Unfathomed (The Locus Series Book 1)

by Ralph Kern

  “It’ll definitely go bang,” Hank said. “That’ll make a good target. I say, give them one in the refinery then I’d suggest we hit below the waterline amidships. Yeah, one above and one below might well break its back. But that thing is so fucking big our best chance is cooking off the oil.”

  Oil, Mack thought, her mind whirling. A refinery. Something they were desperately short of—fuel.

  “We’re not attacking,” Mack said after a moment.

  “Say what?” the WSO called from the back in disbelief.

  “That thing is the only source of fuel in this godforsaken region. We sink it, it’ll only be so long before we’re completely out. And when that happens, we’re dead.”

  “But... ma’am?”

  I’m taking us home. Secure down.”

  “Aye aye, ma’am.” Hank’s voice was disappointed.

  Turning again, the Seahawk began racing back toward the Ignatius.

  ***

  Vaughan gave a long exhalation of relief and relaxed back into his threadbare chair on the bridge. Whoever the crew was on that helicopter had clearly realized that the Titan was a valuable commodity. The question was, what would they do with that information?

  Chapter 45 – Day 17

  The Seahawk hovered over the fire-blackened flight deck of the Ignatius and lowered a guide cable. Two crewmembers hooked the cable to the flight deck winch and slowly the bullet-scarred helicopter was winched to the deck.

  Once safely down, Mack shut down the engines. The Seahawk’s rotor blades slowed and finally whirred to a stop. Pulling off her gloves and helmet, Mack wiped her sweat-glistening ebony brow with the back of her hand. She looked at it in surprise. Up until this moment, her hand had been rock steady, now it was shaking uncontrollably as if she was freezing cold. She clenched her fist, stopping the trembling, and glanced at her copilot. “You okay, Jim?”

  Her copilot had sweat pouring down his face, and his short blond hair matted. He leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and gave a long exhalation. “I need a shower.”

  “Yes you do.” Mack turned in her seat. “Hank?”

  The WSO unclipped himself from his harness, and gave a wince before shaking himself like a dog. Spent shell casings skittered from every fold in his flight suit. “I’m going to be finding those in pockets for weeks.”

  Raising an eyebrow, Mack looked down at the deck of the helicopter and saw brass covering every inch. “You’ve got some sweeping to do.”

  ***

  The CIC was still bustling as Slater called out orders. Glancing at the hatch, she saw Mack enter and looked around.

  “Is your crew okay?” Slater asked, looking the pilot up and down.

  “Yes, ma’am. My bird has a few more holes in it but...” Mack gave a shrug.

  “Better than people having holes,” Slater said. “I also see you’ve come back with the same number of missiles as when you took off. Any particular reason?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That ship, it’s an oil tanker. It was sitting low in the water. It’s got to still be carrying a big payload. Not only that, but on top was a structure that looks like it’s been welded on. We’ll have to play back the nose camera footage, ma’am, but it looks like they’ve constructed a refinery of some kind on the deck of that ship.”

  Slater rubbed her cheek and gazed at the pilot. After a pause, she said, “So you made the call not to take it out, despite my orders?”

  Mack drew herself to attention, looking earnestly at her captain. “That’s correct, ma’am. I thought—”

  “You thought?” Slater interrupted. “You thought at some point we could make a play for that tanker. You thought with fuel at such a premium, we couldn’t afford to destroy potentially the only source in this region. That’s what you thought.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good call, Lieutenant.” Slater smiled and Mack visibly relaxed. “My officers are paid to think.”

  Mack gave a cocky grin. “The eagle hasn’t taken a shit in two years, ma’am.”

  Slater arched her eyebrow, before inclining her head at the hatch. “Back to your bird and start getting it patched up.”

  “Aye aye, ma’am.” Mack saluted, turned on her heel and hustled out of the CIC.

  “Pilots,” Slater muttered with affectionate exasperation as the other woman left. Slater turned and raised her voice. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I want a preliminary report on all damage within thirty minutes.”

  ***

  “So, we’ve lost three quarters of our new security team?” Solberg grimaced. “Maybe we should have gotten them red shirts.”

  “Sir?” Kendricks asked quizzically, the reference lost on him.

  “Never mind. And how many passengers?”

  “Unknown at the moment. We’re looking at around one hundred left behind, but that’ll be a mix of Nest Islanders and Atlantica’s passengers. Carrie’s getting a roll call done now, but it looks like a lot.”

  Kendricks turned and looked back at Reynolds. He was seated in a chair, his ramrod back straight, staring out of the window.

  Chapter 46 – Day 18

  The corner of his eye caught a movement in one of the upper windows of the school. The bright light of the Syrian sun contrasted with the darkness inside the structure. Jack began bringing his rifle to bear on the window.

  “Thunder, Steel. I ha—”

  The RPG round lanced out of the building, a trail of smoke behind it. It seemed to travel in slow motion straight toward him, the whoosh noise of the rocket washing ahead of the grenade itself.

  Jack began to react, his muscles moving slower than the spear of the RPG round racing toward him, as he attempted to reach the safety of the ground. The lance approached as he felt himself falling to the dirt. Time moved slower and slower. A race between him reaching the sandy dirt and the grenade striking.

  Jack woke with a cry, sitting up quickly. A pain lanced through his head as he did, his vision darkening around the edges, and the room spun dizzyingly.

  “Shhh, easy.” Jack heard Laurie’s voice. He felt her grip his shoulders and tried to ease him back down next to her. He waved her off and looked around the room they were in.

  “Where the hell are we?”

  “We’re on board one of their ships,” she said. “They brought us here after the battle.”

  “How long have I been out?” Jack said with a groan, touching his fingertips to the side of his head.

  “I don’t know... hours, maybe a day, we can’t tell. I thought you were in a coma or something, but then...” Laurie gave a nervous attempt at a laugh. “You started snoring. I thought it was best to leave you.”

  They were in a hold of some sort. White-painted walls glistened with moisture and harsh strip lighting illuminated the room. It was filled with people, the other prisoners, and smelled of sweat and fear.

  Jack held his hand against his throbbing temple, feeling the huge welt from the butt of the rifle. Giving another groan, he braced himself and made to stand up. It was then he noticed his prosthetic leg was missing.

  “No, where is it?” He patted his empty trouser leg in a desperate hope that somehow his addled brain was mistaking its absence. “No!”

  “They took it after the searched you, Jack. I told them to leave it but they wouldn’t.”

  “No, no, no...” Jack said, a look of panic crossing his face. After a second he calmed himself, taking a deep breath, then gritted his teeth and nodded. Fine, that’s the hand I’ve been dealt.

  The hatch opened with a clang. In the doorway stood a man who looked like he had been through a wars. He had cuts all over his face and a blood-stained bandage covering one of his forearms. He looked around the room, regarding them all, before his eyes settled on Jack.

  Jack felt a tug of memory. He looked familiar. After a moment, recognition dawned. He was one of those involved in the first attack on the Atlantica.

  “Him.” He pointed at Jack.

  Four men entered the room, brushing p
ast the other prisoners, and reached Jack. Two of them hauled him bodily up by his arms.

  “No!” Laurie shouted, standing quickly.

  The man at the door cocked his head, watching the interplay, before finally saying, “Her, too.”

  Half-supporting Jack, half-dragging him, two men pulled him out of the room. Another man grabbed Laurie firmly by the top of the arm.

  Together they walked—or in Jack’s case, hopped awkwardly—down the labyrinthine corridors of the ship. Their footsteps and the distant voices of unseen crew echoed metallically, yet their escorts themselves were silent.

  Jack noted with a vague satisfaction that the leader, the one from the attack on the Atlantica, seemed to be holding himself in some pain, grimacing every few steps.

  Eventually they reached another hatch. The leader opened it, revealing a small room with a grey-haired man seated at a table within.

  “Please, sit down.” The man gestured at the plastic chairs on the opposite side of the table.

  Wearily, Jack and Laurie lowered themselves into the seats. The man gestured at the opaque plastic jug and glasses in front of them. “Water?”

  “Thank you, no.” Laurie responded.

  The leader of their escort walked around the table and took up position to the right of the man while the guards remained standing next to the hatch.

  “My name is Eric Vaughan. Leader, if there is such a thing, of our small community, and this is Urbano Bautista, my head of operations.” He gestured with one open hand at the man next to him. “My reports suggest that you are the most senior person we have captured?”

  Jack looked Vaughan back straight in the eyes. “I am Jack Cohen, formally a staff sergeant in the United States Marines. The former part kinda makes my service number irrelevant. My date of birth is October 4, 1990 I will tell you now that while I may not be in the Marines anymore, I will follow the guidance of Article V of the Code of Conduct for the U.S. Military and answer no further questions.”

  Vaughan leaned back and cast a bemused glance at Bautista, who continued looking stonily at Jack.

  “Thank you for that, Jack. May I call you Jack?” Vaughan was greeted with nothing but silence. “I appreciate and respect that you are following a code of conduct, even for a country that no longer seems to exist. And you, my dear, from your accent you are clearly not from the States?”

  “Well done,” Laurie replied with sarcastic venom. “What I want to know is, why did you attack us?”

  “Far be it for me to take the role of a stereotypical interrogator and tell you that I’m the one asking the questions here, but...” Vaughan opened his arms in a gesture of false helplessness. “That is the situation we find ourselves in.”

  Laurie made to open her mouth, but Jack quickly spoke over her. “No dice, Vaughan. We’re not answering anything.”

  Nodding, Vaughan reached under the table and lifted a long cloth-wrapped object out of a box on the floor.

  “Here’s a deal sweetener.” Vaughan unwrapped the object, revealing Jack’s prosthetic leg. “You can have it back for one question.”

  “Go on, ask then,” Laurie said, before Jack could respond.

  Vaughan gently pushed the leg to their side of the table.

  “No!” Jack said.

  “Quiet, Jack. I’m not a bloody soldier. I do what I want,” Laurie said. “Now ask.”

  “What I want to know,” Vaughan said, leaning forward, “is just what the locus is.”

  “How do you know about the locus?” Laurie asked, confusion evident in her voice.

  “When you’re on this side of the table, you can ask. But for now?” Vaughan smiled, “That isn’t the case.”

  “We don’t know.”

  Vaughan raised an eyebrow, before giving a nod.

  Jack felt himself being lifted out of the chair by the rough hands of the men behind him. A rope was wrapped around his wrists and the loose end slung over a strut crossing the ceiling. The rope was hauled taut, dragging him upright.

  Bautista moved to the table and took the cloth which had covered the prosthetic leg. He ripped two strips off it and wrapped them with deliberate slowness around his hands.

  “Allow me to ask again,” Vaughan said with deadly calm. “What is the locus?”

  Laurie started to stand and was thrust back down hard into the seat by the guard behind her. “I don’t know!”

  With savage force, Bautista punched Jack in the stomach. Jack grunted in pain, before erupting in a hacking cough.

  “I asked,” Vaughan said in a measured tone. “What is the locus?”

  Chapter 47 – Day 18

  “My fuel is down to ten percent,” Slater’s cool blue eyes were bloodshot. She, along with the rest of the Ignatius’s crew, had had a long night repairing what they could. “And ammunition is heavily depleted. Sure, we kicked the asses of what we faced, but the weapon systems I had to fall back on are not exactly the most efficient for anti-shipping operations.”

  Reynolds pinched his nose in a vain attempt to squeeze out the stress headache lingering in his head. He was sick with worry for his daughter and the effort to focus was affecting the controlled demeanor he normally portrayed.

  “And your repairs?” he finally asked.

  “We can maybe get the SPS-67 back online in a couple of weeks, if we have the support of Atlantica’s 3D printers. The 73 and SPY will take a lot longer, but it is possible,” Slater said with a shrug. “The damage is heavy. They knew just where to hit us. If I’d had the radar or VLS, Ignatius would have cleaned up that rabble without them being able to fire a single shot.”

  “And I presume Ignatius has that support?” Reynolds turned to Solberg.

  “Of course,” the cruise ship’s captain nodded.

  “And some fuel?” Reynolds pushed.

  Solberg opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  “But of course,” Kendricks cut in. “After all, I think yesterday proved that we need Ignatius. Didn’t it, Captain?”

  “Yes,” Solberg gave Kendricks a pointed look. The subtle power plays were clearly not lost on him—Reynolds chairing the meeting and Kendricks answering for the Atlantica. “Yes, of course.”

  Good, at least I don’t have to encourage Kendricks to mutiny before this bloody crisis is resolved, Reynolds thought.

  “You reported damage to your Mk-45. Can you get your cannon operable again?” Reynolds asked.

  “Yes, fortunately the traverse was just blocked by warped deck armor. The actuator itself isn’t damaged. That’ll be sorted by the end of the day.”

  “Good, then we need to get back into the fight,” Reynolds nodded.

  “It’s not that simple,” Kendricks said. “The locus will appear in five days or so, and our last radar fix showed a good portion of the pirate fleet moving away from the island. If the prisoners were on board one of those ships, then they’re going to take some tracking.”

  “And we have another matter.” Slater leaned back. “The blast damage pattern to my ship suggests it wasn’t some kind of projectile that blinded Ignatius—it was a placed charge.”

  “You can tell that already?” Kendricks leaned forward.

  “The seat of the explosion shows that it must have been planted. There’s simply no way for it to have gotten there otherwise.”

  “So to add to all our goddamn problems, you have a saboteur onboard.” Solberg winced. “Why? Why would one of yours do it?”

  “Hold on a second.” Slater looked Solberg dead in the eye. “Who is to say I’m the one with a traitor? The Ignatius was mated to you, drawing power. It’s not inconceivable they could have come from the Atlantica.”

  Kendricks looked thoughtful for a moment. “We picked up a survivor prior to meeting you. A Karl Grayson. He’s the only one from the Atlantica’s that didn’t arrive with the ship.”

  “You’re saying he’s a plant?” Solberg said before shrugging. “It’s possible.”

  “Again,” Reynolds said. “There’s a prob
lem with that, though.”

  “Exactly, sir.” Slater nodded. “We’ve been scooping up survivors for the last two years. There’s around two hundred people that are not part of Ignatius’s or Atlantica’s complement, or passengers... or around one hundred and seventy-five now that some have been captured.”

  “So what do we do? Round up every single one of them?” Solberg asked. “Because that has my vote. Clearly they are a threat.”

  Slater cocked her head slightly, visibly processing the difficult thought. “That won’t go down well. We have all those people to control. Most, if not all of them, are innocent, and we’re talking about putting them under lock and key?”

  “There could be a way around that,” Kendricks looked thoughtful. “Look, we need to find these people somewhere to stay, and we don’t have enough staterooms for them. Let’s put them in one room, under the pretense of accommodation, and we can keep an eye on them all.”

  “And we can give them some line that we’re in a state of emergency due to the attack. We can restrict their movements.” Solberg nodded.

  “How about the bingo hall, Captain?” Kendricks said. “It’s a big space, we can rig it out with accommodations... you know, camp beds and what-not from the camping excursion tours. In the annex area we can put some luxuries in so they don’t feel too hemmed in.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Solberg said. “Make it happen.”

  “Now we have a plan for that. I’m still concerned about my daughter in the hands of a rabble of blood-thirsty pirates,” Reynolds refocused the conversation. The tendons in his neck felt tight, more like rigid bars of steel than sinew, a sign of the tension he was under.

  Slater reached across and laid her hand over the top of his. “Admiral, we’ll get her back. But the only opportunity we have of saving everyone is to get people to this locus. Once I know Atlantica’s safe, you can move your flag to Ignatius, and then I promise, we’ll hunt them to the ends of this fucked-up Earth to get her back if we need to.”