“Before you go! I’ve got Silvia on the phone. She says she has something important to show you.”

“Tell her I’ll see her on my way down.”

• • •

Silvia Brook’s office was, as usual, a hive of activity. The hotel manager, previously responsible for all non-sailing personnel on board, now had the task of overseeing all the teams and accommodation. The workload was enormous and she had taken on two assistants to help her. As new teams were created, personnel were sourced from the crew and passenger list, jobs were handed out, and cabins were sometimes reassigned if the position warranted it. The aim was to get almost everyone working in some capacity or other.

Despite the imminent encounter with the Lance, it was business as usual for Silvia. She and her assistants were building up the recycling team. With finite resources on board, and with waste mounting up, it had become a priority. They had found a materials expert to lead the new group, and with his help they were working through the census data to find suitable team members.

“Ah, Jake. Glad you could come. I thought you should see this.” Silvia handed him a page of paper the moment he was through the door.

He took the sheet and began to read, his eyes scanning the handwritten text, stumbling on some of the more scrawled words.

“Oh, I see. Vicky Mitchell’s census form.”

“Yes. Keep reading.”

“Thirty-one years old, married, degree in marine biology? That could be useful.” He lowered the paper and raised his head, looking towards the ceiling. “Stieg…before he…he was talking about an idea he had for farming fish in the swimming pools, so we wouldn’t be reliant on what we could catch. No idea if it was feasible, but it sounds like Mrs Mitchell would be an ideal candidate to lead such a project, or at least investigate its viability.”

“Good idea,” Silvia said, looking at her watch. “Keep reading.”

“Hobbies…interests…favourite books…liked to work out before she was pregnant…oh!” He looked up, a big grin on his face. “Her mother was Korean. She speaks fluent Korean!”

• • •

Capturing and greeting life rafts had become something of a speciality for Jake, Coote, and submariners Ewan and Eric. Meeting the Lance was a different affair altogether. They were joined on the conning tower of the Ambush by submariner Brian Thomas.

They made their approach from the Lance’s starboard side, with the Ambush sandwiched between her and the Spirit of Arcadia. The Lance had, as Coote suggested, cut her engine, but she had not dropped anchor and drifted freely.

“That is one weird-looking boat,” observed Eric as they closed from behind.

The five of them stared up at her. The rear end was dominated by what appeared to be a huge white scaffold. Four towers supported a platform that was as wide as the ship, and as high as the roof of her central section, which incorporated much of the accommodation as well as the bridge. The front third of the vessel was empty save for a tall A-frame winch support, the highest structure on board. The combination of the scaffold and the midship section gave her an unbalanced appearance, as if she should tip up on her back, sending her bows rearing out of the water.

“A helipad,” Ewan said, pointing to the surface atop the scaffolding. “Not much use now. Don’t suppose there are any helicopters left anywhere.”

“What’s with the winch?” Jake asked. “It’s gigantic. It looks like they’re transporting the Eiffel Tower!”

“For trawl nets, I expect,” Coote said. “Research vessels like this are all about surveying fish stocks. Sometimes that means catching the blighters. I tell you what though, that looks rather handy!” He pointed to a bright orange lifeboat suspended from the side of the helipad rigging. It was fully enclosed, and apparently in perfect condition.

“My dad worked on ships with lifeboats like that,” Jake said. “Given the size, the Lance must have a crew of what…fifteen? Twenty?”

“Twenty,” Ewan confirmed. “Two rotating crews of ten each, so it can work around the clock. According to our data. Which is not saying much. I don’t trust that computer.”

“Now, now, Mr Sledge,” Coote said. “What would the Admiralty say if they heard you questioning their work?”

“They never will hear me, will they? And you know as well as I do, that database is well out of date.”

“If you are referring to the incident with the Portuguese fishing boat, then I will concede that yes, the information available could have done with a freshen up. An embarrassing moment for all concerned indeed.”

Jake looked behind him to the Spirit of Arcadia. It had been decided that nobody be allowed on the outside decks during the meeting of the ships, a safety precaution mainly brought about by their experience with the mutated virus. That didn’t stop the masses from lining the windows though. As ambassador, representing all of those faces looking down at proceedings, Jake began to feel the pressure of the situation.

Coote must have read his mind. “Don’t let it get to you, old boy. History won’t record the words you speak today, only that you were here.”

Behind them, the propellers of the cruise ship spun up in reverse, bringing their already glacial progress to a graceful halt. They were sliding up alongside the Lance. Those on the Arcadia looked down at her; those on the submarine looked up.

“I know she’s only small, but she looks quite impressive from here,” Jake said, his voice shrinking away. “For once, I’m glad you two are armed.”

“Must say, bit odd that there’s no welcoming party!” Coote boomed, not in the least bit intimidated by the looming hulk of the blue-and-white hull. His voice resonated between the Lance and the massive side of the cruise ship, fading with every echo until finally there was complete silence.

Coote and Jake stood shoulder to shoulder, flanked by Eric and Ewan on either side, with Brian standing behind. Coote took a step forward, cleared his throat, and addressed the faceless, lifeless craft.

“Hello there!” The words once again bounced back and forth across the cavern created by the parallel ships. “Do come out and say hello! My name’s Coote, captain of HMS Ambush. Terrible name, but don’t let that—”

Before he could finish, a single gunshot rang out, and a tiny hole exploded in his breast pocket. A trickle of red seeped down his chest. “Oh!” he said weakly.

Coote dropped to the floor, and then all hell broke loose.

Eleven

THE SUBMARINERS ACTED on an instinct honed by years of training and regular drills. It was that instinct that saved Jake’s life. He heard someone scream “Down!”, but whoever it was didn’t wait for him to follow the instruction. A hand on the back of his neck pushed him firmly towards the ground.

His knees buckled beneath him. At the same instant, the world around him exploded in a cacophony of noise. Even before he hit the deck his senses were bludgeoned by pounding detonation after pounding detonation. He was vaguely aware of gun barrels being pointed towards the Lance. With every deafening shot the weapons appeared to spit fire.

By the time he crashed to the floor of the conning tower, Jake’s ears had surrendered entirely. Whatever was happening now, they supplied only a high-pitched buzzing sound to his brain.

The floor underneath him moved and groaned.

Coote.

The man was trying to breathe. He was also bleeding profusely. Jake rolled onto his back, freeing the captain. He placed a hand over the wound and applied pressure, recalling Grau Lister’s words from the regular first-aid courses he had been obliged to attend. Overhead, the submariners’ rifles pumped out shot after shot. With no visible targets at which to aim, it was difficult to judge the efficacy of their actions.