Текст книги "Noah's Ark: Encounters"

Автор книги: Harry Dayle

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Twenty-Seven

THE NOISE, WHEN it started, was so loud it made Lucya’s head spin. She was too close to the pipe’s entrance; she should have made better progress before they restarted the giant fans. The whirring sound reverberated around her, and for a short while she became completely disoriented in the blackness of the tunnel. A thought flashed through her mind: this was what being buried alive must feel like. Except it wouldn’t have felt like that, because an instant later a jet of cold air hit her like a tornado, rolling over her body, under her legs, wrapping itself around her, clutching her tight. Before she could stop herself, Lucya gave a shriek. She shaped her mouth shut and swallowed the rest of the sound that had tried to escape. She hoped beyond hope that her involuntary gasp would be lost in the swirling air.

The fan regulated itself to a steady speed, and the air flow settled accordingly. Even the noise level dropped off, just a touch.

Lucya realised she had her eyes closed tight. She opened them again, but it made no difference. No light ventured into the tube.

With her hands outstretched in front of her, she placed her palms flat against the curved interior and pulled herself forwards. At the same time, she bent her legs as far as the confined space would allow, and pushed with the toes of her rubber gym shoes. They gave good grip against the slippery surface, but the limited amount of room meant she could move no more than a couple of inches at a time. While she wriggled along on her belly, painfully slowly, her mind recalled the technical drawings. Not To Scale, they had said. Martin had estimated the distance nonetheless. It was at least a hundred metres, and a section of that was ‘uphill’, as the pipeline went up a deck. At her current pace, she realised with horror, she had no chance of even reaching the conference room before the deadline, let alone giving the virus time to work.

• • •

“How do we know the mystery submarine won’t torpedo us?” Daniel asked. “What if they think we’re the Ambush and try and take us out? Or worse, what if the Ambush thinks we’re the unfriendly sub, and they sink us?”

“I’ve been on board the Ambush. I’ve seen their sonar at work. They’ll see us, certainly, and they’ll know we’re the Lance. They knew the Lance was the Lance even before we knew about the Lance…if that makes sense?” Jake scratched his head.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“I would imagine the other submarine is similarly equipped.”

“So that begs the question” – Daniel wasn’t done yet – “how come they can’t spot each other? The Ambush is a damn sight bigger than this boat.”

It was Bodil who answered. “Modern nuclear submarines are virtually undetectable. They use a range of stealth technologies. Anechoic tiles covering the hull, highly advanced propeller designs that don’t boil the water around them and therefore don’t make noises, even the shape of the hull itself is designed to reduce its radar and sonar signature. If a submarine doesn’t want to be found, it won’t be found.”

“So how are we going to find them?” Daniel looked confused.

“We have an advantage. We can use active sonar.”

“Wait, they must have sonar too, right? If their military sonar can’t find a whacking great big submerged vessel…”

Bodil smiled. She was in her element, talking about her specialist subject to someone interested in listening. Indeed, all four sailors and Jake were watching her intently, hanging on her every word. “There are two kinds of sonar: active and passive. Active sonar works like radar, but uses sound waves instead of radio waves.”

“Like a dolphin?” one of the men asked.

“Yes, exactly. We send out a noise, and when it bounces off something, we hear the echo. Using the time it takes for the echo to come back, we can work out the distance to the object—”

“And by sending out a lot of noise, you can basically map the size of the object.” The sailor looked pleased with himself. The Lance hit a wave, and bounced and juddered, wiping the smile from his face.

“Right. Now I’m no expert on military systems, but I know the active sonar on this boat can pick up objects as small as a single fish. Now, you see perhaps the problem the submarines have?”

Daniel offered up an explanation. “If they use active sonar, the other submarine will detect the sounds they’re sending out. They’ll give away their position.”

“Precisely. So while they are hiding out, they must rely on passive sonar. They can only listen for noises already out there.”

“Like the sound of our propeller.”

“That’s one source, yes. The Spirit of Arcadia will also be making a lot of noise.”

“Really?” Jake looked around. “But she’s not moving. Her main engines aren’t even running, only the electric generator.”

“That generator will cause vibrations. Even the people moving around on the ship will cause vibrations. The passive sonar will pick up all of this noise. Both submarines will know exactly where she, and we, are located.”

“Well I guess that means they’re not planning on sinking her. They could already have done so,” Daniel said, the relief evident in his voice. “So the two submarines are both hiding out, each one waiting for the other to make a noise and give away its position?”

“Most likely.”

“We don’t know that for sure, though,” Jake added. “The unfriendly sub could have gone, left the area. Unlikely, but possible.”

They sailed on for a while, the drone of the powerful diesel engine below and the occasional wave breaking over the bow the only sounds. Each of them was lost in their thoughts.

Sailing on the smaller ship, Jake was reminded of the boat trips his father had taken him on as a child. He’d never really wanted to go, but he hated to see the disappointment on the old man’s face, so when his mother had insisted, he had always obliged. They’d hitch rides on friends’ fishing boats, or hire or borrow sailing boats for a weekend. It didn’t matter to his dad as long as they were out on the water. It was as if his father thought that if Jake was exposed to the sea for long enough, he would develop a love of the ocean as deep as his own. It never happened, but Jake did develop a habit of going along with his father’s wishes, putting up less and less resistance as time went by, ultimately leading him to take a job as an engineer on a small cruise liner. By then it was too late; his career path was set, and although he escaped the engine room and got into the ranks of the bridge officers, he had never escaped the sea.

“This is probably far enough out,” Jake said, coming out of his trance. “Bodil, you’ll have to tell these boys how to deploy your sonar kit.”

She nodded, and began directing them. One of them wheeled her out of the bridge so she could better show them how to get the equipment into the water.

While they waited, Daniel had more questions for Jake. “Do we know where they come from? I mean, are they Russians? Americans? Another Royal Navy sub? Who would attack us?”

Jake hesitated, but only briefly. He reminded himself that transparency in the community was paramount. There was nothing to be gained by holding back information. “We think they’re North Korean, or possibly Chinese. The men who captured this ship were North Korean. They’re the only other survivors we’ve seen. The submarine was probably tracking the Lance.”

“They’re a long way from home. I didn’t think they had that sort of technology.”

“No…neither did Vardy. In fact, he insisted it was impossible. Subsequent events have changed that point of view. Vardy said that the Chinese had a secret submarine development project. It’s possible, although unlikely, they involved the Koreans in that. It’s also possible the Koreans stole the technology.”

One of the other sailors poked his head through the door. “We’re almost ready. The sonar’s being lowered into the water. Bodil is in the control room. I assume you want to join her?”

Jake nodded. “Thank you. Daniel, you have the bridge. Keep us put for now. This is Bodil’s show. She’ll be giving the orders when it’s time to move.”

“Aye…Jake,” he said, and grinned once more.

• • •

“What is it? What happened?” Dan rubbed his eyes, trying to focus. Despite his best efforts to maintain a vigil, he had dozed off when Vicky had gone to sleep.

“I said I think my waters just broke.”

“What? But the contractions had stopped!”

She let out a long, long, rumbling moan.

Dan leapt up, fully awake now. “Okay, they started. I’m going to fetch help.” He moved towards the door, then turned back to her. “Will you be okay on your own for a bit? Perhaps I shouldn’t leave you here?”

“You could try the phone, you big idiot.” She smiled at him. The same smile that had captured his heart.

“Yes, telephone. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll ring medical.” He circled the bed, cut the corner too tight and tripped over the end of the duvet, landing with a heavy thump.

“Dan! Calm down. We’ve got plenty of timeeeeaaahhh!” The last word turned into a pained yowl.

Dan checked his watch. “Didn’t time it, bugger.” He pushed himself up and found the telephone. He searched his memory for the number for medical, then realised it was printed on the phone itself. He dialled, and waited, all the time staring anxiously at his wife. She had jettisoned the bed covers, hence his finding them with his feet. She was sweating profusely. Her hair, normally so straight and perfect, was stuck to her face in a matted, wet heap, like seaweed washed up on a beach. She caught him watching her, and pulled a face.

“You wouldn’t look so good yourself if you were about to give birth, Mr Mitchell,” she said, still managing to smile through the obvious pain.

“Actually, I was thinking how amazing you look. Shit, nobody’s answering the phone down there.” He hung on regardless.

“Perhaps you should go. They might be too busy. I’ll be okay. It won’t take you long to get down there and come back. Honestly, Dan. I’ll be fine.”

He hung up, looking at the phone as if it was personally to blame for the lack of a response. “This is an emergency! They should answer.”

“There might be other emergencies. Don’t forget, we didn’t give them much notice about this – about me – did we? They’d be quite within their rights to say ‘not our problem, deal with it yourselves’. We should count ourselves lucky.”

Dan thought about that. It was true, they had been expecting the worst. Any help was a bonus.

“Go! Before I have a baby.”

“Okay. You’re sure?”

She gave him one of her looks.

“Okay! I’m gone.” He got as far as the door, even put his hand on the handle, before turning back one more time.

“What now?”

He leaned over the bed and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I love you,” he said quietly. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

“Nutter!”

They kissed again, and then he was gone.

Twenty-Eight

IT WAS WHEN she reached the incline that took the ventilation pipe up to deck two that Lucya had a brainwave. It came, as all the best ideas seemed to, quite accidentally. Her arms were going numb. Pulling herself forwards inches at a time was tiring beyond belief. Keeping them stretched out in front of her was limiting the blood circulation. She’d already gone through pins and needles and was starting to lose the feeling in her hands altogether. In an effort to get them down by her side, at least for a few minutes, she tried rolling onto her back. In the confined round space, the only way to do so was to twist her legs and try and pull herself round. The manoeuvre itself wasn’t tricky, but doing it quietly took some effort.

Once on her back, Lucya managed to squeeze her tightly folded arms over her face. The relief was immense; she could feel the arteries and veins open up and the blood flow freely into her muscles.

That was when she had the idea. Instead of pulling herself through the tube, she could push herself using just the lower half of her body. By raising her knees as high as the tunnel-like shaft would allow, she could then push off with her feet. Not only did this method of propulsion require far less effort than she had previously been expending, it was also a lot quieter. The rubber of the wetsuit around her back did catch a bit, but it only took a little shimmying of her shoulders to overcome that problem.

With her new method, and renewed optimism, Lucya slid up the pipe, and ever closer to the conference room, and her beloved Erica.

• • •

The sonar control room on the Lance was the opposite in every way of the bridge. Where the bridge was stark, uncomfortable, and bathed in light from the huge amounts of glass, the sonar room was well appointed and dark, lit as it was by subtle spots set into the black ceiling. The walls and floor were black, too, reminding Jake of a cinema, although a very tiny one. Two walls were fitted with an L-shaped console, inset with screens, keyboards, and dials.

“This looks like the inside of the Ambush,” Jake said as he walked in.

“I bet the Ambush doesn’t have carpet,” Bodil replied.

“Actually, it does. Coote told me it was to deaden the noise inside. It helps make them even less detectable.”

The scientist nodded gently. “Makes sense.” She tapped some commands into a keyboard, and watched the screen directly in front of her for a response.

Jake came and sat down next to her. Two of the sailors were outside, managing a complex winch system that had lowered the sonar pod into the water. The other two were in the sonar control room, wheeling Bodil from screen to screen as she required.

“Is the sonar on? Sending out noise?”

“I’m just about to light it up now. One more test to run and then we’re off to the races, as you English like to say, yes?”

“Your grasp of our language is impressive.”

“My husband is from Yorkshire.”

“God’s own county.”

“So he tells me.”

“Were there many Solems in Yorkshire?”

“Funny.” She gave an exaggerated, obviously false laugh. “I kept my name. There.” She tapped another button. “Tests complete. Now, we go for it.”

Jake moved to the edge of his seat. “This is where we find out if they want to sink us, as well as the Ambush.”

Bodil’s fingers worked at the keyboard. Two of the screens on the console, previously blank, suddenly filled with colour. Against a deep blue backdrop, a swirling circle of reds, greens and yellows traced its way around the monitors. To Jake, it was indecipherable, but the woman appeared satisfied.

“See this blob of colour here?” A slender and unsteady finger pointed to an area on the screen nearest to Jake. “That’s the Spirit of Arcadia.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Bodil. I don’t think any of us would recognise a submarine on that thing if it started blinking at us.”

“It’s not that difficult. Just a question of experience is all.”

“So? Any sign?”

“Nothing so far. I hope you are a patient man, Captain Noah. We have a vast area to cover. Those submarines could have travelled many kilometres. My sonar is capable, but they are more capable. Searching this ocean is like…it’s like searching the floor of this room for a dropped earring whilst looking down a straw. We could get lucky, or we could pass right over, if it’s buried in the pile. Either way, it will take time.”

“That’s just it. We don’t have much time.” He checked his watch again. “Thirty-eight minutes left. We have to find the Ambush in less than thirty eight minutes.”

• • •

Max strolled up to the door of cabin 1124, his head buried in a glossy magazine, his face hidden from the spy hole he knew they would be watching from.

It hadn’t occurred to him to find anyone to come as backup. He was used to working alone. He’d done it all on this ship: busted drug dealers, broken up drunken brawls, fought off jealous husbands laying into their cheating wives’ lovers, fought off angry wives laying into cheating husbands’ lovers, and on one occasion had even fought off a pirate attack, for which he had been awarded an insultingly small bonus. Not that the money mattered to Max.

He reached around and felt the gun tucked into the back of his trousers. The security chief was more of a hands-on operator, but the weapon gave him added confidence.

He squared up to the door, standing close, too close for his face to be clearly visible. With a beefy, hairy hand, he tapped lightly.

“Who is it?” The voice was just the other side, close by.

“Customer. Fags.” He waved the magazine airily, as if chatting to an old friend in the street.

There was the unmistakable sound of a chain being undone, then the door handle twisted downwards.

Max’s timing was perfect. As the door opened the tiniest amount, he threw all of his considerable weight against it. Whoever was on the other side must have been at least as big as he was, but they were caught off guard and off balance. Their own weight sent them tumbling to the floor with a loud thump. Max pushed the door hard, sweeping aside the bulky body behind it, and marched inside. The gun remained in his trousers, his hands by his sides.

In front of him were two white armchairs, but the rest of the furniture had been stacked at the side of the room. To his left, the door to the bedroom clicked shut and he heard a key turn in the lock. He moved towards it, fully intending to break it down, when a voice to his right stopped him.

“Mister security man? Put your hands on your head.”

Max did as he was told, and swivelled slowly on the spot. He hadn’t noticed the badly dressed youth in the corner of the room, so skinny was he: a stubbly-faced man clad in a heavy-metal t-shirt that looked quite ridiculous on his bony frame. His face was strangely out of proportion, his eyes and nose too big to go with his other features. Max had to fight the urge to laugh, such was the oddity before him, but he did have one threatening feature, one attribute that made him dangerous. Max knew it was never a good idea to laugh at dangerous men. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the gun in the skinny man’s hands.

“Come on, son. Don’t do anything daft. Shoot me and you’re as good as dead. There’s nowhere to run.”

“I don’t want to shoot you, old man. It would make a terrible mess on the carpet, and that wouldn’t be good for business. I am going to have to dispose of you though.”

“Like you disposed of Grace?” Max took a step forwards.

“Hmm. Sorry about that. I hope you didn’t need her?”

“Honestly? You did me a favour. Couldn’t stand the woman. All ‘detective this’ and ‘detective that’, you know?” Another half step towards the skinny man.

“Well, she was American. I don’t like Americans.”

“I’ve nothing against them, just that one. I’m replacing her with a guy from Grimsby.” Half a step.

“That’s enough.” The skinny man waggled the weapon. “No closer, Granddad.”

Max studied the firearm. “Grace’s position was easy enough to fill, but I’m going to need her weapon back.”

A laugh, a tiny turn of the head. “Sorry…what? You think I’m going to hand over the gun and let you walk out of here?”

“I think nothing of the sort,” Max said. At the same instant he spoke, he moved, like lighting. He may have had thirty years on the scrawny young man, but Max was in good shape. His bulk made him look lumbering and slow. It was easy to underestimate him, as many had found to their cost. He pulled his hands from his head and darted forwards, ducking at the same time. His open left hand came up, palm connecting with the hands that clasped the pistol, forcing them upwards. His right hand, balled into a fist, powered into the skinny man’s belly. The black t-shirt, and the body inside it, folded in two. The gun fired, ripping a tiny hole in the ceiling. As the youth doubled up, Max pulled the firearm free. The boy was down but not out. He staggered backwards, winded, then – to Max’s amazement – came at him again. Max had plenty of time to prepare his defence. A well-aimed kick to the knee snapped the black-marketeer’s leg. He fell to the floor, howling in pain.

“Thanks for the gun,” Max said. He put on the safety catch, and shoved it into his empty back pocket. “Now to sort out your heavy mate.”

He turned back towards the door, but where he had expected to see the muscle of the operation on the floor, he saw only empty space. It wasn’t empty for long. Two feet stepped into view. He looked up to see who they belonged to just in time to see a golf club swinging at his head.

“Zhang!”

The club met its target, and everything went black.

• • •

There was light ahead. Narrow slits of light that bent around the curved sides of the pipe.

The classroom.

Lucya was almost there. Adrenaline flowed, giving her the energy to move faster than ever, but now was not the time for speed. Now was the time for grace, dexterity, and above all, silence.

She needed to get back onto her front before getting any closer. With her arms pushed back up over her head, she rolled over. In the almost total darkness it was easy to become disoriented, and for a few brief seconds she wasn’t sure which way was up. Then common sense kicked in, and she evaluated the effects of gravity on her body, and got herself turned round properly.

The ventilation pipe narrowed as it approached its destination, but Lucya was determined. She had one shot, and having come this far, she didn’t want to take any chances. The cold air blast, although very much evident, had lost its edge so far along. It was imperative that the virus escape through the correct grille, into the occupied room, and not get blown to the end of the pipe which was – she hoped – by now blocked off. And so, pushing herself with her toes, she advanced so far forwards that her hands were able to reach out and touch the grille.

The voices of the Koreans drifted into the tube. They were difficult to hear against the ever-present sound of the cold air. Not that it mattered; she didn’t speak a word of Korean.

She did speak English though, and understood perfectly when one of the children, voice quivering, asked to be allowed to go to the toilet. His request was met with a torrent of what sounded like verbal abuse. When it ended, she could make out the sound of the lad sniffling, and then the voice she most wanted to hear in the world: Erica’s.

“Shh, it’s okay, Tommy. We’ll be out soon, I promise.”

More Korean, this time directed at her. Then, a slap, a noise that filled Lucya with rage, spurring her into action.

She pulled her hands back, away from the grille, and retrieved the tiny plastic container of virus that was connected to a band wound around her throat – the only part of her body that was almost guaranteed not to touch the sides of the pipe during her expedition.

Vardy’s words echoed in her mind. Take a minute before you release the virus. But she didn’t have a minute to spare. It had taken far longer than anticipated to reach the room. A minute spent waiting was a minute less for the virus to get to work. Still trembling with anger, she unscrewed the cap on the container, and reached forwards again with both hands.

The container was a miniature atomiser, the kind used for dispensing air freshener, or perfume. With it lined up against the openings in the pipe, Lucya took a deep breath, and squeezed. She pumped four times, emptying the contents completely. In the narrow shafts of light that entered the grille like rays of sun, she could see the liquid turn to mist. The blown air from the ventilation plant did its job, carrying most of the fine spray out into the classroom. Some of it escaped further up the pipe, to be lost in the dead end. She knew that some might even be sucked back towards her as the airflow bounced and returned. It was a risk she had to take.

Lucya counted forty-five seconds before she had to take a breath. Not bad, she thought, but not great, either. One breath wasn’t enough though. The pent-up anger still held her in its grip, and she found herself panting, short, shallow breaths. A thin wisp of moisture blew back into her face. Instinctively she shut her mouth and her eyes, but her shortness of breath meant she couldn’t help but draw in air through her nose, minute droplets of liquid entering her nostrils along with the precious oxygen she so desired.

It happened before she could even think about it. A body’s natural reaction, an automatic reflex designed to expel the foreign invader. Her eyelids pulled themselves shut, and she sneezed.