Noahs ark destination, p.7
Noah's Ark: Destination, page 7
part #1 of Noah's Ark 05 Series
“Isn’t this basically lying to the community?” Lucya asked Jake as they finished up plotting their course.
“We’re not telling them anything, so how can that be a lie?”
“Dishonesty by omission. Pretty big omission. Whatever happened to transparency being paramount?”
“We’ll be transparent when the time is right. We don’t announce everything to the community. We don’t, for example, disclose the levels of food stocks in the kitchen stores, or the growth rate of the plants in the plaza, or the number of toilet rolls we have remaining.”
Lucya bashed some numbers into a calculator and noted the result directly on the navigation chart, scratching out figures in thick wax pencil. “Well we should. We should get someone on that. And the toilet paper thing is going to become a problem soon. So what are you going to say if the Lance comes back with three American survivors? We can’t expect to hide them. Someone will notice.”
“If that happens we’ll say, I dunno, that she was out fishing, picked up a distress signal, and found some people. Nobody will care about the details.”
“See! Even if you’re not lying directly now, you’re already planning on lying.”
“It’s for their own good,” Jake said, trying as much to convince himself as anyone else.
“That,” she said, putting down her pencil and fixing him with her most serious look, “has been the excuse of repressive regimes the world over throughout history.”
Jake regarded her, stunned. “Lucya, seriously? You don’t think everyone’s had enough disappointment? Now, have you worked out the speed reduction?”
His questions dissolved into silence. Only when he repeated her name did she cast her eyes back over her notes. “When the Lance leaves, we have to slow down to six knots. That will give her time to get to the signal, spend an hour or so there, and still be able to catch us up without too much difficulty. If she’s delayed, we’ll not have much margin and may have to stop altogether.”
“Six knots is slow. People will notice. If we do it gradually though, we might get away with it. Knock off one knot every twenty minutes, starting now. You don’t mind liaising with the Ambush, do you?”
Lucya shook her head, picked up her notes, and slunk off back to her console, grumbling in Russian.
Jake knew better than to follow her. Instead, he left the bridge altogether and went down to check on the final preparations. He found the starboard passenger access hatch, which connected to the Lance, manned by Ewan Sledge. The submariner was keeping curious passers-by from trying to get aboard the research ship. He greeted Jake with a friendly wave.
“Are they ready to go yet?” Jake asked.
“Almost. All this cloak-and-dagger stuff’s slowing us down. If we could have just sailed her around to the other side to the Ambush, we could have loaded her up with men and arms quicker.”
Jake winced at the mention of weaponry. He hated guns and everything they stood for, but since various people had tried to extinguish his life, he was beginning to see some attractive qualities in them. He despised himself for it.
“Shame you’re not coming with us,” Ewan continued. “You’re one of the team now.”
Jake grunted. He knew Ewan meant the comment as a compliment, but it was hard to take it that way. “I’ll be in your ear. You don’t get rid of me that easily,” he said dryly.
The two men had to move aside to let another couple of submariners out onto the walkway. They were dressed casually, and carried a long black trunk between them. They both nodded to Ewan, and said a clipped “Sir” to Jake.
“Last bit of equipment,” Ewan explained once they were through. “Almost everyone else is already aboard. I think we’re just waiting for Vardy.”
“You boys take care out there.” Jake patted him on the shoulder. “I know you’re trained for this kind of thing, but the Lance isn’t the Ambush. Any sign of trouble, leg it. Nobody will think badly of you. If this is a trap, or another 095—”
“We’ll be fine. The Ambush won’t be far away.”
“Hello, Jake.” Vardy’s voice boomed down the corridor. “Ewan. Sorry I’m late. Wanted to check on Gan again before we left.”
“How is he?” Jake shook the doctor’s hand.
“Further improved. At this rate I’ll be able to move him into a normal room next week. Of course, depending on what we find out there, he might have to be moved on sooner. Hospital beds are a premium resource.”
“Nobody’s answering our radio calls, Russell. Either there’s nobody there, or they’re not friendly.”
“One way to find out.”
Jake bid the men farewell, and saw them across the walkway. Only once everyone was safely hidden inside the Lance did he pick up the phone by the hatch, call the bridge, and ask them to send down a couple of sailors to untie the smaller ship and disconnect the walkway.
• • •
The control room of the Ambush was cramped at the best of times. Now Ralf had to share the small area around his console with Captain Coote, Jake, and Ella Rose, who was the nominated non-crew member of the committee sent to observe. Ella was, for the most part, far more interested in the rest of the submarine than in watching the small displays that relayed a live camera feed from the Lance. Anything with an engine fascinated her, and the Ambush had an engine to beat them all.
“What’s through there?” she asked, pointing at another bulkhead and prodding Coote for the nineteenth time since coming aboard.
“That is my private cabin, old girl,” he said patiently. “Can you get in any closer, Mr Cormack?”
“Already at maximum zoom. We’re about to lose our own image anyway, as we go further into the turn. The Arcadia will block our view.”
Ella pressed for more. “Why is your cabin in the control room? Why aren’t you with the other cabins?”
“Because as captain I need to be able to get in here in a hurry. In military terms, a hurry means less than a minute.” Coote looked at Ralf. “I’m not mistaken though, she is surfaced?”
Ralf nodded. “Surfaced and drifting from what I can see.”
Ella opened her mouth to ask another question, but Jake shot her a dark look and she thought better of it.
The image on the monitor wobbled as the Lance hit a wave. They were closing quickly on the mystery submarine, and it was becoming clear to everyone that Ralf had not been joking when he had said it was small.
“Is that just a really tiny conning tower?” Jake said. “Is there a huge beast of a thing hiding under the water?”
Ralf tapped a few keys and pointed to a second monitor which showed a freeze-framed sonar image. “There’s nothing that says a conning tower has to be in proportion to the rest of the sub, but looking at that, I’d say she’s not an iceberg. There’s no hidden mass. The thing is miniscule.”
“Estimate size,” Coote said.
Ralf worked at the keyboard again. He captured a freeze-frame of the live feed from the Lance, in which the conning tower was now very visible, and overlaid it onto the sonar image. “Let’s see,” he muttered to himself. “Lance, Ambush. Ewan, do you copy?”
“This is Ewan. Go ahead.”
“Without moving position, can you swivel your camera to the right for a second.”
“Confirm you want the camera turned to the right? The target will be out of frame.”
“That is correct. Turn to the right.”
Ewan didn’t reply, but the image on the main screen moved.
“Stop,” Ralf directed.
They were looking across the deck at the harpoon gun mounted on the Lance. A shiver ran down Jake’s spine.
“Ewan, that’s good. You can go back on the sub now.”
“Roger.”
The picture shifted as Ewan focussed back on the main subject. Ralf had already captured an image of the harpoon launcher. Using his trackball he picked out the top and bottom of the device, then he drew lines around the sonar image of the submarine and its overlaid picture of the conning tower. He was still talking to himself quietly. “So that’s a known height, and we know the distance to the target…here…so that means…” His fingers gave a final flourish across the keys, and he looked up at the captains, evidently pleased with himself. “Thirty metres in length. Beam is five metres at her widest section. She’s a midget.”
“Thirty metres. That’s what, a hundred-odd feet?” Ella said. “Doesn’t sound all that small to me.”
“Miss Rose, for a submarine it is a mere baby,” Coote said. “And a curious baby she is too. Miss Levin is convinced beyond any argument that the distress call is American. I know of no current American submarine so small. I hate to say it, old boy,” he said, turning to Jake, “but I think your good lady might be mistaken in her deductions.”
“I’ll let you tell her.”
Ralf let out a groan. The various images generated by the Ambush’s advanced photonics array were pixelating. They were, as predicted, turning through the apex of the arc that would take them away from their target. The cruise ship was coming between the two submarines. Now they were entirely reliant on Ewan’s camera feed.
Behind the little group, Jason ‘Eagle-Eyes’ Fletcher was studying his own consoles. He had been listening quietly to the conversation, and now had something to add. “Coote. We do know of a navy that operates submarines that small.”
Coote nodded. He pulled a face like he was chewing on an unpalatable idea. “I know what you’re thinking. It would be a long way from home. Unheard of.”
“Circumstances are a little different now, Captain,” Jason countered.
“Granted. Do you know the range?”
“Theoretically, fifteen hundred nautical miles, give or take. Intelligence was thin on the ground. Could be more. And if she’s drifting…”
“If, being the operative word, old boy.” Coote stroked his chin, deep in thought.
Jake waited for someone to explain, but nobody did, so he asked the question directly. “Who has small submarines?”
Coote pulled the same face, and chewed some more. “It’s very unlikely. Very unlikely indeed.”
“Who?” But Jake reckoned he already knew the answer.
“North Korea was known to operate midget subs. Some even smaller than this one. Twenty metres long, the really diddy ones. They had some around this size, too.”
“Sang-O class,” Jason added. “Diesel powered, hence the limited range.”
“Armed, I assume?” Jake felt the blood draining from his face.
“Afraid so, old boy. Ralf, you’d better let the boys know what they might be dealing with. Although I rather suspect they already have a good idea.”
Eight
STANDING ON THE deck of the Lance, the situation did not feel threatening to Ewan Sledge. The sky was bright, despite the cloud cover. The water was choppy, but Ewan had experienced much worse. The submarine was just a couple of hundred metres away, and drifting as it was, appeared to present little risk.
For one thing, it was tiny. Its black conning tower, poking out of the water like a big shark’s fin, was no taller than a man. It was perched atop a slender body that barely broke the surface of the sea, bulbous towards the front, tapering to a narrow point at the rear. It looked, Ewan thought, a little bit like a crocodile slipping through the water. There was no sign of life; no lights or flags or open hatches, and no indication it was under any kind of power.
The radio call from Ralf had made it clear, though. There was a good chance that this was a North Korean submarine, and that opened up all sorts of possibilities, very few of them welcoming.
Ewan made sure that the camera was stable, then radioed the group frequency that would carry his words to the ears of everyone else on board. “Confirm you all heard Ralf’s message. Target is possibly North Korean. Likely armed. Consider it dangerous.”
One by one the others transmitted clipped affirmations.
Brian Thomas was out on deck, forward of Ewan’s position. He brandished a semi-automatic rifle in a manner that could not be misinterpreted by anyone coming the other way. As the hulking Lance bore down on its prey, Brian’s eyes never left the little submarine’s conning tower. That didn’t stop him speaking to Ewan. “What do you think? That they found out what we did to their 095?”
“It wasn’t theirs. Anyway, that was literally oceans away, in the Atlantic. How would they know? No satellite comms.”
“Dunno. Could have been tailing it. Could have seen the whole thing.”
“Why wait until now to retaliate if that was the case?”
“P’raps they wanted time to lay a trap.”
“Rubbish trap.”
“You think? They’ve separated us from the fleet. There could be more subs we haven’t seen. They could be about to wipe us out with a few well-aimed torpedoes launched from the shadows.”
Ewan considered the prospect. Although one of the younger ratings, he’d been at sea long enough to have a good idea of the games the submarine services played with each other. It was entirely possible that Brian was right, that right now the fleet was being tracked by one or more powerful attack submarines using the midget vessel with its American-sounding distress beacon as bait. It still sounded farfetched though, given the circumstances. “I don’t buy it, Brian. Hell of a lot of trouble to go to for revenge. Surviving would be a higher priority for anyone left alive.”
“Maybe they want the Arcadia. That’d help them survive. If I’d been cooped up in that thing since the first of May, I know I’d be looking for more space.”
The Lance’s engine throttled back as the distance between them and the unknown vessel shrunk to less than a hundred metres. Two more submariners, also armed, moved forwards, flanking Brian, weapons trained on the mystery machine in the water ahead.
Ewan’s radio crackled. Haugen’s voice. “No response to hailing on any frequency. Our acoustic systems have detected minor vibration. Could be a power unit.”
Ralf spoke next. The Ambush was monitoring all communications. “Haugen, you think it could be a diesel motor?”
“Negative.”
“Care to speculate?”
There was a pause. “The acoustic signature is similar to that of a steam turbine.”
Ewan knew what that meant. Steam turbines were what generated electricity and propulsion for nuclear submarines. If Haugen was right, the target was not diesel powered, but driven by a fission reactor, like the Ambush. He picked up his own weapon which had been stowed beside him while he managed the video link. The camera was on a tripod, and as their speed had decreased, was steady enough to be left alone now. He took up position beside Brian. “At least nobody can shoot us by surprise like when we first met the Lance,” he said quietly.
“Torpedoes,” Brian muttered. “I’m more worried about torpedoes.”
The Lance tiptoed through the water until her bows were level with the bows of the submarine. Up in the wheelhouse Haugen applied reverse thrust, bringing them to a standstill.
Brian and the others moved back along the deck, staying level with the target vessel as it drifted alongside, all the time keeping their guns trained on the conning tower. Ewan scanned the full length of the narrow hull, looking for possible secondary exits, but there were none. There were also absolutely no markings on the glossy black exterior. Nothing to give away the identity or even the nationality of their find.
Locating the submarine had been easy. Boarding it presented more of a challenge. The navy men were used to working from the hull of a submarine, just a few feet above the water. The Lance was much taller and so presented certain logistical problems. Fortunately the men had prepared for this. Under the watchful eyes of Brian and Ewan, the two others launched two specially prepared ropes over the side. The first one missed, but the second lassoed the conning tower. The thick rope was pulled tighter, and then secured to a post on the deck.
“She can’t get away now,” Ewan said.
With the two craft connected, the men were free to concentrate on lowering a ladder down to the narrow hull. The top hooked over the side of the Lance. The bottom perched perilously on the slim deck of the mysterious vessel.
Brian grabbed the ladder and gave it a shove. It was wedged tight. He glanced up at the windows of the wheelhouse and nodded. Vardy and Gunson stood with Haugen at the helm. Both men had been instructed to remain inside until the submarine had been secured and searched.
Ewan didn’t know how Brian felt, but he himself did not take offence at being put on the front line like a disposable asset, because he knew that that was precisely what he was. Expendable. A minor loss should the situation turn ugly. Better to lose the likes of him than a skilled medic or an engineer, especially when they were in such short supply.
“Ready?” Ewan asked.
Brian nodded. “I’ll go down first. You keep me covered.” He collected a gas mask offered by one of his colleagues and hooked it over his shoulder. The strap of his weapon went over the other shoulder, leaving his hands free. He pulled himself up and over the side of the hull, and backed onto the ladder.
Ewan kept his eyes fixed on the conning tower, but in the periphery of his vision he saw Brian descend the steep steps. Only when he was down, perched on the slender hull, grey-green water lapping around his feet, did Ewan stand down. He shouldered his own gun, took a gas mask and fixed the strap to his belt, and climbed onto the ladder.
• • •
“How the bloody hell are we supposed to get in?” Brian stared at the conning tower, shaking his head.
Ewan examined it, too. It was no taller than him, and not much wider. Unlike the soaring fin on the back of the Royal Navy submarine, with doors set in the base as well as a hatch in the top, this slimmed-down version was, as far as they could tell, cavity-free on both sides. “It’ll have to be the hatch up top,” he said eventually. He wiggled an eyebrow at Brian, who made no move to go and check. “I’ll go then, shall I?”
