by Jenn Lees
“Is that safe to leave?”
“Oh. Right. I’ll put it back in its bay. Help me, would you?” Angus reached up to the missile in question.
Rory helped Angus gently push the missile back into its tube and Angus shut it tight.
“Once we’re through the heads of Loch Ewe, I’ll work on it. Let’s get Dae-Jung back to the bridge for this part. You okay to help?”
“Aye. First name basis now, are we?”
Angus grinned.
He was enjoying this. Gave him purpose, maybe.
“Oh, by the way. The nuke is made in Pakistan,” Angus said from the other side of Dae-Jung as they both almost carried the North Korean back to the bridge.
“And that means?” Rory navigated the narrow corridor, trying not to snag his suit on any of the nobs and pipes that lined the walls.
“It’s dodgy. Don’t know if the timer will work when I set it.”
When they entered the bridge, the helmsman was pointing the previously abandoned K5 at them. Dae-Jung spoke short and sharp to the grim-faced and weakening helmsman. He replied to Dae-Jung in between faltering breaths, still pointing the handgun in their direction. Their conversation continued with orders, alternating with pleading, from Dae-Jung.
Rory’s pulse thumped in his ears. Sweat trickled down his back as the interaction between the two Koreans continued. If only he spoke Korean. He imagined the man felt he would betray his country. Or maybe he wished to die in his own way, a way which didn’t involve being blown up.
Get a grip, man. We are all in the same boat. Rory’s cheek tightened with the start of a wry smile, but he suppressed it. Not the time or the place for humour—of any kind.
The Korean helmsman lowered the handgun and began to weep. Rory released the breath he’d been holding in as he crept toward the man and reached for the pistol, smiling and nodding as he did so. The man surrendered the weapon as his shoulders shook. They risked death on this mission, but the Koreans had already begun that final journey.
Rory’s heart rate accelerated as he placed Dae-Jung in front of the navigation equipment. Dae-Jung, with the help of the helmsman, set about negotiating the underwater terrain and moving the submarine through the body of water, The Minch. The submarine hadn’t submerged yet and Rory supposed it was similar to sailing a boat through headlands. A very big boat which was mostly underwater.
Dae-Jung had perked up a little. Probably due to their presence and the fact they were going to solve his, and Scotland’s, serious problem. Possibly. And his helmsman was now fully co-operating.
Sweat dribbled into Rory’s eyes. He blinked it away, unable to wipe his face in the headgear.
“How are we going to be sure it goes off, then?” He dreaded the answer.
“I’ll make sure.” Angus was matter-of-fact.
“No.” Rory shook his head.
Angus looked at him through the visor of his headgear.
“Yes,” Angus said firmly. A tone like it had never come from Angus. He was almost rude, which wasn’t like him.
“No. The Community needs you and your brains, Angus.”
“And it doesn’t need you and your leadership, Rory?”
“There’s always another soldier, but not everyone has your intelligence, Angus.”
“Rory, you don’t have to be the hero and sacrifice all. You’re not your father. No one expects you to be. And you’re not just another soldier, Ruairidh. You are a leader. Our leader. People would follow you to the death if you asked them.”
Rory shook his head. He’d heard the don’t have to be a hero speech once already today. And Angus was getting serious with his estimates of him as a leader. He’d used the Gaelic word for his name, which meant king. What Angus hinted at... he shook his head once more.
“Your life is good now.” Angus continued. “Think of Ms Kensington-Wallace. You love her. She loves you. Any fool can see it. Even a person like me, to whom love is off-the-radar, can see it.”
Rory twisted his mouth. Why should Angus think he has to do it? Why should anyone? Wasn’t a leader meant to face sacrifice and choose it, if it could possibly save his people, the ones he loved? Wasn’t it his duty as the leader Angus says he is? To see it through to the end, no matter what the end is?
Doesn’t the captain go down with his ship?
Another wry smile tugged the corner of his mouth.
Angus continued his determined stare through his visor.
“How could it work? She’ll go back to her bunker. She’s never lived outside of it.”
“She’d do it for you, Rory. I’m certain of it.”
Chapter 23
After navigating out of Loch Ewe, Rory helped Angus take Dae-Jung back to the torpedo bay where Angus opened the torpedo hatches, pulled the one in question out, and started to work on its nuclear device.
“Do you need help here?” Rory asked.
Angus shook his head, absorbed in his task.
“I’ll go watch the radar then.”
Angus nodded.
Dae-Jung gazed at Rory. He seemed more fatigued all of a sudden, the recent activity having exhausted him. Rory gave a slight bow and went to leave. The Korean bowed in return and spoke, his voice croaky. Rory made nothing of the meaning of the words, but the sentiment was obvious. The man was grateful and relieved. Rory bowed once more, turned in the narrow corridor and walked to the radar screen. The other Korean sat at the helm.
On the radar screen, the crazy arm spun around, over, and over.
In his headgear a static buzzed.
“Rory.” Angus’ voice came through his headgear. “I’m switching your frequency. Someone wants to speak with you.”
Rory? It was Siobhan’s voice.
“Aye, Siobhan?” His words caught in his throat.
We need an update. What’s happening?
“Angus is changing the detonation mechanism over as we speak. There’s only one faulty nuke and Angus says setting it off will get rid of the other one.”
There was only two?
“Aye.”
Where are the others? There was dread in her voice. I can find out from my assistant in the Bunker. But there had been no reports of nuclear warheads released near us before I left. After a pause, she continued. So, there was a North Korean on-board?
“Aye, two, and they’re not well. I don’t think they’ll last much longer. The gunner only had enough energy to tell Angus what he needs to know.”
So, he’ll set the timer and you can put the sub onto autopilot? To dive?
“It appears it takes more than one to drive this thing. And there’s the question of who closes the hatch.”
Silence.
Rory. Her voice held pain.
“I love you, Siobhan. It doesn’t help you now, I know, but I needed to tell you. I... is anyone listening apart from you?”
Not on this frequency, why? Her voice was husky, as if she held back tears.
“I just wanted privacy to tell you if it were another time, in another situation, I ken we’d be together.”
Should he tell her he saw their future?
He was doubting that now. How could the future with her happen now he was going to...?
I love you Rory. I always have. I remembered you from when I was a child. A tall, handsome, deep-red haired Scotsman who wasn’t afraid he’d look silly playing dolls with a little girl. A kind and strong man. You were always the man I dreamed of when I was growing up. Oh! That’s so stupid...I’m sorry—
The radar continued sweeping its constant arc.
Angus walked into the bridge and passed the helmsman. “I’m amazed we’re still within radio reach.” Angus said, then looked around as if searching for something.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, forgot where I’d put... Where are those—? Oh, there they are.” Angus walked past Rory toward the ladders.
“Let me know if you need me.”
“Okay.” Angus spoke over the static in Rory’s headgear.
Yes. There were tears in her voice.
Rory hated that she’d been crying.
“It’s not stupid. I knew I loved you from before I met you, as a child or as a grown woman. You see—” A sharp crack sounded at the back of Rory’s headgear and a heavy thud reverberated within his own skull.
Through the blur of pain, Rory recalled Angus wasn’t wearing headgear, and seeing a monkey wrench in Angus’ hand. Then his world went blank.
THE SOUND OF WAVES slapping rhythmically against the side of something, accompanied by a rocking motion, woke Rory from a groggy state. Pain clenched the back of his skull as if a fist tried to drag his grey matter to the outside of his head. His chest was tight from the vice surrounding it, he could hardly breathe. He opened his eyes; it was foggy. No, his visor was misted, and he was flat on his back in a squidgy-rocky thing. As he tried to wipe his visor, two gloved hands came into view in the starlight. The stars were above him and his feet were elevated on the edge of the rubber dinghy in which he now found himself.
Rory brought his feet down and struggled to sit. The fist was now thumping inside his skull. His head told him to stop moving or it would behave the same as the worst hangover he could ever imagine. He ripped the tape, which held his gloves on, from around his wrists and freed his hands. Next, he removed his headgear and respirator mask.
He sucked deeply on the cool night air. The fresh saltiness and distinctly ocean scent filled his nostrils and settled the pain—somewhat. He rested his head back on the rubber dinghy.
Ow!
Rory reached his hand behind his head and felt an egg-shaped lump.
Night birds flew overhead, their cries mournful. It meant he wasn’t too far from land, didn’t it? Then there came the loud humming of an engine underneath and ahead of him, and the splash of waves hitting together. A wash rocked his small craft wildly. Spray, from the impact of waves on the side of the dinghy, hit him in the face, shocking him with its chill, stinging his eyes with its salt. He was wet now.
Rory scampered forward to view ahead of him. In the dark night he could barely make out the top of the submerging submarine, the tall thin radio mast the last thing to disappear under the ocean.
“What!”
His convulsive exclamation caused a shooting pain in his forehead. He laid back and observed the stars for a while.
So, Angus had knocked him out and set him adrift in the dinghy. He shook his head a wee bit, the pain returned, and he stopped.
Talk about hangovers!
He could do with a scotch right now.
Angus.
Rory bit his lower lip as he gazed at Pleiades.
Angus.
He picked up his headgear and tried the radio. Dead. Damaged by the bash to his head.
The dinghy continued a gentle rocking after the wash subsided.
Where was he? He lifted his head, risking pain, and scanned the horizon. Behind him in the distance was a land mass.
The Isle of Lewis?
He was out in the North Atlantic Ocean. How the hell was he going to get back?
Didn’t think of that, did you, Angus?
Damn.
He rested his head gingerly back onto the side of the rubber dinghy. He’d been telling Siobhan he had seen the future with them in it together. It had made little sense then. If he didn’t get back, it would make none now.
There used to be Search and Rescue. He’d read of it once. He could do with it now.
The waves gently rocked the dinghy, and the stars continued their journey around the North Celestial Pole. A motor chugged in the distance behind him. He turned and waved his headgear and then remembered his torch hanging on his belt.
Maybe the battery would last.
Chapter 24
The Shores of Loch Ewe
Siobhan sat on the canvas floor of her tent which was dimly illuminated by the light from lanterns placed outside in front of the circle of tents. She held the radio’s handset. Rory’s voice had cut off mid-sentence, then static hissed. Now the handset was as silent as death.
“Rory?”
No response.
“Rory!” Siobhan turned the shortwave radio dial through the Hertz to try to pick up Rory on another wavelength.
Nothing.
Xian was on the radio outside, set up on the camp table with the computer. The others crowded around him. He hadn’t spoken for a few moments either. She dropped the handset on the tent floor and ran across the grass campsite to them.
“The radio’s gone dead,” Xian said as she reached him.
“They’re probably out of range by now,” Geoff explained. “Or they’ve submerged already.”
No one spoke. The only sound was the lapping of the waters by the loch’s shore.
“That’s it then?” Kendra’s voice was entirely question. “They’ve got the dinghy, right? They can jump out once they’ve got the sub diving, yeah?”
Xian shook his head. “The nuke was dodgy, made in Pakistan. The timer may not work. They had to be there to ensure it did.” Then he added under his breath. “And you can’t jump out of a submerging sub.”
Siobhan’s knees lost their power to hold up her body, despite her understanding fully the mechanics of a diving submarine. She sat hard on the ground by the loch. Behind her, Kendra, the strong warrior woman, wept uncontrollably, and Xian spoke softly to her as he walked her to the tents, their voices receding in the night. A silent Callum walked with them, leaving Siobhan alone.
Callum. Rory’s twin. How would he take this?
The loch’s water continued its lapping against the shore. The cold from the ground underneath her thighs seeped into her skin. Night birds called in the starlit sky. She looked at the celestial display above her. Rory had helped her appreciate the night sky—truly appreciate it for the first time.
Angus and Rory would set the timer for eight hours. When they were in the middle of the North Atlantic Ocean, far away from Scotland’s outer isles, Iceland and Greenland. And the smaller islands—what were they again? The Faro Islands.
Through her numbness she noted her thoughts were too clinical.
Rory would still be alive for another eight hours, possibly.
The wind blew her hair around her face. It had been loose since he took it out of her French roll and run his fingers through it. She could still smell him on her and feel his tight body pressed against hers. Warm and taut muscle the whole length of him. His scent, the aroma of the Highlands—horse and heather—was in her blouse and on her face.
On her lips.
Life was not fair. In fact, it truly stank.
She’d found him, the man of her dreams—literally. And she didn’t care how juvenile or pathetic it sounded, like something out of a soppy romance novel. People in the Bunker often mocked those novels. Why had they kept them in the archives if they weren’t for reading? There was nothing wrong with love and romance. She now realised that before Rory, she thought she’d had both, but in actuality, she’d experienced neither.
When he’d gone, in eight hours, what would she do? A thick lump came to her throat. She took calming breaths.
Then a burning anger appeared, scorching her chest, threatening to sear her soul.
Bloody Antony!
If all that rubbish hadn’t happened with him, then Sanjay and Sundeep would be alive and they would’ve done it. They were both dead. They would have died anyway. Wouldn’t they?
She put her face in her hands.
What was she thinking?
Poor Sanjay and Sundeep. What was she going to tell their mother, Rajnandini, back in the Bunker? A brilliant biochemist from the original Brains Trust and a dignified matriarch—a generous-hearted woman whom she could call Aunty.
Siobhan’s heavy breathing continued for a time. Her jaw clenched, joining the tension in her curling fists. She would go and hit Antony on the head. They’d tied him up. He couldn’t stop her!
It would
n’t make any difference to Rory not being here, or anything that had happened in the lead up to him going. Her tiredness helped calm her.
Then the realisation struck her, as hard as a thump to the back of her neck.
It would have come to this, anyway. Rory, being Rory, would have made sure he was the one to go. She hadn’t known him for long, but this one thing was certain. For that man to be true to himself, he had to get into that sub.
Damn him!
“Damn you, Rory Campbell!” She yelled at the top of her lungs as she threw a rock at the sea loch. Its heavy plop into the water echoed in the night. A startled night bird flew off, calling its warning to others. Midges swarmed above her head.
That was it.
She let her tears pour down her face as she laid on the grass; it was exhausting being angry and the effort of sitting was too hard.
SIOBHAN’S FACE WAS as cold as her back and legs. She looked at the sky. The stars had turned on the North Celestial pole, their night’s journey forwarded while she had slept by the shore.
Her hearing caught the chug of a motorboat across the loch. Siobhan sat up. Lights were at the pier which sat outside the old fisherman’s house, on the Isle of Ewe in the middle of the loch. It was quiet for a time, then the motor started again.
The sound of the motor moved across the water as the boat made its way to the makeshift pier to her right. Then, the sound of footsteps as someone landed on the pier; somebody tied a rope to the pole; more footsteps headed in her direction.
“Ms Kensington-Wallace?” It was the old fisherman, Murdo MacDonald.
What on earth did he want?
“Yes?” She stood and made a hesitant way toward him.
“Could ye please fetch yoor wee first aid kit? I have someone with a head injury who requires yoor attention.”
She didn’t reply, quite reluctant to go with this man who was practically a stranger.
A strange stranger.
“Ye’ll want tae come and tend his wounds, believe me, lass.”