ENIGMA: VOYAGE OF THE DAMNED
By
GERARD WHITTAKER
Enigma: Voyage of the Damned
By Gerard Whittaker
Smashwords edition.
Copyright by Gerard Whittaker, 2010
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
COVER
On the voyage to Hell, there is no way home.
The British Empire is long gone, the Commonwealth no more, and even the United Kingdom is severed by weak politicians trading security for votes. Now, following her expensive split from the corrupt European Union, England stands alone and vulnerable for the first time in a thousand years.
She is attacked without warning by ruthlessly efficient forces that have spent twenty years preparing their revenge.
With her army, navy and air force decimated by saboteurs, and unmarked planes strafing her towns and cities, only one small experimental submarine stands between her shores and a hostile armada.
But the Enigma is no ordinary vessel, with a manta shaped hull of moulded carbon 60 composite, she can fly through the sea at over sixty knots; her weapons are state of the art, more than capable of taking out any conventional ship.
However, how long can one small boat, rapidly running low on supplies and ammunition, hold out against a fleet two hundred times greater? How long can her crew sustain the rigours of combat, knowing that England is doomed?
The gallant ship gambles on one last chance to win the war and heads for the enemy's waters. The UN, fearing escalation and the employment of her nuclear armed cruise missiles, declares her a pariah to be sunk on sight. Now, with the world turned against her, the Enigma is truly damned.
Fate has yet one more cruel twist in store for her desperate crew, for she is destined to sail far further than the South Atlantic, and engage forces infinitely worse than her Captain could imagine in his worst nightmares.
Book passage on the Enigma, on the Voyage of the Damned.
PROLOGUE
Thousands of neon lights glowed proudly in the early morning drizzle, staining the almost deserted motorway with an amber haze; it curved gently away from London, a ribbon of light shimmering in the night- swaying through the low counties it swept up past Birmingham towards the once industrial North.
Pushkin eased his Jaguar around the roundabout, driving surely as he pulled onto the M6, and accelerated to seventy MPH; coasting through the glowing night. He grinned with confidence as he drove away from London and his past troubles- into a brand new future.
He cast a quick look to the rear seat, to see the little girl sleeping fitfully, and smiled with triumph- he'd done it! He'd beaten the smug bastards! She had been the key to power and wealth beyond measure, and now it was all his... The stupid, arrogant, smug bastards! They hadn’t a clue... he gloated.
Then two cars pulled onto the motorway, racing to catch up with the Jag, and Pushkin felt the triumph turn to despair; he knew he was dead. He jammed his foot down on the accelerator in blind panic.
The child awoke from a disturbed sleep in confusion as the Jaguar screeched around a lorry and roared through the night. She glanced through the rear window in time to see two more sets of headlights swerving around the truck, following them, and felt a sudden chill: the enemy! The small man sat gripping the wheel with trembling hands, his cadaverous face aglow with fear and perspiration.
"Dad?" she mewled softly.
"Shut up," he snapped irritably. "Not now..."
She cringed at his tone, hoping to please him later. The following cars drew ever closer, two hundred yards, and then one hundred; soon they would be in range.
He realised that the motorway had been a mistake, probably his last, there were just too many surveillance cameras; it was easy hacking into the police system. His pursuers were patient, resourceful, powerful and ruthless. Not the kind of people you double cross, but the game had seemed worth the risk. Five years, he cursed quietly, five years of planning gone to waste in as many days. He knew there was no point in surrendering to the police, they would not, could not, believe him- he would not last one night in a cell.
The first shot blew out the off side wing mirror. It was a warning shot, he knew that, but
surrender was not an option. It was not courage but blind fear that forced his foot even further down on the accelerator.
The cars were doing over one twenty when a coach pulled onto the road a hundred yards ahead, straining to reach seventy miles an hour. Pushkin's overwrought mind flicked from one impossible solution to another even more unlikely; then he noticed the rapidly closing coach. He made the calculations with the instinctive detachment of a trained scientist, the passengers were regarded with the same compassion he gave lab rats, their only reason for existing was to help his experiment, one that just might save his life.
He slowed slightly on passing the coach, ignoring the sleeping tourists who were barely visible through the steamed up windows; allowing the closest car to catch up. The saloon tore through the night, straining its engine into a shuddering piece of glowing alloy as it closed with its prey. The driver failed to notice as Pushkin flicked his wheel ever so slightly, sending his Jag careering into the nondescript saloon. The smaller car lost control for a fraction of a second and slammed into the coach‘s front wheel-arch, tearing off the wheel, which seemed to explode in a thousand pieces of high velocity shrapnel of spinning rubber and wire- the blast killed the car driver in an instant of torn metal and spurting blood. Jammed underneath the wheel-arch, the speeding car forced the out-of-control coach towards the crash barrier. They tore through the white metal strip and mounted the earthen bank, climbing ever higher up the slope, but slowing as they tore through half grown bushes, until both crumpled vehicles lost balance and began to topple back down to the road, spilling fuel and trailed by showers of sparks.
The girl saw the two vehicles explode in incomprehension- had her dad deliberately done that? The screams were lost in the rapidly expanding distance. She saw a figure clamber up through the second car's sunroof, his face livid as he cocked a machine pistol... She dived for the floor, instinctively curling into a tight little ball.
The Jag's rear window exploded into a million pieces as a fusillade of shots raked it from boot to bonnet.
"Dad, no!" she screamed in terror.
"Don't let them find you," he snapped, "they mustn't get you- promise me girl!"
A further burst of fire raked the driver's side, blowing out both tires, the Jag spun around like a hundred mile an hour top- screeching into the crash barrier. The girl felt the crushing impact a second before airbags inflated throughout the Jag, protecting her as the car tumbled through the central crash barrier leaving torn wings and bonnet behind amidst the mangled wreckage.
Once more she awoke in confusion, it did not seem right to be still. A car door slammed shut, feet crunched across the road that glistened with a galaxy of broken safety glass, flickering with the light of the burning car. Far off a faint cry of sirens drifted over the crackle of burning rubber.
"Damn," a strange voice said softly, "that's the trouble with this world, too many mobile phones."
"Getting so a guy can't make an honest living," a second voice agreed.
"He's out cold, do we take him back or let him fry?"
"Let the mad bastard die. Grab the belt and let’s get the hell out of here."
Covered by the inflated airbags, the girl crouched, frozen in fear, as the men rooted through the front seat.
"Mercy be dammed, not after that stunt he pulled with team one."
Several sharp slaps seemed to tear through the girl's heart as the men woke up their pray.
The sirens grew louder.
"Move it you crazy SOB, the car'll finish him when it blows- we've got what we came for!"
The men raced for their car and sped off, as the Jaguar's engine exploded into a hundred pieces of blazing metal. What was left of Pushkin could only scream in agonized horror, as he was burnt alive.
The girl fumbled with the door latch as the heat soared to oven intensity, coughing on roasting smoke she clawed vainly at the melting catches. Then the airbags exploded, slashing her face with molten fire- her screams tore through the night. The driver was still alive- technically at least.
With a groan of tearing metal, the door was wrenched open, she fell choking into the blessedly cool air and felt strong arms grab her. Then she was carried at a jog to safety, as the Jaguar seemed to explode in slow motion.
Pushkin’s screams finally stopped.
Admiral Fitsymonds glanced at his watch as he entered the hospital, 04:40, two hours since that blasted phone had abruptly ended a lovely dream, one that had quickly faded to nothing. His reflection in a window gave him a chance to strengthen his tie, and to notice that his short, neatly trimmed beard was looking even grayer this morning. "Must be the light," he whispered, hopefully.
He was met in reception by a stocky, plain looking police inspector in mufti. "Brunwall, CID; sorry to wake you Admiral, did they brief you?"
Fitsymonds scowled, "Okay, so some guy had the misfortune to add another to the motorway death toll- so flaming what? What's that to do with Naval Intelligence? Or, more specifically, R and D?"
"I was hoping you could tell me," Brunwall sighed, and turned towards his commandeered office. "If you'll come this way?"
Fitsymonds was shown the reason soon enough, a rather scorched laptop bearing an embossed, stylized anchor. "Is this it?" he gasped in disdain. "This is important enough to drag me out of bed?"
"When three men die in a high speed shoot out, and this falls from a burnt out car driven by a man who doesn't exist, I think it's worth a chance that there could be a link with your sphere of expertise," Inspector Brunwall snapped indignantly. “And we found one of your business cards in the case, which is why you’re here.”
“I give them out by the hundred,” Fitsymonds sighed. He examined the card and saw an appointment time scrawled on the back. “So he was on his way to meet me. I get lots of crackpot inventors trying to sell the Admiralty silly things like supersonic torpedoes, this guy was pitching a fusion powered submarine.”
Brunwall laughed, “I can see why you’re hesitant, I didn’t think subs came that big.”
“He claimed the reactor was only the size of a small car. Yes, crazy, I know.”
“Who was he?”
“He refused to give his name, which left me even more reluctant to see him.” Fitsymonds snapped open the case, expecting the inside to be a blob of congealed plastic, and gaped at the strange layout of multi-colored keys printed on a ceramic slate. "What the hell?"
"What is it, Russian?" Brunwall asked.
"Hardly..." He tapped a couple of buttons at random, and a menu started to scroll down the screen in a strange language. "Fine, it's simple enough, let's try at the start and work down..."
The screen filled with the same logo on the case and moved on to a design that struck Fitsymonds in the gut with its simplistic beauty.
"Must be a video game," Brunwall sighed. "Sorry to inconvenience you sir."
"Oh, quite all right." He closed the case with a snap, and turned to the cop, "Did you mention a survivor?"
"Oh, the girl? She'll be no help, amnesia, can't even remember her name."
They walked to a private room to see a small girl of about ten sitting on a hospital bed, short blond hair was still stained from smoke, her eyes glazed from pain, shock, grief and drugs. A nurse was changing the dressing on the child's once pretty face, the right cheek was scored from temple to jaw with a line of fire.
"It'll never heal," Brunwall sighed, "still, it's a wonder she lived at all."
"What'll happen to her?"
"Father’s dead, no trace of her mother. Hell, we've no idea who she is. She'll be carted off to an orphanage as soon as the bed's needed."
"What if I can persuade the Navy to care for her?" Fitsymonds said thoughtfully, his gaze flickering from the laptop he held tightly to the girl's ruined face. "We've experts in treating burns."
Brunwall smiled slightly, "So there's more to it."
"More to what?" Fitsymonds grinned back. "I'm slapping a 'D' notice on the whole case, it never happened- you understand? Nothing happened!"
"But, the bodies?"
"What bodies? How can you have a body if no one died?"
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
THE VANGUARD
The early spring morning left Faslane shrouded in a chill mist, for the rare sunny day lit only the mountain tops, casting deep shadows that left the base personnel shivering as they marched to work. Concealed sheds and hangers clung to the precipitous Scottish hills, blending into granite as the white mist drifted between the admin buildings and mess halls. The river Clyde ran deep and strong by Faslane, home of His Majesty's Submarine Fleet.
Lieutenant Erin Fitsymonds hauled her kit bag from the taxi and marched towards the gatehouse. She returned the marine's salute crisply and handed her orders over to the surprised man.
"But mam, these can't be right," the marine stammered.
"Does the Navy make mistakes?" she asked with a slight smile.
"Will the sun rise tomorrow?" he countered with a grin.
"The Vanguard is sailing today?" she replied quietly.
"Yes, but..."
"Then please arrange for my luggage to be loaded."
"You do know what she is mam?"
"Oh yes," she chuckled, "an oversized tin can on a nine month voyage to nowhere..."
Faslane, and the near-by research base Trinity, were leased from the Republic of Scotland following the break up of the old United Kingdom. Technically the gatehouse was also the passport control for the Royal Navy of King Charles; sovereign territory much as Hong Kong had once been leased from the Chinese. However, the new Scottish Government had not gotten around to issuing passports to their citizens- yet. Huge armoured sheds led from Faslane's deep bay into the surrounding cliffs, home of the Trident Fleet of the Royal Navy.
HMS Vanguard lay in the cavernous dock, a streamlined cigar four stories tall and a hundred and fifty meters long, over fifteen thousand tons of nuclear might. She had sixteen missiles, each having eight, 100-kiloton warheads, capable of hitting targets over eight thousand kilometres away. In the SSBN (Submarine Strategic Ballistic Nuclear) stakes she was smaller than the US Ohio class vessels, and barely half the size of the thirty thousand-ton Russian Typhoons, but she could still drop over two hundred nuclear devices half a world away. For a boat that small (all submarines are boats, never ships- no one knows why) third place in the world Armageddon stakes was not bad, and nothing else came close.
Commander Hugh Lothingland took one last glance through the open blast doors of the dock, the sun was finally clearing the morning mist and he could see the Clyde beginning to form beyond the slipway. He breathed deeply of the fresh air, psyching himself for the stuffy claustrophobia of below decks. He was tall and powerful, with the blood of his Celtic forbears still running strongly in his veins; his ex-wife had claimed that he would look more at home wielding a battle axe against Norman invaders, rather than serving as a priest of the nuclear gods. He took it as a compliment, and did not bother to ask how she meant it. Perhaps he should have asked, she could not take the months of separation and left him soon after. While not quite handsome in conventional sense, he had a bland face that was easily forgotten; good humour brought his personality to life.
"How's it going Number One?" Captain Johnson called down from the sail.
"Almost ready to cast off sir," he shouted back over the noise of the Vanguard's engines. "Still no word about the new lieutenant?"
"Not yet. The docs have given Salinger six months on light duties, the fall broke his leg in three places; so don't take his replacement on the town without checking his alcohol tolerance."
"They sure don't make them like they used to," Hugh chuckled. He was not sorry to lose Salinger, the man had been competent but nothing more than a number cruncher; without any true feel for the sea. One of the new generation who thought they could learn it all from a computer terminal.
Then the mist seemed to part as a figure entered the dock; dress whites glowed in the sun on a slim figure that strode towards the Vanguard like a conqueror. Her face was pert and strangely familiar; strawberry blond hair was combed into a regulation bun under her hat.
Here comes trouble, Hugh thought in panic.
She saluted him and then the sail, smiling eagerly with barely suppressed triumph. "Permission to come aboard sir?" she snapped formally.
"Granted," he replied, guardedly. "What's your business?"
"Lieutenant Fitsymonds, I was ordered to report to Commander Lothingland- I'm your new aid sir."
Why my ship? Why me? He almost gasped aloud. "One of Miles's lot?"
"Yes sir, Miles Fitsymonds is my father. She turned to glance at the stern as the white ensign was raised, and he caught sight of an old scar running from hairline to jaw, forcing the right corner of her lips down in a permanent frown. Red and twisted, it seemed a desecration of a work of art.
"Erin?" he gasped aloud. "I'm sorry, I don't know if you remember, but we used to be friends."
"Of course I do, you used to visit us all the time when I was a child..." It was not chance, the world of British submarination was very close, nearer family than any liked to admit. Her grin spoke of secret thoughts, hidden desires, and an agenda that no mere male could hope to understand.
His panic rose anew, she used to have a crush on him, at fourteen, but that was twelve years ago. My, but hadn't she grown!
"I've not seen Miles in years, even though he's working at Trinity, every time I'm here he's off scrounging parts or funds for that toy of his. How's it coming?"
"She's nearly ready for launch," Erin replied eagerly, "if he can get the AEA to licence the fusion reactor- they're reluctant to admit it works."
"Can you blame them? The EU experimental fusion reactor in France is a thousand times larger; when Miles first showed me the plans, must be ten years gone, I though he was joking."
"He's obsessed, I'll admit that, no one expected him to resign his commission and start his own company- he nearly drove us bankrupt."
"So you had to find honest work." He led her through the dorsal hatch into the Vanguard. "All of you."
"I've shares in the Enigma, we all have- she'll be able to run rings around this tub. Face it, this'll be as obsolete as a Zeppelin..."
"I'd not mention that to Captain Johnson if I were you, he still believes in keelhauling."
She chuckled, "On a submarine, that could be a very interesting experience."
The Vanguard eased from the dock and slid from Faslane through the Clyde, towards the open sea- to vanish from sight beneath the dark waters.
Watch had become lax, it hardly seemed to matter if they were shadowed by a couple of fishing boats; with the collapse of the Soviet Union, Russia had joined the European Union, as had most former client states, and even joined NATO two years ago. The world was at peace for the first time in history, but it had been a near thing- far too near- several times since the Second World War humanity had stood on the brink of extinction.
However, Erin was right in a way, the Vanguard was almost obsolete- as far as she knew there was no one left to threaten...
Captain Johnson examined Lieutenant Fitsymonds' records, as she stood to attention while Commander Lothingland poured himself coffee in the cramped wardroom.
"Oh, at ease," Johnson sighed, "you're not on the Illustrious now Lieutenant."
"Thank you Captain," she snapped.
"So, six months on the Frigate Broadsword, and two years on the Aircraft carrier Illustrious..." Johnson mused. "As well as an unblemished academic record. So why did you volunteer for this tub?"
Hugh chuckled, "Boredom, most likely sir..."
"You needed a good computer jockey," she explained, "and I'm the best Captain."
"Yet you never reached your Degree in computing."
"There wasn't much point in wasting two years when I knew more than the instructors." She said it casually, as though it was obvious to any right thinking person.
"On a submarine," Johnson growled, "that kind of arrogance could get us all killed."
"Yes Captain," she said patiently.
"So who taught you to be god's gift to the world of computing? Miles?"
"Hardly," Hugh chuckled, "she used to teach him."
"Dad was very good sir, but he needed to develop the instinct for computing, as he gave me the feel of the sea."
"Then..."
Erin's face turned blank.
"We'll never know Captain," Hugh said softly.
"I can't recall ever being taught sir," Erin admitted, "It's as though I always knew on some deep level of instinct that survived the car crash. I could still remember how to talk and walk- it's the same thing."
"How you managed to get posted on this boat," Johnson sighed, "I'll never know- you've secrets that must have driven Intelligence wild."
"I was raised from ten by an Intelligence officer, my clearance is nearly as high as yours sir," she snapped. "I earned my post by sheer hard work and by being the best."
"Okay," Johnson chuckled, "I'll give you that, but why my boat? You could have picked a more exotic posting."
"I didn't enlist to get a tan sir," she said dryly.
"She's here to spy on us Captain," Hugh laughed. "I finally figured it out. Miles Fitsymonds wants one of his brood to gain tactical experience at sea, so that he'll be able to use her on the Enigma against us."
"Lieutenant?" Johnson snapped in disbelief.
"I was raised by an Intelligence officer Captain," she said in defence, "but father's been desk bound longer than he was at sea. When the Enigma is launched she'll need an officer who's served on modern conventional ships, and the sea trials will be tough; full battle manoeuvres against every type of warship."
"And you think that toy could catch the Vanguard?" Johnson laughed.
"No Captain, I don't think she could- I know it."
The Atlantic.
A large naval force sailed from South America on manoeuvres, just as they had done at the same time for the last ten years. Intelligence officers at GCHQ Cheltenham passed the satellite reconnaissance photos up to the South Atlantic desk, where they were promptly shoved into a dusty file and forgotten.
No one noticed when the fleet broke up into several small Carrier task groups that spanned the Atlantic on a straight line pointing towards the British Isles. Nor did they notice when Mirage fighter-bombers began to leap frog from carrier to carrier, until they were in range of Ireland.
The Vanguard
One month after sailing the Vanguard passed her sister ship, the Victorious, heading back to Faslane after nine months basking in the deepest trench she could stand. But in the black depths half way to the deepest part of the Pacific, no one even thought of visiting the other ship; such courtesies had become irrelevant in the modern world. Of the three members of the 'V' Class Trident fleet, the Vanguard, Victorious and the Vigilant, only one was always on station, ready to exact a terrible revenge on any nation too stupid to be bluffed into civilised relations. The threat had worked well for generations, but gave the crews nothing but months of boredom; still, they all agreed that it beat the alternative.
A fourth boat had been planned, but the Vengeance was lost along with a hundred other schemes... Once the European Union had created a central bank in Frankfurt, and the wealth of fifty nations was safely on German soil, the true Federalist ambitions of the EU became apparent; France and Germany would settle for nothing less than a single political entity consisting of the whole of Europe and Russia. From Britain and right around the globe to within miles of Alaska; from the frozen tundra of Siberia, to the borders of Iran and China; it was destined to be the greatest nation in history.
But as the spiralling costs of administrating the impossible dream turned into a nightmare that threatened to bankrupt smaller states, and Mafia organised crime ran riot throughout the proto-empire; all the illusions of Democracy faded into a bureaucracy that was rife with corruption and nepotism. No one voted anymore, there was no one to vote for...
In a final show of disgust Britain withdrew from the EU, earning the hatred of some of the most powerful men in the world, and naively demanded her gold back from the European Bank.
That did not go down well, the request was summarily denied. The loss of trillions in gold that Berlin refused to return led to the break-up of the once United Kingdom; the two billion pounds allocated for a forth sister ship to the Vanguard was found a new home in the Department of Transport. Building new toll roads that no one could afford to use.
Erin settled into her position as aide to the ship's First officer, helping to translate and decode messages received from surveillance sensors and satellites. The work was for the most part boring, but it kept her too busy to notice how the crew was reacting to the only woman on board. Her scar had put off most potential boyfriends in her youth, but now she had nearly two hundred frustrated suitors; the work was more than welcome.
She was adjusting to the strange life, making friends while hiding behind professional courtesy. It was not hard for her to blend into the life, being from a naval family it was almost second nature. But one 'night' Hugh stumbled into her minute cabin without knocking, and caught her staring into the mirror that was riveted over her tiny sink, holding a small hand mirror at an angle covering her scarred side; the reflected image showed a whole face, unblemished and beautiful. Tears glimmered in her green eyes.
In shame he eased quietly from the tiny cabin, blushing furiously and praying that she had not seen him.
She was quiet for the next few days, too quiet he thought, so he cornered her the galley. It was nearly empty as he sat facing her and tried to apologise, but the words would not come. What he had done was inexcusable...
"Oh, knock it off," she snapped at last, "I've no illusions. In my family I've never had any chance to value privacy."
"But..." He shrugged, and accepted defeat gracefully. "You never considered plastic surgery?"
"Once or twice," she whispered, as tears shone in the emerald eyes she was named after. "The doctors ran tests but it wouldn't have worked; some fluke in my genetic makeup."
"Did your memory return?"
"Some, but just the last few days before the accident; I still don't know my real name or where I'm from." She unconsciously stroked the scar, as her hand nearly tore at the ragged flesh in anger. "It's funny, in the few days I do remember, dad never used my name once."
Several young officers entered the galley as they talked, and one called out in relish, "That pervert! We heard what happened when Fitsymonds first adopted you."
She turned in anger, as a powerful rage began to build for an eruption. "Pelle, if I hear you mention that again you'll find yourself swimming home!"
"You little coc..." he stopped to duck the kitchen knife Erin threw at his head.
"Should I aim lower next time?" she snapped.
"You little bitch!" Pelle jumped the table towards her, only to see Hugh laughing at him.
"Try it if you must, if she's as good a scrapper as she used to be they'll be mopping you off the walls. Mind you that was years ago, she could have slowed down some."
Pelle saw her glaring at him, with battle lust in her green eyes. Anger clashed with prudence, and lost. He scowled and turned to leave, to see the Captain watching him from the hatch.
"Lover's tiff?" Captain Johnson asked mildly.
"No sir," Erin replied crisply, "just sorting out the pecking order; that's all."
"Do I need to give you a lecture on the behaviour expected from officers aboard one of His Majesty ships?" he asked with meaning.
"No sir!" both barked in the correct reply.
"Good. Oh, and before I forget mister Pelle, I'd suggest you tie a knot in anything that could lead to friction in my command- before I let miss Fitsymonds do it for you."
"I'm sorry for any trouble sir," Erin gushed.
"Not yet, but you will be if this happens with any other rejected lovers."
She blushed, gasping, "Nothing happened sir!"
"This is going to be one long cruse miss, just keep your legs tightly crossed or I'll put you on the first ship heading towards Blighty. I don't want to be going back with one more than we sailed with- is that clear?"
"If you've seen my medical documents you'll know that's impossible sir," she gasped without thinking.
"Oh, is there something I missed?"
She just stood there blushing.
"Well?" the Captain snapped.
"I'm sterile sir," she gasped in shame, "something to do with my accident."
Hugh was shaken, and snapped, "Sir, with all respect, the galley is hardly the place for this."
"Quite right. I'm sorry Miss Fitsymonds." He turned and left gruffly.
"Oh boy, that's the first time I've seen him blush." Hugh turned to Erin, "I didn't know, is there..?"
"No sir, I've never had a period..."
He sighed softly, "Is there anything else I should know."
"Only that you'd better not get between me and anyone who insults my family."
"Believe me, anyone who's foolish enough do that deserves my sympathy, not my support. You've hardly changed at all, have you Erin? The same little firebrand who'd take on anybody without a second thought."
"No, I've changed all right," she mused, "the first two years I was lost. Pelle was right, in a way... When Dad adopted me I tried to please him every way I could, and several that I shouldn't... I was a blank sheet, willing to be made into anything- thank God it wasn't some pervert who found me."
"Amen to that," Hugh sighed in earnest.
"My brother and his friends used to tease me rotten, but I'd just take it- for two years I took every dirty trick Basil thought up."
"And then you learned to fight back."
"And fight dirty," she laughed. "I'm sure dad told them to do it, there wasn't any other way to reach me."
"What about Basil now?"
"We love each other with a bond that can never be broken, and still fight... Does that make sense?"
"Don't ask me, I'm an only child, but if it works- don't fix it."
The Palace of Westminster.
Mario Rameras glanced up at the clock tower of Big Ben, and checked his own Casio watch; late as usual, he chuckled. The British still clung to nostalgic ideals that should have been ditched along with chivalry; the clock should have been replaced with a digital read-out. Sportsmanship was just an excuse for losing and equal rights for all was an alien concept to one of Spanish decent and a Fascist upbringing.
He presented his visitor's pass to the guard, and entered the Houses of Parliament among tourists from a hundred countries; his briefcase clutched tightly in a shaking hand.
A multitude of tongues rattled around the stairwells: an aggressive jabber came from a group of Japanese, who were comparing the portraits of Churchill and Thatcher; a German family laughed at a bust of Lloyd Jones; an American drawled to his wife, "Gee honey, I can't find where they sell peerages." Spanish, French and Russian, along with a dozen other languages, echoed around the wood panelled walls. All had once been enemies of the British Empire, and Rameres vowed that these foolish tourists would share its fate.
The visitors' gallery overlooked Parliament, allowing bored reporters to catch a light doze while awaiting the main debate of the year; soon every politician would be there to formally sign the Dissolution of Union. The death stroke of the British Empire.
Appropriate, the assassin thought, that we should strike first. He pulled a thin cord from the briefcase, slid the case underneath a dozing reporter, and turned to leave. 10:34, his watch said, the fifth of November...
The Vanguard.
Erin dozed fitfully on her narrow bunk, as dreams of war chased around her cluttered mind. Sea battles and land warfare, dog fights and infantry skirmishes; then the nightmare returned, as it always did, to her having to launch the Trident missiles. The five senior officers had to all agree that the missiles should be launched, Erin was far too low ranking to affect the decision to commit genocide, but in the dream it always came down to her hand on the button. No matter what she did, it was useless to resist the fate that would damn her soul for eternity.
Captain Johnson laughed, in the dream, "Captain to Weapons, prepare to fire..." The comcen was lit with dim red battle lighting, which left the crew all dark hollows and red planes; more demon than flesh and blood.
"First officer," Hugh snapped grimly, as tiny horns began to sprout beneath his hat, "prepare to fire."
"Second officer, prepare to fire," the man gasped as his skin turned leprous with blisters that oozed green slime.
"Third officer, prepare to fire," this one chortled while playing with a forked tail.
"Fourth officer, prepare to fire," the lieutenant laughed as bat wings began to sprout from his back.
"Fifth officer," Pelle said weakly through six-inch fangs, "prepare to fire."
No, she tried to scream, but her green-scaled hand still reached for the initiator on the fire control board, as she snapped in horror, "Weapons, prepared to fire."
"Fire one," the Captain roared as his demonic form grew to gigantic size.
"Launching one Captain. One away!"
As Erin continued to run through the launch procedure missile after missile leapt from the Vanguard to rain death on some far off corner of the world...
The nerve tingling, soul destroying, klaxon wailed through the ship, sending the sleep-numbed crew falling from bunks and into coveralls without even thinking about it.
Erin rushed towards the comcenter, amidst a hoard of others scrambling for their duty stations in all sections of the boat. She stumbled into Hugh and moaned, "Why don't they schedule these drills for breakfast? I need my beauty sleep."
"It's no drill, I'm the Intelligence officer on this tub."
She felt her stomach lurch, as the nightmare became a reality, and stumbled after him- her heart pounding.
"Take it easy Erin, it's probably nothing serious- just follow training and go with the flow."
They entered the comcenter, Erin took her station at the ship's computer, ready to call up any required data; as her mind fought its way back from the dream.
Captain Johnson called them to order, "We've picked up a sonar trace of something large tracking us, before we do anything rash I'd like to know if it's a whale- or... Miss Fitsymonds, will you see if you can ID it?"
"Aye Captain." She almost smiled as she started to run the trace program, and chuckled, "I always wanted to say that for real."
The Captain was not sure whether to reply, but was glad that she was not going to crack- just yet. You could never tell what would happen in combat. Then he remembered that he had never been in combat either. Nobody attacks a nuclear submarine with enough firepower to sterilise a good portion of the globe- never! The knowledge was scant comfort, nothing lasts forever.
"It's a Russian Victor Captain," Erin said thoughtfully, "I'd say a mark one."
Hugh mumbled, "An obsolete hunter killer? What the hell's it doing out here?"
"Captain," Pelle snapped from sonar, "they've spotted our signal, she's closing."
"Armament?" the Captain barked.
"The specs say 6 twenty-one inch torpedo tubes," Erin answered instantly, "but she could have been retrofitted. I'm picking up one hell of a lot of noise."
"For a ship that old it's no wonder. Question is, what's she doing?"
"Several were sold years ago," Hugh mused, "but we thought they'd all been scrapped."
Far ahead of the Vanguard, in a dark chasm between submerge peaks that led down towards the crushing depths, the twisted wreck of a Liberty ship lay on her side, half buried by sixty years of sand carried by ocean currents. She had been claimed by the murky depths and allowed to rot and rust in peace. But now the rounded hull of a second Victor crouched next to the decaying hulk; all systems on neutral, the vintage submarine relied on passive sonar as she waited in ambush- hiding behind several thousand tonnes of rotting steel.
"Range, ten Ks," Pelle said quietly.
"I've just felt their targeting sweep," Erin said in a dead voice, "she's hostile."
Johnson turned to Hugh, "Recommendations? I'm not about to go to war over the word of a lieutenant."
Hugh looked at Erin; she was calm, as though feeling at one with the Vanguard. She showed nothing but professional detachment. "Hostile sir, I'd recommend battle stations."
Johnson sighed with relief, not at the coming war but on being freed from restraint. "Con, full speed, take us to the deepest trench you can find; let's see if they can take the pressure." He snapped on the intercom, "All crew, now hear this- battle stations- battle stations- close all hatches- this is not a drill- repeat, this is not a drill." The echo of slamming hatches thudded around the ship. "Weapons load all tubes."
"Eight Ks," Pelle whispered.
"Launch a transponder," Johnson ordered, "we have to report now- just..."
"Transponder away Captain," Erin reported, "I've included all our telemetry and voice."
"Say, she's good," Johnson chuckled.
"Six Ks," Pelle droned on, "she's still closing."
"How long till she's in range?"
"Five minutes at most."
"Hugh, take over the ECM- let's see if you can jam that rust bucket's first shot."
"Aye Captain. But it's not the age of the Victor that matters, it's that of the torpedoes."
"Captain," Erin butted in, "there is one state of the art torp that could be fired from a Victor- all it would need is a few new circuit boards."
"Have you their specs?"
"Of course sir, I'm uploading to ECM now."
Hugh laughed, "I've got it, now let's hope you're right- I'll not have time to reprogram."
"Two Ks," Pelle sounded nervous. "We'll be in range any minute."
"Take it easy Mister Pelle," the Captain sighed.
The Victor
"We have them Captain," the weapon’s officer laughed.
"Wait, they've spotted us," sonar chuckled, "turning for the trench."
"Excellent," the Captain complimented his men. "Just as I planned, we'll soon have them. Weapons, prepare torpedoes." The forward covers were retracted and the outer seals withdrawn, leaving the torpedoes exposed to the crushing sea.
He extended the combat periscope, and peered through it for several minutes, while his swift vessel closed with the Vanguard. The trap was perfect, he thought, there was no way out. "Weapons launch torpedoes!"
Six twenty one inch torpedoes erupted from the bows, guided by trailing wires that ran back to the weapons station; they sped towards the Vanguard at twice her top speed. Searching the sea with forward sensors, they picked up the target and dropped the control wires, homing in automatically.
The Vanguard
"Incoming," Pelle snapped. "A full spread of six- moving like bats out of hell."
Johnson sighed, "Well, at least we know for sure now. Con, evasive action."
Erin thought he was joking, the fifteen thousand-ton sub was about as agile as a pregnant duck- but they started twisting anyway. "Sir, I'm still worried about all that noise- they could wake the dead."
"So, if they implode they can ask for their money back."
"They should have imploded, with that racket..." She stopped dead, her eyes glazed. "The noise is artificial sir."
"What!"
"They're using it to mask a second vessel."
Johnson froze in shock for an infinite instant- a second that lasted an eternity. "Hugh, get rid of those torps."
"Aye sir," he snapped and activated the ECM.
"Sonar, can you spot anything big enough to hide a second boat."
"Aye sir," Pelle mused, "there's a wreck on the charts- a WW2 ammo ship- certified war grave."
"Weapons, target that ship. Aft torp, target the Victor..."
A series of deep booms shook the Vanguard as the electronic counter measures conned the torps into self-destruction.
"One, two, three, four," Hugh counted. "Five is all sir, I've lost number six."
"One K," Pelle whispered. "The Victor is still closing."
"Aft torps, fire!"
A faint double thud could be felt as two torpedoes leapt from the rear.
Erin snapped, "Sir, I'm picking up a faint sonar echo from the wreck, could be passive; range point five k."
"Weapons, take out that ship."
This time the launch was louder, as four torpedoes leapt free from the bow.
The Victor
"Return fire Captain," sonar snapped.
"ECM, you have their codes," the Captain yelled, "jam them!"
"Just like shooting fish in a barrel, Captain," the officer laughed.
Sonar signals resembling a submarine struck the two torps, convincing them that they had struck the Victor... They exploded far from their targets.
The Vanguard
Hugh snapped, "Our aft torps were intercepted."
"Con, take us up- emergency ascent!"
The Vanguard’s nose rose, aiming for the surface as torpedoes bracketed the rusting Liberty ship; the first hit the superstructure- blowing the deck clear, and revealing the sail of a second Victor hiding behind.
"What about that last torp?"
"I'm on it," Hugh snapped, "It's slower than the first five- engaging ECM, now."
The second Victor tried to move clear of the wreck, in time for a torpedo to clip the sail- the blast shook the doomed vessel. A second torpedo struck the bow, shredding the forward compartments which imploded- a geyser of air, torpedoes and crew erupted surfacewards. Then the last torpedo hit the rusting wreck square on, and a thousand tonnes of rotting ammunition exploded in a cataclysmic blast that rocked the Vanguard. There was nothing left of the Liberty ship or the second Victor.
"Last torp missed us," Hugh laughed.
"Right. Weapons, target the first Victor- full spread. Fire on my command."
"Sir," Pelle snapped, "Second volley, heading this way- four hundred."
"I've got them," Erin snapped, "two types- old and new."
The atmosphere turned to ice.
"ECM still running," Hugh called. "One down, two, three..."
"Con, aim straight for the Victor, I want the smallest possible surface area."
"Aye sir."
"Four down," Hugh called.
"Prepare to fire..."
An explosion shook the Vanguard, throwing the bow up again. Then the klaxon once more filled the ship.
"Torp room Captain, weapons out, we're taking water."
"Damn that boat! Surface, now."
"The Victor is on our tail Captain," Erin screamed, "lining up, targeting has a lock..." They awaited death for an eternity, knowing any moment could be their last…
Finally the comunications operator gasped in relief, "Receiving transmission, sir."
"Oh shit, put it on the speaker."
The Victor's Captain gloated in a Spanish accent, "Vanguard, you have fought well, but there is no shame in defeat by a superior foe; I offer you a chance to surrender..."
"Who the hell are you?” Johnson snapped in anger.
"That is of no relevance at this time, Englanders; if you would live you will surrender."
"What terms?" Johnson asked weakly.
"Full Geneva Convention rules will apply."
"Hugh, anyone?" Johnson snapped.
"We can't run, and can't fight," Hugh swore, "he can pick us off anytime he likes."
"If we could only fire a missile," Erin mused.
"Then we'd all go together," Johnson pointed out, "can't be done. Damn it- what's the point of being loaded down by firepower you can't use?" He snapped on the intercom, "Hear this, prepare to abandon ship- all crew to emergency airlocks."
"No," Erin gasped in horror. Johnson merely shook his head sadly as she chose a survival suit and began to unroll the tough fabric, as the other officers and crew reached for their own.
"Hugh, take care of the bridge crew- I've got something to do."
"We can scuttle her from here sir."
"And risk those pirates salvaging the Tridents? No, I've got to destroy the Vanguard- I'm going to drop her in the deepest hole there is."
"The trench?" Hugh sighed. "Good luck Captain. All crew suit up."
Captain Johnson smiled sadly as Erin saluted him. "You'll make a damn fine officer Erin, tell your father I said so."
She flung her arms around him, and kissed his cheek. "Goodbye Uncle."
Hugh climbed into his own bright orange recovery suit, checking the small air tanks. "Time to go." The bridge crew suited up as Johnson took over the con, and Hugh checked everyone’s seals.
Johnson snapped, "I'll give you five minutes to get clear."
"Permission to leave Captain?" Hugh asked as the crew saluted.
"Granted, now haul ass," he grumbled.
The hatch slammed shut, sealing them in the airlock. Freezing water flooded the compartment; Erin grasped Hugh's hand and turned her oxygen on- then the chamber exploded in bubbles- expelling them upwards through the crushing water. Below them the Vanguard swept away, heading far down into the overwhelming depths, on a one-way trip to oblivion
The Palace of Westminster.
The Prime Minister stood in near shame as he addressed the House of Commons, it was one thing to promise the earth in order to get elected, but now it was time to keep his word. Several abolitionist factions had promised to support him, if he gave away, once and for all, the Union of Great Briton, Northern Ireland, Scotland and Wales. They'd been free for years, with their own parliaments and taxes, but now it was time to formally acknowledge the fact in law.
The overriding ambition of one man had betrayed millions who wanted to keep the status quo that had lasted centuries. He wondered if history would record him as hero or villain, but it did not matter to him; his only concern was to hang onto power as long as possible. It was the greatest fix he knew.
"Order," the lady Speaker shouted over the bustling mob of MPs. "The Prime Minister..."
"I have, with great pleasure, signed the..." Once more the House erupted in outrage. "I have signed the documents of Dissolution, and His Majesty has this day countersigned it. We have..."
Up in the gallery a signal reached the assassin's brief case and a second later it exploded in a plasmic ball that consumed all it touched. The gallery was emptied of all organic matter, only the age-old stone remained. Then the blast reached down into the chamber, falling on hundreds of MPs. The Prime Minister had only a brief second to realise that death was calling; his last thought was, 'At least they'll not lynch me..."
They died quickly, not knowing how lucky they were...
Shorts Armaments Company, Belfast.
Serena Riley cycled hard through the dusk for work, hoping to beat the rush that built up at the time clocks. Things had gone well since the Argentinean order for licensed copies of Panard AFVs had been won, and hundreds were now parked on the old runway that was part of the factory. The pay was good, the community prospered, and the work went well under the guidance of the small army of adviser that had been brought over to help.
She swung in to the darkened factory, slipping under the security barrier before the guards saw her, and free wheeled down through the car park; before she even realised that things were somehow wrong...
Most of the lights were off, and it was only five minutes before starting time... What was wrong? she wondered. It's not a bank holiday, or was it? No, she knew those off by heart, along with all the Saint's days. And where were all the others? The car park should be full by now.
She chained her bike in the racks next to the assemble line and entered the huge factory; seeing hundreds of men in olive drab combat dress rushing along the row of just finished armoured cars.
"Hey," she called in surprise, "what's happening?"
Four burly men with slung sub machine guns rushed towards her, and dark thoughts suddenly sprang to her mind. She pulled back in instinctive fear, and turned to run- only to see yet more armed guards sealing off the entrance. They slowly surrounded her and closed in, as she began to panic, but she had nowhere to go...
Two laughing men grabbed her with savage strength as she screamed in fear.
An officer in neatly pressed fatigues marched forwards, his grim face showing immense irritation. "Miss Riley," he snapped, "were you not informed of this day of rest?"
"Señor Catchlais," she gasped in relief, "no, my phone is broken... I didn't kno..."
"No matter," he snapped.
One of the men offered eagerly, "She knows too much General, can we kill her?"
"No!" she gasped in fear.
"I should," he sighed. "We're too close now, I'm sorry Miss Riley, but I can't afford the risk."
"We were friends," she screamed. "For the love of God, have mercy!"
"Sergeant, what's the word from Command?"
"Nothing's changed General, they're still hunting the Vanguard."
"So, we still have time Serena. I'll give you this, if the invasion happens it won't matter what you know, but if it's delayed you'll have to Disappear."
"You still don't have to kill me," she cried. "I'll do anything, anything..."
"Oh yes, I know that," he laughed in savage glee. "And so you will. You may use her men, but don't kill her- just yet."
She recognised half the men who beat and raped her for engineers and office staff she had worked with for the last two years- men she had liked and trusted laughed as they tormented her with savage blows from improvised whips.
Serena prayed for the invasion as the ordeal progressed, as the armoured regiment was loaded with live ammunition, as they velcroed bands around their arms. Covered in blood and bruises, she recognised the insignia, white and pale blue stripes with a yellow sunburst.
"Why, we had nothing to do..."
"This land means little to us," the General laughed. "We just need your airfields to fly from."
"England," she gasped in understanding. "You're invading England..."
"More like destroying it..." he chuckled grimly.
"The Vanguard is down," the coms Sergeant yelled in glee. "We have the go!"
"So Serena, you may live a little longer."
"You don't need me..."
"I never said that I'd let you go," he laughed. "In time you'll come to thank me."
Serena screamed as the armoured column pulled out of the Shorts factory, and began to crush all potential opposition before there could be any resistance.
A similar scene was enacted just outside Dublin.
Police stations and army barracks were shelled out of existence, then the government was slaughtered.
Hundreds of potential trouble makers were rounded up and shot, there were no appeals, just summary execution; anyone with former links to any of the now disbanded terrorist organisations were marked for death. To the fascist mind it was an elegant solution to Ireland's age-old problem.
That night chaos descended over the whole of Ireland, and as the dawn broke new flags were flying over the ancient castles, well-armed patrols cowered the terrified people, and Mirage fighter-bombers began to land at well-defended airfields.
Ireland was now more united than ever, by terror.
Somewhere in the Pacific.
Twenty dinghies bobbed on the rough sea, as shoals of frantically paddling men tried to clamber aboard.
Erin broke the surface with Hugh and headed for the nearest dinghy, they clambered aboard with a few others.
"Right, let's get the Mayday off," Hugh gasped as he opened the transmitter.
But calls reached them, hundreds of calls. Royal Navy ships were being sunk over the Pacific and Atlantic. RAF aircraft were exploding in mid-air. Towns and cities across England were being strafed by unmarked aircraft. The Palace of Westminster was a smoking ruin, taking with it all the government.
"We're being wiped out," Erin cried.
"They're too cowardly to face us..." Hugh stopped in shock. "All these reports started after the initial attack on the Vanguard- they were waiting for us."
Then one more report came through, terrorists had attacked the Royal Family in Balmoral, they were missing- King Charles and Queen Camilla had been kidnapped!
The shock was profound, royalty was sacrosanct.
A rumble started deep beneath them, a wave shook the rafts. Then the Victor surfaced a hundred yards away. Men swarmed onto the smooth deck, carrying machine-guns and tripods. Soon bursts of fire swept through the helpless rafts.
"So Englanders, we have our revenge for the Belgrano," the familiar voice boomed above the rattle of death.
CHAPTER TWO
THE VICTOR
As the screams of dying sailors mixed with rattling MG fire, Hugh yelled in horror, "You promised, the Geneva Convention..."
Half a dozen MGs swung to cover their raft, and a short burst of fire tore through two officers crouching next to Erin; she felt her guts shrivel against her spine as they were blown apart. "You gave your word Captain," she screamed in horror.
The Captain looked down from the rounded sail, his face leering with an unholy glee. He gazed around at the tattered rafts and bloody bodies, feeling pride; his country's honour was avenged. "Cease fire, prepare to pick up survivors."
The MGs fell silent, and the wounded died quickly in the freezing water; soon only the thrashing sea could be heard lapping against the Victor's rust streaked hull.
"Erin," Hugh said sadly, as he gazed on the floating dead, "compared to you, I think they were lucky."
"A prisoner of war isn't too bad," she reassured him.
"If you're..."
"I'm a professional, this was always possible- I accepted it the day I enlisted."
"You're young and relatively naive," he gestured to the Victor's piratical crew, "they're not..."
She said stubbornly, "I'm not afraid."
"You should be," he sighed, "I am."
The survivors were hauled onto the Victor's slick deck and driven below by shotgun wielding guards. Suffering from shock and grief, chilled to the bone by freezing seas, they could offer no resistance. Hugh tried to count his men but could hardly reach fifty- so few, he sighed through chattering teeth... So few.
In the Victor's galley they were lined up and strip searched, their few possessions stolen by grinning sailors- and one by one they were pushed naked through a rusty hatch into a cold damp chamber.
Hugh's last glimpse of Erin as the hatch slammed shut in his face was of her being stripped and humiliated. She was gone, he knew, even if they were released she could never be the same- her sprit would be broken.
Erin gasped in horror as she realised her fate, the fear grew steadily with each blow and outrage; slowly her mind refused to accept the awful reality... She fought to escape, struggling franticly with a dozen men, and was forced to succumb, made to conform by sheer torment and mind-numbing fear; forced on pain of death to obey their commands, no matter how disgusting.
However, the Victor's Captain knew it would take days to truly break her, and looked forward to the challenge.
With ever mounting horror, Erin fled from reality, as her mind sought some deep dark place to hide... All that was left was a shell that would obey.
Royal Ordinance Depot, Bramley
Two British soldiers patrolled a road that seemed to go on forever through an ancient forest, a few yards to their right a rail track ran parallel to the road, heading for a hanger sized building that was still stained in flaking camouflage left over from World War II.
The men wore full combat dress and had slung SA80 assault rifles but no ammunition; it was against regulations to issue live ammo except in times of war, and no war had been declared.
"Have you ever thought how stupid this is?" one young man asked. "I mean, two Squaddies and a rent-o-cop, patrolling five thousand acres of forest; trying to protect several million tonnes of ammunition. Get real, we can hardly find our way back to the security lodge, let alone find any terrorists."
"A walk'll not hurt you," the other laughed, "it's nice and quiet here at night- I saw a whole herd of deer once, they were as close as you are now; then bolted like the devil was after em."
"Yeh, I've seen a couple- but why the rifles?"
"Sergeant Jones said something about an explosion in London; the reports were still being confirmed."