Noah's Ark: Encounters (14 page)

His hands were tied behind his back, secured to the hull, and he was seated on the floor. It was a position that meant he posed no threat to his captors, but it did mean he could touch the skin of the ship with his hands. He clenched his fingers tight together, and rapped the knuckles of his left fist against the cold metal. He could feel old paint flake away under the vibrations, but the hull was thick. His best effort wasn’t good enough. Not even close. Almost no sound was made, and his fingers quickly became sore.
 

He needed a tool, something metallic. His hands searched the few inches of floor between the base of his spine and the rib of the hull against which he was tied, but they found nothing.

Think.

Time was running out. If someone was out there — an idea which seemed more absurd the longer he thought about it — then he had to get their attention quickly. He shifted his weight on his buttocks, trying to shuffle sideways. The ropes which bound him allowed for little lateral movement. Miraculously, the inch or two he was able to slide was enough. His fingers, still sweeping the floor, found something rusty, curved, chunky. They scampered over it, and tried to lift it. The item was a chain. A rusty, discarded, long-forgotten-about chain. Grabbing it tightly, he turned his hand and flicked the object away from him. It connected with the steel hull as a hammer connects with a bell, and the effect was the same. The clanging sound rang out throughout the dungeon-like space. He hit it again, and again. Three long, loud, deep dongs. The last one resonated for several seconds before eventually dying away.

The silence enveloped him again. He waited, not daring to breathe in case he missed any kind of response.

He needn’t have worried. The reply, when it came, was unequivocal. Three loud and deliberate strikes against the side of the ship.

His pulse quickened. He could hear the blood pumping in his ears.

There’s someone there.

It didn’t make sense, but now was not the time to question how it was possible. Now was the time to take action, to get help, to save himself, and his wife, and the others.

With the chain firmly in hand, he rapped it against the hull three times in quick succession. Then three more times, with a pause between each. Three more times, again in quick succession.
Morse code
, he told himself.
Please let them understand Morse code.

Dot-dot-dot…dash-dash-dash…dot-dot-dot.

S.O.S.

Save Our Souls.

The response was not immediate, it took thirty seconds, but it came.

Dash-dash-dash…Dash-dot-dash.

O.K.

OK! They understand!

There was more.
 

Dot-dash-dash…Dot-dot-dot-dot…Dash-dash-dash…Dot-dash-dot…Dot-dot-dash.

W.H.O.R.U.

Whoru? I don’t understand. Doesn’t make sense! Think….

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

No, not whoru….Who R U?
Text-speak morse code!

He tapped out the response. One word.

C.A.P.T.A.I.N.

Fourteen

“I
DON
’
T
GET
it,” Lucya said. She was back at her communications console, listening — as they all were — to the unexpected events unfold. “Ralf said everyone was on the upper decks. How can there be someone below the waterline?”

“Are you suggesting Ralf can’t read his own equipment?” Ralf said, his voice crackling through the ceiling speakers again.

Lucya blushed. “No, that’s not what I meant. Doesn’t your infrared thing work below the water?”

“Yes. Well, normally yes.”

“It’s not the water,” Jake said. He was at the window again, keeping a close eye on the
Lance
, checking for any sign of movement. Ewan had taken care to attach the tracking devices to her hull as quietly as possible, but the Morse code messages he had been hammering into the research ship had sounded deafening when relayed through the P.A. system. If the actual sound in situ was anywhere near as loud, he was worried it would alert whoever was in those upper decks. “It’s not the water stopping the I.R. from working. It’s the hull. It must be strengthened for breaking ice. She’s a polar research vessel, so that hull must be massively thick.”

There was a pause before Ralf replied. “You’re right. Shit. I’m so sorry. I should have thought of that, taken it into account.”

“Don’t worry, Ralf.” This time it was Ewan’s voice that filled the room. “This will give us ammunition to rib you with for weeks to come. We’re almost back. E.T.A. thirty seconds.”

Jake sighed with relief.

Lucya left her console and came to stand beside him. “Why are you so stressed about this? It was a low-risk operation.”

He scratched the back of his neck, and looked around to make sure nobody else was listening. He knew that if he spoke quietly enough, the open microphones wouldn’t capture his words. “You remember those symbols? The ones we found on two of the rafts?”

“You know what they mean, don’t you?”

“Yes. ‘Traitor scum’. That’s what they say. In Korean. The rafts probably came from the
Lance
. I had a bad feeling about that ship, and not just because they started shooting at us. And now it looks like the captain of the
Lance
is being held prisoner down below. It’s obvious what’s going on there now, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” She looked up at him, her deep brown eyes scanning his, as if trying to read a message hidden within.

“Mutiny. There’s been a mutiny, hasn’t there? And those who don’t support it are being thrown overboard, decapitated.”

Lucya frowned. “Why is the message in Koran? That ship is Norwegian.”

“It’s a science vessel. The crews on those things are multinational. Could well be a bunch of Koreans decided to mutiny because they want to go home. International crew, all pulling in different directions? It’s not going to stay peaceful for long.”

“When the boys are safely back, we’re going to have to get the committee together again. You have to tell them about this, about the message.”

“I know.”

• • •

When yet another emergency committee meeting was over, Jake made his way down to the medical suite. He found Carrie, the nurse, in the outer room. She was fielding visits, acting as triage nurse, sorting out whose ailments were serious and who could wait. The door to the inner treatment room was firmly closed, with a notice stuck to it reading
Do Not Enter.
She smiled at Jake when he walked in.

“You can go in. Russell won’t mind as it’s you.”

Coote was still laid out, but was not covered up and looked like any other patient convalescing after surgery. He was wired up to a number of machines, and plastic tubes were connected to him from several angles.

“The drips are to help his body replace the blood he lost,” Vardy said, getting up from a chair to greet Jake. “Also to keep him under. It should speed his recovery.”

Jake nodded.

“What news then? Do we know why they shot him?”

“I suspect mutiny,” Jake said, and laid out his theory.

“Jake, I know you were almost killed during a mutinous incident on this ship, and I understand that must have left scars that no doctor can heal, but not every violent or difficult situation can be explained by mutiny. There could be other possibilities.” Vardy set about changing a drip, glancing up at Jake every now and then as they talked.

“We’ll find out soon enough. The committee just met. We’re going in. By which I mean your lot are going in.”

“They’re going to try and take the
Lance
?”

“Yes. Tonight, under cover of darkness. The S.O.S. message could be a trap, could even be totally innocent, but given the welcome we got this morning, I think we have grounds enough to force entry now. We’ll need you on standby in case there are injuries, and to check over the captain. Ewan says there are more being held prisoner, but didn’t establish precisely how many.”

“Was this a unanimous decision?”

“Of course not. Martin is now of the view that it’s not our problem, just another distraction. His is the only dissenting voice this time.”

The doctor finished changing the plastic bag and released a catch, sending more fluids into the unconscious submarine captain. “I’ll organise the nurses. We’ll be ready. But we don’t have any space. We need somewhere to receive these prisoners, if they exist.”

“I’ll talk to Silvia. We’ll sort something out for you.”

• • •

It was her second stakeout in two days. This time Grace Garet was in the Pytheas restaurant. It was a great relief to have found that the Heytons were not assigned to the Colaeus. The head of the much smaller Pytheas, Mr Jade, was a far more agreeable young man who had a healthy respect for the authority of the security team. He had been more than happy not only to show her the ration records for the previous week, but also to help her go through them and find the page she needed.

As she suspected, the records showed that the Heytons had been in and claimed every meal owed to them since they apparently disappeared. Just like the Morans.

When she suggested her plan to check all ration cards during evening service, he had been positively brimming with enthusiasm for the idea. So much so, that Grace began to wonder if he wasn’t perhaps a little taken with her.
 

She encountered no resistance from the security officer assigned to the restaurant because she had already run her plan by Max. He hadn’t been keen until she pointed out that her shift would be over by the time she was in the restaurant, so she was effectively putting in overtime. He couldn’t really argue with that. In his view, putting more security into a restaurant wasn’t a bad thing, and if one of those officers was going voluntarily and in her own time, so much the better.

And so, once again, Grace found herself politely but firmly asking to see every ration card as the queue moved slowly in front of her.

It took her exactly twenty-three minutes to find her. Mrs Heyton, a severe-looking woman whose grey hair hung at the sides of her face like iron curtains, presented her ration voucher without question or expression.

“Mrs Heyton?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re collecting your husband’s meal as well, are you?”

“That’s why I gave you two vouchers, yes.”

“Do you have any formal identification with you, Mrs Heyton?”

The woman’s expression changed for the first time during the encounter. Her eyes shifted from side to side almost imperceptibly, as if she was wary that someone was watching her. Grace noticed the nearly invisible cue. It was exactly what she’d been hoping for. Suspicion was aroused. Something was up, she just had to find out what.

“I’m sorry,” Mrs Heyton said, “I’m not in the habit of carrying a passport with me. Why would I? Are we expecting an influx of immigration inspectors?”

“What about a driver’s licence?”

“Don’t be absurd. May I collect my meal now?”

Grace glared at her. She couldn’t force her to prove her identity, but at the same time, something was clearly bothering Mrs Heyton, and Grace desperately wanted to know what it was. “How do I know you are who you say you are? That you are the person named on this ration voucher?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed and she fixed Grace with a stare that made the security officer feel like she was a ten-year-old back at school. “That, young lady, is your problem, not mine. If the committee wants people to be able to prove their identity, they’d better issue identity cards and mandate that they are to be carried at all times.”

“Okay, you’re right. Thank you for your cooperation, ma’am. Enjoy your meal, and have a nice day.” She held out the vouchers and they were snatched from her hand.

Grace remained in the queue for another few minutes. She didn’t want to arouse the suspicion of Mrs Heyton by stopping her spot checks immediately. Instead, she waited until there was a natural lull, nobody else waiting in line. She then ducked out of the restaurant and took up position crouched behind a wide display of miniature palm trees opposite the sweeping entrance. From there, she was sure to be able to spot her target as she left with her trays of food.

“’Scuse me, love. Need to get in there.” The voice belonged to a beefy-looking man in his fifties. He had almost no hair, and a neck that was as wide as his head. He wore green trousers and a grey t-shirt smeared with sweat and soil. “I’m digging’ out them trees.”

Grace waved her hands at him, but he ignored her completely. “I quite like ’em to be honest with you. S’gonna be a bit dull round ’ere once all them plants ’ave gone. Need the soil though, see? For the farm.”

Between the fronds of an almost luminous green shrub, she spied the unmistakable hair of Mrs Heyton, who glanced briefly at the gardener, frowned, then turned right and headed towards a bank of lifts.

Grace stood, pushed the man — still talking — to the side, and followed.

Fifteen

S
ITTING
IN
THE
situation room, Jake was transported back to the time two teams from HMS
Ambush
had mounted the operation to retake the
Spirit of Arcadia
from the clutches of Flynn Bakeman and his group of so-called disciples. Back then, he had monitored proceedings from the cramped control room of the submarine.

This time the setup felt more elaborate, and that meant a greater sense of being disconnected from what was about to happen just a kilometre away. Whether or not that was a good thing was something that could be argued extensively, if anyone had the time.

They didn’t.

It was four in the morning. The dead hour, they had called it. The theory was simple enough. At such an early hour, the human body was programmed to be at its least active. It was late, even for those who enjoyed a late night, and it was earlier than most early risers were used to. At 4am, almost everyone was asleep.

They didn’t expect the crew of the
Lance
to be asleep, not all of them. But in the dead hour, they would be less reactive; off their guard and off their game. The submariners on the other hand, worked in twenty-four-hour shifts, rarely saw daylight, and were therefore immune to the demands of their body clocks.