Текст книги "Noah's Ark: Encounters"

Автор книги: Harry Dayle

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

He almost made it, but the guard was more alert than anyone had really expected, and he must have heard Brian’s approach because he whirled around, gun raised, and shouted something that nobody understood.

Brian, like the other divers, was armed only with a Taser and a knife. Close-combat weapons; discreet, silent. They hadn’t come to kill, only to take control of the Lance and find out what was really going on there. He had no means to defend himself against the man standing ten metres from him. Jumping overboard would be too risky; the guard could easily get off a shot or two before he hit the water. Instead, he raised his hands above his head.

“Red One in trouble. If anyone is nearby, assistance is required at the mid-section, starboard side.” Ralf remained as calm and detached as always, relaying the information to the other divers.

Jake could barely bring himself to watch, so looked away, choosing to regard the thermal scan rather than the terrifying view from Brian’s shoulder cam: the image of a man pointing a gun directly at him. He couldn’t block out the sound though, and the sound was of the guard shouting incoherently. He was raising hell, and now their cover was well and truly blown.

Several things then happened at once. A face appeared at the starboard-side bridge window, looked down at Brian and the guard holding him at gunpoint, then disappeared just as quickly. A siren blared out across the Lance. Jake could hear it outside without the aid of the video links.

At the same instant, on the thermal image screen a red blob with a flashing green dot popped into view, coming round the mid-section of the ship. Jake’s eyes flicked back to the middle screen and he saw the submariner approach the gun-toting guard from the rear. As he raised his Taser to the guard’s neck, Brian dived to the ground. A second later and he would have been comprehensively perforated by the spray of bullets that erupted from the weapon as the man’s muscles contracted around the trigger, a side effect of the intense electric shock.

That wasn’t the only gun to fire. Windows behind the bridge had been thrown open and gun barrels were poked through, firing indiscriminately towards the deck. The middle screen in the situation room flickered then went black, the images replaced with the words: “No Signal”.

“What happened?” Jake asked.

“Is Brian shot?” Amanda shrieked. Her hands flew to her mouth.

Nobody answered.

There was movement on the left-hand screen and Jake realised it was the two divers who had been climbing the scaffold-like structure. They had run across the helipad and were now on the roof of the bridge, pulling open a hatch and throwing something inside.

“Red six: where are you?” Ralf’s voice again.

“Almost… Shit!” Jake didn’t recognise the voice that spoke. There was the sound of a struggle, a shout, then the unmistakable crackle of another stun-gun going off. “Sorry, the engine room was manned. Okay…”

Smoke began billowing from the bridge hatch as the tear-gas canisters discharged their payload. Some of the shooting stopped, but it was replaced by more from the middle deck.

Then, quite suddenly, the left-hand screen also went blank.

“Generator cut. I repeat, generator cut. Blue Team: go, go, go.”

It was very difficult to make out what was happening from that point forward. With no video aside from the thermal camera, Jake had to rely on the occasional clipped voice report, and the movement of anonymous red blobs, some of which were accompanied by the tell-tale blinking transponder signals of the submariners. Even so, he had a good idea of what was going on from the planning. The Blue Team divers equipped with night-vision headsets were now sweeping through the Lance, taking out anyone who looked like they were a threat. Anyone and everyone they found was to be restrained and bound. They could ask questions later.

To everyone’s great relief, Brian’s voice came back over the speaker. Not whispering this time, but shouting to make himself heard over the sound of the gunshots. “Outer deck is secure. Red Team is heading down.”

“Your camera is out, Red One.”

“Affirmative. Broken whilst avoiding fire.”

Once below the line of the outer deck, it was no longer possible to follow the Red Team, even on the thermal camera. The thick reinforced ice-breaking hull masked their body heat, and played havoc with the signal from their transponders. The green dots popped up every now and then, but they skittered across the screen like penguins across ice. Voice communications were similarly intermittent, with bursts of sound breaking through. From the snippets of information they had, Jake believed they were working their way through the two levels below the deck, from the stern to the bow. He thought he heard more tear-gas canisters being deployed, although the hissing sound could simply have been static on the radio channel; it was hard to be sure.

Sixteen

HE HAD HEARD them coming, of course. They were hardly discreet. As soon as the first shot had been fired many decks above, its distinctive sound filling every corner of the small ship, even finding its way into the deep storage room in which they were held, he had known they were going to be saved.

Until then, until that first gunshot, nothing had been certain. He had relayed their situation to the diver outside, through the tapping of Morse code. But the replies had stopped. There had been no message to suggest someone was coming to get them; no indication that this rescue would happen.

He’d been turning that fact over in his head since tapping the last dot of the last letter of the last message. Had the diver been captured? Killed? Or was the correspondent one of the terrible men who had taken their ship from them, and not a potential rescuer at all?

After that first shot there had been more. Many more. He had kept his eyes shut tight as he hoped and wished that whoever had come to them would not be overpowered by their ruthless captors. Above all, he hoped that his wife would be safe. She was up there, somewhere, among those animals. It would be so easy for her to be caught in the crossfire.

The firing had calmed down then. Just the occasional shot. Other sounds took their place.

Screaming. Shouting. Hissing.

The sounds were getting nearer. Whoever had come aboard was closing in. He’d tried to call to them, to make his position known, but his voice had long since abandoned him. The others were conscious though, roused by the gunfight. Some of them began to grunt and groan.

And then the bulkhead door had been opened. Just a crack at first. It was hard to tell for sure because unusually, no light spilled through. It was as dark outside as in. He’d had the feeling he was being watched, examined, like a research specimen in one of the labs up top. It was the only time his faith that they were about to be rescued had wavered. Why weren’t these people bursting through and freeing them? He had worked it out just before the submariners entered the room. They hadn’t known for sure that this was where the captives were being held. They’d been scouting, making sure it was safe.

And now, here they were: divers, peeling off night-vision masks and filling the room with light from pocket torches.

Their saviours had come at last.

Seventeen

BLUE TEAM REPORTED back first.

“We have the bridge. Repeat, we have taken the bridge.”

“Understood. Red Team is advancing below.”

There was a collective sigh from around the situation room. The atmosphere had become heavy without anyone really noticing. Now that the submariners were apparently in control of the upper decks of the Lance, much of the tension was released.

Brian reported shortly after.

“We have found the prisoners. They’re in a bad way. Alert medical that we will be bringing in twelve, repeat twelve crew who will require immediate attention.”

Someone from the Red Team must have gone back to the engine room, because shortly after that message was relayed, the lights came back on.

• • •

Blissfully unaware of the events unfolding just a kilometre away from the other side of the ship, Grace Garet was up early again. And again, she was writing up the report of her previous night’s exploits. Her pocket notebook lay open on her little square desk, and she referred back to it frequently as she wrote a more detailed narrative of events in a much larger book. It wasn’t something she had any intention of showing Max, at least not yet. It was more a matter of being professional and doing the job she had been trained for.

She put down her pen, shook the cramp out of her hand, and read back through what she had written.

After having had my cover almost blown by the indiscretions of the gardener, I proceeded to follow Mrs Heyton as she walked away from the Pytheas Restaurant, in the direction of the front of the ship. More than once she turned around. I believe she was making sure that she was not being followed. Each time, I was able to avoid being seen.

Mrs Heyton summoned an elevator and entered it alone. This made following her very difficult as I had to wait for her to exit in order to determine which floor she got out on. The elevator stopped at deck eleven. I had already summoned the other elevator, and it arrived presently. I used this to take me to deck eleven, where I began to search for Mrs Heyton. My first thought was to avoid the outer sun deck and concentrate my search on the inner area. My hunch was proved correct as I found her not far away, still carrying two portions of dinner rations. I exited onto the sun deck and followed closely, keeping her in sight at all times through the windows.

Mrs Heyton stopped at cabin 1124. She did not knock, but the door opened from the inside. I conclude from this that someone was waiting for her, watching for her arrival from the spy hole in the door. Before entering the cabin, she once again looked around, as if making sure she had not been followed. Her behaviour can only be described as suspicious.

At this point I made a judgement to stake out the cabin with the aim of finding out if anyone other than Mr Heyton was present. The sun deck provided me with cover, and I was able to position a deck chair in such a way as to keep the cabin in view. Mrs Heyton left the cabin shortly after arriving. I was unable to follow her and maintain my surveillance. Over the course of one hour, I watched five people arriving at and leaving cabin 1124. All of these were women in their sixties, and all carried two portions of rations. One of these women was Mrs Moran, who had previously been reported missing.

Mrs Moran was the last woman I saw arrive. When she left, I decided to follow her. She led me (unknowingly) to another cabin on the other side of the ship, cabin 1182. The door was opened to her without her knocking.

Due to the position of cabin 1182 it was not possible to watch it without being seen by anyone who may have been using the spy hole, so I returned to 1124 and took up my position there once again. For a half hour nobody came to the cabin, but then there were many more arrivals. This time they were mainly young people. I noted the following during the next thirty minutes:

– A young man, estimated mid-twenties.

– A middle-aged man.

– A couple I estimated to be in their thirties.

– Two women, one mid-thirties, the other a bit older.

Most of these people looked nervous as they arrived, and all looked relieved when they left. Nobody stayed in the cabin for more than ten minutes. On every occasion, the door was opened from the inside. 

After an hour of surveillance I left deck eleven. My next stop was Mrs Silvia Brook, where I was able to look up the cabin assignments. Mrs Brook advised that cabins 1182 and 1124 are currently listed as unoccupied, awaiting allocation. She found this surprising as they are both large multi-room suites.

Conclusion: It is my belief that some kind of illicit trade is being carried out in cabin 1124. The women in 1182 may be willing participants in this trade, but I believe it more likely that they are being coerced into delivering food there. It is my conjecture that these women – and their husbands – are being held against their will. The women collect meals from the restaurants and deliver them to the black market, which uses them as currency in exchange for other goods.

Grace nodded slowly to herself. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced there was a black market operating from the deck-eleven cabin. She needed to get in there to be sure. There was little point going to Max without proper evidence, so she’d have to go undercover and try and collect some. Her shift began at nine, so she had just enough time to put her plan into action before turning up for work.

• • •

The Lance was to be met by Jake, Vardy, Max, and Martin. They were the official greeting party. Unofficially, word had got out that the ship had been taken. Gunshots in the early hours of the morning hardly went unnoticed, and many on the port side of the ship had been awoken by the violent sounds of the liberation of the research vessel. News, as always in the confines of the cruiser, spread quickly. So by the time the Lance approached, there were a great many early risers on the outer decks, trying to catch a glimpse of the very first survivors to be seen since the asteroid.

As soon as it had become clear that the operation to take control of the Lance was a success, Jake and the other officers had begun final preparations for her arrival. While the submariners de-clogged the propeller and got the engine started up again, Vardy went in search of nurses, who had been allowed to sleep as late as possible.

Jake had called in on Lucya. He’d suspected she wouldn’t be sleeping, and he’d been right. Now she knew that the operation was over, she could try and get an hour or two of sleep before it would be time to get Erica up and ready for school, then take command on the bridge.

Martin had gone straight to deck two to wait for the Lance’s arrival. He was keen to take a look around the captured ship to get an idea of how they would proceed to their next destination with her. Either in tow, or under her own power.

The Lance circled around the Spirit of Arcadia, eventually drawing up against the starboard side of the cruiser. A cut-out in the high rim of her hull made it easy to rig up a wide walkway between the research ship and the starboard passenger hatch.

By then, the first rays of the morning sun were already scattering through the dusty clouds. Illuminated by natural daylight rather than the artificially white floodlights, the ship looked less menacing than it had overnight, although the great scaffold in the back still gave it a somewhat alien quality. Jake felt a shiver run down his spine as ropes were secured to the cruiser, and the walkway was heaved into place by a couple of sailors.

Brian was the first man off. Jake was shocked to see that his leg was tied with a blood-soaked bandage.

“Oh, yeah. Got a bit shot,” he said, shrugging as he noticed Jake looking.

“Get yourself up to deck eight. Room 845,” Vardy said. “Temporary hospital.”

“If it’s all the same, I’d like to see the other men off first. We’re not done here yet. Anyway, it’s just a flesh wound.” He gave the sort of twisted grin that made Jake think there was a shared joke between the two men.

Martin rocked from foot to foot, eager to get on board. Before that could happen, they needed to get everyone else off.

The first to come were the captives, who had been found down below the waterline. They were brought out by the sailors into the ever-brightening morning, where they blinked back the light and stared in awe at the towering mass of the Spirit of Arcadia. Some were able to walk, with help. Some had to be carried, too weak to stand on their own two legs. All of them were foul-smelling, and it was easy to see why. Their clothes were drenched with effluent mixed with seawater and oil, and in some cases there was blood added to the cocktail too. Their rancid torn clothes, and their weak, atrophied muscles, their pasty white faces pocked with bruises, and their unkempt, matted hair and reddened eyes told a story of an inhumane incarceration.

As each captive was brought off the boat, hushed gasps could be heard from the decks above when the onlookers saw first-hand the state of the men and women.

Vardy directed the accompanying submariners to the temporary medical accommodation. It took time to get them all out, the Ambush’s men each making more than one trip up and down to deck eight.

The last man off wore a deep blue jacket. He was in a particularly sorry state, but as he passed by Jake and the welcoming committee he stopped, and croaked two words to them: “Thank…you.”

Jake nodded. He was still shocked at the condition of the men. He wanted desperately to sit down with them and hear their story, to ask them just what had happened with the Lance, with the life rafts, and most of all with the decapitated bodies. It wasn’t the time, but he would have his chance later.

Next off were the prisoners, the men who had apparently taken control of the Lance and tied up the real crew below deck. They had almost all come round after being stunned, and found themselves gagged and bound by the ruthlessly efficient submariners. The men (and they were all men) were silent apart from one, who was trying in vain to shout and scream through the thick tape that covered his mouth.

Vardy waited until they had been marched off the ship and down to a makeshift brig that Max had prepared on deck one, before commenting.

“Those uniforms they’re wearing. You know what they are?”

Jake shook his head.

“Korean. Specifically, North Korean.”

“What are North Koreans doing on a Norwegian science ship?” Jake asked, staring out at the blue-and-white boat. “And where on earth did they come from?”

“That,” Vardy said gravely, “is the real question. Where indeed?”

• • •

Grace approached the door, dragging her feet and keeping her head low. Her pulse was racing. Should she knock? What should she say? Being up on deck eleven suddenly didn’t feel like such a clever idea. Perhaps it would have been better to discuss the plan with Max, she wondered. No. He would have ridiculed her, said she was being paranoid, then sent her off on another pointless patrol. Evidence was required. Besides, what was the danger, really?

When she was within two paces of cabin 1124, the door magically opened before her. Whoever was behind it stayed behind it, out of view. The entrance to the suite was a short, narrow hallway, with a cupboard on the right. Grace could see a couple of armchairs facing away from her at the end of the hall, but no sign of life. She hesitated.

“In!” The husky voice came from behind the open door. It carried such authority that almost automatically she took a step forwards. She heard the door close behind her, but didn’t dare turn to see who was there.

She walked on, and the hallway opened out into a spacious room decorated in shades of cream and brown. The armchairs, she realised, were for show. Anyone glancing in while the door was open would see them and not suspect that the rest of the furniture in the cabin had been piled into a corner, which was the case. At least in the salon of the suite anyway. The door to the bedroom was closed; there was no chance of seeing what was in there.

“What you here for? Food, fags or booze?”

Grace swung round to see a skinny man dressed in black jeans and a heavy-metal t-shirt. She guessed he couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, twenty-three at a push. He was leaning against the wall, one foot on the floor, the other raised, sole pressed against the cream wallpaper.

“You’re new. Not seen you here before. How did you find us?” Something in his voice made Grace afraid. A menacing undertone, a hint of madness. She breathed deeply, but quietly, through her nose, maintaining a calm exterior.

“Friend of mine,” she said, her voice flat. “Said you had smokes?”

“American?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t like Americans.”

“Even paying customers?”

“Depends what they’re paying with. What you got?”

Grace tried hard not to let her delight at being right, show. This was the black market she had suspected, no doubt about that.

She’d considered the question of payment before putting on her casual clothes and coming up to deck eleven. She’d spent a good fifteen minutes in her cabin, racking her brain for what she could offer in return for whatever it was they were selling. Cash was obviously of no value to anyone. It had to be something they could sell on, at a profit. The problem was that she had nothing. She didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, and she had no chocolate, or food, or anything else that she thought might be in demand in their rationed and restricted world. The answer had come to her in a flash. It was dangerous, Max would undoubtedly have said reckless, but she was sure it would work. Besides, anything she gave them she would get back, when she took her evidence to Max and they busted the operation wide open.

“How about this?” She reached into her jacket pocket and wrapped her fingers around the prize.

“Stop right there, miss!” The husky voice again, right behind her. “Take your hand out now, nice and slowly. Here, let me get that for you.”

A suntanned hand reached around her. It was attached to a hairy tattooed arm, but Grace wasn’t paying attention to the artwork, she was watching the fingers enter her pocket and pull out her payment. The arm held it aloft in front of her face, for the skinny man to see.

“Oh dear. What did you think you were going to do with that? Shoot me? Arrest me?”

“You don’t understand—” Grace began.

“What is there to not understand, cop woman? You marched in here with a gun. I might not be the sharpest tool in the box, but I think I understand perfectly.”

“It’s payment.”

The skinny man raised his eyebrows. He pushed himself off the wall with his foot, and took the gun from the arm.

“It’s not loaded. I don’t have any ammunition, but I thought it would still be worth something to you.”

Skinny checked the weapon, holding it at arm’s length as if worried it might be booby trapped. Grace saw that he knew how to handle the pistol; it held no secrets for him except one.

“Where did you get this?”

“I found it,” she lied. “During the virus outbreak, when the ship was mostly deserted. I found it, and took it, because I thought it might come in handy. And now it has.”

“Liar!” The skinny man spat the word at her, his nose an inch from hers. He held up his arms like a chimpanzee and began to dance around her, hopping from foot to foot. “Liar, liar, pants on fire!”

The owner of the tattooed arm chuckled behind her back. Grace could feel her cheeks flushing red. She tried to control her breathing. She couldn’t show fear. She couldn’t show any emotion.

The young man stopped dancing and pulled an exaggerated expression of depression. “Oh, cop lady doesn’t want to play. Listen, love. We’re running a professional joint here. We keep an eye on what’s happening in the ’hood, you get me? And what’s happening here is that you spent a happy hour outside our door yesterday. Wore your security uniform and all. So don’t come the innocent with me. Now, this gun? I have to admit, that’s a bonus. Wasn’t expecting that. So, yeah, thanks for the payment. Now we just have to decide what to do with you.”

“You can’t do anything to me. The rest of the security team will be up here any second now. I’d suggest you run. Try and find somewhere to hide for a very long time.”

Skinny laughed. “You hear that? Run? Security team? Don’t make me laugh. We’ve been following you since yesterday. Nobody’s coming, love. Now…how to dispose of you? Did you know people go missing on cruise ships all the time, and nobody looks for them? Ain’t no law at sea. Nobody cares when it happens. I think I know exactly what we can do with you.”

Grace felt adrenaline flood into her bloodstream. She wanted to run, to escape through the door and to the safety of the crowded sun deck. But she knew that wouldn’t be possible. The tattooed arm came back around her, joined by its twin. She felt them both grip her tightly, and then she was lifted off her feet. The leering face of the skinny man was the last thing she remembered seeing.

• • •

Russell Vardy arrived on the bridge at the same time as Lucya. He made small talk with McNair – who still had the helm – while she and Jake had a moment together.

“How was she?” Jake’s expression gave away the concern he was trying to hide.

“Okay, really. She heard some of the gunfire, but she thought it was a bad dream and went back to sleep. I told her what had happened on the way down to the classrooms. Just the…how do you say? The broad strokes.”

Jake nodded. “It’s as well. She’ll hear it from others.”

“That’s what I thought. She wanted to know when we can meet the new people. I said she’d have to wait a bit longer. We saw the Lance through the window on the way. She jumped for joy when she saw it was blue. I mean, really, jumped. Anyway, they’re going to talk about it in class today, and then Miss Linders said they would do some drawings or make a scrapbook to welcome the new survivors.”

“Great, that’s great. I hope the rest of the people on this ship will be as welcoming. Somehow, I doubt it.”

“So, Captain Noah.” Lucya stood up straighter and gave a half-salute, smirking as she did so. “Where are we heading?”

“Back to France. Lay in a course for Ile Longue, Crozon peninsula, please. It makes me nervous hanging around in the ocean like this. I’ve no particular desire to see the inside of another submarine base, but some land to fill the windows would be nice.”

“Aye, Captain!”

“Shut up!”

Vardy cleared his throat loudly, and wandered over to the captain’s chair. He looked out to the calm sea. The sky looked a little clearer than before; the sunlight shone brighter. There was a sense of optimism in the air, and Jake felt it too. They’d caught the bad guys, who were now being held in a secure storage room on deck one, and they were getting back on course, with a new ship in tow. A ship that was an eight-hundred-tonne symbol of the fact there may be more survivors out there, that the world didn’t necessarily end at the hull of the Spirit of Arcadia.

“How are they, Russell?” Jake asked.

“Some better than others. The captain is the worst. He had been physically beaten, repeatedly. I’ve had to sedate him, so we won’t get anything from him for a while. The others are better, but not much. They’d already been sedated, I think. It’s hard to tell. They’re all suffering from malnutrition. They must have been stuck down there for weeks. One or two are hallucinating. Most are sleeping. Apart from the lack of food, they’re going to need to build up muscle mass. I’m worried about infection too. They were held in extremely insanitary conditions. I’m keeping them off limits. Only the nurses and myself are to go into cabin 845 for the time being, and only with breathing masks, until I can screen blood samples from the lot of them.”

Jake nodded slowly. “Yes, makes sense. So you haven’t been able to find out anything? About the—” He looked around to make sure nobody was listening, “– the North Koreans?”

“There were mumbled accounts of the monster from the sea attacking them. I don’t know if that’s a metaphor, part of a hallucination, or simply a language problem.”

Jake shivered. “When I saw the Ambush rear up out of that fjord, my first thought was that it was monster-like. You don’t suppose…”

“No. That’s impossible. The North Koreans don’t possess any submarines that could get anywhere near this far north. Their navy is like their air force: it’s built from antiquated Cold War equipment; hand-me-downs from the Chinese, whose own machinery is usually a poor copy of old Russian models. They have a few tin cans that can patrol their territorial waters, but to come this far? Impossible.”

“Well they came from somewhere, didn’t they? And we haven’t seen any other ships.”

“Doesn’t mean there aren’t any. My money is on another Arctic research ship. Or rather, an Antarctic research ship that was somewhere it shouldn’t have been.”

“North Koreans checking out the North Pole?” Jake scratched his head.

“There have been rumours. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. They’re safely locked up down below. We’ll find out more once the Lance crew are fit to talk, and we’ll interrogate the men in your new brig. Until then, it’s back to business as usual.”

“How’s Coote?”

“No change. He’s still under and I’m keeping him that way.”

“Thanks, Russell.”

The doctor nodded, and headed for the door, patting McNair on the shoulder on the way.

Jake reclined in his chair. He was looking forward to an uneventful day. A calm, quiet voyage to the western tip of France.

It wasn’t to be.

Lucya began to speak: “I’ve plotted a course, we should arrive by…hang on, HMS Ambush is calling.”

Vardy stopped short of the door, interested to hear of the communication from his submarine. Jake sighed and swivelled his chair round to look back across the banks of consoles at Lucya. “What do they want now?”

All colour had drained from her face. “It’s Ralf, he’s shouting something… Wait, I missed it. He’s gone. Hang on, I’ll replay it. It will still be in the buffer.”

Jake’s eyes widened. Ralf shouting couldn’t be good news. “Put it on speaker.”

Lucya flicked a button and fiddled with some dials. Suddenly Ralf’s voice sounded throughout the bridge.

He was indeed shouting. The increased volume distorted the message, but replayed through the speaker it was still clear enough.

“…we have incoming torpedo. Taking evasive action. Repeat, incoming tor—”

The message stopped, because at that instant the power went off throughout the ship.