wind. Just for a second it unfurled and there it was; a hand drawing a sword from a stone. Mujahid frowned. Where had he seen that image before? Whose flag was it? He checked the name on the side of the ship’s prow: the mv Teal.com. But even as he murmured the name aloud as if to reassure himself, the letters jumbled, rearranged themselves, and the ship’s name was no longer the mv Teal.com. Mumbling fearfully, his hands trembling, Mujahid focused and refocused the binoculars. There was no doubt. The cargo ship’s name was now the mv Camelot.
Camelot? . . . Camelot? . . . The name rang a bell . . . of course! The Sword in the Sky! Arthur! A sharp pang of fear knifed Mujahid’s stomach. Sliding down the ladder he yelled ‘Dive! Dive! Dive!’ When the submarine was forty metres below the surface he ordered Mohammed, captain of the helicopter gunboat, to circle the cargo ship while the second gunboat stood by waiting to evacuate the twelve man boarding party. Not yet, though. That sudden change of name needed explaining.
More than an hour passed, and still no sign of life on the mv Camelot. The submarine inched cautiously up to periscope depth. ‘Up periscope.’ Mujahid studied every inch of the ship. No change there. The Sea Lords’ boarding party seemed relaxed. Then suddenly the crew of the second gunboat were shouting and pointing. ‘What are they getting excited about?’ he asked Ahmed. ‘I can’t see anything. You take a look.’
Ahmed peered through the periscope. ‘They’re pointing at the gunboat. No, they’re not – they’re pointing at something in the wat
er.’
Even as he spoke, the lookout on Kassim’s gunboat spotted a streamlined shape heading towards him at speed and yelled a warning, realising at the last moment to his enormous relief that what he had feared might be a torpedo was in fact a whale. The great mammal stopped dead by the gunboat’s stern, spouted and submerged. The captain was about to order full speed ahead when the whale resurfaced, this time barely a few metres from the gunboat’s bow. With a quick burst of its starboard motor the boat swung to port to avoid it, but again, dead ahead, there was the whale. Two more swift evasive manoeuvres, and each time the whale moved to block the gunboat’s path. It was a stand-off. Uncertain what to do, Kassim decided to await the whale’s next manoeuvre.
Slowly, with majestic grace, the whale rolled three hundred and sixty degrees and swam away from the gunboat until it was two hundred metres off the port bow. Again it stopped, the upper third of its massive body above the surface of the ocean. Having more serious matters on his mind, Kassim was in no mood to play games with whales. This particular one was proving to be a nuisance. He gave the order to fire, but, even as he did so, the whale closed swiftly on the gunboat and the guns were useless. Where was it now? How could such a huge beast disappear so quickly?
‘What happened to it?’ he asked his first mate. ‘Can’t see it, sir.’
The boat started to rock violently. Kassim, the first mate, and the whole crew were thrown to the deck. In those petrifying moments they were helpless. There was nothing to be done but hold tight and pray that the whale would lose interest. Then, as abruptly as it started, the rocking stopped. Kassim staggered to the boat’s rail, but there was nothing to be seen but the lowering clouds, the grey sea and the white crested waves tossed by the rising west wind.
And then, a hundred metres off the starboard bow, the whale heaved out of the ocean, uttered a strange, rumbling call and dived out of sight. What did it signify, that sound? Was it a warning to leave the area? Or a threat that it was about to attack again? Kassim was not waiting to find out.