“You mean they’re not swimming to the Lance.”

“No, it’s too far. You’d know this, if you’d stayed on for the rest of the briefing!”

“Someone had to go and fetch lunch!”

Jake began to pace up and down in front of the windows. He knew the submariners were professionals, doing the job they were trained to do, but Ewan was a good friend. He’d already seen two professionals injured; he had no desire to see it happen again.

“We have the DPV. We’re heading out.”

“I hope the Lance isn’t picking up their radio messages,” Jake said, wringing his hands.

“Relax, man.” Ralf sounded as cool as could be. “You’ve seen their mast; that thing was obliterated by the ash cloud. And even if they have a portable radio on board, all our comms are encrypted.”

“They’ll still know we’re talking.”

“Don’t you worry. Any of those dudes move, I’ll see it on the I.R.”

Jake did worry. But he didn’t argue.

There was radio silence for a full five minutes as the divers covered the distance to the Lance. Jake scanned the sea between the ships. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Perhaps a tell-tale line of bubbles, or a shadow moving through the water. Nothing gave away the fact two men were closing in on the hostile research ship though, and the lack of any visual clues gave him some confidence. He eventually returned to his chair, and waited for news from the men.

• • •

Cabin 974 was a mess. It was also devoid of Mr and Mrs Heyton. Clothes were strewn across the floor, from the wardrobe to the main door. The bed hadn’t been made, and the tiny corner shower room looked like it hadn’t been cleaned once since housekeeping services had been halted and everyone was expected to look after their own rooms. Soap stains caked the door of the shower cubicle, and dried toothpaste crawled across the sink like the mucus trail of a snail. The lid of the toilet was up, and whoever had last used it hadn’t flushed. Grace wrinkled her nose, backed out, and shut the door.

She took another look around the rest of the cabin. It reminded her of the room she had shared at the police academy, before she’d got tough with Alice, her roommate. The girl had led a privileged life. Her rich parents had a ‘woman who did’ for them, and that included cleaning Alice’s room twice a day. Apparently she thought that Grace would continue this service in their shared accommodation. Grace had other ideas. She had tried to keep her half of the room ship-shape, but Alice’s mess had spilled over into it, in some cases quite literally. The problem escalated, with each girl becoming more manically tidy and messy respectively. It all culminated in a huge row, some half-hearted violence, and ultimately, fits of giggles. The strange incident made best friends of the girls, and from their newfound mutual respect for one another came a moderately clean and tidy room. The memory moved Grace almost to tears as she surveyed the half-open drawers, the pillows on the floor, and the wet towels casually discarded in the middle of the bed where they had made the sheets smell. Alice was dead. Everyone from the academy was dead. Everyone she knew was dead. Grace felt her legs give way underneath her, and she sank to the edge of the bed, her face falling into her hands, and the tears flowing freely.

Thirteen

HE WAS WEAK now. Weaker even than before. His newfound intentions — to eat what he was given and to be alert and ready for any chance that presented itself — had come too late. Since the last encounter with his captor, no more food had been provided. Nobody had been down to see him, or any of the others. He felt guilty. Was that his fault? Was it punishment for throwing up on the silhouette-man? If that was the case, the others were being punished for his crime. Hardly fair. Then again, nothing about the situation was fair.

He could feel the world slipping away from him. Consciousness had eluded him more than once since the last meal, and in spite of his best efforts he knew that it was soon going to be gone again. Maybe this time it would never return. He could feel himself beginning to go, falling…falling.

A tiny clanging sound arrested his descent into the abyss. His mind was suddenly quite alert. He popped open his eyes, although there was nothing to see in the darkness. No light spilled from the bulkhead; it remained resolutely sealed. It must have been one of the others who had made the noise. He wasn’t convinced about the idea. Something about it didn’t sit right with him, though his mind wasn’t clear enough to know what. Perhaps, he thought, he had dreamt the sound. It wouldn’t be the first time. On many occasions he had woken his wife when he lashed out in bed, certain that there was someone else in the room, or that some terrible catastrophe had occurred.

No, he couldn’t have dreamt the noise, he decided. The sounds that interrupted his sleep were always louder, more imposing. Scarier.

The sound came again. This time it was closer. Much closer. This time, he knew what was wrong with the noise.

It had come from outside.

This was curious for two reasons. The first was that in the days or weeks he had been down there (he wasn’t sure how long it had actually been), there had never been any noise from outside the ship. The second, and more intriguing reason, was that because they were in the very bowels of the vessel, below the waterline, it meant the sound had come from under the sea.

There was something, or someone, out there.

His brain fought off the effects of the dark, the lack of nutrition, the foul oxygen-starved air, and the fatigue. Think, he told himself. Do something! He had been waiting for his chance. Perhaps this was it.

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.