by Dayle, Harry
There was a collective intake of breath, then everyone tried to talk at once. It was down to Jake to bring order, again banging his fist on the table. “Quiet!” The voices died down, reducing to a murmur. “Thank you. You can respond, one at a time. Lucya?”
“Oh for fu—” Martin began, but Lucya shot him a look that silenced him.
“I don’t think we have that right,” Lucya said.
Jake nodded at Grau.
“I have to say, this is a very audacious idea. I agree with Miss Levin. We are not a military ship—”
“The Ambush is,” Amanda interjected.
“Yes, the Ambush is. I cannot see anything that justifies a military response.”
Jake nodded at Martin, working his way around the table.
“For once, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, I agree with Amanda. If we’re not leaving, then we should stay and do the job properly. That ship would be a very useful asset. None of your half-hearted fence-sitting, Jake. Either we fuck off out of here, or we stay and take that boat.”
“Max?”
“I still say we blow the bastards up.”
“Right. Ella?”
“Leave ’em. They’re trying to keep us from Crozon. There’s gotta be something there. We could be missing out.”
“Silvia?”
“I see where Amanda’s coming from. Grau’s right though. On what authority can we mount such an operation? If a bigger ship comes along, do they have the right to attack us, take us prisoner?”
“I’d like to see them try,” Max grunted.
“I think we should leave. They obviously don’t want our help,” she continued, ignoring him. “However, before we go, I wonder… Is there any way we could tag them with a radio beacon? You know how they tag whales and other endangered species? Is that something we could do? Perhaps Lucya could work her magic like she did with the buoy that saved your life? That way, we’d have advance warning if they came after us. And if, later, we decided for whatever reason that we wanted to find them again, we would have the means by which to do so.”
“You know what, Silvia? That’s the most sensible idea I’ve heard yet,” Jake said. “Look, I’m not ruling out any other ideas, not even yours, Max. Right now though? Silvia’s right. If we can attach a transmitter to the Lance, we can go to Crozon without fear of losing them. If anyone can convince the whole committee, unanimously, that we should…attack,” he said the word as though it left a bad taste in his mouth, “later on, then we will be able to find them and do that.”
“I agree,” Grau said. “Not about attacking. Tagging the boat is a good compromise.”
“Me too.” Lucya raised her hand.
“What a surprise. Yeah, okay, whatever,” Martin mumbled.
Jake looked at the others in turn, and to his great relief, everyone agreed that Silvia’s idea represented the best compromise.
• • •
For once, Grace hadn’t complained about being sent back to deck nine to patrol. Everyone on the security team was patrolling; she wasn’t missing out on something more interesting. The encounter with the other ship had given new meaning to her peace-keeping role, too. She expected trouble, and Grace liked trouble.
Yet since shots had been fired, trouble had been hard to come by. There had been a mass movement of people away from the port side of the ship, away from danger. Then there had been a remarkable sense of calm.
In one of the public areas a lively debate was taking place, but it was good natured. Those who had been against taking on new people saw themselves as having been vindicated. Those with the opposing view maintained that the survivors deserved a chance, and that coming to find them had still been the right thing to do. Grace was asked to share her opinion. She politely but firmly refused to be drawn into the discussion. She was there to do a job and was required to keep a professional distance from such things.
As she moved on, heading towards the rear of the deck, she became aware of someone following her. She spun around, ready to defend herself. Her follower posed no threat. She was an elderly woman, walking with the aid of a stick.
“Hello! Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you, love. You’re one of those police people, aren’t you?”
Grace relaxed. “Yes, ma’am. I am with the security team. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Ooh, what a lovely accent. And so polite. I don’t know if you are the right person to speak to. I have a small concern. It’s silly really, probably nothing. I don’t want to bother you with it if you think it’s not important.”
“Ma’am, if you have something on your mind, please tell me and I’ll do my best to help, or to find someone who can.”
The lady looked unsure, but decided to continue. “It’s just that I haven’t seen my friend for a while, and I was a trifle concerned for her. Oh, you see, now I’ve said it, it sounds silly, doesn’t it? I’m just being a silly old woman.”
“No, ma’am, you’re not. When did you last see your friend?”
“Do you mind if we sit down, love? My legs aren’t what they used to be.”
“Of course. Excuse me, that’s very rude of me.” Grace glanced around. The long passageway ran the length of deck nine, and was punctuated by wide open spaces where the stairwells ran through the ship, as well as other open seating areas next to picture windows looking out to sea. The stairwell behind them was still full of those arguing the merits of allowing new people on board, so Grace took the lady’s arm and helped her to the next window, where they could sit around a low table. In the distance they could see the Lance. She looked innocent, harmless, but they knew differently.
“Very angry,” the old lady said, “the people on that ship. I wonder why they are so upset? Shooting at that nice Captain Coote, and young Captain Noah too.”
“So your friend? When did you last see her?” Grace took out her notebook and started to scribble. The woman eyed her suspiciously.
“Is this going to be an official thing? I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”
“You won’t get anyone in trouble. I’m taking some notes so I don’t forget anything important.”
The woman nodded. “If you think that’s for the best, love. I last saw my friend, Mrs Hayton, Marie…ooh…it must have been when we were in Scotland. You remember, when we went to that big loch?”
“Yes, Gare Loch. And did you see Mrs Hayton frequently before that?”
“Oh yes. Every day. She accompanies me on a promenade around deck eleven. Every afternoon at four. Except that time it rained. We didn’t go outside in the rain. But everyone was sick then anyway, so we didn’t go anywhere.”
Grace’s pen scratched at the thick paper, inscribing the details as they were recounted. “What cabin is Mrs Hayton in?”
“974. With her husband, Sammy. I haven’t seen him either, but I don’t know him so well. He prefers to spend time with his gentleman friends, chewing the cud, putting the world to rights. You know what men are like.”
“You’ve been to their cabin, I assume.”
The lady gave Grace a withering look. “I may be frail, but my mind hasn’t gone yet, love.”
“Sorry, I had to ask. Okay, I just need a few more details. Can you give me your name and cabin number?”
“I’m Mrs Slade. Cabin 978.”
“And can you describe Mrs Hayton for me? Do you remember what she was wearing the last time you saw her?”
“Yes. A Laura Ashley print dress, a green one. I remember it because I said it was a bit young for her. Oh, I do hope I haven’t upset her. That’s probably why she’s stopped promenading with me, isn’t it? She’s upset because of what I said. Golly, I do hope I’m not wasting your time.”
Grace assured Mrs Slade that no, she wasn’t wasting her time, and that on the contrary, her time was there to be used for the purposes of assuring the security of everyone on the ship. That included finding those who had gone missing. She took down some more details about the missing couple, the
n thanked the lady and told her she would be in touch.
When she left the cosy window alcove, it was with a smile on her face. She could finish her patrol in no time at all, and then she would be free to delve into her second missing persons case in as many days.
• • •
The loudspeakers in the ceiling of the bridge hissed and burbled. They relayed the conversations of men and women in three different locations, but right now, nobody was speaking.
Jake was beginning to regret having eaten his lunch rations before the operation got underway. Now his body was diverting its energy resources to digesting the steak and kidney pie and mashed potato, making him feel quite dozy. He was grateful to head chef Claude for cooking up something so substantial and hearty, no doubt with the intention of reinforcing the morale of the community, but he regretted having wolfed it down so rapidly.
“They’re entering the airlock now.” Ralf’s metallic voice crackled above.
“How confident are you, Ralf, really?” Jake asked. “It’s just, the Lance seems such a long way away.” His words were sucked up by microphones embedded in the ceiling, whisked away to a computer, chopped up and digitised, then hurled down the line to the Ambush where they were reassembled and blasted out of a speaker in the communications control room.
“The infra-red detectors we have are state-of-the-art. I’m telling you, there are only sixteen people on that ship, and they’re all in the central section: on the bridge and the upper decks. I can see them as clearly as I can see Jason’s ears sticking out. The boys aren’t at risk.”
“We can hear you!” a very muffled voice said. “And don’t worry, Jake. We have total faith in Ralf.”
Jake wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. He could see them his mind’s eye, Ewan and Brian, kitted out in their diving gear, cramming themselves into the tiny airlock at the base of the conning tower. As he imagined it filling slowly with cold seawater he felt very glad indeed that he had rejected his father’s insistence that he join the navy. “It’ll be good for you!” he’d said repeatedly. “Character building!” Jake felt that his character had been more than adequately reinforced by the events of the last couple of months. He had nothing but respect for the crew of the Ambush, but he harboured no regrets at not having taken the same path.
Someone put a cup of hot coffee down beside him. He turned to see Lucya’s smiling face. “Courtesy of Claude,” she said. “He sent up coffees for all of us. Said they had some left over.”
“I don’t believe that,” Jake said. “Claude is far too efficient. He must want something.” He took a sip of the gloopy brown liquid.
“We’re out,” Ewan announced. “I’m going to collect the DPV.”
“Firing now,” Ralf said.
“Didn’t hear a thing,” Jake remarked.
“We have good soundproofing. Don’t want the enemy hearing Coote’s singing while we’re trying to sneak up on them.”
Lucya whispered in Jake’s ear, “What’s a DPV?”
“Diver Propulsion Vehicle. It’s like an underwater scooter. They fire it out of the torpedo tube and the boys swim round and get it.”
“You mean they’re not swimming to the Lance.”
“No, it’s too far. You’d know this, if you’d stayed on for the rest of the briefing!”
“Someone had to go and fetch lunch!”
Jake began to pace up and down in front of the windows. He knew the submariners were professionals, doing the job they were trained to do, but Ewan was a good friend. He’d already seen two professionals injured; he had no desire to see it happen again.
“We have the DPV. We’re heading out.”
“I hope the Lance isn’t picking up their radio messages,” Jake said, wringing his hands.
“Relax, man.” Ralf sounded as cool as could be. “You’ve seen their mast; that thing was obliterated by the ash cloud. And even if they have a portable radio on board, all our comms are encrypted.”
“They’ll still know we’re talking.”
“Don’t you worry. Any of those dudes move, I’ll see it on the I.R.”
Jake did worry. But he didn’t argue.
There was radio silence for a full five minutes as the divers covered the distance to the Lance. Jake scanned the sea between the ships. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Perhaps a tell-tale line of bubbles, or a shadow moving through the water. Nothing gave away the fact two men were closing in on the hostile research ship though, and the lack of any visual clues gave him some confidence. He eventually returned to his chair, and waited for news from the men.
• • •
Cabin 974 was a mess. It was also devoid of Mr and Mrs Heyton. Clothes were strewn across the floor, from the wardrobe to the main door. The bed hadn’t been made, and the tiny corner shower room looked like it hadn’t been cleaned once since housekeeping services had been halted and everyone was expected to look after their own rooms. Soap stains caked the door of the shower cubicle, and dried toothpaste crawled across the sink like the mucus trail of a snail. The lid of the toilet was up, and whoever had last used it hadn’t flushed. Grace wrinkled her nose, backed out, and shut the door.
She took another look around the rest of the cabin. It reminded her of the room she had shared at the police academy, before she’d got tough with Alice, her roommate. The girl had led a privileged life. Her rich parents had a ‘woman who did’ for them, and that included cleaning Alice’s room twice a day. Apparently she thought that Grace would continue this service in their shared accommodation. Grace had other ideas. She had tried to keep her half of the room ship-shape, but Alice’s mess had spilled over into it, in some cases quite literally. The problem escalated, with each girl becoming more manically tidy and messy respectively. It all culminated in a huge row, some half-hearted violence, and ultimately, fits of giggles. The strange incident made best friends of the girls, and from their newfound mutual respect for one another came a moderately clean and tidy room. The memory moved Grace almost to tears as she surveyed the half-open drawers, the pillows on the floor, and the wet towels casually discarded in the middle of the bed where they had made the sheets smell. Alice was dead. Everyone from the academy was dead. Everyone she knew was dead. Grace felt her legs give way underneath her, and she sank to the edge of the bed, her face falling into her hands, and the tears flowing freely.
Thirteen
HE WAS WEAK now. Weaker even than before. His newfound intentions — to eat what he was given and to be alert and ready for any chance that presented itself — had come too late. Since the last encounter with his captor, no more food had been provided. Nobody had been down to see him, or any of the others. He felt guilty. Was that his fault? Was it punishment for throwing up on the silhouette-man? If that was the case, the others were being punished for his crime. Hardly fair. Then again, nothing about the situation was fair.
He could feel the world slipping away from him. Consciousness had eluded him more than once since the last meal, and in spite of his best efforts he knew that it was soon going to be gone again. Maybe this time it would never return. He could feel himself beginning to go, falling…falling.
A tiny clanging sound arrested his descent into the abyss. His mind was suddenly quite alert. He popped open his eyes, although there was nothing to see in the darkness. No light spilled from the bulkhead; it remained resolutely sealed. It must have been one of the others who had made the noise. He wasn’t convinced about the idea. Something about it didn’t sit right with him, though his mind wasn’t clear enough to know what. Perhaps, he thought, he had dreamt the sound. It wouldn’t be the first time. On many occasions he had woken his wife when he lashed out in bed, certain that there was someone else in the room, or that some terrible catastrophe had occurred.
No, he couldn’t have dreamt the noise, he decided. The sounds that interrupted his sleep were always louder, more imposing. Scarier.
The sound came again. This time it was closer. Much closer. This time, he kne
w what was wrong with the noise.
It had come from outside.
This was curious for two reasons. The first was that in the days or weeks he had been down there (he wasn’t sure how long it had actually been), there had never been any noise from outside the ship. The second, and more intriguing reason, was that because they were in the very bowels of the vessel, below the waterline, it meant the sound had come from under the sea.
There was something, or someone, out there.
His brain fought off the effects of the dark, the lack of nutrition, the foul oxygen-starved air, and the fatigue. Think, he told himself. Do something! He had been waiting for his chance. Perhaps this was it.
His hands were tied behind his back, secured to the hull, and he was seated on the floor. It was a position that meant he posed no threat to his captors, but it did mean he could touch the skin of the ship with his hands. He clenched his fingers tight together, and rapped the knuckles of his left fist against the cold metal. He could feel old paint flake away under the vibrations, but the hull was thick. His best effort wasn’t good enough. Not even close. Almost no sound was made, and his fingers quickly became sore.
He needed a tool, something metallic. His hands searched the few inches of floor between the base of his spine and the rib of the hull against which he was tied, but they found nothing.
Think.
Time was running out. If someone was out there — an idea which seemed more absurd the longer he thought about it — then he had to get their attention quickly. He shifted his weight on his buttocks, trying to shuffle sideways. The ropes which bound him allowed for little lateral movement. Miraculously, the inch or two he was able to slide was enough. His fingers, still sweeping the floor, found something rusty, curved, chunky. They scampered over it, and tried to lift it. The item was a chain. A rusty, discarded, long-forgotten-about chain. Grabbing it tightly, he turned his hand and flicked the object away from him. It connected with the steel hull as a hammer connects with a bell, and the effect was the same. The clanging sound rang out throughout the dungeon-like space. He hit it again, and again. Three long, loud, deep dongs. The last one resonated for several seconds before eventually dying away.