Part Two

THIRTY-FOUR
And later that evening, Alois Kretzmer made a call to General Parviz Sharifah in Islamabad.
“General? It’s Khalid.”
“Hallo, my brother. How are you?”

“I’m fine. General, I’m calling to tell you there will be no more shipments. I think the authorities here are getting suspicious. They’re asking questions, checking a few of the crates at random. I’m hearing rumours that they know what’s really in some of them. We’ll have to call a halt to things for the time being.”

Silence fell at the other end while Sharifah digested the news. “We might have enough for the plan to succeed,” he mused. “I’m just not sure. The result may be a little less than we had intended. I would have preferred a bit more time.”

“I understand that, General, but I can’t help it. We’re going to have to close down the supply line through Kashmir, until things die down. Hard to say at present when that’ll be or if I could start up the operation somewhere else. I’ll just have to let you know. What to do with the stuff you’ve already got is up to you, of course. But we can’t risk the plot being exposed and you ending up in prison for quite a long time.”

“Indeed not.” Sharifah took a deep, sighing breath. “All right, my brother. Do what you see fit. We will make our decision soon, one way or the other. Where may I contact you if I need to?”

“It’s best if we don’t have any contact with each other at all, for the moment, in case it leads them to you. I’ll be in touch once I’m sure I’ve shaken them off.”
“All right. I suppose it is wise.”
“I must go now. Insha’allah.”
“Insha’allah.”

Kretzmer put the phone down. Then he took his briefcase and overnight bag, into which he had already packed all his personal belongings, and left the office, making his way straight to the airport where he caught the next flight to London. Altogether, he thought as he took his seat on board the plane, things had worked out well. There had in fact been no danger whatsoever of the arms being discovered; no suspicion on the part of the Red Cross or the Swiss authorities that things weren’t quite as they should be, no sudden unannounced searches of the premises. He’d kept the lid on it well and good. No, there was no likelihood of the plot being exposed; but Parviz Sharifah was not to know that. It all depended now on what Sharifah did; but Kretzmer had a reasonable expectation that things would turn out OK or he wouldn’t have bothered making the call to Islamabad in the first place.

He would have to re-establish contact with Sharifah at some stage, in case the Pakistani got suspicious. If the General suspected he was being used he might send a hit-man along. Meantime his aim would be to keep out of sight for as long as possible, minimizing any chance of the arms being traced back to Marcotech Ltd.


General Parviz Sharifah had a decision to make.
If it turned out they didn’t have enough equipment for the coup to succeed, they faced imprisonment and maybe execution. But he was certain they could make enough of an impact for the risk to be justified. In any case, to delay things any longer would also risk discovery. The warning would be sounded and the Musharraf loyalists move to arrest the coup’s leaders and impose extra security measures, so that they’d have no chance of succeeding anyway. As Kretzmer had said, they’d no idea how long it would be before the shipments could be restarted, especially if they had to find some other, probably less convenient route.

In his quarters at the barracks in Islamabad, he knelt and prayed to Allah for guidance. Then he rang the first of the people on his list and gave them the news of his decision.

“My brother,” he told each man, “it is time to move. You know what to do. Allahu Akbar.”

*

In his office at the Presidential Palace Pervez Musharraf looked round at the ministers assembled at the big mahogany table and raised his voice. “I think we could begin now, gentlemen.” They all fell respectfully silent.

“First of all,” began the President, “I would like to discuss the forthcoming visit of the emissary from the Vatican.” The Pope was attempting to build bridges following a few controversial remarks which had angered Muslim opinion around the world. “I needn’t have to tell you all that security must be flawless. Has an itinerary been drawn up yet?”

“I have the papers here, Mr President,” said the Minister for Internal Security, General Jafaari, seated on the opposite side of the table from Musharraf and to the his right, a couple of places from the end. “I’ll pass the photocopies round.” His briefcase was already resting on the table in front of him. He leaned forward, took hold of the two brass catches which opened it and flicked them.

Being on the President’s staff, General Sharifah was often about the place on official business. He had made sure he was in the washrooms, close enough to the Cabinet Room to hear the explosion, when the bomb went off. As soon as he heard it he made the call to the other leaders of the coup on his cellphone, assuming Musharraf was dead.

Then he stowed the phone away and ran out into the corridor, shouting at the top of his voice. “What is it? What’s going on? What was that explosion?” It would be some minutes before his men could surround and occupy the Presidential Palace. Until then he had to act the concerned loyalist, horrified at the President’s murder and determined to ensure security in the aftermath of the atrocity, or they’d realise and maybe avenge their leader by executing him on the spot.

He could hear shouts, screams, running feet, a general commotion.

The reverberations from the blast started to die away. A young staff officer came running along the corridor and Sharifah stopped him. “What’s going on?” he repeated. If he made straight for the Cabinet Room, if he knew where to go, it might suggest inside knowledge of the plot.

”I…I think something is wrong in the Cabinet Room,” the man replied. “I-I was just going to…”

“Come with me,” Sharifah ordered. They hurried over there. The door had been blown off its hinges and a thick pall of smoke was pouring out into the passage. They skidded to a halt, coughing, and Sharifah ran to a window and yanked it open. When the smoke had dissipated somewhat, though its smell still hung in the air, they stepped cautiously into the room. They saw that body parts and organs were strewn over the walls and floor, and the young officer retched, almost vomiting.

Sharifah looked round as four or five other officers, all of them Musharraf loyalists, came hurrying in. He affected to look suitably horrified and concerned.

Bits of bodies were scattered on the floor along with smashed and toppled furniture. The table had been splintered into matchwood, and all the windows had shattered. Everyone who had been sitting on the right side of the table, including obviously Jafaari, the suicide bomber, was dead, although a couple of the bodies were surprisingly intact. The entrails of a third steamed on the floor beside it. On the opposite side of the room several were still alive; the Minister of Defence lay covered in blood and groaning, half-conscious, while nearby the dazed Foreign Minister, his clothes tattered and smoking, was sitting up trying to support a wounded Pervez Musharraf. The President’s glasses were gone and he was moaning softly, his head lolling from side to side, eyelids fluttering. His jacket and trousers had been blown off and there were bloody gashes where splinters and other flying debris had struck him, but for the moment at least he was quite clearly alive.

Sharifah stopped dead, staring in horror and dismay. He should have made sure he had his gun with him, then he could have finished the job, and damn the consequences to himself. Perhaps he could still….no, it was too late now, with all the loyalists rushing to the scene. And already the message that Musharraf was dead would have gone out to the newspapers and TV stations, both foreign and domestic. He could only hope that it would have the desired consequences.

Someone shouted for a doctor, and hurried arrangements were made to get the President to hospital. His wounds were dressed and he was made as comfortable as possible pending the arrival of an ambulance. The chief of the President’s personal guard placed a cordon around the Palace while an investigation was carried out into the bombing, allowing no vehicle to leave or enter apart from the ambulance ferrying Musharraf to hospital.

Meanwhile rumours were spreading, as the militants had planned. Within minutes of the message getting out the local rebel leaders, assuming it had done its work, went into action. Lorries crashed the gates of the Presidential Palace and other government buildings in Islamabad, Lahore, Karachi, Quetta and Rawalpindi, and armed men leaped out of the back firing their Kalashnikovs, Uzis or MP5s in the air and shooting anyone in uniform whom they happened to come across. Simultaneously, TV and radio stations and telephone exchanges were seized, and in the barracks the movement’s supporters among the soldiers, who had beforehand contrived to ensure that they were all together in the right place at the right time, guarding strategic places or at any rate in reasonable proximity to them, made their move. Seizing the armouries, they equipped themselves with all the weapons they could carry and went on a killing spree, not stopping until they had full control of the building.

The militants attempting to storm the Presidential Palace, to which news of the coup had by now filtered through, were beaten back by the president’s special guard long enough for Musharraf’s entourage to smuggle out the seriously wounded Pakistani leader in an Army truck, which roared out through the gates al-Qaeda had earlier demolished, and took advantage of the very confusion their enemies had created to head for the provinces where the group would remain in hiding while the Musharraf loyalists in the military and elsewhere fought to wrest control back from the Islamists. The President was drifting in and out of consciousness and needed constant attention from his personal doctor, but he would live. He was a tough nut to crack.

Meanwhile, it was not immediately possible for the majority of the population to determine what had happened to him. Undeterred, the militant-controlled TV stations put out messages announcing that the traitor and American lackey Musharraf was dead and al-Qaeda, the Base, now controlled the country. Those who could tune into the BBC World Service or any other foreign news channel were soon receiving the same information. A couple of the stations remained in the hands of the government until some time later and informed the peole that Musharraf had been smuggled to safety and would live, but here the government’s system of censorship worked against it, since it meant people doubted it was telling the truth and were more likely to believe the al-Qaeda version, whether or not they felt any sympathy for the militants’ aims.

A lot of them did not, and ventured onto the streets to protest at the coup, angry and fearful at the fate they knew awaited them under al-Qaeda rule, which was to be forced to live like the population of Afganistan under the Taliban. However, they were soon sent scurrying back indoors by the gun-toting rebels who drove up and down the main streets in their commandeered vehicles, shouting out Islamist slogans and firing their rifles into the air where necessary. It was the same principle that allowed any other totalitarian state to function; the majority could overthrow their rulers by sheer weight of numbers if they chose, but did not so choose, knowing that in the process some of them – including perhaps oneself – might be killed.

In the state of confusion caused by the suddenness of the coup, the airports fell swiftly. A couple of flights, their crew realising what had happened, took off without permission and were thus able to escape the tragedy that followed. The next was grounded and crew and passengers ordered off the plane. The aircraft’s occupants thought they were being hijacked, panicked and tried to rush the gunmen, who themselves lost their nerve and started blazing away, killing dozens of people before they were overpowered. The survivors were captured as they tried to flee the airport premises. The militants had been planning to allow one aircraft to land and then seize its occupants, but after this incident they simply stopped all international flights.

Meanwhile they dug themselves in at the places they had taken over, delegating some of their number to drive up and down the streets proclaiming the revolution and warning everyone to stay indoors, and waited for their reinforcements to arrive.

Either due to ineffiency or secret sympathizing with the extremists by some of their number, the Pakistani security forces had always lacked the will or the ability to properly seal off the border with Kashmir and Afghanistan. Militants now flooded into the north and centre of the country from the camps established in the border regions, on either side, in the two years following the overthrow of the Taliban in 2001, and whose population had been swollen by recruits from the madrassas. Ignoring the rural areas instead of staying there to win hearts and minds – and thus leaving in their rear populations who were either apathetic or hostile to them, which worked to their disadvantage – they made straight for the cities to assist their brothers in establishing control there.

News of all these events had been broken to the Western public early in the afternoon of the first day of the coup. The BBC reported it thus in a Newsflash:

“We're getting unconfirmed reports that President Pervez Musharraf of Pakistan has been killed in a terrorist attack. Eyewitnesses say they heard an explosion from the Presidential Palace and saw a vehicle full of armed men break through the main gates. There are reports of fierce fighting near the border with Afghanistan. We hope to bring you more information on that story later.”

By the evening, when more details were known and a full report of events could be given, the mood at BBC Television Centre was more calm, composed and professional than it had been at first, but when they spoke to the cameras the graveness of the newsreaders’ tone made it quite clear how they were feeling underneath. “Good evening. Islamic militants have seized control of the Pakistani capital, Islamabad following rioting. The militants have occupied all government buildings as well as airports and communications centres.

“Fighting has broken out within the army between supporters of President Musharraf and those sympathetic to the militants. We're also getting reports of fighting in other parts of Pakistan, particularly the border regions where hundreds of militants are pouring into the country from Kashmir and Afghanistan.

“The whereabouts of President Musharraf remain unconfirmed. One source reports that he has been killed in the fighting, another that he is still alive but seriously wounded.

“The militants have set up a provisional government within the former Presidential Palace. All foreign journalists have been banned from entering or leaving the country, apart from representatives of the Arab news agency al-Jazeera, by whom the following scenes were filmed.” Images were shown of petrol bombs being hurled at tanks, of bearded and turbaned militants brandishing their rifles and yelling in triumph from the roofs of cars and lorries. One fell off, which caused some amusement and lightened the mood to some extent.

“A spokesman for the militants told an al-Jazeera reporter…” Cut to a bearded, screaming face whose eyes blazed with madness and hatred. “This is the Day of Judgement for Islam’s enemies! The Great Satan and its allies Britain and Israel are trembling before us! Islam will dominate the world!”

Back to the newsreader. “The current situation of each of the five thousand or so Westerners, including some six hundred Britons, believed to be in Pakistan isn’t known but the spokesman did say that his group had taken Western hostages and that they would be killed if demands for an independent Palestinian state and the removal of all American businesses and military bases from Muslim countries were not met.

“The situation with regard to Pakistan’s nuclear missile bases remains unclear. Reports of fighting in the area of the bases can’t yet be confirmed.

“It’s understood that a crisis meeting is now being held at the White House between US President George Bush and his Chiefs of Staff. The Prime Minister will be flying to Washington tomorrow morning for an emergency summit with the President, and in New York the United Nations has gone into emergency session. Heads of government of EU member states are already meeting in Brussels.

“For those worried about friends or relatives who may be trapped in Pakistan, here's the number to ring.” The Foreign Office emergency hotline came up on the screen.

Fears for the safety of loved ones known to have been in the country when the coup occurred were already growing like a creeping tide. They were well justified. The militants had been told to seize any Westerner they could lay their hands on and take them hostage, whether journalists, tourists, diplomats, businessmen, aid workers, or Christian missionaries. About half managed to hide, sheltered by sympathetic families, until they could be safely smuggled out of the country, disguised so as to conceal features which would have identified them to al-Qaeda as members of the enemy culture. But hundreds were captured, many of them at the airport where they had been queueing up in search of a flight, and moved to secure locations around the country. At first it was difficult to keep so many people locked up or at gunpoint, and some escaped. But the arrival of the renforcements from Kashmir, Afghanistan and elsewhere provided the manpower necessary for the job. White non-Muslim Britons frequently found themselves the prisoner of a non-white and Muslim compatriot from London or Birmingham, who might show no recognition of a shared nationhood or culture, simply sitting and staring at them, gun in hand, with cold eyes that lacked any emotion except hatred. The rebels’ definition of “Western” in fact included any country not wholly Muslim, and there were black Africans and Japanese among their prisoners as well as Americans and Europeans.

The experiences of the hostages varied. Some were treated surprisingly well. One hostage was murdered when it turned out he was Jewish, while another Jew formed a close and friendly relationship with his captors and was eventually released unharmed. A militant from Leeds was observed laughing and joking with a fellow inhabitant of that town, forgetting altogether about differences of religion or colour, both of them speaking in broad Yorkshire accents. On the whole female hostages fared better than men, although there were cases of women – and children - suffering appalling cruelty, or being forced against their wishes to wear the veil. Many of their captors belonged to the new breed of Islamic militant who felt a visceral hatred for all Westerners regardless of age, gender, occupation or any other such consideration. Conversion to Islam – where it was not forced – might ensure better treatment and many took this course, some sincerely and some merely as a means of survival. The new followers of the faith were treated by their captors with some wariness, which would never quite disappear. Those who retained a Christian belief were strengthened by it in adversity and sometimes succeeded in communicating it to their fellow captives. But whatever factors might serve to give the hostages some comfort, things remained dire at the best of times. The difficulty of attending to the needs of such a large number of people meant that food was awful and toilet facilities rudimentary. And however pleasant those guarding them might be on occasions, they knew nothing could change the militants’ rock-solid determination to kill them should their demands not be met within the month, or any attempt be made at hostage rescue. Except for the lucky few who did manage to escape despite the presence of the Kashmiris and Afghanis, or were released after negotiation, this life was a nightmare, one which would end in they knew not what. It didn’t help when the al-Qaeda leadership decided to disperse them more evenly around the country, many of them bound and gagged and handcuffed while in transit, to make it easier to guard them and harder to locate them. In this way friends and loved ones were split up and denied the solace of each others’ company.

It was a nightmare too for their families, who were distressed by the way they were being treated and feared never to see them again. They knew al-Qaeda’s demands were unlikely to be met, that a rescue operation would be extremely difficult, and that their relatives were in the hands of ruthless people to whom their lives ultimately meant nothing. Every time a video was shown on al-Jazeera of a hooded and chained hostage kneeling helpless before an armed militant, it left them feeling cold and sick inside.

From time to time there were dire threats that captives would be burned alive – regardless of age, gender etc. – and although, as far as was known, because a hundred of the hostages were to vanish without trace, this threat was never carried out it could never be dismissed out of hand due to the viciousness of the militants' anti-Western hatred, adding to the anguish of those at home.

The coup had been so sudden and unexpected, and was so frightening in its apparent implications, that real fear was spreading around the world. A gloomy depression settled over everything, ruining holidays and special events, no doubt to the militants’ delight for they saw themselves as waging a kind of psychological, as well as physical, warfare against the West. The questions asked on current affairs programmes reflected the profound anxieties the coup had given rise to.

“What people are asking is, how could this possibly have happened?"
“What does this mean for the preservation of global peace and security and the conduct of the war on terror?”
"Of course for many the real fear will be the safety of Pakistan's nuclear weapons....."

The Prophets of Doom had a field day. The Stock Exchange crashed and this, on top of the oil crisis resulting from the tanker sinkings, plunged the world into recession. There was rioting and serious social unrest. Sympathetic coup attempts took place in Indonesia and Philippines, though these were dealt with successfully by the governments of those countries, with support from Australia which therefore invited a repetition of the Bali bombing. International tension mounted as the Indian Prime Minister made it clear that any nuclear attack on his country by its traditional enemy, now in danger of being taken over by those most likely to hate its predominantly Hindu population, would be met with immediate retaliation in kind.

Situation Room, White House
"This is the worst crisis we’ve ever had to face," observed President Bush solemnly. “But we’ll beat it, like we’ve beaten everything else.” Those around the table nodded.

“So, what’s the situation, Condy?” Bush asked the Secretary of State, Condoleezza Rice.
"Still no news of President Musharraf, Sir. We’re trying to make contact with his supporters. Al-Qaeda are in control of the northern cities, indeed the whole northern part of the country, but the Army’s rallied and taken back control of the south plus Lahore and Karachi. However, there’s anarchy in the provinces which were always a bit difficult for anyone to run effectively in any case. The rival tribal groups are taking advantage of the situation to start uprisings against each other. But none of them seem disposed to support the militants. All in all, I’d say things are working to our advantage.

“Another good thing is that because the militants from Kashmir and Aghanistan are mostly concentrated in the northern cities helping to defend them, the border regions they came in by are largely free of them. It should be fairly easy to restore order there, eventually. Militants are also coming in from Iraq and Afghanistan proper, which means those places will be easier for us to hold down.”

“So we’re not likely to be overstretched dealing with this thing, like we thought at first,” the President nodded, pleased.
“I’d say al-Qaeda are taking a heck of a gamble,” remarked the National Security Adviser.
“I guess it was worth the risk if they could get hold of Pakistan’s nuclear capability,” said Condoleezza Rice.

“Well, we gotta go in and sort ‘em out, anyway,” said the President robustly. “Is that gonna be easy? Don?” He looked to the Secretary of State for Defense.

“I think I know how it can be done,” nodded Donald Rumsfeld. “Because of the difficult terrain there, and geographical and geopolitical factors, if we’re aiming at a fairly swift occupation of the capital and the other big cities any invasion will have to come from the south.”
“And it’s the northern areas which are the main problem?”

“Yes. I’m confident we can take them before we get seriously bogged down, but it’s not gonna be easy going, all the same. The sections of the Pakistani army controlled by al-Qaeda won’t be that much of a threat; we all know our military capability is superior to that of any Asian nation except possibly China. The real danger will be the militants, the mujahiddeen sort of people, because of the way they operate. Along with their fanaticism they have this ability to improvise lethal weaponry and to hold up the advance of a conventional military force. We’re gonna meet suicide bombers, all that sort of thing.”

As for standing aside altogether and letting the pro-Musharraf factions in the Army restore order by themselves, that was clearly out of the running. They didn’t have the strength to do so, anyway.

The President asked the question everyone had been waiting to hear. “What about the missile bases?”
“Securing them is gonna have to be a priority,” said Rumsfeld. “Fortunately it isn’t going to be easy for al-Qaeda to maintain its hold on the north and try to take those bases at the same time. That should give us an advantage.

“A few years back, because he was worried about extremism, Musharraf had his missiles relocated to six secret locations throughout the country. He’s now had no option but to disclose their whereabouts to us. Four of them, fortunately, are in government-held territory.” He gave a nod to an aide who switched on the overhead projector, displaying a detailed map of Pakistan on the screen. Then he got up and crossed to the screen, pointing out the location of each of the remaining sites with a ruler. "The other two are here, and here, under the Chagai mountains in Baluchistan province, where the test sites were. In this region at the present time neither side is fully in control.

“There are a few other places we need to include in our calculations. There’s a nuclear plant at Chashma, south of Islamabad, technology and materials from which could easily be diverted to military ends. A research reactor at Joharabad in the Punjab near Lahore – ditto. A plutonium production facility in Rawalpindi – same again. Fourthly the uranium enrichment plant at Kahuta, just outside Islamabad. Kahuta was the research and development HQ for the nuclear programme, and it’s there that the Ghauri-3 missile, which will have a range of approximately 3000km, is being built: fortunately it’s still far from complete. But I recommend we bomb the place straight away.

“We must assume all these facilities are already in rebel hands, and so have to be taken out as soon as possible, with the exception of Chashma. If we go for Chashma we could just precipitate a meltdown, accidental or deliberate. I expect you’re all worried they’ll threaten to do that anyway if we invade. Well, I’m sure they’ll threaten. But in the first place, we have to take the risk. It’s the missile sites which are most dangerous, and the only way to secure them is to secure the whole country. And secondly, if they caused a meltdown and killed scores of innocent Pakistanis, many of them hostile to their aims, who they want to win over, just because they were a bit sore at losing, they’d be shitting in their own nest, if the lady present will pardon by bad language. They wouldn’t do it.

“There is a second nuclear power station near Karachi, but since that’s well into government territory and right near where we’ll be setting up our main base, I don’t think we need worry about it.”

“Tell you what worries me,” said Dick Cheney. “What if they threaten to cause a meltdown at Chashma if we invade?”
“We can’t guarantee that the militants don’t know where the missile bases are,” Donald Rumsfeld continued. “It’s been known for a long time that they’ve got supporters within the government who can feed them inside information. My guess is they’re already making their way to Baluchistan fast, so we’ll need to lose no time in parachuting Special Forces and other troops into the areas around the installations, where they will assist the security forces in defending them against rebel attack. The guards were put on full alert as soon as news of the coup broke, but they may not be able on their own to prevent a full-scale assault by those fanatics.”

“Well, as Commander-in-Chief, I’ve already put all our forces on full alert,” said the President. “We’re gonna have to throw everything we’ve got into this.”
“What are we defining as our aims in this matter?” the NSA asked Rumsfeld.
“I think they should be: firstly, to secure the nuclear bases against takeover by al-Qaeda. Secondly, the expulsion of all al-Qaeda forces from the country and the restoration to power of President Musharraf. Thirdly, the rescue of all United States and other Western citizens being held captive within Pakistan. Are we agreed?”

They agreed. In a crisis like this, there was very little time for delay or dissent.
“Some troops may have to be diverted from other theatres. We’ll have to call up reservists and maybe bring in those in non-combat roles. But with maximum assistance from the British, which I think we can rely on, and from the international community I’m confident we can support engagement in a third theatre of operations, provided we put on hold any attack on Iran for the moment.”
“One good thing is that this time everyone’s gonna be behind us,” grinned the President. “No-one in their right mind wants those loonies to get hold of Goddamn weapons of mass destruction.”

If they ever did, the consequences, if restraint were not shown, didn’t bear thinking about. Over the past couple of decades both India and Pakistan had built substantial arsenals of nuclear missiles. They were designed primarily for use against each other, but with a few modifications the Pakistani Ghauri and Shaheen could probably hit targets in Israel, if not further afield. The keys to arm the warheads were in the possession of President Musharraf and a senior general whose loyalty could be relied upon, and both men were now safe at the government’s provisional headquarters in the loyalist-held south, but it could not be assumed that al-Qaeda didn’t have the technical knowledge to make their own versions.

“It’d take time, once they’d secured the missile base itself, to make the keys,” Condoleezza Rice pointed out. “We’d have retaken the installations by then.”
“But there’s information at the other sites which could be of use to them and I wouldn’t want to see it falling into their hands,” Rumsfeld said.
“Not much more information than is already available on the Net,” observed Dick Cheney.
“Altogether, I really don’t think we have much to worry about.”
“All the same,” said the NSA, “we should consider dropping propaganda leaflets to let the Pakistani people know how much they stand to lose in the event of a nuclear conflict. We’d make the whole country uninhabitable by way of retaliation if Qaeda used those missiles in anger. They’d rise and overthrow them to stop that happening.”
“There are ways of trying to get the message across,” said Cheney. “But according to our experts on Pakistan we’d be dealing with a largely illiterate population, which kind of presents a problem.”

“The CIA can work through our supporters in the country on a hearts-and-minds initiative. I also think it’s important to try to restrain the Indians, also the Chinese, from taking any pre-emptive action. Of course if we can stop the militants from taking over the bases it won’t be an issue anyway but I wouldn’t like to leave anything to chance.”

Rumsfeld nodded his agreement. ”In order to avoid stirring up tensions, it’s best if we ask the Indians to keep out for the moment, and not commit any troops to the invasion. After all, there’ll be plenty of other countries wanting to get involved.”

“OK,” said the President. “Condy, I want you to liaise with all our allies, especially the Brits although I think we can take their support for granted, and anyone else who comes forward offering support. London will have to be told we’ll need the use of Diego Garcia. Don, you get together with the defence chiefs and draw up a battle plan. The Pacific Fleet will be put on full alert and I think we'll need one of our nuclear boats sent to the area, just so’s al-Qaeda know to expect retaliation if they do get hold of any of those missiles and fire them. And I want everyone to know what we’re doing. Will you see to that, Barbara?” This last was said to the White House Press Officer.
“Yes, Mr President,” she replied.

“I just want to say, I think we can be confident of ultimate victory in this,” said the National Security Adviser.
“Oh, I don't doubt we'll win,” agreed Donald Rumsfeld. “But we can’t afford to be complacent or they may end up with those missiles after all.”
“al-Qaeda must have known we’d do everything to stop them,” Dick Cheney said. “It’s all been calculated mainly to scare us. And as far as public opinion is concerned it’s working. So we need a speedy resolution to this business.”
"Sure, Dick,” said the President. "And we have to show these guys they just can't mess about with us."
“I can’t see an al-Qaeda government lasting for long in Pakistan anyway,” said Condoleezza Rice. “They don’t have a lot of popular support.”

The NSA pointed out that the Taliban in Afghanistan had had little popular support or experience of government but had nonetheless survived against all odds and established a firm grip on the country in defiance of the will of the people. It would be a bit like the Bolsheviks in the Russian Revolution, with the exception of the hostile population. In the end the Taliban could only be dislodged by American and British military intervention. You had to admire their determination, if nothing else.

“So we’ve got work to do,” declared the President. “Let’s get down to it, folks.”
“But there’s got to be an enquiry,” sighed the NSA. “Into how this whole damn thing could happen in the first place. Looks to me like someone’s been selling arms to the wrong kind of people. One thing’s sure, whoever’s behind it are a bunch of major league assholes and if I ever get my hands on them I’ll….”


THIRTY-FIVE
By midnight the invasion of Pakistan had a codename, Operation Rapier. The Allied forces were to thrust like a sword deep into the heart of Pakistan and despatch the rebels quickly and cleanly.

Telephone lines between a dozen capitals buzzed as political and military leaders worked through the night to co-ordinate every aspect of the operation. At US Central Command in Qatar and on the British naval base at Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean a rapid build-up of troops and aircraft began. Two nuclear-powered aircraft carriers which had been stationed in the Arabian Sea raised anchor and begun making their way east, while a third headed west from Pearl Harbour along with two warships and a nuclear missile submarine. US and British Special Forces had already been airlifted into the regions where the nuclear bases were located, while a further SAS unit was on standby for hostage rescue operations. France, Germany, Spain, Italy, Holland and the Scandinavian countries, Russia, Japan, Croatia and other Eastern European countries, Canada, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa all supplied their own relatively small but useful contingents of troops, heavy vehicles and aircraft.

By the afternoon of the following day, the Allied forces were landing en masse in southern Pakistan, where they were met by government troops and a few sympathetic anti-al-Qaeda tribesmen. Airfields were quickly constructed in the province of Sind near the cities of Hyderabad and Karachi, with prefabricated Portakabins serving as accommodation for the soldiers and air crews. Tank and troop transporters touched down and unloaded their cargoes in rapid succession. The hardware at the Allies’ disposal included Abrams and Challenger tanks, Apache helicopter gunships, Tomahawk cruise missiles, F16 warplanes and B52 and Hornet bombers.

Overall command of the expeditionary force lay with US Central Command to whom the British and other nationalities were effectively subordinate, and whose headquarters were located at the airbase at Karachi. The US forces consisted of V Corps, part of the 3rd Army, divided into various Infantry and Airborne Divisions, and First Marine Expeditionary Force which included amphibious assault brigades, battalions of Marine Engineers and an aircraft wing. Britain was represented by the 1st (UK) Armoured Division, which encompassed within its umbrella famous regiments such as the Armoured Brigade, the fabled “Desert Rats”, the Black Watch and the Duke of Wellington’s. The idea was that the Americans, with help from Russian, French and Spanish forces, would undertake the main push towards Islamabad and the other principal northern cities while the British, with their long experience of pacifying operations, dealt with any pockets of resistance in the south before later, perhaps, moving north to assist the Americans there.

The mood of the troops was buoyant. This time, they had no doubts that what they were doing was right or that they had the support of most of the people back home. It made a crucial difference. And, of course, they knew what was at stake if they failed.

Conference Room, MI6 HQ London
The meeting, of course, had been to discuss the al-Qaeda coup attempt in Pakistan. It wasn't as if anyone felt like talking about anything else, or even thinking about it. If al-Qaeda did succeed in getting hold of Pakistan's nuclear weapons it could be nothing else would matter anyway.

"Obviously this affair is of considerable concern to everyone,” the Director had begun, with a tendency to understatement Rachel Savident had found was typical of her.

It certainly is, Rachel reflected to herself. The PM was running round like a headless chicken arranging summit meetings with every head of state under the sun, hoping no doubt that he'd be able to take the credit for resolving the crisis.

"However,” said Sophie Cameron-Davies, “it's not clear at the moment, from an intelligence point of view, what can be done other than by finding out if anyone at our end has been supplying the rebels and if there is a chain recruiting radical Muslims in Britain for the conflict and helping them get to Pakistan. They needn't have had British help, of course. There are, we know, militant Islamist cells in many different countries. And it would be mostly the responsibility of our colleagues at MI5, in any case.

“Nevertheless the Joint Intelligence Committee has requested that we work closely with them, the Americans and Israelis, and other overseas intelligence services, on this matter using personnel both here and abroad. We need to find out if any of the people on our list of those considered hostile to Western interests, here or abroad, were involved in the planning of the operation, and also to deal with the possibility that militants in the Middle East, North Africa or South-East Asia will try to stage copycat coups.” In short, they’d been asked to pull out all the stops. “All our departments will be expected to give the matter top priority.” The Director caught Rachel’s eye. "This, er, this means we may have to suspend other projects," she told the gathering. For the moment, Rachel said nothing.

Later, as the meeting broke up and the other senior officers began to disperse, Rachel went over to her. "May I have a word with you, Ma’am?"

Still seated, Cameron-Davies glanced up sharply, in a rather birdlike fashion, from the papers she was sorting. "You're worried about your friend, aren't you Rachel?"

"We were getting somewhere with our investigation into Marcotech. We'd proved they’d been using blackmail to get out of trouble over their financial affairs, and the Kobenhavn disappearance."
"But you still don't know what's happened to Caroline?"

"We know where the Marcotech base is, more or less. The information's common knowledge.” Rachel sighed ruefully, aware she was playing devil’s advocate. “But there's no proof she's there, I'm afraid, or that it's the centre of anything..clandestine."

"Hmmm." Cameron-Davies shifted uneasily, then took a deep breath. "I understand your feelings, and I know it’s important. But you must admit this business is even more so. Quite frankly, there’s not a lot of enthusiasm at the moment for anything else."
"It won't take up all our time, Ma’am. There'll be some to spend on other things, surely?"
"Not a lot, I'd have thought. As I said just now, all our Sections are fully occupied dealing with the current crisis and its various angles."

"I understand that. But if we beat al-Qaeda and then find there's no oil, the victory celebrations are going to be a little muted."

Rachel could see she was thinking. At length, she drew herself up and looked at her straight in the eye. "I'll make a deal with you, Rachel. If you can prove Marcotech are doing anything illicit we'll get on to the Americans and ask them to apply a bit of pressure. But I don't want to spend too much Service time on it right now, so I’m afraid you'll have to do it on your own. I can relieve you of all other duties, if you like."

Rachel wondered whether this was intended to serve as a prelude to easing her out. "That's very kind of you, Ma’am, but I don't know if that'll be necessary at the moment. We'll see."

"We may be able to help from time to time, if resources allow. I can't promise anything. Meanwhile you have my authority to request assistance from any other organisation you think might come in useful. I suppose the Navy might be interested, but they're all tied up in the Indian Ocean at the moment, assisting the Americans."

She treated Rachel to the kind of smile that was designed to soothe subordinates’ feelings. "All right?"
"It's less than I'd hoped for. But thankyou anyway, Ma’am."

Cameron-Davies inclined her head briefly. As Rachel moved off she was unaware of the Director’s eyes following her all the way to the door, the professional smile gradually fading.

“So tell me then, Charlie,” beamed Sir Edward Greatrix, “how are things going up top?”
The Bahamian gave a shrug. “Same as usual, I guess.”

The two men were in Greatrix’s office at the colony, sharing a bottle of sherry. Had the Project, as it was usually referred to among those participating in it, been a normal business enterprise Charlie supposed they wouldn’t have had such intimate social contact. But there weren’t many people in the world who shared Greatrix’s unique vision, or were prepared to go to such lengths to actually put it into practice. And Sir Edward liked to make sure everyone involved in the execution of his plans was happy about them.

The millionaire’s face might have been a bit more florid than usual, and there seemed to be a strange kind of gleam in his eye, but only afterwards was either to fully penetrate Charlie’s consciousness. Just then he wasn’t in a particularly receptive mood.

Suddenly he straightened up from gazing dully into the contents of his glass. “Boss, don’t you think we’re going a bit too far right now? We might just have started a God-damn fucking nuclear war.”

Greatrix gave a watery smile and patted him consolingly on the arm. “I can understand the way you feel. Believe me I never thought we’d actually have to do it. The blame lies solely with our little friend from International Petroleum.”

“Whoever’s fault it is, I…” Charlie looked him hard in the eye. “I just ain’t sure it’s gonna be worth it all, in the end. I just don’t think your little scheme will work.”

Slowly, Greatrix lowered his right arm, the one holding the glass, to his side. The blue eyes were clear now, their gaze steady, and when he spoke the edge of steel in those cool, precise, English tones registered with his companion immediately. “You realise, Charlie, that if I thought there was the slightest possibility you might tell the authorities what we’re doing here, there’d be no way I could let you leave alive.”

Charlie glared back at him. “’Course I realise,” he scowled. “That’s why I’m not gonna fucking well do it, am I?”
Greatrix relaxed.

After a moment he thought he’d try to sweeten the pill. “Something had to change, Charlie. Things weren’t right in the world. Everyone knew that, and you could sense they knew, however much they tried to deny it. But in the end we were the only bunch with the guts to actually break the mould. Thinking about that does something very good to me, Charlie. And I want you to feel that way too. You know, maybe in the future we’ll be remembered as heroes. Don’t try to kid me the thought doesn’t appeal to you.”

Charlie grunted, and went on sipping at what remained of his sherry, for the next few minutes saying nothing. “Better be going,” he said finally, and put his glass down on Greatrix’s desk. He turned towards the door, then paused to look back at his employer.

"Oh, by the way," he said. "They reckon it was the shark that killed Cornelia."

"I assumed it was,” Greatrix replied, and looked sad for a moment. “A pity.” His eyebrows lifted quizzically. "Do I take it you're a bit upset?" The real reason for Charlie’s mood now became apparent.
The Bahamian held eye contact. "She was a friend."

"I see," Greatrix muttered, looking away for a moment. "Well in that case I'm very sorry. But I honestly thought your interest in her was purely physical."

Charlie himself seemed uncertain on that score for a moment. Encouraged, Greatrix pressed home his point. "You're better off not being involved with her, anyway, bearing in mind the kind of life she led."

Charlie’s lips pursed, and his gaze dropped to the floor. "I don't know,” he said quietly, momentarily lost in his thoughts. "She wasn't a bad person. Not really."
"I take it you did warn her to be careful going out to sea?"

"Of course. But I couldn't really tell her why without blowing the lid on this whole business. I....I'm not sure she would have listened, anyway."

"Then what happened was entirely her own fault. We've no reason to blame ourselves." Greatrix smiled as if that resolved the matter once and for all.

For a second or two, Charlie was silent again. "No," he muttered, "I don't suppose we have." Then he spun on his heels and left.

MI6 HQ, London
"They've gone for a compromise," Rachel said. "I thought they would."
"What kind of compromise?"

She perched on the edge of the desk to address Chris Barrett, her arms folded. "I'm allowed to go looking for Caroline - and investigating Marcotech's activities, which would seem to amount to the same thing - if I like but it's to be entirely my own thing. They can't spare any other personnel.

"It'll be counted as annual leave, and if anything goes wrong it's no concern of theirs. I'm to sink or swim. Likewise if my cover gets blown."

"That washes it out, doesn't it," Chris said bitterly. "And they know it does. There's not a lot you can do by yourself."
Rachel smiled. "Or you."
Chris saw what she was getting at.

"You're suggesting we should work together on this?" he asked.
"Well, it'd seem a good idea wouldn’t it?”

Chris perked up, breaking out into a delighted grin. "Hey, you're right." The thought of working with Rachel sent a pleasurable thrill racing through him, like an electric current.

"I mean," he went on, "it's not the first time I'll have put myself out to help Caroline."
"So I gather," she smiled. "Of course, it can't involve my letting you into any Service secrets. In fact they won't be happy about you being brought into it at all. It's just that there's no choice."
"I've signed the Official Secrets Act before," he reminded her, thinking back to another time when Caroline's machinations had ensnared him helplessly. "I'm sure I can do it again."
Rachel returned to her seat. "Well if that's settled, the question is how exactly we're going to go about it."

"Have you got any ideas?"
"Yes, actually I have. The trouble is, it involves one of us exposing themselves to actual danger."
"I'll do it," said Chris firmly. The words leaped from his mouth on an impulse. It had suddenly seemed very undesirable to him that Rachel Savident should come to any harm.
"What did you have in mind?" he asked.

She told him. “We obviously can’t do it entirely by ourselves. There are a few who might help if we explain to them exactly what's going on. For...certain aspects of it, we might need Five's help. I'll have to see if they can spare anyone."
"I'll leave it to you and your bosses to arrange, then,” Chris said.

Rachel bit her lip uncertainly. "It’s probably better I stay here to co-ordinate things with the Service, where necessary."
"Makes sense. But I wouldn't blame you if you didn't want to do it. We don't know what happens to the people who get kidnapped. One thing's obvious, none of them have come back." He was looking gloomy. "'Fraid I don't see how it's going to work."

"It might," she answered, and proceeded to explain her plan in a little more detail.


Greatrix strode briskly into the observation room. "How's our Miss Kent shaping out?"
Dave Latimer was at the window. "Still holding out. But I think she's having a rough time of it." He described the results they’d gained from observing Caroline's behaviour. “Do we give her the drug yet?”
"Only when she asks for it. Not before." Greatrix sighed regretfully. “She could have been useful in many ways.”

Joining Latimer at the window, he studied the swimming figure in admiration. “She's done well to last this long," he said, echoing Caroline’s own thoughts. “It’ll only be a matter of time, though.”
He wondered what was going through her head right now.


I'm a freak, Caroline thought miserably. I don't fit in here.
As time went by she had felt herself withdraw more and more into her own tiny, self-contained world, unable to communicate with anyone, like a severely autistic person. Much more of it and she might as well take the drug.

No, a part of her screamed out in protest. Do that and you've lost all hope.

How did she know that once she was under its influence, Greatrix wouldn't mate her with another aquanoid? Would he refrain from doing that out of respect for her?
Yes, she decided. He would.

In any case though, to go for God knew how long as a barely conscious zombie...she didn't relish losing a big slice of her life like that.

How long did aquanoids live, anyway? Greatrix seemed to think the problem of a shortened lifespan would be solved before long, but was that just wishful thinking?

To die that way, deep down in the depths of the sea, not even knowing that she was dying and being able to prepare for the end? Or would she sense it, the way some animals did, and just lie down on the sea bed and wait?

How long? Another ten, twenty, thirty years? What the hell would have happened by then?

Freak out, she told herself. Then they'll have to give you the drug, and you won't be faced with the choice.
But then if you feel that way you might as well take the drug anyway.
And it’s exactly what I'm doing right now - going crazy.
What a choice....it was so unkind, so cruel.

In sudden desperate frustration she kicked off and sped straight for the boundary fence, not caring what the guard subs would do. The fierce determination in her face turned it into a mask, set in solid stone.
Greatrix and Latimer saw the guard sub change direction and shoot after her.

Caroline didn't get far before she felt coils of a cold, metallic material wrap themselves around her body. They tightened their grip, and abruptly she was jerked to a halt. Then a sharp pain like an electric shock - which was what it was - stabbed through her, throwing her nervous system into disarray, and she convulsed violently. The pain lasted little more than a second before it faded into all-embracing, empty blackness.

For a moment she hung from the cable which the guard sub had extruded, arms and legs dangling down towards the sea bed, rocking gently to and fro in the water. Then the cable relaxed its grip, and she sank slowly down to the sand. The cable retracted, disappearing into the body of the sub, which then moved away. A couple of aquanoids examined her for a moment, then swam off. She would lie there until she had recovered consciousness, and afterwards the memory of the shock would remain as a deterrent against further futile escape attempts.

"She tried to make a break for it," Charlie observed, joining Greatrix and Latimer at the window. "She must be getting desperate."
"Indeed," Greatrix mused, but said no more than that.

Charlie turned on him. "Do you really think it's right to be treating her like a friggin’ lab rat?" he asked.
Greatrix snapped out of his reverie. "I pay you to do as you're told, Charlie, and not to criticise."

"Let's hope I live to collect my next wage packet," the Bahamian muttered. "Let's hope we all do." He shot one more dirty look at them. "I guess what we're doing to her ain't quite as serious, all told, as what we've just done in Pakistan."

"That’s the hundredth time you’ve said that. As I said, I pay you not to criticise." Abruptly Greatrix went off, shouldering his way past the others.

Once back in his office, he didn't move from his desk for almost an hour. He glanced at himself in the mirror, and saw bags under his eyes he hadn’t noticed before. His heart leaped as if he'd had a defibrillator applied to him. The sensation was unpleasant and painful.

He stared at the face in the mirror as if hypnotised. And noticed something else; the grey areas in his hair seemed larger, spreading out and joining up like cracks.

Eventually he left the office and turned right down the corridor.
He paused by one of the doors at the end, on the left hand side, and pressed the button set into a recess in the wall next to it. He heard the buzzer sound within the room, simultaneous to the door sliding open. Stepping inside, he locked the door behind him so he wouldn't be disturbed.

The room was large and sprawling, with a plush red carpet covering the floor, several luxurious sofas and half a dozen comfortable armchairs arranged in a semicircle around a glass table with an ashtray and one or two other items resting on it. As everywhere else on the base there were smoke detectors plus a hidden sprinkler system in the ceiling.

The walls were decorated in bright pastel colours. In one was a row of numbered doors, which opened into small rooms each containing a bed and a chest of drawers, shower and toilet facilities.

Various women were sprawled languidly on the sofas or seated in the chairs, smoking or just gazing vacantly at the wall. There were a dozen of them in all, of different races and nationalities, catering to all tastes. Their mode of dress ranged from halter top and shorts to jeans and loose-fitting T-shirt.

Those who could got to their feet as Greatrix entered, and stood waiting for him to make his choice, either grinning vacuously or contemplating the the air before them without emotion. The other women lay with mouths gaping open and wide eyes fixed sightlessly on the ceiling; at first sight a stranger to the colony might have thought they were dead, until a sudden violent trembling of the nerves down one side of a girl's face told him otherwise.

The air was filled with the sweet incense-like smell of something that was decidedly not cigarette smoke. Briefly Greatrix's eyes flickered to the joss sticks in the bowl on the table, from which wisps of vapour were curling up to the ceiling. No, he told himself firmly, the effect it’ll have on you will only make things worse.

He thought of the face he had seen in the mirror. Would it really make a great deal of difference?

It penetrated his consciousness that the girls were still standing waiting patiently before him. What the Hell, he thought wearily.

His eyes ranged over them until finally settling on a slim blonde with an exquisite bone structure. As their eyes met, he nodded. Her expression didn't change as she took him by the hand and led him to where he would be able to forget his troubles, for the next half hour or so at least.


THIRTY-SIX
Caroline had long ago exhausted the stock of mental games she had been playing to take her mind off her boredom. They in their turn had become monotonous and unrewarding. By burying herself in her deepest thoughts, she had learned much about the person she was. But she had sunk so deeply into that person that they had become a prison; trapping her within the featureless grey walls of a cramped little cell, a self-contained world isolated from the rest of the universe and now drained of all life and colour.

There was nothing more that either body or mind could do to help her cope. She felt depression, even madness, start to overwhelm her.

There was only one possible outcome to events. She knew she would have no choice soon but to take the drug and hope something would happen to get her out of this. It was kinder to herself, on the whole, to do so. Then there would be no misery, no stress. Yes, it made sense on the whole.

Nearly three weeks had now passed since her capture. Just one more day, she told herself. Hold out for one more day.
But was there really any point?

And then the following morning something happened to break the monotony. She was swimming up near the top of the colony, in her usual sluggish bored fashion, when she became aware of something a few yards ahead of her; a vast, looming dark shape that hadn't been there a few minutes before. Curious, she swam closer until she was able to make out its details more clearly.

Suspended in the water before her was a huge, blunt-nosed form which seemed to be encrusted with barnacles. She gazed up at it in awe. Its whole outline gave it a fantastic, incredible, Stygian appearance. She noted the pair of flippers situated towards the front of its body, the massive fluked tail. Despite her gloom, she smiled in delight as she realised what the creature must be.

It was a whale; a humpback - Ivarson had taught her to recognise the different species - and by the look of it not quite fully grown, small enough just about to pass through the openings in the fence. Its thick, blubbery flesh must have insulated it against the electric shock.

It was a mammal, like her; or at least she was more or less still a mammal, despite everything. And closer to her in intelligence than any other non-human life form on the planet. A sign of the adaptability and success of her branch of the animal kingdom.

Mammals rule OK, she thought with a surge of pride. She felt a kind of kinship with the whale.

There must be a school nearby. Perhaps somehow it had been become separated from the other whales, or gone off to look for a mate. No, that couldn’t be the reason; this wasn’t the breeding season and at this time of year the whales should be at their special feeding grounds hundreds of miles from here, near the North Pole. Though you did occasionally come across strays. Whatever the reason, it seemed something here had attracted this one’s attention, leading it to go way out of its territory.

In the observation room Edward Greatrix and Dave Latimer had noticed the whale and were regarding it a little uncertainly. "We ought to kill it," said Latimer.

"Don't you dare," Greatrix snapped, looking at him disgustedly. "They're an endangered species."
"It could cause damage," Latimer protested.

"Let's just keep an eye on it. If it does anything dangerous, very well we'll kill it. But until then I'd prefer it if it wasn't harmed."

Latimer turned back to the window. "What's it doing?" he asked. "What's it here for?" At the moment the humpback was just hanging there perfectly motionless, doing absolutely nothing.

"Perhaps there's something here it wants," suggested Greatrix.
"Like what?"

"I haven't the slightest idea. Who cares, anyway? It isn't doing any harm so leave it alone."

"Why didn't it avoid the fence? All the other big animals do." Because it was something obviously artificial, alien and unnatural, something that bore the hand of Man.

Greatrix peered more closely through the reinforced glass at the whale, fascinated. "Well, if it wanted whatever it was badly enough..."

It might have been his imagination but he could have sworn the creature's head was cocked slightly, as if listening for something.

At the moment the guard subs were ignoring the whale; since as Greatrix had pointed out, it wasn't doing any harm. A group of the aquanoids, about four or five, clustered round it and examined it curiously.
"It's interrupting work," Latimer complained.

"Give it a while longer. We can compensate for the disruption to work schedules by using the Harvester.” Not that it makes a lot of difference anyway.

The great head dipped and the whale prodded one of the aquanoids gently with its nose. Then it seemed to lose interest in them, becoming still again, and after a while they swam away. As they disappeared a few more came along, and they too proceeded to swim around the massive creature, studying it with that simple, almost childlike curiosity of theirs and appearing fascinated by its huge size and bulk. Caroline made to join them.

Then something astonishing happened. Completely ignoring the other aquanoids, the whale swung round with a flick of its tail and made straight for her, seeming to suddenly become aware of her presence and react to it. The aquanoids scattered. Caroline too swam out of its path, alarmed at the thought of that massive body colliding with hers. It'd break a bone or two, at the very least. She could move faster than the humpback, and after the initial burst of speed felt safe to turn to see what it was doing. It was suspended motionless once again, facing her squarely.

Cautiously she approached it. Why was it so interested in her, and not the other aquanoids? After all the only difference between her and them was.....

And then she felt it, like vibrations in the water. The sensation was similar to that of the dolphins checking her out with their sonar.
Only this time she could hear it too.
She frowned, and looked around in puzzlement.

There was only one source it could be coming from, and only one thing it could be. She was hearing the song of the humpback whale, a haunting, eerie series of sounds, whoops and booms and clicks, that she knew were a form of communication.

The humpback was calling out....calling to her. And she wasn't just hearing the whalesong, she was understanding it. After a fashion. Because she heard it not only with her ears, but with her mind.

What she felt was perhaps more like an emotion than a thought. And what she was picking up wasn't the thought - or emotion - itself, but the trace it gave off. Like with radar. But somehow, in a way she could never have found the words to describe, she knew what it was saying.
Come play with me.

She stared at the whale in amazement and delight. It was talking to her, in its own fashion. But of course she couldn't talk back.
Or could she?

If she could receive...messages from it in this way, surely she should be able to send them too.

The song changed in pitch and tone. Who are you? WHAT are you?
I'm Caroline, she said - or rather thought.

Whether it understood what "Caroline" meant she had no idea, but after a moment the reply came back, a burbling note she could only interpret as a greeting, and a friendly one.
Hello.
She grinned. This was fantastic.
But how could she.....

And then with a shock of delight, a wondrous sense of awe, she realised fully what had happened to her.

The dulling of her normal senses, in this silent and for her lonely underwater world where she rarely spoke to anyone or they to her, had heightened other ones. Ones she had long suspected she had; which all people probably had, buried deep down. And because she wasn't drugged and could think for herself, she could use them. Had probably been using them without realising it.

She knew now why the whale had ventured into the colony; it had been picking up her thought patterns. Homing in on her telepathic emissions. In a way, she had been saying "Hi". And now the humpback was saying “Hi” back.
Hello, she replied. Who are you?

There was no answer to this. Probably because whales didn't have names. That sort of self-awareness only came with sentience, and she still couldn't accept the whale as being on the same level as Man, whatever contrary evidence there might sometimes seem to be.

If this was intelligence it was not of the same kind as Man's, but the emotional impulses she was receiving corresponded to thoughts, or at least that was how it seemed. Weren't they the same thing? After all, emotions sent messages; anger meant "this is bad", happiness "this is good".

Animals might not think, but they did have feelings, after a fashion; and the whale's brain was among the most developed, perhaps the most developed, of non-human species. Yes; perhaps emotions and the understanding of them were what constituted intelligence for its kind. If this wasn't intelligence, it was surely analagous to it.

On an impulse she swam until she was right up to the whale. The great blunt nose swung down towards her, and she smiled. She swam around it. The creature turned with her, and as it did so its massive body slammed side on into hers. Although the blubbery matter cushioned the impact to some degree, it left her briefly stunned.
Hey, steady on!

Gently the whale prodded her with its nose, which she stroked in a friendly fashion.
But please be careful, she warned. You might hurt me.

It occurred to her that it might be trying to mate with her; that it thought she was another whale, or something like that. No, no, she cautioned. You're a lot bigger than me, aren't you? You might do me some damage.

It seemed to get the message, sensing her alarm and reacting to it. Turning slightly away from her.

Gently she reached out and patted its warty hide, and the subtle change in the pitch of the whalesong told her it appreciated the contact. Had it been careless, or deliberately aiming to harm her, it could have shattered every bone in her body. Instead it nudged her very lightly, with a gentleness she would never have thought possible in such a huge creature.

Tightly she hugged the great blubbery body, pressing her head against its own, at the point where its brain would be. Joining her thoughts to his (somehow she knew the creature was a he).
I like you, she told the whale. You're beautiful.

I like you too, he said. It was something on those lines, anyway. Come play with me. Please.

She sensed that although pleased, the humpback was also puzzled. It still didn't understand just what kind of creature she was. Like the soft-skinned ones which travelled on, and from time to time ventured underneath, the surface in things which it thought looked a bit like other whales, and occasionally hunted its kind, and yet unlike them.
It wasn't that bothered in the end.

At the window, Greatrix and Latimer had seen what was going on. One of the aquanoids appeared to be cosying up to the whale. "Which one's that?" asked Bromhead. "It looks like a woman."

"I think it's the Kent girl," said Latimer. "What is she doing?"
They continued to watch in fascination.
"Well, as long as there's no harm in it," Greatrix said.

"The thing'll have to go soon or it'll run out of air. They don’t stay this far down for long.”
Eventually they got tired of watching Caroline with the whale and moved away.

Caroline had decided to call the whale Marcus - after all he was fat and blubbery, and had made advances towards her. But then she decided that would be a bit of an insult to the whale. And on second thoughts, she mused, Hennig wasn't that bad.

The humpback evidently liked the sensations he was receiving from her; the benign, friendly thoughts with which she had filled her head. Unfortunately she was on the point of running out of conversation.
What the hell sort of things did you say to a whale?

They seemed to be getting on all right, though. And a wonderful, incredible idea came to her.

She put on a sad look, though unsure if the whale would react to facial expressions. I'm a prisoner here. They want to keep me here, keep me prisoner, forever – well, more or less. I don’t want that.

She suppressed all conscious, reasoned thought and concentrated solely on the emotions she felt. Her sadness at being imprisoned, her desire to see her parents again.
I want to swim free. Like you.
It's not good here. I want to leave. Do you understand?

She looked round. None of the human divers was close to her just now or looking in her direction. That might change at any time so she had to move quickly or lose her opportunity. But at the moment, there was only the guard sub some hundred yards away.
Help me.
Let's go. I'll come with you.

All right, said the whale. She sensed he liked the idea in any case.

Slowly, ponderously, the massive body began to turn. Hurriedly she moved out of the way as the huge tail swung round.

Kicking off, she swam behind the whale so that its bulk was between her and the guard sub.

The robot was no more than a programmed machine, with no conscious intelligence, no ability to reason. Its logic was of the simplest possible kind. All she had to do was keep the bulk of the humpback between herself and it. It had been programmed to watch for aquanoids who strayed too close to the perimeter poles, not for any other eventuality. So if she didn't so much go where she wasn't supposed to as suddenly vanish from its view, that wouldn't bother it and it wouldn't be unduly concerned as to whether or not she subsequently reappeared.

Glancing behind her, she saw one of the subs change direction, and swam the other side of Marcus, putting herself out of its eyeline.

Let them get well clear of the colony, and they'd be alright. Marcotech wouldn't follow her then, hopefully.

The sensor was activated as they passed through the opening in the fence. The robot registered the signal, but assumed it was only the whale.
Yes!!!!!

After a few moments Marcus signalled that he wanted to surface. Caroline kept well clear of him as he did so, not wishing to be caught in the wake, but close enough for him to screen her from the view of anyone at the colony.

Her head burst from the water and for the first time in what seemed like aeons she felt fresh air wash over her face. She almost cried. Throwing back her head, she let out a yell of sheer exhilaration. Then thirty feet away the huge mountain of flesh that was Marcus erupted spectacularly into view, water streaming down his sides, an impressive spout of steam jetting from his blowhole.

She had no idea how far they were from the colony. She twisted round, paddling her limbs to help keep afloat, and looked to see if she could spot the marker buoys at the perimeter. There they were, a bit too close for her liking. And there was the Marcotech helicopter, circling overhead about a quarter of a mile away.

She swum up to Marcus and once more pressed her head to his. Danger. The thing in the sky. It must not see me. We must get away from here, far, far away.

She submerged, and swum underwater for a while, until she reckoned they were at a safe distance from the colony. All the time she was conscious of Marcus’ presence above, below or beside her, his thoughts like a low humming in her ears, akin to the sound from some piece of electrical equipment in constant operation.
This should be far enough.

A wave, a big one, hit her and flipped her over, disorientating her until her balance mechanisms compensated. The shock waves surging through the water buffeted her body, tossing her helplessly about like a limp rag doll. Then she felt Marcus' massive snout brush her, with enough force to knock her over again. She was left dazed, but only for a second or two. Her augmented body seemed better able to withstand the shock than she guessed a human would.

For the third time he rammed her, pushing her several yards through the water. The fourth, the fifth.

She was certain he meant her no harm. The sensations she was receiving from him told her that. But what was he doing?

Then she realized; he was playing with her. Now you try! Come on, what are you waiting for? He seemed puzzled, and a little hurt, that she wasn’t responding.
All right then.

Her agility and speed enabled her usually to swim out of the way in time, but not always, which was where the fun lay. They would circle each other and then either Marcus would lunge at her, sometimes scoring a hit and sometimes missing, or she would get in first, scything through the water at him to punch him playfully on the flank.

It was something like a game of tag. See if you can catch me! Sometimes, to Caroline’s impatience – come on, make your mind up - he would hesitate before making a go at her, in the manner of a chess player carefully contemplating what should be their next move.

It was rather like playing with an overgrown human child. Eventually Marcus tired of the game, probably because Caroline won every time, and swam off. Caroline followed him because for the moment she couldn't think of anything else to do.

Then she heard the whalesong again, and through it sensed his thoughts. He had gone too far out of his way. He was signalling to the rest of his school, far, far away; telling them he was coming. To the feeding grounds in the far North, around what she would have called Greenland and northern Canada. Since she had no idea how her aquanoid body would stand up to cold climates, and didn't particularly want to find out, it was imperative they parted company at some point. She had a nasty suspicion he wasn't going to let her go.

And because when all was said and done he was still an animal, if a very clever one, you couldn't reason with him. Not that you ever could with men.

But after a while, she sensed he had lost interest in her, the need for the company of his own kind, and to obey the migrating instinct, overriding the magnetism of her telepathic field. She swam beside him, putting her head to his once more, and wished him a mental goodbye and safe journey. Then she slipped away.

She found the exposure suit had become irksome and restrictive, and wriggled out of it. Somehow she felt it prevented her from enjoying to the full the sensual feeling of liberation she was experiencing. And more practically, from making best use of her modified aquanoid body. The friction it created was slowing her down; and this far out to sea, there was no-one to see her naked. Sooner or later of course the problem would have to be faced. But she'd deal with that when she came to it.

Again she lifted up her head and yelled out in pleasure and triumph. Hah! Freedom! No more Marcotech! Out in the open ocean, far from her former captors and hopefully from anyone else who might have unwelcome designs upon her. The whole sea felt like her kingdom.

Eventually this euphoria was succeeded by a more practical frame of mind. "Marcus" was gone, but the current was still carrying her on, on to where the cold would eventually freeze her to death. And certainly away from where she wanted to go.

She had no idea how far she’d gone, or how much time had now passed since her escape. She only knew she had to reach land. It would probably be unwise to head back towards the Bahamas, because of the danger of Marcotech recapturing her. Instead she must get to America. There, somehow, she would seek help. Though who she should approach, and how, presented a bit of a problem. Walking about like this might cause a bit of a shock. She certainly had no intention of approaching the US authorities. If the wrong people got to hear the story...she didn't trust the CIA or FBI, the more so because of what she’d learned while with MI6, plus various top level conspiracies going back several decades.

Probably most people, if she approached them with her story, would try to help her. But they would do so by telling the authorities, and that was what she didn't want.

She had to get it right. To some people she'd be an interesting guinea-pig for them to open up and poke around in.

She needed to head more or less north-west. To her amazement she found she had no trouble in working out which direction that was; she knew without really thinking about it. It must be some further property of her new metabolism; hadn’t she read somewhere that fish, along with other animals, were sensitive to the earth’s magnetic fields and could align themselves with them instinctively?

But what good would it do her, if the Gulf Stream was carrying her inexorably northwards? She couldn't swim against it. She could of course move about freely within a limited area, but couldn't change her general direction.

The only solution was to hitch a lift. To get on board a ship, whose engines could carry it against the current where a living organism had no choice but to go with the flow.

Before that, there was an even more pressing need to be met. She was getting hungry.

There was a plentiful supply of food, of course. She realised with a surge of nausea what she was going to have to do. And almost hated Marcotech for what they had done to her.

She dived, and swum until she came upon a school of fish. She tried to move in a way that wasn't threatening, so that to them she was just another form of marine life. Then suddenly she darted straight towards them, causing them to disperse in panic.

She selected one at random and made for it. As a human, she could never have hoped to catch it. But now she could. The speed and agility with which she moved were beyond the power of any normal swimmer to manage.

She shot out an arm and grabbed the fish. It almost slipped from her grasp as it thrashed about furiously. She squeezed tighter, consolidating her grip.

She let herself descend, the fish clutched firmly in her hand. Sinking to her knees on the sea bed, she looked down at her catch. It was still wriggling and squirming frantically in her grip. Because it wanted to live.
"No," she thought. "Please, no."
But if she didn't, she'd starve. It was either her or it.

She continued to gaze down at it unhappily, while its struggles grew steadily weaker. She tried to steel herself to take the first bite, a cold sick feeling surging up through her innards from the pit of her stomach.

Wouldn't it be better to wait until she was really desperate, because that would override any qualms she had?

In a sudden sick impulse she decided to get it over with. One swift movement brought the fish to her mouth and she opened it wide and sank her teeth into it. She swallowed in revulsion as the blood billowed out. Immediately, and thankfully, the fish stopped wriggling. Steeling herself womanfully, Caroline began to chew at it.

She picked it to pieces with her fingers, tearing the white flesh into chunks, stuffing them in her mouth and gulping them down, until it was stripped to the bone. She didn't much care for the taste; what she enjoyed was the feeling she got afterwards, once she had ingested the rich vitamin-filled tissue. A sensation of being energised, saturated with health and vitality. But she also felt degraded at what she had done; regressed to something primitive, savage, animal. She was aware of warm, salty tears flowing down her cheeks. So, she thought, aquanoids could cry.
"Sorry, little fish," she murmured, with genuine sympathy.

She bit the next one just behind the neck. It died instantly, at which she was immensely relieved.

She knew that one fish would not be enough to meet the energy requirements of her new body. So she continued to swim around, catching fish and eating them, until she felt satiated. Sometimes they escaped, sometimes they didn't. She didn't blame them for trying.

She decided to vary her diet as much as possible. She knew thanks to Ivarson which species were poisonous and should be avoided, although she thought it likely her altered metabolism wouldn't be harmed by them. She found tuna tasted best, but wondered rather queasily whether this counted as cannibalism. Squid seemed rather bland, though nonetheless filling.

She knew that if she remained too long in one part of the ocean, the living things there would start to avoid her; because they would have identified her as a predator. She had been made a part of nature, savage and cruel.
In time she got used to it. Because she had to survive.

The changes to her appearance made little difference to her interaction with other marine life. Some were curious, others plain uninterested. She was able to handle and stroke a small octopus, or some other non-harmful creature, as before. Otherwise she left them alone and by and large they reciprocated.

Her appetite whetted for now, Caroline swam on with a tireless animal endurance, stopping to catch something whenever she felt hungry and every now and then surfacing to look for any sign of a ship. From time to time she would spot one; a cruise liner, which unfortunately was going in entirely the wrong direction, a cargo ship ditto, a couple of fishing trawlers. Better watch out for their nets, she thought. But she soon realised she didn't have much cause to worry. If a vessel was reasonably close, she found she could sense the vibrations travelling from it through the water - if it was a big one, from quite a long way off.

She found she could swim just as well on the surface as beneath it. Better, in fact, since she wasn't entirely surrounded by dense liquid which created drag. And better than she had ever done as a human. The energy stored within her powerful muscles was phenomenal. She just ploughed on, cutting through the water like a knife. She could do all the different styles, just as a human could; normally she used freestyle, or backstroke which was better because she could keep her face above water and breathe in the air when she needed to, though she gave it up after a while because she couldn't see where she was going.

She could go at it non-stop for hours, and knew that when she did get tired she wouldn't drown. She could just float pleasantly, buoyed up by the waves, bobbing gently up and down on the ocean swell; or let herself sink and rest on the bottom for a while, suspended in her warm, comforting cocoon of liquid till she got her energy back. She simply alternated between the surface and the depths, avoiding spending too much time in either environment. She could switch between them either on an hourly basis or in dribs and drabs, whichever was covenient; knowing that her body would always tell whenever she was in danger of drowning or of suffering what the Marcotech scientists had called hydrodeprivation. Whenever she felt in need of air she just surfaced, took a few deep breaths, then floated or swam till it was time to dive again.

Often when she broke surface she would throw her head back and cry out in sheer exulation at what her new body could do; then look round at the sparkling expanse of blue surrounding her and smile, thinking again, probably because there was no-one else about for miles and miles, that it was her domain, belonging to her alone. She was the conqueror of her environment.

She heard a droning sound in the sky and looked up; an airliner, on its way to America or Europe. Gloriously useless to her right now, of course.

She must surely be far away from Marcotech by now. The nagging fear still remained that they would come after her, but so far they hadn’t shown. She must have had too much of a head start.

If only she could find a ship. Until she did, there was nothing for it but to keep on swimming. She told herself she was bound to find something eventually. And for the moment anyhow, everything seemed to be alright.
And then with an icy thrill of horror she remembered.

What would happen when she needed to sleep? Now there was no special tank for her in and out of which the water could be pumped as required, maintaining the equilibrium, the chemical balance of her augmented body. Surely she'd drown. Greatrix hadn't told her what might happen in an eventuality like this because he'd never planned for it.

Gripped by panic she swam on desperately, thinking that her only hope was to find that ship, no matter what sort it was and wherever it was bound for, and get on it. She felt her heart pound even faster, her whole body tensing from fear and stress and the blood coursing through it at express train speed. But it only served to tire her out more quickly. As she pushed herself to the very limit she felt her limbs begin to ache and a creeping blackness descend on her brain. Against her will her body relaxed as the flow of blood slowed, the heart unable to keep pace with the demands being made on it. Some safety mechanism was cutting in to prevent her over-reaching herself dangerously.

Keep going, she thought. Keep going keep going keep going keep going keep....

Her arms and legs had turned to dead stone weights. A heavy load was pressing down on her mind like a thousand-ton crusher and squeezing the consciousness from it. With a final sob of fear she gave in and let the darkness overwhelm her, feeling she was being pulled down into a yawning black abyss with no idea what was awaiting her, if anything, at the bottom.


THIRTY-SEVEN
“You’re not going to like this, boss,” began Dave Latimer.
“Why, what’s happened?” said Greatrix into the intercom. To Latimer he sounded wary, but not particularly pissed off. Things had been going quite well lately, on the whole. They had managed to insulate themselves from any trouble over the tanker sinkings or the disappearance of Caroline Kent. The Pakistani gamble had paid off; there had been no further contact from MI6. Greatrix felt he could stomach one or two things going wrong, because it was par for the course that at some point they would. Besides of course a successful businessman needed a steady hand.
“She’s gone,” Latimer said.

“What? Who’s gone? What do you mean?” Greatrix’s voice had risen in alarm. He more or less knew who Latimer was talking about. Right now “she” could mean only one person.

“Little Caroline. She didn’t come in at the end of her work shift and we’ve searched the whole colony but not found her. I think it must have been something to do with that whale. I told you we should have – “

“Never mind what we should have done,” yelled Greatrix. “Find her! Find her, do you hear me?”

“She’ll be too far away by now. It was nearly two hours ago. Boss…boss, are you there?”

Latimer heard Greatrix’s deep breath whistle down the Intercom. “Yes…yes, I’m here. We…we’ll just have to tell everyone to keep looking out for her.” He sounded hollow, lifeless, subdued. “She probably won’t reach land. We….we may not have anything to worry about.”

“But if she does…if she goes to the authorities, or is captured by them, they’ll have the living proof, won’t they? They’ll just go straight in and arrest all of us.”

“Everyone will be too busy dealing with Pakistan to bother about it.”

“The Pacific Fleet might be. The Atlantic’s a different matter. Boss, shall we….”
“Shall we what?” snapped back the reply.
“Do what you said we’d do if….”

Greatrix considered it, lost his nerve. “Not yet. Not until we know she’s still alive to tell anyone. Get our spies to try and find out.” He cut the connection and let his head slump into his hands. After a moment a stream of curses and obscenities began to pour from him. He slammed his fist down on the desk, yelling out in a fury of rage, pain and grief.


Caroline awoke, to find herself rising and falling gently on the surface, arms and legs splayed out and supported by the water. She gasped in heartfelt relief.

Unless something else had interrupted her slumber, it was clear what had happened. Her metabolism was designed to revive her should there be any danger of drowning while sleeping and she was denied access to the sleep tank for any reason. A safety measure Zuckermann had had the foresight to build in.

So she had slept for no more than an hour at the most. It worried her that she might not be able to get the rest she needed; she'd just have to manage as best she could. She stayed where she was for a bit, recovering her strength, then resumed her monotonous, seemingly endless journey. Aware that it was getting cold here on the surface as the day drew on, she dived down to the bottom and continued her journey underwater.

After a while she sensed the presence of some large living creature, and stiffened. It felt very large. Her unease was heightened because she couldn't tell what it was; not a whale, that was for certain.

Perhaps something that normally would be too small to cause much of a vibration anyway, and so wouldn't be recognised when it was a lot bigger.

She was about to swim away from the vibrations when she decided the thing wasn't on the lookout for a meal. In fact they seemed feeble and sluggish, surely signifying no imminent threat to her whatsoever. She continued on the same course as before.

Minutes later she saw it, and although of course there was no air down here gave an instinctive gasp of astonishment. It was quite beautiful. A vast translucent dome, grey-white in colour and over a hundred feet in diameter. The surface of the object was undulating gently, and simultaneously rising and falling like a lung, rippling and billowing at the edges like a delicate lace ruffled by some soft underwater breeze, if there could be such a thing. It seemed lit from within by a silver radiance, like some great gleaming chandelier. Below the enormous bell of the main body was a mass of trailing, ribbon-like tentacles. She was seeing a gigantic jellyfish, by the look of it a Portuguese Man-Of-War.

One of Greatrix's creations, which had strayed much farther than it was supposed to. She earnestly hoped there weren't enough of these giant mutants for them to breed. The thought of the whole ocean swarming with them made her shudder.

As she watched the light faded and died, the jellyfish sinking slowly to the bottom in a limp lifeless mass, dull and dead in colour. She looked at it sadly for a moment. Oh Mr Greatrix, what have you done, she sighed.

She saw many other wonders on her journey, helping to relieve the boredom. She saw a battle between a squid and a sperm whale, watching the clash of the giants in breathless awe. She saw a blue whale, a live one this time; a rare privilege and one neither she or anyone else might ever have again, for all she knew. By the standards of nature this was the largest form of animal life on the planet, and now one of the rarest, whose numbers were once reckoned in thousands but now down to only a couple of hundred. Though normal-sized, it was still gigantic and Caroline was spellbound as she watched it erupt from the surface, water cascading down its flanks like Niagara Falls, an geyser of steam spurting high in the air from its blowhole, like an oil strike. Submerging again it swam off in the opposite direction to her, on its way to breed or feed.
"Go well," she breathed. "Take care."

She played with a family of dolphins, whom she noted treated her no differently from any other human, managed to help a scientific survey team recover a lost sampling device without being spotted by them, was overcome by sadness and awe as she came upon the wreck of a famous ocean liner. It was all very nice, but what she really wanted was a chance to reach shore, and so far none had come along. Soon she began to suffer from feelings of depression, just as she had done in the Marcotech colony. One part of the ocean looked just the same as another, whether you were on the surface or below it. And she craved for the sensation of dry land beneath her feet, its comforting solidity. For earth baked hard by the sun. She'd had quite enough of flowing liquid and shifting sands.
Go on, Caz, keep going. Don't give in.

And the current was still carrying her on to a freezing death, though it would some time yet before she was in any danger. By that time she was sure something would have happened, though she didn’t have the slightest idea what it might be.

At least she wasn't trapped below. She could surface any time she liked, feel the air on her face, be directly exposed to the sunlight. Once it rained, and she lay on her back and laughed as the drops of liquid pattered lightly over her skin.

Whenever the weather got too bad and the sea tossed restlessly, buffeting her and preventing her from swimming in a straight line, she had simply to dive deep. She ducked her head beneath the water, the rest of her following, sliding smoothly under the surface.

She dived until she was below the level where the agitation of the surface would make itself felt, and carried on swimming. She ploughed on quite happily until a violent tremor surged through the water around her and she felt the sound waves wash over her flesh. It couldn't be from the storm, not this far down. Some large and heavy body was moving steadily in her direction.

It was coming at her from the right. Putting on a burst of speed, she veered off leftwards at a sharp angle. But she could still feel the vibrations, and they were growing stronger. The faster she moved the more she disturbed the surrounding ocean, her own movements leading whatever-it-was to her. It picked up speed as it homed in on them.

By now she thought she could recognise the vibes given off by different species as they traversed the watery environment in which they lived. This thing cruised along with the ease of something perfectly designed for it, intended only to exist in such a habitat. And to hunt and kill there.

It was a much better swimmer than she was and would catch her up in a minute or so. Feeling safer if she could see it, and so perhaps know how to deal with it, she slowed and turned. Her eyes bulged and the muscles of her face tightened in horror. Coming straight towards her was an enormous great white shark, its vicious dagger-like teeth jutting aggressively from the gaping maw of its mouth.

It must have been over thirty foot. She had no idea whether nature had meant it to be that size or it was one of Marcotech's mutants. She simply didn't have time to think about things like that.

For a moment she hung there, paralysed with fear at the sight of it. Through her whole body coursed an indescribable shudder of primeval dread. It seemed that the creature's glassy eye regarded her with a very real malevolence, as if the thing wanted to kill and eat her, didn't just have to. I need to eat you, but I also hate you. You have no other right to exist, and no value, except as food for me and if at the same time I nourish myself and keep me alive I can get rid of your disgusting presence from my sight, then so much the better.

Then the survival instinct cut in and she snapped out of her trance. But she didn't stand a chance, surely. There were no wrecks in the vicinity where she could hide, nothing to hand she could use as a weapon against the monster.
Think, Caroline.

Something Donald Ivarson had told her, what now seemed a very long time ago, flashed suddenly, desperately, through her head. She wasn't sure if it would work. But if it was to stand the remotest chance of doing so, she must keep calm. And time it just right.

Moving so she was on a line with its oncoming snout, she hovered before the great white as it sped on towards her, waiting for the right moment. It meant to butt her with the huge blunt projection of its nose, stunning her so that she was helpless, then seize her in those horrible teeth and bite off enough to kill or incapacitate her.

She was smaller than the shark but had the advantage of speed and agility. It took all her concentration, all her nerve. With the shark's head barely a moment from slamming into her she darted to the left, moving so fast the shark didn't have time to stop and reorientate itself for another go, and as it shot past her kicked out at the tip of its nose with one of her powerful legs.

The result was astonishing. The shark veered crazily from side to side, churning up the water, its nervous system apparently thrown into confusion. Caroline had to move quickly out the way to save herself from being hit by the massive tail as it thrashed about.
Attaboy, Doc, she grinned.

Losing no time, she took off as fast as she could. With any luck she had taught the shark a lesson it wouldn't forget in a hurry. But in case she was wrong about that, it would be inadvisable to hang around.

Some minutes passed with no indication of pursuit. She began to feel a relaxing sense of relief. Then to her dismay she sensed the vibrations again. The shark was back. It had recovered its wits and decided to take a chance. Or maybe this was a different one; the distinction was academic.

She wasn't sure she could pull the same trick off again. Trying hard not to panic she swam on, deciding to leave it till the shark was right behind her. Her fear mounted as the vibrations grew stronger, telling her the creature was closing the distance between them.

Then she was picking up another set of vibrations, coming from somewhere ahead. Originating from a different sort of creature entirely. It was moving steadily towards them, without the effortless speed of the shark but no less purposefully.
She knew what it was.

She sensed the voice inside her head telling her, do not worry, I will help you. I won't let you come to any harm. A burst of hope filled her heart. For a moment she thought it might even be Marcus, though there was no sense of recognition.

The shark was almost upon her now. She daren't look round because it would have meant slowing down. Not that she wanted to anyway.

It must be only a few years behind now. She felt sick with fear as she realised she was going to have to turn and face it. As she did, she saw the humpback ram the shark from the side, its huge blunt head slamming into the great white's flank with sledgehammer force. The shark lurched sideways, thrashing in disorientation, and the whale butted it again.

She didn't think the humpback was quite fully grown, but the two animals looked evenly matched in size and bulk and it seemed likely the struggle would go on forever. The humpback went on ramming the shark with the force of a pile driver, each time disorientating it before it could fully recover from the previous attack. She fancied there was an impotent rage in the shark's expression, while the humpback seemed to be grinning in triumph.
Go on, Caroline thought. That's it, you show him.

It occurred to her that she ought to be taking advantage of the distraction to get away. And at that very moment, to her distress, the shark seemed to rally itself and twisted out of the humpback's path before lunging at it and snapping with its powerful, deadly jaws at the whale's side.

In fact, there could only have been one outcome in the end. The shark was simply too agile, too fast. The whale swung round ponderously to meet the attack, and the shark’s teeth bit into it at an angle.

The humpback's skin was tough and warty, but they ripped clean through it nonetheless, tearing away red blubbery chunks of flesh. The humpback arched in the water, thrashing convulsively, and for a terrible moment Caroline could feel its pain. A swirling cloud of blood, looking in the water more like vapour than liquid, billowed around it, expanding like a giant puffball. Excited, the shark bit home again and again.

She couldn't bear to watch. She wheeled around and shot off, tears running down the scales of her cheeks. Her face was screwed up in pain from the humpback's agony, a mask of anguish and distress. Then suddenly the pain was gone.

And now sharks were coming at her from all sides, far more of them than she could possibly hope to deal with. The sea seemed full of their sleek darting shapes, travelling through the water like arrows; attracted by the bloody red cloud which continued to spread as the humpback was torn to shreds. But she realised they were ignoring her, making straight for the whale's mutilated carcase without thought for the smaller prey in their midst.

The last of them went past her, and she risked a brief glance over her shoulder. They were swarming round the body in a feeding frenzy, ripping apart the mass of flesh and blubber until it was unrecognisable, snapping also at each other as they fought over the prize morsel.

She wouldn't have any more trouble from sharks for a while. All the same she made off at top speed, wanting to put as much distance between herself and the scene of carnage as she could. The humpback had risked its life for her, whether it knew what it was doing or not. It was more than you got from most humans.

East Ham, London
The young man in jeans, T-shirt and windbreaker slipped unobtrusively into the snack bar at the end of the high street, making straight for the counter. Catching the eye of the girl who stood behind it with her arms folded and resting on the top, gazing before her with vague, disinterested eyes, he bought himself a can of Coke.

He turned and scanned the room for a moment, appearing to be selecting a place to sit. He took in bare pine-boarded walls, a floor covered with peeling lino, and grimy formica-topped tables which ought to have been replaced years ago, on which were laid out hideous chunky plastic cutlery, plates and cups, all a vulgar bright red or blue. The thick air within the room, saturated with nicotine, made him feel queasy.

It didn't take him long to spot the man he had come here to talk to. He was sitting alone in a corner of the room, pressed right up against the wall, as if he specifically wanted to avoid the company of people he didn't know. He stared down at the surface of the table with one corner of his mouth turned up and set in an expression like a half-smile, though in reality it was no kind of smile at all. Smoke curled from the fag gripped between his thumb and forefinger, and a can of beer sat before him.

As Coulter crossed to join him, he saw there was little change from the photograph he'd seen at HQ that morning. The man's skin was smooth, white and almost completely hairless, and the puffiness around the eyes and mouth gave him the look of someone who'd had plastic surgery after being badly disfigured in an accident, even though he hadn't. He could Have been any age between twenty and fifty.

The man looked up at his approach, his lips compressing in a scowl deliberately designed to off-put. Coulter sat down beside him. "Dave Mellis?" he enquired pleasantly.

Mellis gave a curt motion of his near-shaven head. "Yeah," he grunted, "What d'yer want?" Coulter could physically feel the barriers coming down around the man, Mellis shutting him out and also interrogating him at the same time. The clear, glinting blue eyes cut through him like a knife.

"Got a proposition to make to you," Coulter began, lowering his voice.

"You tell me who you are first," Mellis said. "Otherwise it's a no go, whatever it is. Understand?"

"You don't need to know who we are, just that you'll be well paid for it. It means going out on a ship, an oil tanker. From Milford Haven to Louisiana in the States."

Mellis dropped his cigarette and stared open-mouthed at the MI5 agent. "You're fuckin' joking, mate!" he gasped, his voice rising several octaves.

"Shhh, keep it down," whispered Coulter. "Now before we go any further, Dave, I think I ought to warn you. It's important no-one knows I've spoken to you, or what we’ve been talking about. Wouldn't be in your best interests to tell them, you see."

"You threatening me?" Mellis spoke in a kind of low growl, like a guard dog warning off an intruder.

"If you like, Dave, yes. We know where you live, where you like to hang out, all your personal details. That's how we found you. You can't get away from us, whatever you do. Try to change your identity, start a new life somewhere else, we'd track you down sooner or later. That sort of thing’s how I make my living."

Realisation dawned. "You're a spook," Mellis said, hawking and spitting into the ashtray.
"If you like."

"Well, I'm not gonna do it," Mellis snarled. "Not when someone's going round blowing up tankers and running off with the crews. Got it? You must be crazy if you want me to go on a fucking suicide mission.”

"Listen. There's no evidence those people have actually been harmed. What exactly has happened to them, well that's one of the things we want to find out. But you'll be dead for sure if you don't do it. Or maybe we won't kill you, we'll just make sure any prospective employers know about your criminal record. The whores you've beaten up in various ports around the world. You also spent a few years in a Spanish jail for GBH, didn't you? Maybe the guy was a pimp, but what happened doesn't put you in a very good light either. Not many jobs on offer in the shipping industry right now, because of the sinkings. But it shouldn't be too long before you find something else; only no-one will want to know you once we've put them wise as to what sort of a character you are."

"Don't be too sure of that," Mellis leered. "There's plenty of bosses who wouldn't give a toss."

"There's also plenty of hard cases who'd like to get back at you because you carved them up, or carved up one of their friends or family. The ones who can't afford to pay for the plastic surgery will probably be scarred for life. Suppose we tell them where you are right now, it won't be long before they find you and dump your bits and pieces in the river. That's globalisation for you. Plus cheap airline tickets; or maybe we'd pay their fare.

"Like I said, we know all your details. Including the ones you don't dare tell anybody."

He paused to let it all sink in. Mellis stared at him for a moment and then went back to contemplating the table top, absently flicking ash from his cigarette onto the formica. Coulter watched him with all the patience a trained agent had learned to muster.

A burst of sneering laughter erupted from the group of girls at the table by the door as they slagged off some absent acquaintance who was either too old or too unfashionable for their liking.

Vaguely Mellis thought of the all the nasty things currently going on in the world; the oil crisis and the trouble in Pakistan. It was pretty frightening, but as long as he could go on doing all the things he liked none of it bothered him much. Once he couldn't...well, whatever would be would be.

Grim-faced, he straightened up and looked hard at Coulter, crushing out the fag end against the lip of the ashtray. "Alright, you win. When do we sail?"

"As soon as we've got a full crew together. There's one more person we have to see; if he proves open to persuasion you should be ready to go first thing on Thursday morning. We'll let you know. On the day you’re to turn up outside the terminal offices and someone will be there to meet you.”

He smiled. "It should be fun, Dave. You'll be meeting a few of your old friends again, I should imagine."
From Mellis' face the thought seemed to please him. Then he became sombre again, and stood up to leave.
"Just one moment," Coulter said, his tone hardening. Mellis sat down again.

"It's bad enough we sometimes have to kill good people who just happen to get in our way, or find out a bit too much. You I'd drop dead in a quiet little alleyway without a second thought, if I had to. Just remember that."

Mellis' lip curled. He spun on his heels and stalked out of the room, leaving Coulter to sip at his Coke and perhaps mull over the issues raised by what he'd just said.


On the fifth day after she had escaped from Marcotech, Caroline got lucky. Surfacing for air she spied, miles away in the distance, a white shape like a swan, gleaming and pristine in the sunshine. She swam towards it, repeatedly twisting her head out of the water to gulp in air, and once close enough tilted up and back to get a better look.

The rays of light glinted off TV masts and aerials, even a satellite dish. It was a luxury yacht, a big one, the property of some millionaire on a deep-sea fishing excursion or simply enjoying a pleasant cruise. Not an ocean-going job, so it must be bound for shore, which meant America. She couldn't have gone too far out, surely.

The yacht was at anchor, but for all she knew might at any moment move off. But she couldn't go any closer in case the people on board spotted her. She could see the ant-like figures moving about on the deck.

So she stayed where she was, admiring the yacht's sleek, graceful lines, waiting patiently until the first mild twinges of pain told her it was time to go under. Fortunately, when she came up again it was still there.

She dived once more, and swam on just beneath the surface, coming up every few minutes to get her bearings. Once she was sure she was on the right course she stayed under until the yacht's keel came into visual range, then took a chance and broke surface, just her eyes above the water, drawing in the precious liquid through nose and mouth.

The vibrations from vigorous movement travelled through the water to her.

A ladder had been lowered down the side of the yacht, and a swimsuited girl was descending it gingerly. Two other girls and a young man were already in the water, splashing about with carefree abandon. A second man had got a rubber dinghy out, equipped with an outboard motor, and was sitting up in it tossing a beach ball to one of the girls. He was there also to keep an eye on them, in case the current swept them away. She still didn't think it was a good idea.

A fourth girl, a bronzed blonde in the minutest bikini possible, appeared on deck. She sat down on the edge of a sunbed, and once she had finished splashing lotion over her body stretched out luxuriously.

Caroline felt the vibrations from the swimmers' movements cease, and saw them head back towards the yacht, the dinghy following. The girls clambered up the ladder, the man following suit once he had secured a line to it from the dinghy. They lifted the dinghy on board, deflated it and stowed it away in a locker.

The party disappeared inside the superstructure of the yacht, apart from the blonde who stayed where she was.

The ladder remained down. While the blonde's eyes were closed in bliss against the sunlight, should she try and sneak on board? No, too risky. The woman might get up suddenly.

She swam round the yacht, but there seemed no way of getting onto it other than the ladder. It was in any case advisable not to make the attempt in daylight. But they were sure to raise the ladder sooner or later.
By now it was time to submerge again.

When she came up the yacht still hadn't moved. She had surfaced some distance from it, for fear of being seen from the deck. But it was possible to make out the figures seated there, one reading a book, one fishing, one apparently asleep.

The evening chill began to creep in, and Caroline saw them go back inside.

Swimming to the rear of the vessel, she saw the ladder still
hadn't been raised, either because they'd forgotten to do it or were just being extremely careless. But it would be best to wait a while longer before making her move.

Gradually, the china blue of the sky turned to deep purple, then jet black, and the stars appeared, studding it like sequins. Red and green navigation lights came on on the yacht, warning other vessels it was there.

It lay motionless under the starry sky, the pounding of some disco number from within, muted by distance, being the only thing that disturbed the peace and stillness of the night. She struck off towards it, guided by the warning lights and the yellow glow from the portholes and cabin windows.

As she neared the yacht, again swimming just under the surface, the awful thought came upon her that they might decide to start off before she had got on board, and she'd be caught up in the propeller and cut to ribbons. It almost made her give up the idea; but she had no way of knowing how long it would be before she got another chance, and earlier had felt the boredom start to tip her over into hysteria, as at the colony.

Her heart was beating furiously all the way to the ladder. But she made it there OK. Surfacing, she grasped one of the lower rungs and pulled herself up.

She'd leave wet footprints behind her. Webbed footprints. But that couldn't be helped and with any luck they'd have dried before anyone saw them.

She scrambled up onto the deck and briefly to think. The engines would be shut off but there would still be the generator supplying the vessel with lighting and heating. A blast of hot air was coming from a louvred hatch in the deck near her feet.

At the moment she could see no way of getting down to it, but there must be one. Her body crouched low so as to be out of sight from any of the windows, she crept along the deck towards the boat’s mid-section. From the stateroom she could hear the clinking of knives and forks and the sound of voices as the yacht's occupants chattered over what was no doubt a sumptious meal.

As she'd expected, she soon came to a stairwell within which a metal ladder led down below decks. She descended it backwards to find herself in a short, narrow passageway ending in a ribbed metal door from behind which could be heard the deep, vibrating tone of machinery.

It was unlocked, and she stepped cautiously inside to see the generator chugging steadily away at one end of a long, wide room whose ribbed walls were lined with piping. Skirting the machine, she sat down in the narrow space between it and the wall, hugging her legs to her body. It was giving off enough warmth to dry her out, so she wouldn't leave any more footprints, but without leaving her dangerously dehydrated.

She had no idea what the people on the yacht's plans were. No idea who they were, what they were like, if they would help her. There were no doubt plenty of other places she could hide. But she might have to be there a long time, depending on when they intended to return to land. And sooner or later she'd need to go back in the sea. If she kept coming and going between the yacht and the water the chances were someone would eventually spot her. They must surely be intending to set sail in the morning; they wouldn't be spending too much time in this one spot. One bit of ocean.....

Caroline waited until she was fully dry, then got to her feet. By now, she guessed, the yacht's occupants would have finished their meal and retired to one of the staterooms, to chat over drinks or watch TV until it was time to turn in.

It was taking a risk, but she had to leave her place of concealment and explore until she found out what she needed to know.

Padding softly from the generator room she scrambled nimbly up the ladder to the upper deck, and worked her way along it until she came to a door.

It opened into a plushly carpeted corridor with fake oak panelling on the walls. She moved along it a step at a time, listening keenly for any sound that might indicate someone coming in her direction. The soles of her bare feet made little noise on the soft carpeting.

Voices were coming from behind a door at the far end which stood slightly ajar, light spilling from it into the corridor. The voices were raised in raucous laughter, punctuated every few seconds by a burst of girlish giggling.

If anyone did see her, she reckoned, they'd probably be rooted to the floor in shock for a good few seconds, giving her ample time to make it out on deck and jump over the side. Yes, it was worth the risk. At the door she squatted down and peered through the gap into the room. She risked opening it an inch or so wider, very slowly so the creak of the hinges wouldn't alert the room's occupants.

She glimpsed a section of panelled wall like in the corridor and a balding man in his forties sprawled in a chair with a bimbo in a bikini top and a brief pair of shorts which only just covered her backside perching on one arm of it, cuddled against him. The man’s face wore a look of relaxed contentment, lips set in a faintly mocking smile. His woollen shirt had ridden up to expose a considerable paunch, over which his hand strayed absently from time to time. His other arm was around the bimbo, the fingers sliding gently down her exposed flank, following its contours, to play idly with the hem of her shorts. The piggy eyes in the heavy, fleshy face gleamed slyly beneath the rim of the baseball cap he wore.

Someone was talking in a slurred drunken tone which sounded to Caroline as if its owner was suffering from the effects of something more than alcohol. At least two other voices could be identified, one of them female and both sounding drunk to some extent.

A wealthy businessman on a booze cruise with a few friends, plus a bimbo or two brought along to provide some entertainment, probably at a price.

She drew back a little. If Moneybags’ companion saw her she'd start screaming and give the game away. As long as she could hear what was being said there was no need for her to actually see these people, thankfully.

She cocked her head, listening to the conversation, and having to grit her teeth a bit because of its nature.

"Hey Cassie, will you let me fuck you if I lend you that money?" someone asked.
"No."
"Suck me, then?"
"No!"
"Aw, c'mon. I'll pay you extra for it."
"How about you just let her keep the money?"
"Suits me fine. How 'bout it?"

A silence followed. Someone roared with laughter. "Hey, she's thinking about it!"
"You gonna have the shag or the blow job then, Shane?"
"Both. Hey Cass, I'll let you keep the money and give you extra. Whaddya say?"
"Maybe," the girl said teasingly.
"So, do you swallow or spit it out? I mean, if we're gonna - "

A lot of sordid crudity and meaningless babble; but nothing about what their plans might be, their itinerary. Though she couldn’t be quite sure, the man in the chair was the only one who seemed unaffected by drink or drugs. But the sensations she was receiving from him were decidedly unpleasant. She wondered what his attitude to her might be if he knew of her presence on board. She had some idea, probably not entirely fanciful, that he'd put her in a cage in his private zoo and show her off to all his dodgy friends, who would pay for the privilege of gawping at her. An exhibit in a freak show, a money-making curiosity.

Nor could she learn anything of value from him. Though she could pick up emotions, especially strong ones, she could not yet identify specific thoughts.

Then a man said, "When we get back to shore tomorrow first thing I'm gonna do is book that trip to Nassau. Those island girls are easy, I tell ya."

Caroline stiffened. She went on listening, trying to pick up clues from the desultory chatter.

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” someone was objecting. “When women talk like they do, black women or white women, it don’t necessarily mean they’re gonna hop into bed with you. It’s just the way they are. You think you’re gonna get laid but it never happens, and if you go so far as to pop the question they either slap you or pretend they’re married to scare you off. Ain’t like it is in the books.”

Sadly for men, this was often true. But what really concerned her was that they'd be going back to port sometime tomorrow, early probably. All she had to do was stay on board, hidden, until then. But how, if at some point she would have to return to the water?

Suddenly the man in the chair belched, loudly and vulgarly. Immediately afterwards, as if in sympathy, someone broke wind and at once the girls fell apart in wild hysterical laughter.

Caroline sensed there was someone in the room who wasn’t saying very much. He was just sitting there in moody silence, unimpressed by all he was seeing and hearing. There were about nine people there altogether, one of whom she only had a vague awareness as if something had clouded his mind and preventing it from transmitting or receiving any messages from outside. She could guess what that might be.

"Hey, ya should be on the bridge, man!" one of the men yelled suddenly. "Ya the captain! Ya neglecting ya duty, John!"

For the first time John spoke. "We aren't going anywhere right now, are we? And there's such a thing as an autopilot, if you remember."

All the same, this reminder of his responsibilities brought about a change in the captain's manner. "Hey, did you guys make sure to put the ladder back up after you'd been for your dip?" he asked suddenly.

By now Caroline could sort of picture what was going on in her mind. There was a puzzled silence as the yacht's passengers looked at each other blankly. She saw Mr Moneybags frown darkly, his relaxed mood suddenly disturbed.

"You left it down?" The captain sounded weary, annoyed and alarmed in equal measure.

"'S'alright, John, no hassle. Who'd want to get on board?"
"Pirates?" someone suggested.
Moneybags glared hard at the speaker, meaning why the hell did you have to go and say that?

"Not in these waters," one young man said firmly, trying to reassure himself.
The captain was galvanised into action. "I'll go and get that ladder up," he announced, rising.

Oh no, thought Caroline, her heart plunging sickeningly. She'd be able to get off the yacht OK, but now getting back on it would present something of a problem.

Fortunately the captain went out through another door, in the opposite wall of the stateroom. His footsteps receded gradually from Caroline's hearing.

She sat back on her haunches and thought for a bit. She'd have to turn to one of them for help, but who? Moneybags...the thought of trying to enlist his aid made her shiver. The captain? He seemed an ordinary, sensible chap, not like the others. But something inclined her not to approach him, all the same. He was the sort who wouldn't sell her to a travelling circus, but lock her up and call the police instead.

The bimboes wouldn't be much use. That left one of the other
men.

But apart from their stoned condition, it wasn't very encouraging that they'd let themselves get into that state in the first place.
She realised it would be time to return to the water soon.

The people in the room had fallen silent. She wondered if most of them were now in a drunken sleep. Clearly Moneybags was unobserved because he now, without waiting to gain the privacy of the lavatory and still fully clothed, unzipped his fly, pulled out his organ and began to move his hand up and down it.
Yes, thought Caroline. That's just what you are.

When she next risked a glance at him she saw he had fallen asleep. The captain hadn't returned from hauling up the ladder. Probably he was on the bridge, or in his cabin. Just as long as he stayed there.

Every so often the tycoon's hand strayed to his crotch in his sleep. She noticed he hadn’t bothered to readjust his clothing.

Someone spoke, awakening the tycoon. The voice was thick and hoarse and it was only just possible to make out the words. "Gonna hit the sack," it mumbled.
"What, so soon Baz?" another man jeered.

"Leave him," the tycoon growled impatiently. "He's had a bad trip. He'll get over it."

The unseen man climbed shakily to his feet and moved to the door, walking with the stumbling, heavy tread of someone barely in possession of their faculties. He seemed to take a whole minute to reach the door. By the time he pushed it open and stepped out into the corridor Caroline had concealed herself in an cupboard about ten feet away. She crouched down in the darkness within, buried among cleaning equipment and fire buckets, and listened as he turned stiffly, heels scuffing on the floor, and shambled off. He probably wouldn't have seen her anyway.

After a moment she eased open the door of the cupboard and slid out. Glancing down the corridor she saw the back of a head of curly hair, a T-shirt filthy with stains whose origin she chose not to contemplate, faded jeans and a pair of grubby trainers.

Slowly and silently she followed him to a door, the second of three in the wall on that side and numbered two. This must be his cabin.

In the stateroom the howls of merriment and raucous chattering had resumed, and something told Caroline the tycoon and his companions wouldn't be moving from there for the time being, immersed as they were in their own murky little world.

As he turned to put the key in the lock she saw his face in full for the first time. She guessed he wasn't by nature particularly handsome, but whatever it was he was taking had certainly not done his appearance any favours. His eyes were half closed and his mouth hung part open, stupidly.

He thrust the key at the lock and it missed, scraping against the varnished wood of the door and leaving a visible scratch. Money-bags wouldn't be pleased about that. Eventually, by luck more than judgement, it went in. As he continued to fumble it came out again. He frowned as if surprised that this should happen, and seemed to gather his wits in one massive thrust of will, face screwed up in concentration. He reinserted the key and twisted it, and this time the lock clicked. He stumbled against the door, pushing it fully open, and lurched forward into the room. Through the opening Caroline could just discern the vague, shadowy outline of his arm moving again and again over the wall as he tried to locate the light switch.

As with the door he eventually succeeded. He moved further into the room and she heard him clamber onto the bed and lie down. He had either forgotten or wasn't bothering to lock the door and turn off the light.

She waited a little while before stepping softly inside, closing the door behind her. The cabin was luxuriously appointed with TV, shower cubicle, bathroom, and bidet. A sculpture of two copulating lovers, tasteless rather than erotic, stood on a table. The man was lying flat on his back with one arm across his chest and the other parallel to his side. His eyes were shut and he was breathing deeply and hoarsely, mouth wide open.

Moving away from him slightly, her eyes fell on the china bowl which rested on the bedside table, and whose contents finally confirmed her suspicions. It was filled with a white powdery substance, the colour of snow, from which stuck out a thin metal pipe. There was more cocaine in a plastic bag a little further away, beside which lay a syringe and a metal spatula. Caroline's face twisted in loathing.

The man wasn't used to the stuff, to the effect it was having on his system. The combination of drugs and booze, on top of a heavy meal, had proved too much.

She contemplated the prone figure on the bed. She wasn't too proud of what she was about to do, but couldn't see any other option at the moment. Not if things were to really get moving.

She crossed to the bed, bent over the unconscious figure and seized him by the shoulder, shaking him gently at first and then with a little more vigour. He blinked rapidly, fitfully, for several seconds before his eyes flickered open to stare glazedly at the ceiling. His lips worked soundlessly and his head moved slowly from side to side as he tried to focus.

A low, guttural sound came from his throat. Gradually it acquired some semblance of coherence. "Wassamadder," he moaned. "Wassamadder.....who......whozat....." Shaking his head fiercely, he attempted to struggle into a sitting posture.

Caroline stepped back and stood so he could get a clear view of her. She imagined her dim shape resolving itself before his eyes into something like clarity.

He seemed to have succeeded in focusing on her, for he was staring directly at her with a puzzled, dazed expression in which she could detect just the tiniest twinge of comprehension.

The staring eyes widened. He had realised that there was something odd about the figure standing before him but hadn't quite worked out what it was yet. Because of the confused state of his mind it was impossible to tell just what he was thinking, just how fully he was aware of his surroundings. The look on his face was partly of wonder, partly of astonishment; but there was no fear or alarm there, at the moment.
"Who...who are you?" he muttered thickly.

Caroline bent forward. "I am Oceania, Queen of the Deep," she answered, speaking in a low, urgent whisper. "You must help me."
"Help you," he breathed. "Help you....yeah."

"The other surface creatures want to harm me. They captured me but I escaped. I must return to the sea. But first I must find my children. The terraineans have taken them to use in their cruel experiments. You must help me get to shore so that I can search for them.

"In the morning just before the yacht is due to sail, go out and lower the ladder. Do not let yourself be seen. Make sure the captain has already checked to see that it is raised, then he will suspect nothing.

"If you do this I will reward you. You will live with me in my palace under the sea, where all is silent and beautiful. Do you understand?

"The other humans must not know I was here. They will hunt me down and torture me, like they did my children. You are a good man, Barry, you cannot allow this. Please help me."

He was sinking back into his drugged stupor. His head lolled to one side, and with a deep shuddering breath he lost consciousness.

She searched the cabin until she found a notepad and a Biro and scribbled down the instructions she'd given him, leaving the sheet of paper by his bedside where he'd see it. Then she crept from the cabin and back down the corridor to the door by which she'd entered from the deck. The remainder of the yacht's population, with the probable exception of the captain, continued to be busy in the stateroom. Loud music was playing, and she thought she could make out orgasmic noises among the drunken laughter.

Out on deck, she crossed to the safety rail, climbed over it and dived head-first into the water. The impact stunned her slightly, but she soon recovered and swam back to her vantage point.

Everything depended on what Barry would now do. There was no telling how he'd react, whether he'd even remember what had happened. People whose minds were scrambled by drugs weren't entirely predictable.

Meanwhile the Captain was making one last tour of inspection before going to bed. He looked in on the stateroom, where two of the men were flat out drunk, missing all the fun while one of the girls was making the beast with two backs with Shane and the bikinied bimbo was attending to his boss, her head in his lap and moving about like a gearstick. Used condoms lay about and there were semen stains on the carpet, along with those from the discarded food that had been trodden into it.
He turned away.


Oceania, Queen of the Deep. Her image swam enticingly before Barry, radiating an exotic sensuality he could hardly believe it was possible to encounter, not in all his wildest fantasies. Yet evidently it was.

Ooh yeah, baby. He was screwing her now, their arms and legs entwined, their bodies locked in a tight embrace as they sank
deeper and deeper, down down into the silent beautiful underwater world that was her home, leaving behind all the cares and stresses of the world above. Pure ecstasy surged through every nerve and fibre of his being in a raging white-hot torrent. He began to experience the raptures of the deep, a sense of floating in a womb of warm soothing water, buoyed up high by it; drifting to Heaven on some celestial breeze that seemed like liquid air. Beautiful mermaids serenaded them as they descended, Oceania’s train of sea nymphs parting to make way for the couple as they dived together right to the bottom, there to make love again on the soft carpet of the ocean’s sandy floor.

He swam with her in and out of beautiful coral gardens, through eerie echoing submarine canyons, past vast fantastically-shaped rock formations, until the idyllic vision abruptly faded and there was nothing but a sort of hazy emptiness.

Barry stared at the ceiling for a long time before finally realising he was awake and the trip had come to an end.

Was that real, what had just happened to him? Or something from a dream, a fantastic, incredible dream? It was quite impossible to decide. The sight of the weird, unearthly figure standing right in front of him was still vivid in his mind. It had seemed real enough, both at the time and now. But then he'd been...he'd been.....

He levered himself from the bed and sat down on it heavily, his head falling forward into his hands like a dead weight. For a long time he remained in that position, oblivious of anything around him, including the scrap of paper lying in full view on the bedside table.

All at once, without warning, the nausea surged through him like a tidal wave. He sprang to his feet and raced for the bathroom door. He only just made it before the vomit whooshed from him and spattered over the shiny white porcelain of the sink and the mirror above it.

He remained crouched over the sink with his hands resting on it to support him, gagging and swallowing, his chest and throat heaving convulsively, until the nausea finally passed. He wiped the vomit from the glass with a damp flannel, retching at the putrid smell, and once it was clear regarded himself in it blearily.

He jerked up and back with shock at the apparition confronting him. It was haggard, pale and old-looking; not at all the image of a man in his twenties. There were bags under the bloodshot, sunken eyes that hadn't been there the previous day, that was for sure.
Jesus.

He was still trembling involuntarily, and as he stood there the fingers of his right hand suddenly clenched tight as if they'd acquired a life of their own.

He took a shower, then wrapped a towel around his waist and went back into the main cabin. His eye fell on the bowl of cocaine.

These attacks didn't last...did they? He knew it came and went. And people carried on taking the stuff all through their lives, so surely it needn't be fatal. Besides he'd felt good, so good, when he'd had it the first time, and all the other times too. Hadn't he?

Suddenly the full horror of it hit him. He'd actually thought he'd seen...she had seemed real, so real, and yet of course she couldn't be. All that stuff about Oceania Queen of the Deep...it couldn't possibly be true but for a while he really had thought...

Oh shit, he said aloud. Oh shit. Oh God. He felt the violent trembling return, this time for a very different cause. Rivulets of cold sweat poured copiously down his face and dripped onto his chest and shoulders. He lost all sense of time, of reality almost, while he sat on the bed and let the image of the wall burn itself into his brain, mouth wide open in shock.

Again his eye fell on the bowl of white powder. Slowly but firmly he shook his head.
Never again, he told himself. Never, ever again.

Then he noticed the scrap of paper on the table, and the words which had been written on it.


THIRTY-EIGHT
Wrapped up in his Kapok protective coat, balaclava and safety helmet, Chris Barrett was pacing restlessly about the deck of the Atlantica. To steady his nerves he stopped and grasped the safety rail tightly, gazing out to sea.

The balaclava left his face exposed and the biting North Atlantic wind sliced across it like a knife, making his eyes sting. For the umpteenth time he reminded himself why he was doing this. But did he really care about her so much now? After all, there was Rachel.

He told himself that wasn't the way to look at it. First of all it was a bloody callous sort of thing to be thinking. And more ruthlessly, there was the need to restore and safeguard the precious flow of oil.

Chris was agitated and irritable. He supposed he really ought to be joining in the odd jobs that always needed doing around the ship, making himself useful, instead of moping about like this. But he wasn't at ease in the company of the other crewmen, for he knew what they were and what they'd done. There were a few exceptions, who either hadn't done anything wrong in their time, regretted it if they had, or were the likeable sort of villain – something very rare nowadays. But only a few. And the risk they were taking hung like a looming great black cloud over their heads. The mood on board was sullen, with little feeling of comradeship. Meals were eaten and films watched in silence. People hardly ever spoke to each other, but just got on with their jobs, letting the work take their mind off things to some extent.

They had made a thorough search among their own employees, and found one or two who declared themselves willing to go ahead with it. It was notable that none of them were married, or had relatives dependent on them. And they had nonetheless expressed reservations. But Chris told them it was the only way to perhaps restore some normalcy. With any luck, it would not be at the price of any harm coming to them. This time, maybe, things were going to be different.

The tanker wasn't sailing with a full complement of crew - just the maximum that was absolutely necessary to ensure she made it to America and back. They hadn't been able to get one anyway. Hopefully this would arouse no suspicion on Marcotech's part, supposing they had the means to find out. They'd merely conclude that some, at least, had grown impatient with the situation and decided for the sake of their livelihood to take a tanker out, perhaps because they needed the danger money. Besides, Caroline had not had time to tell her friends at MI6 what she suspected of Marcotech.

They might also, he guessed, decide that everyone was too busy worrying about the crisis in Pakistan to put much effort into exposing them. Chris was worried, certainly. He couldn't imagine anyone letting al-Qaeda get hold of nuclear weapons. All the same, that they had been prepared to go this far proved how frighteningly dedicated they were.

He heard trudging footsteps draw near to him and turned to see the tanker's captain, Donald Tarrant, coming along the deck towards him. A man of few words at the best of times, he had said little since they left Southampton a couple of days before. Nor had anyone else on board for that matter, Chris included.

"Well, we're all right so far," Chris remarked brightly, doing his best to put on a brave face. The Captain nodded.

Tarrant was not himself a criminal. They needed a good man for this job, a reliable one, who hadn't been sacked or put in jail for negligence. Captain Tarrant was simply very brave. His view was that the sea was a dangerous place anyway, and it was therefore worth taking a risk while trying to deal with a major threat to global prosperity and security. He was also being paid danger money for this, but Chris reckoned he was entitled to it. Every single penny.

He found he could guess what Tarrant was thinking. Sure enough, the captain paused to scrutinize him keenly and said, “Tell me something. What made you want to do it?"

"There's someone I...care about who may be in danger somewhere," Chris answered, adding brusquely "that's all I want to say right now."

"Well for my part, I must be damn crazy," said the captain. "It’d better work, that's all I can say." With a friendly nod he sauntered off.

Chris glanced at his watch, and felt a sense of dread. They were getting near the point in the journey where the Herbert Rutherford had been attacked. That didn't mean anything nasty was going to happen just yet. The tankers had not all been hit in exactly the same location; a ploy by the saboteurs to make sure the authorities didn't know where to look for them.

That they would be attacked was virtually certain. The Atlantica was an oil tanker, exactly the same as the Herbert Rutherford and the Knight of the Seas, which would be returning from America laden with crude oil. She was there, all four hundred thousand plus tons of her, and presumably as much a target for the saboteurs – to Marcotech, if it really was them behind it all - as her sister ships had been. They surely could not just ignore her.

Half of him hoped nothing would happen, that they would reach America safely, take on their cargo and set sail for home, after which point it would be against the saboteur's interests to attack them, if the motive was environmental. The thought of such an outcome seemed farcical, after all this tension, and Chris laughed. But it was no way to resolve the matter.
And if they were attacked?
Would it work, the plan? The whole thing was a gamble, and an incredibly risky one.

The weather continued to deteriorate. The wind was stronger now, and the sky beginning to darken. Every few minutes a squall of rain lashed his face, almost blinding him. The rain pattering on the metal deck was making it dangerously slippery.
No sensible person should be outside in conditions like this.

Chris started making his way back to the cabin which had been allocated to him. On the way he paused to look in on the engine room, lingering there for a moment. There was something comforting about the steady monotonous throb of the engines and the warmth they were giving off. An engineer carrying out some minor repair looked up from his work and caught Chris’ eye. Barrett thought it best to move on. He knew what they thought of him for not mucking in.

In his room he clambered onto the bed, turned over and lay down. He flicked through a few pages of the girlie magazine he had found at the bottom of the chest of drawers beside the bed, then tossed it wearily aside, crossing his arms behind his head.

Chris reflected on what Hennig had said a few days previously, when he had explained Rachel's plan to the MD. "They've let one of their agents, who knows her quite well, take on the case," he had explained. "But she'll need a bit of a hand, so I was wondering if I could...."

"Have the time off?" All of a sudden Hennig's ill temper seemed to have evaporated. "Listen, son, if it's for the company I don't mind how much time you can have off. In fact you can count it as official business."
"That's very kind of you."

Then Hennig's face clouded over again. "They could only spare one of their people, then?"

"They’re a bit too busy right now with Pakistan. But my contact tells me that if we can prove it’s Marcotech her bosses will take some kind of action.”

“Well, I’d better let you get on with it. And for goodness’ sake take care.”

Chris dug into his pocket and took out a small waterproof metal case. He opened it and looked down at the tiny disc-shaped object within. It was giving off a faint, almost inaudible bleeping noise.

The object’s presence was comforting, because there was indeed a need to take care. They were without the protection of the Navy; on this occasion, it was vital their enemies were not scared away.

HM Signals, Portsmouth
"Here we are," said Lieutenant George Cassidy, the Chief Signals Officer, leading Rachel over to a corner of the tracking room where a Wren sat huddled over a hooded screen on a console situated apart from all the others, and bristling with what seemed an impossibly complex array of instrumentation.

The operation represented a relatively small diversion of resources. Because of that and because the tanker problem was still important despite the need to focus on the situation in Pakistan, the Navy had agreed to help with her investigation.
"How's it going, Jackson?" Cassidy asked the Wren.

"Well nothing's happened yet, Sir," answered the girl. “Here’s hoping.”

The green glow from the screen bathed Rachel's face as she leaned over to see what was on it. The VDU showed a computerised graphic representation of the northern Atlantic, with the coasts of North and Central America on one side, and Europe and North Africa on the other. In roughly the centre of the screen a glowing point of red light showed the position of the tanker as it continued on its journey to Louisiana. A faint pinging was coming from the Wren's headset.

"It's transmitting OK, Sir,” she said. “Some interference due to the weather, but otherwise the Atlantica is maintaining a steady course for America."

"We're in constant radio contact with the tanker," said Cassidy. "If anything does go wrong, we'll know what it is."

On the grid of the VDU the blip of light carried on its way. Rachel took one last look at the glowing, flickering screen. "I'll be around," she said. "Let me know the moment anything happens."

If whoever was behind the sinkings blew up the Atlantica and kidnapped the crew as they had done with the other ships, the homing device Chris was carrying would enable them to track him to wherever the crew were being taken; perhaps to the underwater base Marcotech had established off the Bahamas. If so, there would then be no doubt about it. It would also be ironic that the device was a development of something Marcotech had themselves invented, part of their groundbreaking advances in underwater communications. Only of course to reflect on that irony, and actually find out what they were up to and stop it, were not the same thing.


The others were sitting down eating their breakfast when Barry, still a little unsteady on his feet, came into the lounge and dropped heavily into a vacant chair. The glazed expression hadn't quite left the girls' eyes and Tom and Shane, though more or less compos mentis, looked pale and haggard. His eyes wandering idly over them, Don Hadley, owner of the Seabird II, gave a noncommittal shrug. If that was what they chose to do...

He himself was always careful not to take the drugs, because he didn't feel any need to. It seemed crazy to him. Why kill yourself with drugs when you could get all that mattered to a man from a good fuck, was his philosophy.

"You OK, Baz?" ventured Shane, seeing Barry slump into the chair.
"Uh, yeah," Barry grunted back.
"Bad trip?"
"Uh, I dunno," answered his friend.
"Good trip, then?"
"I said I dunno," Barry answered curtly.
Tom and Shane shrugged.

The captain came in and joined them, taking his seat without a word. He proceeded to tuck into his plate of fried kippers.

Barry took a folded scrap of paper from the pocket of his jeans, opened it out and pushed it into the centre of the table. "Any of you guys know anything about this?" Though his voice remained slightly slurred, the hint of steel in it was clearly evident.

Shane took the piece of paper and studied the writing on it. His eyes widened, and as he read on his jaw dropped progressively further.

"Jesus Christ, what the hell is this?" At once brightening up, he gave a little chuckle, which then turned into a raucous belly laugh. "Hey take a look at it, folks!" He passed the note round the table. Tom and Brad laughed, while the girls and the captain were bemused. Claire, Gail and the bimbo started to giggle.

"Oceania, Queen of the Deep!" Shane exclaimed. "What kind of trick has someone been playing on Barry here?"

Barry's face was quite expressionless. He glanced at each of his companions in turn.

"I want to know," he said. With a determined effort he struggled to clearly express his feelings. "I wanna....I want to know what's going on here."

He described his whole experience of the night before. By the time he had finished Shane was laughing again. "Sounds like a trip to me. Quite a good one, I reckon."

"It wasn't a trip, the letter proves it. I don't think this is particularly funny. You knew I was stoned so you took advantage of it to play a joke on me."

Suddenly he frowned. His companions were all looking at him with what seemed genuine puzzlement.

The captain sensed trouble. "I think we better sort this out," he said firmly, looking hard at the young people around him. "Whose handwriting is that?" he demanded, pointing to the flimsy.

"Well it ain't mine," Don Hadley grunted, shaking his head firmly. "I'd swear to it. Tom?"

"No, no way." Tom took the flimsy and studied it. "I think it's a woman's."

The captain turned to the four girls, all sitting together, and saw them glance at one another, uneasily but without any hint of guilt.
He preferred to make sure. "Gail?"

Slowly and firmly, the blonde girl shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "I swear I didn't do that."
"Me neither," said Claire. "I'd know my own handwriting."
“Cassie?”
“Not guilty, honest.”

Everyone was looking at the bimbo. She gave a brief curt movement of her head, pouting indignantly. The captain studied her suspiciously for a moment longer, then decided she was telling the truth and shifted his attention to Barry.
"This happened last night? What time?" Then it occurred to him the kid probably wouldn't remember.

Hadley took a hand. "So you're saying someone went into your room, wrote out this note and left it for you to see?"

"They dressed up in some weird costume, told me they were..." he nodded at the flimsy. "It's all there. I thought it was because I was...I was..."

"Yeah, well never mind that." The captain leaned back in his chair, pondering the situation.

He frowned. Come to think of it, he thought he'd noticed a strange smell in the corridor when he left the stateroom to do his rounds. A fishy sort of smell, with a hint of something sharp and acrid, a bit like ammonia. It might have been stronger if the stench of sex, sweat and rotting flesh hadn't masked it. "So they wanted you to lower the ladder?"
"That's what the note says."

The captain thought for a bit more. "Well," he said at length, "I suggest we don't do that. If there was some joker on the yacht last night playing tricks, they only got on board because you left it down before. I also recommend you all stay off the white stuff from now on, OK? We need to have our brains working properly right now. It looks like someone got onto the yacht, dressed in some fancy outfit, and played a trick on Barry to get him to lower the ladder in the morning. So that they, or someone else, could get onto the boat then. From a dinghy, which was how they managed it last night I guess."
"What the fuck does it all mean?" Hadley growled.

"I dunno, but it could be serious. I just don't know what these people want. I mean, unless we swallow this story about a Queen of the Deep....." Still bemused by it all, the captain tried to clarify his thoughts by speaking them aloud. "I don't want to alarm you, but you remember that guy Maxwell, Robert Maxwell? The Brit newspaper boss, disappeared from his yacht in the Canaries and was later found floating. It was back in '91. They reckon someone got on board his yacht and killed him. The theory is they injected him with a lethal vaccine then dumped him overboard."

Hadley’s eyebrows shot up and he clapped a hand to his chest by way of a disclaimer. "Who'd want to murder me?" he gasped. "Or any of us? I mean, I'm not political or anything. You're talking terrorists, yeah John?"

"Terrorists...well, maybe. Maxwell tended to get involved with the wrong kind of people, that's for sure. They were afraid he'd start shooting his mouth off about what he'd been up to, become kind of a liability to them. But what this could be, I just dunno. Maybe pirates, like Brad said last night. Somehow doesn't make sense their playing such a weird kind of stunt, though."

"We could call the Coastguard," Shane began, before tailing off lamely.

"Yeah, exactly. There's a very good reason why we don't want the Coastguard here." The captain narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips tight just so there could be no doubt at all what he meant. The Coastguard officers would have to come on board at some stage, and if they did they'd notice one or two things and his job, if not for the foreseeable future his freedom, might be forfeit.

"I don't think we should take any chances. We'll sail as soon as everyone's ready. Meantime let's just keep a lookout, stay off the drugs and make sure that ladder stays up until we hit land. OK?"

They ate the rest of the meal in silence. As the captain downed the last of his coffee and got up to go to his cabin, Barry rose too, following him from the stateroom.

The captain sensed his presence, stopped and turned. His eyebrows lifted in enquiry.

"Listen, John," began Barry. "Were....were the girls all stoned last night? When I went to bed, I mean."
"What time was that?"
"Uh, I, I can't remember."

"Well, you were in the stateroom when I left, about ten. I came back about half an hour later and you'd gone. But I kept looking in from time to time, just to make sure everyone was OK. And yeah, I'd say all the girls were stoned, or pissed or both." It hadn't prevented them being busy doing it doggy style, but he saw no need to go into that. "Everyone was stoned except Don."
"What time did you go to bed?"
"'Bout twelve. Midnight."

And by then, Barry thought, the girls would be so intoxicated they couldn't have done anything much. They still hadn’t quite recovered from its effects now, he reckoned. So none of them could have written that note, or put on a freaky costume and gone to his room pretending to be the "Queen of the Deep". From what John was saying none of them could have worked the hoax either on their own or in collusion with another member of the party. A practical joke required planning, with the perpetrators in full possession of all their faculties.
"You were certainly stoned," the captain commented.

"Yeah, alright, alright," Barry snapped. He stood deep in thought. "Then they were all telling the truth. It wasn't one of us."

“That’s clear. There’s something going on which I just don't understand. Don't worry about it, Barry. Just do what I said, keep a look-out for anything suspicious and report it to me rightaway." The captain wasn't sure what effect it would have if he mentioned the smell to anyone, so he didn't. "Now excuse me, I got work to do."

Barry went back into the stateroom and sat down. His companions were still there, discussing the strange events of the previous night. "So what do you make of it?" he asked.
"I'm scared," said Claire.
"I'm scared too," said the bimbo. "I want out."

"You can't get off a yacht in the middle of the fucking ocean," snapped Don Hadley. "We'll be OK when we reach land."

"I think someone's out to rob us, maybe kill us too," Claire went on. "They were spying on us and they took advantage of Barry being stoned."

"Could they know everything that was going on on the yacht?" Cassie asked. "How'd they know Barry was going to be stoned, or...or any of us for that matter? I don't see...." Whatever else she might be Cassie wasn't stupid, at least not all the time.

"If the ladder was down," pointed out Tom, "all of them could have got on board, not just one.”
"And planted a bomb or something - "
This only served to cause more alarm.

Don Hadley raised his hands in a placatory gesture. "Hey hold it, hold it. A, if they only wanted to get on so they could plant a bomb they wouldn't have bothered dressing up as a fish to do it. It's a clever kind of trick to play on someone. But if they were clever enough to do it they wouldn't have needed to, that's my reckoning. They'd have just sneaked up the ladder. B, if there's more than one of these people they could have killed us all without any bother, before we had time to call the Coastguard. C, they wouldn't need the ladder to get on board, they'd have rope ladders, grapnels and all that. D, they'd wait until we'd all gone to bed so there was no chance of anyone spotting something. E, they couldn't be sure what Barry would do once he'd got over his trip."

Tom chipped in. "And why'd they wait until morning when we were about due to sail, why not get on at night? It'd be the better time."

"Right,” said Hadley. “No, they could have boarded us last night without going to the bother of dressing up as some…thing, and all that. It's clever but there ain't no need for it, I reckon. I don't believe this Queen of the Deep story but I figure someone's up to something."

"Why don't we let them come on board and catch them?" Gail suggested. "Just so we can find out what's really going on?"

"I like the idea, but it's too friggin' dangerous. We'd need help from the Coastguard and we all know why that's out."

Hadley thought for a moment. "I don't believe in this Queen of the Deep business either, which is why I think something bad is going on. It's all too weird for my liking. Might be better if we have nothing to do with it, OK folks?

"I can tell you one thing," he growled. "No-one's gonna hitch a free ride on my yacht without my say-so. Or waste my time with stupid fucking practical jokes. They might be trying to scare us for a kick, but if that's the case they can just fuck off." He looked hard round the group. "You heard what John said, make sure that ladder stays well and truly up."

Barry went back to his room and sat down. As his head became clearer it was easier to think things out.

No, definitely not terrorists, or pirates. He was certain there was no danger to the crew of the yacht from whatever it was that had come into his cabin last night. But if not a terrorist, then what was she? Was she really a...merwoman?

Did undersea mer-people use pens? Evidently they did. Water-proof ones, no doubt....
It was weird, yeah, but was it bad?

Of her reality he was by now totally convinced. So could everything she'd told him be true?

At any rate he doubted there was anything harmful afoot. If she wanted the ladder down, because she needed to be on the yacht at a certain time, why shouldn't he oblige? Give her the benefit of the doubt. And if her story was true surely he ought to do something to help her?

Best not to get on the wrong side of Don, though, even if Barry was determined to have no more to do with him. He was a bad guy to cross.

Forget about this whole thing. Put it behind you. It's kind of a pity, but.....

Then he remembered how he had felt on waking that morning, remembering what he had seen, believing at that point it had been a hallucination but realising he had been convinced it was real. Briefly he thought of the white powder in the bowl by his bed, then shook his head firmly, shuddering with revulsion.
Reckon I owe you a favour, he thought. Whatever you are.


They were almost ready to set off. After the revelation of last night's events, Hadley was keen to put as much distance as possible between themselves and these waters. The mood on board was subdued, everyone going back to their cabins and staying there.

The one exception was Barry, who went out on deck and began to saunter about casually, hands in pockets, whistling a cheerful summery tune.

As he had expected, he soon caught sight of the captain coming along the deck, on his way to make sure everything was as it should be. "'Morning, John," he shouted.
“Morning,” the captain grunted.

He leaned against the railing and gazed over at the horizon, listening to the captain's footsteps as they gradually died away. He knew when John was finished as this was a regular routine whenever they were about to set sail after being moored somewhere for a while.

In the water Caroline waited, her eyes peeping just above the surface. She reckoned she was just close enough to reach the yacht before the engines started up and the propeller began to turn. She ducked underwater as the captain appeared at one end of the deck, then a little later tentatively resurfaced and saw that he was gone from view.

Some minutes passed, and the ladder remained raised. They must be about to set off soon, she reckoned.

Maybe it hadn't worked. Maybe in his still dazed state the druggie had forgotten what she'd asked him to do, even though she’d taken the precaution of writing it down. She felt her heart sink.
Come on, she breathed.

Then she saw someone come into view from behind the superstructure and go to the ladder. It was him. A wild thrill of hope sent her blood racing.

He unhitched the ladder and slowly lowered it until the last couple of rungs were in the water.

Before going back inside Barry gazed once out to sea again. Just for a moment he thought he saw an arm thrust up out of the water, a grey-blue coloured arm, giving him the thumbs-up sign. Then it was gone.
He turned away.

Caroline sped through the water as fast as her augmented body could carry her. To her alarm she felt the vibration, transmitted from the fabric of the boat to the water, as the yacht's engines rumbled into life. Just in time, she covered the last few yards to the ladder and took hold of the lowest rung, hanging on tight with both hands. No sooner had she consolidated her grip than the vessel started to move off.

Now as long as she didn't relax her grip...one slip and she would be sucked into those churning propellers. And as long as nobody noticed that the ladder was down again.

Seabird II cruised steadily through the Atlantic towards the Florida coast with Caroline hanging from the bottom of the ladder, every hour or so lifting herself up so that her head was above water and she could breathe in the cool fresh air.

In the end nobody did notice that the ladder was down. They still didn't feel like leaving their cabins.

After a while, looking to her left, Caroline could see the shore. For now it was just a thin, faint black line on the horizon.

As the yacht drew nearer she could make out buildings strung along it; boathouses, a cluster of holiday bungalows, a fishing village with clapboarded houses and a stone quay, where a few vessels were moored, jutting out into the sea. A little beach a quarter of a mile on. And beyond that, a cluster of masts like a miniature forest, no doubt the millionaire's private marina. The yacht turned gradually to the east until it was on a line with it. Twenty minutes later it cruised gently into its berth. Caroline waited until it was stationary and she could no longer feel the vibrations from the propellors. Then she let go of the ladder and dived.

Hugging the bottom, she swam off towards the open sea. As she left the yacht behind her, she thought again of Barry; knowing that she'd had no choice but to do what she'd done, but also that it wouldn't make her feel any better.

Once past the entrance to the marina she turned to the left, selecting that direction at random, and swam along the coast, keeping as close to land as possible to avoid being swept too far out by the current. She also took care to stay fairly deep, wary of being hit and mangled by a motorboat or water-skier. The vibrations would probably warn her in time, but she didn't like to take chances.

Every now and then she came up, just the top of her head and her eyes above the water, to literally see how the land lay. She didn't want to surface too close to the village. Although at this distance she would look like just another swimmer.
A gull bobbing on the surface saw her and took off in alarm.

She had to get ashore, reach a phone booth, and ring Rachel Savident – the only person with any authority, she guessed a Case Officer with MI6 counted as authority, who would be willing to help her without any strings attached. Then suddenly it hit her, and the absurdity of not having realised it before almost made her laugh. She didn't have any money.

She couldn't very well walk up to somebody and ask to borrow some. I'm going to have to steal it, she thought. Oh well.

A few minutes later, she surfaced for a third time and looked around. The coast was clear – so to speak. She had come up near a short stretch of sandy beach in between two outcrops of rock jutting out into the sea. A road, long and straight, ran along beside the water and on the other side of it was a patch of dense woodland, which might be described as small forest. A few houses could be made out a long way off. At the moment there were no cars in sight, or any people. In any case, at this distance she would look like just another swimmer.

A lonely spot. Which was handy in some ways, but not in others. She didn't want to cause a stir, but where there were no people there would be nobody to steal from.

She couldn't go too far inland, because she'd need to get back in the water quickly if she was surprised, or got hydrogen deprivation.

If she could reach one of the houses, somehow break in and steal the money. It was risky, but the only option available to her.

She struck out for the shore, towards a line of rocks, covered with slime and seaweed, which stretched some way out from the beach. Making sure to keep behind them until the last moment, she carried on until she felt her feet scrape the bottom.

She stood up, looked round again, and stepped cautiously onto terra firma.

She tensed, dropping into a crouch, at the sound of a car engine in the distance, faint but clearly audible. It was coming along the road in her direction.

She scrambled back behind one of the rocks and waited. She heard the engine noise grow steadily louder until the car must be about fifty yards up the road from here. Then it changed in pitch as the vehicle slowed, finally turning off the road onto the beach, shingle crunching underneath its wheels.

The suspension creaked as the car juddered to a halt. She heard the doors thrown open and the occupants climb out.

She peeped out cautiously from behind her rock. A family, by the look of it. A plump middle-aged woman, with dark hair greying at the edges, her husband, a teenage boy and girl. They were complaining loudly about the facilities available, or lack of same.

"There's no locker anywhere, where are we going to put our clothes?"
"We won't go in. We'll stay here and look after the things."
"Well I wouldn't mind going in actually."
"Later, honey. We can all take it in turns."

They sat down on the sand, unrolled a tablecloth and laid it out. The mother prised the lid off a plastic box and began handing out some sandwiches. The boy bit into his greedily. "You shouldn't eat too much before going in the water," his mother chided.
"It's just a snack, that's all."
"But bearing in mind how much you eat - "
"Aw, Mom, chill out."

Caroline waited while they ate their meal, waiting patiently for her chance.

"We're going in now," she heard the girl announced. She and her brother had their costumes on underneath their clothes, and stripped off. They sprinted for the water and were soon up to their waists in it, splashing about happily. The parents sat down by the picnic hamper, to bask in the sunshine.

"We should have changed before we came out," said the woman, in such a way as to suggest it was her husband's fault for not thinking of it.

"Well we didn't. Anyway we can change in the car, no-one'll see us."
"Later. Let's get some rest first, I’m tired."

"What about all the stuff?" She nodded towards the picnic hamper, the collection of beach accessories spread out on the towel.

"No-one'll steal it while we're right here, sweetheart. You worry too much."
"What about your wallet?"
"It's in the bag. Thought that was safer'n' leaving it in the car. Wouldn't be the first time someone's stolen from cars."

“But you could easily fall asleep in this sun,” Mona Weissburger protested. Freddie Weissberger, his hat over his eyes, grunted vaguely and lay back with his arms crossed behind his head. Mona glared at him and snorted in annoyance.
After a while, she fell asleep in the sun.

Cautiously Caroline crept from her hiding place. She glanced towards the boy and girl out to sea, and saw that their backs were to her. Nor were there any boats in sight which might spot her.

She crept over to the sleeping couple, moving slowly and stealthily. Every few seconds she glanced out to sea, but found the two kids still occupied in tossing a beach ball to one another.

She squatted over the beach bag, and slowly pulled the zipper back. It came open, and carefully she sifted through the contents, turning over each item of clothing in search of a pair of shorts or trousers. Presumably the wallet should be in one of the pockets.

I don't want much, she told them mentally. Just a couple of cents. I'll pay you back someday, if I can.

Mona was vaguely aware of a shadow falling over her, blotting out her sun. Then she heard a faint scuffling noise and supposed it was Sheryl or Jason and they wanted something from the bag. Pity they didn't have the decency to ask.

Best to check though. Frowning, she managed with some difficulty to sit up. Alerted by the movement, Caroline stiffened, glancing round just as Mona’s eyes blinked fully open.

For an instant the woman was staring right into her face. She went pale despite the sun, her eyes widening, and screamed. The scream echoed out across the bay, causing her husband to sit up in alarm.

Caroline took off, sprinting through the sand and across to the other side of the road. In a flash she had vanished into the thick foliage, which rustled for a moment then settled.

Wildly Freddie glanced in all directions. "W-w-w-what the hell was that?" he spluttered, having caught a glimpse of the strange-looking figure as it disappeared. He turned to his wife, whose body was shaking like an enormous jelly, her eyes wide and staring. He scrambled over and put his arms around her. "What's the matter, honey? Are you OK?"

At first all she could manage was a medley of incoherent whimpering noises. Then with an effort she pulled herself together, sort of. "Th-th-th-there was this....thing...."

The children came running up, dripping wet from their swim. "Mom! Dad! What happened? We heard Mom scream...."

"I...I heard someone going through the bag and I looked round to see who it was…and then…” She shuddered. "I don't like to think about it!"

"I just saw someone go across the road and into that wood," Freddie said. "They moved so fast I couldn't get a good look at them. But they were a funny colour...sort of grey all over.” He turned to the kids. "Did you see anything?"

"We saw the same as you, Dad," Sheryl said. She looked at her brother, who nodded in confirmation.
"You OK now, honey?" Freddie asked his wife.
"Y-y-yes," she answered. Fear seized her again. "Let's go, in case it comes back."

"Yeah," said Jason. "Let's find another beach, there's plenty around." He was shaken by the incident, though also intrigued.

"It was horrible, horrible," Mona wailed. "It wasn't human, I swear. Like nothing on earth. Its eyes..."

Sheryl sniffed, wrinkling her nose. "Eurghhhh, what's that smell? Like fish."
"It must have come out of the sea," Mona said.

"It looked like it was wearing a swimsuit, maybe some kind of body stocking." Freddie was about to press Mona for more details of the creature's appearance, then decided she wasn't in a fit state for it.

"Sure it wasn't some sicko in a suit, trying to scare people?" He bristled at the thought. "I'm not gonna stand for it, I tell you. I'm gonna call the police."
"If we do they might just think we're crazy," said Jason. "Are you saying it was some kind of monster, Mom?"
"I don't know. It was just......horrible."

Jason was thinking. "You said it was going through the bag. I don't know why they'd do that if they just wanted to scare people."
"I tell you it was....oh, I can't find the words."
Freddie was by now thoroughly bemused. The main concern, he decided, was his wife's nerves. It'd be best if they got her away from this place as soon as possible.
"Put on your things and get in the car, kids," he ordered, taking charge. "We're going."

The children obeyed. Freddie started the engine and they roared off down the coast in search of a place where hopefully they wouldn’t be molested by srange unearthly apparitions. As the sound of its engine died away the foliage at the fringes of the little wood began to move. The leaves parted with a rustle, and Caroline looked out.

They'd all gone. She drew back into her hiding place with a deep sigh of annoyance. That's that well and truly messed up, she thought.

Would the family tell anyone what they saw? It was difficult to say. Meanwhile, she'd just have to try again.

She could go further down the coast, or attempt to break into one of the houses she'd glimpsed from the sea, as had been her original plan. After a moment she decided on the latter option.

She moved stealthily through the wood, tense and alert, going into a rigid crouch at any loud and sudden noise. She found herself savouring the cool freshness of the place, the smell of earth and rotting leaves, and the sunbeams slanting down through the canopy of leaves above her.

After a while she came to a break in the trees. Through it she saw a cluster of little wooden houses, bungalows with verandahs. The wood went almost right up to them, which was helpful.

A few minutes later, she stepped gingerly from the covering vegetation onto the gravel drive of one of the houses. Cautiously she made her way up it. With any luck there'd be no-one in. If it was all locked up she'd have to find something to break a window with, a stone maybe.

If there was anyone there; guiltily she realised that if it was old folks or someone with a nervous disposition, she might give them a heart attack.

She stopped dead on hearing a dog bark, and hovered indecisively.
With alarming suddenness a massive German Shepherd came hurtling into view around the corner of the house, onto the forecourt in front of her. On seeing her it skidded to a halt, claws raking the gravel, and began to bark furiously.

The dog probably wouldn't attack her, or it would be kept chained up. All the same she didn't feel inclined to take the chance. Dogs were not her favourite animal. Apart from their tendency to do something dirty and disgusting when least desired or expected she was a little scared of them, always had been. The thing was there to frighten people away, and it was working.
It also depended on what the animal saw her as.

Sensing her fear the dog took a few steps towards her, emboldened. It bared its teeth in a menacing snarl. The same to you, she thought.

She took a determined step towards the house. The alsatian padded forward until it was just within arm's length, forcing her to stop. She tried to move around it but it headed her off. It began to circle her warily, in such a fashion that she wasn’t able to get away, all the time snarling and growling. In particular, she sensed, it was her strange appearance which seemed to be upsetting it. Every single hair on its back was standing on end.

Then she remembered. Trying a new tack, she squatted down before the animal and gave it a friendly smile. She filled her head with benevolent, canophile thoughts. Good boy. I don't mean any harm. I won't hurt you. I'm a friend, you understand? Friend.

She stretched out her hand, inviting it to be patted. It stopped circling her, instead studying her in a confused kind of way, its head jerking from side to side. It took a couple more tentative steps towards her, until she was close enough to stroke its muzzle, but still seemed uncertain.

They aren't stupid are they, animals? He knows I'm only trying to win him over so I can get into the house, invade his territory. He can sense it. This only works if you tell the truth.
They're a damn sight better at spotting a lie than people are.

As with the whale she could sense the dog's thoughts, although it couldn't have expressed them in human language. What exactly are you up to? It growled again, suspiciously.

Then from inside the house she heard sounds of rapid, urgent movement. The owner of the place had heard the dog's barking and was going to investigate. Should she try to explain the situation to them?

While she stood there biting her lip the door was flung open and a man appeared, wearing a cowboy outfit complete with stetson and carrying a rifle. He saw her and stopped dead, blood draining from his face. His grip on the gun slackened, its barrel drooping towards the ground.

"Holy fucking mother of God!" he gasped. "What the fuck are
you? What are...."
They stared at one another.

She could sense the waves of fear emanating from the man. And he had a gun.

There was only one thing to do. She spun on her heels, away from him, and sprinted off down the drive, the dog bounding after her.

The stalemate was broken. "Hey!" shouted the man. "Hey!" He took off in pursuit.

Caroline turned off the path and hurled herself into the cover of the wood, disappearing beneath a mass of shrubbery. The dog abandoned the chase, having seen her off, and stayed where it was barking after her to make sure she’d got the message.

Pete Ostrand contemplated the blanket of foliage now hiding the apparition from view, wondering whether to go in after it. The unsettling idea occurred to him that there might be more of these things lurking around. The dog’s reaction told him this wasn’t a hallucination, as he had briefly wondered.

He tried to decide if he should he tell anyone about the encounter. Would they just think he was stark raving buggo?


In the wood, Caroline found a bush and buried herself as deep within it as possible, considering her options. She hoped desperately the man didn’t decide to pursue her. If he did, the dog would sniff her out.

If it came to the worst, she'd just have to tell him the truth and hope for the best. In any case she didn't want to stay an aquanoid forever, eating fish and having to dash in and out of the water all the time. At some point she'd have to find some money to make that call with, or go to the authorities and tell all. But she didn’t want to.
So far she wasn't having much luck, was she?
If the guy went and told all his neighbours, or the police...

She sat down, drew her knees up and wrapped her arms tightly around her calves, curling into a foetus-like ball. She remained in that state for some time, attempting to will herself out of her depression. And aware she would have to return to the water again soon.

Then she heard the faint sound of a car engine. As she listened, she realised it was heading in the approximate direction of her hiding place. There must be a track that led through the woods from the main road. Fortunately she couldn't be seen from it, the greenery here was too thick.

The rumbling of the engine grew steadily louder. Suddenly it changed in pitch; the car had turned off the track and was bumping along the floor of the forest. She heard it judder to a halt, doors opening and shutting as its occupants got out.

Footsteps, accompanied by two voices, those of a man and a woman; both sounded quite young. They weren't moving like hunters, and so couldn't be looking for her. And yet their behaviour was furtive.

A little way from the car the footsteps halted. "That looks like a good place," the man said. "That little hollow over there, behind that bush. I know it from when I played in here as a kid. Nice comfy little hole."
"You sure no-one will see us?" the girl asked anxiously.
"Don't worry. There's no-one about for miles."

A wry smile turned down the corners of Caroline's mouth. It was quite obvious what the couple had come here for. So much for the chastity pledge, she thought.

They wouldn't allow themselves to be disturbed. If she moved very slowly and carefully, making as little noise as possible....

She heard the girl speak again. "What if someone hears us?"
"Not much they can do anyway," the boy assured her. "We ain't breaking the law. This ain't private property. It's not public either, not really. 'Sides, the wood's a big place. Chances of someone finding us are pretty slim."

She heard them fumble with their clothes, stripping them off. The foliage swished and rustled as they snuggled deep down within it. The young woman giggled wickedly. "Hey, you're right. It is comfy here."
"Told you so. OK, let's boogie."

They fumbled with the condom, to the accompaniment of further giggling from the girl. A moment later low moans of pleasure began drifting across to Caroline's hiding place.

She slid out from her bush. Guided by the sounds of intercourse, the stacatto gasping and panting from the man and the soft moaning of the girl, she padded over to the hollow and crouched down low. If she did make a noise they probably wouldn't hear her, engrossed as they were on the task in hand.

The cries of the two assignants rose steadily in pitch and the foliage thrashed with increasing violence as their writhing bodies agitated it. "Oh yehhhh, baby, that's really good....oh yeah...real good. Oh yeah.....oh God. Oh Jesus....."

She saw a large bush which appeared to grow from a shallow depression in the ground. They had left their clothes in two untidy heaps close by it. She tried the man's: as she had hoped his wallet was in the trouser pocket and she unzipped it and sorted through the contents. As before, a few cents was all she needed. With any luck he'd never realise it was missing.

She replaced the wallet and arranged the bundle of clothes so it wouldn't look like they had been gone through. Then, the coins grasped firmly in her clenched fist, she scurried nimbly away from the copulating couple and lost herself once again in the dense darkness of the forest.

Behind her the orgasmic noises rose to their ecstatic crescendo. "Oh! Oh! OH! AH! AH! AH! AAAAAHHHH.......AH! AH-AH-AH-AH-AH-AH......AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!! ARRRRRRR
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.....AAAAAAAAAAA.....mmmmmmmmmmmm."
The post-coital silence fell, and for the moment peace and quiet reigned in the little wood.

Caroline scampered through the trees to emerge more or less where she had gone in. Once again she peered cautiously out from the bushes at the stretch of road before her. Good, no-one about.

The quicker she moved, the less chance there was of being seen. She burst from the bushes, darted across the road and onto the beach, and plunged into the water. She waded out a few yards and then dived.

She swum up the coast for a mile or so, every few minutes popping up to take a look around. She had put the coins in her mouth, there being nowhere else for them to go, and was doing her very best not to swallow them.

Eventually she saw, standing alone by the road on the seaward side, what looked like a phone booth. She guessed the local authorities had deemed it wise to site them at intervals in this lonely spot, in case someone broke down there and was afraid of being stranded.

She remembered it would be very late in the evening by now, in England, and Rachel would probably have gone home. So she waited until, by her reckoning, Rachel would be back at work – until what back home would be the following morning.

Again there didn't seem to be anyone in sight. She rose from the water, and with a quick glance to reassure her she was unobserved hurried over the sand to the booth and slipped inside. She inserted a coin in the slot and dialled the number of Global Datasystems Incorporated, London England. Alias MI6.
"Hello, Security Services?" answered the telephonist.

"I'd like to speak to Rachel Savident please, if she's available. My name's Caroline Kent.”

The woman hesitated,puzzled by the strange, alien-sounding voice. “Er yes, of course. Hold the line, please.”

Caroline had to pop another couple more pennies in the slot before Rachel finally got to the phone. "Caroline! We've all been terribly worried about you. Where on Earth are you? And what exactly's been going on?"

"To answer your questions in that order, (a) I'm calling from somewhere in America, and (b), you'd have to see it to believe it."
Rachel sounded anxious as well as baffled. "Your voice - are you ill? What's happened to you?"

"I haven't time to explain, the pips are about to go. Right now I don't know where I am exactly, you'll just have to try and trace the call. Meet me here as soon as possible, I'll be keeping an eye open for you."

"Oh, er, right. OK. But I must say I'm looking forward to it."
"Try not to involve your bosses, at least not until we’ve spoken. And I'm not ill, not exactly. But I need help pretty quickly - "

The pips went, and Caroline hung up. She stepped out of the booth with another furtive glance to right and left, then ran down the beach and threw herself into the water. This time she would stay there until Rachel arrived. She wasn't going to put herself to any further risk.

One thing was sure, she knew Rachel would be over here as quickly as humanly possible. Rachel had never let her down. It was just a question of waiting, and of hoping that she didn't have to do it for too long.

The Atlantica
As he knew he would in the end, Chris had decided that being a part of the team was the only way he could stop himself thinking about what might be about to happen to the tanker and its crew. He was in the engine room helping fix a pipe which had become loose in its mounting when in his pocket the radio integral with MI6’s homing device started to bleep. “Excuse me a minute,” he told his companions, and abandoned what he was doing. He could sense several of them glaring after him as hurried off.

He found a deserted corner of the engine room, concealed himself behind a generator housing and got out the homing device. Switching to reception mode, he whispered into the receiver grille. “Rachel, is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me. I've heard from Caroline."

Chris' heart leaped. "Oh, that’s great! Where is she? Is she alright?"
"She’s ringing from a beach on the Florida coast. Couldn't stay on the phone too long because she didn't have enough money. I don't quite know what's going on, but there seemed to be something wrong with her voice. It sounded like something out of the Exorcist, gave our telephonist a bit of a turn. No doubt she'll explain everything when we meet."
“Did she seem ill, then?”

“No, not really. I didn’t know what to make of it but I don’t think she’s in any immediate danger, not if I can get to her soon enough.”

Chris felt suddenly very disinclined to go on putting himself at risk. "Do you suppose there's any point in..."
"I still don't know exactly what's going on. It'll have to wait until I see Caroline, which should hopefully be sometime within the next couple of days. But I’ve no way of knowing what she’s going to tell me.”

She heard him whistle through his teeth. "I'll stick at it," he said eventually.
“Good. Take care. I’d better go now, if I’m to catch the next flight to America. See you soon, I hope.” She rang off.

Chris came out from behind the generator and went back to his work, ignoring the bemused or disapproving looks of his colleagues. He told himself he was too far into this to turn back now.

The submarine was an ex-Soviet Navy Kilo Class, built in the early 1980s. She was shorter and stubbier than a modern American or British boat, less streamlined, though with her double hull fairly resilient. 240 feet long, she could accommodate a crew of around 50, though at the moment it wasn’t necessary for her to be carrying more than about half that complement. She had a top speed was 16 knots per hour and could stay at sea for a maximum of 70 days non-stop. Although when Marcotech bought her she was without her armament of six 21-inch torpedoes, they had soon been able to make good that deficiency. They had the contacts.

Once they were on the right bearing 23 degrees SSW of the tanker’s current position, the captain gave the order to shut down the engines and adjust the sub’s buoyancy until she was hovering motionless just fifty feet above the seabed.

The escape hatch in the top of the conning tower opened, swinging upwards, and the creature that had once been Katie Phillipson, assistant to Dr Donald Ivarson, swam out vertically, clutching in both hands a smooth, white, egg-shaped object rather bigger than a rugby ball but at sixty pounds light enough to carry with ease, and fitted with a curved Perspex shield like the windscreen on some motorbikes, plus two lugs which served as handlebars. About two feet long, it was a water scooter, similar in principle to those used in recreational diving but with a much more powerful motor. The right handlebar incorporated the starter, an on-off toggle switch like the trigger of a gun, pressure on which could control the speed at which the scooter was travelling. The shield prevented the slipstream knocking off the operator's face mask, if they were human, or their hands from the controls.

Useful as it was, the scooter did not have nearly enough power to reach the tanker’s location from the colony, or from the nearest land, so the submarine was necessary for the greater part of the journey.

Her swim bladder automatically adjusting her buoyancy, Katie tilted forward into a prone position and hit the starter. She shot away from the Kilo, legs stretched straight out behind her in the current generated by the waterscooter’s passage, but able to kick them enough to give herself added propulsion. The other aquanoids on the Kilo would take her place if any accident should befall her.

She could sense the tanker’s presence without needing to be guided there by the radar on the Marcotech sub. Half an hour later she saw the dim outline of the Atlantica’s keel appear two hundred yards ahead. She gradually decreased the pressure of her hand on the starter button, the scooter’s speed reducing with it, and finally cut the engine. She let go of the device and it sank slowly onto the seabed to be retrieved later.

She swam the rest of the way, and once directly underneath the mid-point of the keel lifted herself back into a vertical attitude, her buoyancy easier to control now the weight of the scooter was not affecting it, and kicked upwards.

When she was right up against one of the metal plates of the tanker’s hull she reached down and unzipped her belt pouch, taking out a plain, flat metal disc a few inches across. Kicking to help keep herself upright, she placed the disc against the hull plate and immediately the magnetic bolts locked it in position. She had no idea why she was doing this, except that she had been told to and could see no reason why she should not obey, especially when there would be rewards for doing so once they were back at the colony, such as an extra helping of food or the chance to mate with the male of her choice. And outings like these made an interesting change from the usual monotonous, if familiar and comforting, round of tasks that made up so much of life at the colony.

Twisting sinuously, she turned her body through a half-circle and pushed off with another powerful kick of her webbed feet. When she had reached a safe distance from the tanker, having picked up the scooter on the way, she descended to the bottom and waited. The other aquanoids were already gathered there, awaiting the moment to move in.

When the limpet mine exploded the ship gave a violent lurch to starboard, at the same time tilting over enough to send Chris Barrett rolling off his bunk to hit the floor with a crash, wrenching him abruptly from his sleep. He disentangled himself from the duvet. At first he wasn’t fully aware what had happened, then heard the alarms and the running feet, the banging on doors, and realised with a cold stab of fear that it had.

Ah well, better rise to the occasion, he thought queasily, and hurriedly dressed. Minutes later he was huddled along with everyone else on the deck of the pitching, rolling tanker, while a roll call was taken and life jackets passed round. It would be some time before the tanker finally sank, so they were in no immediate danger. Not from the sea, at any rate. He could sense the fear and the tension emanating from the other crewmen, seeming to electrify the cold night air.

The evacuation went smoothly enough. Once Captain Tarrant was satisfied everyone was accounted for, they clambered into the lifeboats and were lowered into the fortunately calm waters surrounding them.

Chris got out MI6’s little gadget and called Rachel. “We’re in the water. Something blew the bottom out of the ship, just like all the others.”

He could detect the repressed excitement in her voice. “Right. Keep calling me every half hour or so, if you’re in a position to. If you don’t, I’ll know something’s wrong. Good luck.”

They sat in the boats and waited, for either rescue or whatever other destiny was in store for them. Again Chris found himself entertaining the thought that they might be spared this time. After all, it had been a while since a tanker had last been sunk… maybe the enemy had turned their attention to other things.

Then all at once the fabric of the lifeboats began to heat up alarmingly, as if they were on fire, and along with everyone else Chris was tumbling into the water, desperate to escape from the searing heat. For a few minutes he bobbed up and down in his life jacket, comfortably insulated from the chilly waters by it plus his protective clothing, but now sickeningly aware that they were not to be spared. Whatever significance a development like this had could only be a sinister one.

For a moment he thought he caught a glimpse of a green scaly arm, ending in a webbed hand, thrusting out of the water a few feet away.

He felt powerful arms seize him, start to drag him down. Instinctively he began to struggle, then remembered that he wanted to be captured.

Resist it, he told himself. They’ll think something’s going on otherwise. He resumed his struggling, to no avail whatsoever. The diver’s grip was incredibly strong.

Then the mask was clamped tightly over his face, and the narcotic gas began to hiss into his system. He tried to keep his mouth firmly shut, but there was little he could do about his nostrils. After a moment he gave in to the gas.

This had better be worth it, was his last thought as consciousness slipped away. He had had such sentiments on plenty of other occasions during his acquaintance with Caroline.

The aquanoids formed themselves into pairs, each holding one of the sailors tightly between them, and carried their prisoners down to where the waiting submarine hovered a few feet above the bottom. Its outer airlock slid gently open, and the aquanoids with their unconscious burdens disappeared inside.


THIRTY-NINE
Sheriff's office, Dawsonsborough, Shuttleford County, Florida, USA
Sheriff Gus Benson eyed the man before him sceptically. "Right, let's get this straight. This...fishman..."
"Actually I think it was a woman."
"OK, this fishwoman...." An amused smile had established itself on Benson's face. "You say she was making a telephone call...."

"I saw it with my own eyes," said Larry Boortzin. "I was birdwatching from this hide I'd made. I looked out, saw this thing come out of the water a couple of hundred yards away."

"Maybe she was ordering a pizza," suggested "Chip" Corrigan, Benson's deputy.
"No, not that," Benson said. "Guess she'd want a fish supper."
Boortzin was angry at the police chief's flippancy. "I tell you, I saw her."
"Suppose you did see her, Mr Boortzin. The way I figure it, there's no constitutional amendment which says it's illegal to go around dressed as a fish."
"If that was a disguise, it looked pretty convincing to me," Boortzin said. "The thing is, she could scare people's kids. I wasn't sure if I ought to report it to you but...." He was even less sure now.

Benson seemed happy to let the joke run. Dawson's Bay was a fairly quiet, peaceful, boring place. Now something had happened to liven it up.
He suppressed a childish giggle. "So anyway, she came out of the water, went into the phone booth and then..."
"Well, she made a call. I didn't catch what she was saying, it was too far away, but I’m certain she spoke English."
"Really?"
"Yeah. With a British accent."
"This really beats it," Corrigan said.

"Oh they come in all sorts, these fish people," Benson said cheerfully. "I met a French one the other day. And an Arab one - was gonna run her in as a suspected terrorist. Say, come to think of it, d'you suppose this is some new plot by al-Qaeda?"
"You guys aren't taking this seriously. I tell you, I saw her. The fish woman."
"Yeah, right. You're positive you saw this...mermaid..."
"She wasn't a mermaid. She had legs just like you and me, 'cept she was a sort of a grey-blue colour, with webbed hands and feet. And scales all over her body."
"Oh," he added. "And she wasn't wearing any clothes."
"She was naked?"
"Yeah, butt naked. As naked as the day she was born."
"That's something we could arrest her for, I guess," said Benson, glancing at his deputy. "What d'you reckon, Chip, public indecency? Corrupting the morals of the nation's youth?"

Boortzin went on undeterred. "And she gave off a funny smell, like...well, like fish."
"So when exactly did this happen?" Corrigan was scribbling down notes in a desultory fashion.
“About two o’clock, I think it was."
"Well, I guess we'd better make a note of it," Benson said. "Meantime we'll ask all cars to keep a look out for Fish Woman, first name unknown. Subject is about five foot ten, with webbed hands and feet, and covered in scales."
"I'll see to it right away, Chief," nodded Corrigan, solemnly.
"How do you know it was a woman?" Benson asked Boortzin.
He coughed. "Well, she had....you know."
"Oh, I see."

The birdwatcher brightened. "She left a good set of footprints in the sand. I went back later and took a photograph."
"How do we know you didn't fake them?"
"I suppose you don't," admitted Boortzin lamely.

"'Course," he added with a sigh, "the tide will have washed the prints away by now."
"Very convenient."
"I'm telling you I saw it," he muttered. "Well, if you guys have quite finished with me?"
"Yeah, I reckon that'll be all, Larry. Thankyou for bringing this to our attention like a public-spirited citizen."

Boortzin left. The door closed behind him, and the sound of his footsteps died away. The two lawmen looked at one another and immediately burst out laughing.
"Silly season," remarked Corrigan.
"Guess that's it," Benson agreed. "No, I don't think we need to bother about this somehow."
They could have checked the story, found out who the fish woman was ringing, but he decided it wasn't worth it. All the same, when Benson turned on the TV the following morning and settled down before it with his wife to watch the news over their breakfast, he got a considerable shock.

“Honey, I’m home,” Wayne Goertz, head of all Marcotech Ltd’s operations in the United States, called out as he turned from shutting the front door of his home in a fashionable suburb of Miami.

“Oh, hi,” shouted back his wife. She didn’t sound terribly keen to see him.

Goertz entered the living room to find her sitting gazing abstractedly at the wall. Putting down his briefcase he went up to her, bent and kissed her on the forehead. “You OK?”

Lucy muttered something he didn’t quite catch. “Was that an affirmative or a negative?” he asked.
She got to her feet, looking him straight in the eye. “Wayne, I think it’s time you and I had a talk.”
He affected to look nonplussed. “Oh, sure. What about?”

She took a deep breath. “About which matters most to you right now, me or your job. I’ve hardly seen anything of you these last few months. And when we are together, you seem to spend most of the time sitting staring at the God-damn wall.”
“Like you were doing just now.”

“I had an excuse. I want to know what yours is.” Her manner softened and she stood up, placing her hands gently on his shoulders. “Honey, if something’s eating you why not tell me what it is? A wife’s meant to be a friend, and that’s what friends are for – sharing troubles.”

Goertz said nothing. He looked away from her eyes, focusing on the dark strip at the roots of her hair, travelling straight down the parting.

Falsity. But it was the kind of falseness which had an excuse, because in a relatively harmless sort of way it actually made you feel better about yourself, comfortable with the image you presented. Other kinds had exactly the opposite effect.
“Is it something at work?” she persisted.

Gently he moved her hands away and turned to the TV. “Let’s watch the news,” he suggested. From a glance at his watch he guessed it would be about halfway through.

Lucy gave a sigh of weary disgust. “Yeah,” she said bitterly. “Let’s watch the news.” She collapsed back into her chair.
Her husband switched the set on and took his seat, watching with an exaggerated look of keen interest.

He was similarly fascinated by the television at breakfast the following day. As the usual sorry tale of war, violent crime and domestic dysfunction unfolded he affected to look suitably concerned. After the national news had finished the regional programme came on and Goertz watched that too even though he didn’t usually bother. The presenters started running through the headlines, which didn’t seem particularly interesting and Goertz wondered if it was really worth going to such lengths to maintain his charade.

"We also report the latest sighting of what has already become known as the Fish Woman of Dawson's Bay,” the male newsreader announced.

As Lucy saw her husband give a start and sit up straight, his eyes suddenly alight, she did the same. Her depression evaporating for the moment, she watched him intently as he waited for the full item to come on, clearly impatient. His manner was now entirely different.

Finally they got there. "Yesterday several people reported sighting a strange figure, described as half-woman, half-fish, in and around the coast and neighbouring woodland in Dixon and Shuttleford Counties, Florida.”

Goertz was perched right on the edge of his seat, leaning forward, listening to every word the newsreader said. He could feel his heart pounding with nervous excitement.

"While sunbathing at Hackman’s Point to the north of Miami, a tourist was disturbed by the Fish Woman who seemed to be going through her possessions. When challenged, the apparition ran off into nearby woods."

The picture changed to a talking head of Mona Weissburger, who attempted to describe what she had seen. "It was horrible," she wailed. "I've never seen anything like it in all my life. Oh God."

"A short time later, local resident Pete Ostrand came face to face with the Fish Woman when she approached his house. He believes she may have been attempting to break in."

Ostrand: "I was watching TV when I heard my dog barking, making a helluva noise, so I got me my gun and went out to see what the trouble was. I saw this...this creature or woman or whatever. We stared each other out for a while, then she took off and went into the woods."

A rugged outdoor type told viewers, "I was out walkin' in the woods when I saw somethin' was spookin' my dog. I looked and saw this figure or whatever it was, a few yards away. It looked to me like a woman, stark naked and, er, well-endowed if you'll excuse me. She was moving very carefully, like she didn't want to be seen. I hid behind a tree and kept very still. She kept looking around all the time, but I don’t think she saw me. I didn't realise until later, but it must have been the Fish Woman." He struggled for the words to describe what he had seen: the sylph-like figure moving about its verdant surroundings with the grace and agility of a deer, like some vision from an Edenic paradise.

“The next sighting was by well-known local figure Larry Boortzin, who saw the creature emerge from the sea and go to a phone booth where she appeared to be making a call.” The tone of the newsreader's voice changed to convey the humour of this. Let the viewers make of the business what they would; as long as they were watching, that was what counted.

"From all the various eye-witness accounts, it seems the Fish Woman looks something like this...." They showed an artist's impression of a long-haired female figure covered from head to foot in scales like a reptile's, with fangs and claws. The breasts were omitted for the sake of decency.

"Some have dismissed the whole affair as a hoax. It is understood that local police authorities remain sceptical. But as news of the Fish Woman spreads, more people are coming forward with their stories. A beachcomber reports sighting some mysterious footsteps in the sand, which appeared to have been made by webbed feet and to lead into the sea, near where Larry Boortzin saw the Fish Woman.” A photograph was shown. "Similar footprints have been reported from Kendon, just a few miles down the coast."

The newsreader shuffled his papers. "Well, I don't know what to make of this, but it seems we have here a mystery to rival Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. Write, phone or e-mail us with your suggestions as to what the Fish Woman might be." A number flashed up on the screen.

Goertz felt his excitement - and alarm – continue to mount. An aquanoid. It had to be an aquanoid. It was possible he was mistaken, but...

The Kent girl; it had to be. They'd informed him of her escape and told him to look out for her, just in case she’d come his way. He sat thinking for a bit, then got up and headed for the door. “Excuse me a moment.”
Lucy stared after him in astonishment.

Goertz went upstairs, trying to move at a slow unhurried pace, and then up a further flight of steps between two of the bedrooms to the house’s roomy attic. Part of it served as a spare bedroom, the rest was used for storing assorted items of junk; the two sections were divided by a sliding partition.
He shut the door at the bottom of the steps before ascending.

Once he was sure no-one could hear him, he made a call on his cellphone. “Listen, I think we've found her. It's all over the local news: reports of a "Fish Woman" being sighted around the coast north of Miami."
"What? Where exactly?" demanded Edward Greatrix, almost gabbling in his haste.
“I know the county. I'll get as much information as I can, try and pinpoint a more precise location."
"Do that. As quickly as you can, please."
"Seems she hasn't gone to the authorities," Goertz observed. "Lucky for us."
"She wouldn't. They’d want to take her apart to see how she worked. Maybe she’ll get her mysterious friends to sort it out. Anyway, we’ve got to get her back before she changes her mind.”

Greatrix was bristling with excitement. It would be a long and difficult, probably futile, task to search for Caroline Kent in hundreds of miles of ocean. On land it was a different matter. "We must get to her before anyone else does. What are you waiting for, Wayne? Get moving."

Lucy, standing just outside the door which opened onto the attic stairs, moved softly away on hearing his footsteps pounding down them. She went into the west bedroom and started pottering around there.

Since he hadn’t actually told her where he was going, by her reckoning he couldn’t complain if she came upon him suddenly and disturbed whatever it was he was doing. She had searched the house, intending if questioned to pretend she was looking for something, and soon traced him to the attic room, having found no sign of him anywhere else. She had been about to open the door when she’d heard faint sounds of conversation – unless he’d started talking to himself, he must be phoning somebody – and paused to listen. Before she could make out any of the words, he was on his way down.

“Sweetheart? Lucy? You in there?” He came into the bedroom. Without speaking she turned to face him.
He touched her lightly on the arm. “Honey, I’m really sorry but I gotta go.”
This time she looked merely resigned. “Uh-huh,” she mumbled, nodding slowly.
“Something’s come up back at work, something I have to organize,” he explained.
“You’re going back to the office?”
“Yeah, there’s stuff I need there. Hey, how about we go out for a meal together when this is finished?”
“All right,” Lucy said, trying to sound enthusiastic. Maybe he was sincere about trying to make up. Or maybe it was just a token gesture. Whatever the true state of affairs, the mood of helpless gloom which had enfolded her these last few weeks had gone away now. She couldn’t for the life of her understand what was going on, but somehow felt that at last she might just have the faintest possible indication of an answer.


“Just ring the bell if you want me, Ma’am,” smiled the porter, and went off. The door closed behind him.

Left alone, Rachel Savident stood looking round her rather cramped but smartly furnished surroundings, a momentary feeling of sadness coming over her. Her life with MI6 was often like this; an endless round of hotel rooms she would never see again, people she’d smile at or share a joke with and then forget about as the demands of a job which could take her almost anywhere in the world whisked her along with them.
Was it all getting a bit much for her, perhaps?

For now banishing the thought from her mind, Rachel lifted the strap of her overnight bag off her shoulder, placed it on the bed and unzipped it. Taking out her mobile phone, which had been switched off during the flight from London in accordance with safety regulations, she turned it back on again. Immediately it started to ring.
Rachel sat down to answer it. “Hello?”

It was Commander Bailey. “The signal’s changed course. It does seem to be heading roughly towards the Bahamas area, although it’s still too early to say if that’s where it’s headed.”

“Alright. Keep tracking it and call me immediately anything happens.”
“Will do, out.”

Rachel put down the phone and began rooting about in her travel bag for the map she had bought at the airport. She hoped she hadn’t just condemned Chris Barrett and the crew of the Atlantica to death. At least if she had, it wouldn’t be in vain. Meanwhile…..

She unfolded the map, spread it out on the desk in the corner and drew a circle in felt tip around the area of Dixon and Shuttleford counties, Florida.


Headquarters of Marcotech Miami
Wayne Goertz spread out the map on his desktop, his eyes roving over the area around Miami until he found the spot he was looking for. He tapped it with his finger.

"It was somewhere off here. Going by the reported sightings, we should concentrate our efforts in this area." He produced a marker pen and drew a triangle encompassing the strip of coast between the northern fringes of the city and and the state border with Georgia, plus the adjacent sea for about five miles out.

One of the men gathered round the desk with him nodded. "That's not too far away," he said. "We can have the equipment flown over from here. I’ll see to it.”


Caroline was in the water up to her chest, her sodden hair plastered to her face and forehead. Coming up for air, she had heard the babble of many voices drifting to her on the sea breeze. She glanced landward and saw the crowds gathered on the sand, hoping no doubt to catch a sight of the fabled Fish Woman. Evidently the news was travelling fast.

On the beach the people were milling about in their dozens, chatting sociably. The common interest in the Fish Woman had engendered a kind of comradeship among people who normally didn't talk to one another.

Cameramen, some from the media, some making home videos, were going around filming the scene. A reporter was buttonholing people and asking them questions. There were also a couple of investigators from the Society of Cryptozoology.

People waved to their parents at home, shouting out cheery greetings. Some were there purely so they could get their face on TV or in the papers, and from time to time would stop and stare long and hard at the camera. Others had simply seen the mass of humanity already congregating on the beach and been overcome by an irresistible urge to know what was going on.

The NBC news reporter selected a disparate group of people who were clustered together talking, and did his stuff. "Tell me," he asked one erstwhile citizen, "what do you think of this Fish Woman business?"

"I dunno,” said the man. “Seems she hasn't really done any harm. Reckon they ought to just let her be."
"Why doesn't she show herself?" someone nearby asked.
"Perhaps she's scared someone will put her in a zoo," suggested a ten-year old boy. "I would be."
"What do you think she is exactly?" the reporter asked them.
"I think somebody's been experimenting on people," said one conspiracy theorist, unknowingly stating the exact truth of the matter.

Caroline noted that some of the watchers had binoculars trained on the sea. Hurriedly she ducked out of sight beneath the water.
Bugger it, she thought. Rachel isn't going to show when there are all these people hanging about.
She was trapped by her need to stay close to the water, and to the same basic spot. It made her more vulnerable in the event of something happening to foul things up.

She swam a little further out. With people watching the coast, she was bound to be spotted whenever she surfaced. At the same time, she couldn't go too far out or Rachel might miss her. She swam to what she reckoned was a safe distance and waited.

It wouldn't be safe to leave the water for the time being. At the same time, she knew she'd have to risk it eventually.
She'd just have to be patient.

On the beach some kind of disturbance was going on. One man had suddenly given a shout and pointed out to sea. "Hey, I thought I saw her just then." Immediately they all gathered round him. "You saw her?" said the reporter.
"I dunno," he frowned. "Looked like a person...but I can't be sure. Could have been a big fish, I guess."
They moved away from him.

Caroline swum a bit further up the coast and surfaced again. There were less people here. They were harder to make out at a distance, but she sensed the waves of excitement emanating from them. After a while they began to drift off, having been unsuccessful in catching a glimpse of the Fish Woman. She guessed they'd be back.

A pleasure boat came chugging along, its decks crowded with sightseers. It seemed some enterprising character had already begun chartering special "Spot the Fish Woman" tours. The boat was patrolling up and down the coastline, the people on board scanning the surface through their binoculars. Whether they were serious investigators or just having a bit of fun she had no idea.

She had exhausted most of her underwater time. She had to keep surfacing, but if she did the boat might at some point spot her.

She waited until it had disappeared behind an outcrop of rock and she couldn't be seen from it. Then, before it came back, she dived and swam towards the shore, with the powerful strokes and speed of a human fish.

Once there, she dashed across the coast road and into the woods. She found a little hollow and settled down to wait, pulling the surrounding leaves and branches over her. Nice and comfy, she thought.

After a while she found herself getting hungry again. Her eye fell on a cluster of juicy-looking red berries and she contemplated them with an aching stomach. But who knew, they might be poisonous and in any case she wasn't sure what effect it would have on her altered metabolism.

She heard a rustling in the foliage nearby, and glanced around for its source. She made out a small furry body and a pair of bright gleaming black eyes regarding her curiously. Some kind of shrew or vole.
She could have moved fast enough to catch it.
Oh no, she told herself firmly. I'm not going to do that.
The animal regarded her for a second or two more, whiskers twitching, then turned and scurried off.
Leaves should be OK. She plucked a few and munched them for a while. Nutritious, no doubt, but not very tasty. Unless you were a rabbit.

She waited there in the heart of the wood until the first mild pangs of hydrodeprivation came. She rose and crept away, at the edge of the wood crouching down and once again parting the vegetation around her and peering out.

The sightseers were back. It was becoming a regular thing, a chance to meet people and have some fun. In time it would lose its novelty and they'd find some other source of entertainment, but she didn't want to have to wait until that happened.

It seemed some people were taking it in turns to watch, operating a sort of rota system. One guy seemed to be there all the time, observing the water from a makeshift hide through a pair of binoculars mounted on a stand.
Go on, go away, she muttered beneath her breath. Don't work too hard.
There was no sign of the boat, mercifully. It must have given up for the time being. She waited for it to come round again but it didn't.
She couldn't get to the sea while all those people were massed there. She'd just have to remain where she was, to try and stand it as long as possible. So she went on waiting, eyes fixed on the crowd through the gap in the foliage.
One of them turned, and to her horror she realised he was looking straight at her hiding place. Had he seen her?

Slowly she drew back, easing the leaves gently back into place, and quietly crept back to her hollow.
She stayed there until she could no longer ignore the pains. They were coming more frequently now, and much more sharply. With a hissing sigh she got to her feet again, relieved that necessity had made up her mind for her. Once again she told herself that if it came to the worst she'd just have to tell the truth and ask for help, then take things as they came. With any luck the worst part would be the reporters trying to interview her.
She padded softly back through the forest. In her need to get back in the water as soon as possible, she took less care this time.

She didn't sense the men lying in wait for her until it was far too late. One jumped down from the branches of the tree up which he'd been concealed and landed squarely on the path in front of her. "Whoooooo!" he yelled.

She jumped back with a startled cry, feeling her heart go into overdrive.

She made to dodge round him but he seized her by the wrist. She tried to pull free and almost succeeded but then felt someone grab her from behind, wrapping their arms round her waist. The first man let her go and stepped back. "We got her, boys!" he shouted. "We got her!"

Caroline and her captor staggered all over the place as she struggled savagely to free herself. "Hey, she's strong," the man gasped. "Lend us a hand, guys."

With a desperate heave she broke away from him, stumbled and fell sprawling. Scrambling to her feet, she found herself surrounded by about half a dozen men, casually dressed and rough-looking, who had appeared from the foliage in which they'd been hiding. They formed a tight ring around her.

She recoiled from the strong smell of beer on their breath. It was clear most if not all of them were a little under the influence. Oh no, she breathed, bracing herself to make a fight of it. She could see how it must have begun. A drunken bet; let's see if we can catch the fish woman. We know she comes ashore sometimes and that wood's the only place big enough for her to hide in.

The drink must have worn off a bit by now, but they were too far into this to back off. One of the men, a bearded fellow who seemed to the leader, took a step towards her, a broad grin splitting his face. His eyes gleamed with the sly cunning of the drunk.
"Well, well, waddya know. Look what we've got here, guys. It's the fish woman all right."
"Ain't no mermaid, that's for sure. She's got legs.”
"Great. So we can...."

Another of the men moved a little towards her. "We bin waiting for you, sweetheart."
"Don't be stupid," she snapped. "I've got to get back in the water or I'll die."
They weren't really listening. "Hey, it talks!" shouted the one who had been hiding in the tree. "Love the husky voice, honey. Real sexy."

"So what're we gonna do with her, boys?"
"Just let me go, will you? I can't stay out of the water for too long or I suffocate. Do you understand what I'm saying?" Some hope.

"Guess she's not from round these parts," one man commented, noting the English accent beneath the hissing tones of the Fish Woman’s voice.

To her further alarm Caroline saw that one of the men was carrying a coil of rope. He made purposefully towards her, but one of his friends put out an arm to hold him back. "Wait, let's screw her first. I wanna see what sex with her is like.”

A roar of derision went up from several of the others. "Screwing a fish? You're sick."
"I'm not a fish!" Caroline shouted. "Listen, I - "
"Whatever she is, she looks OK by my book," someone grinned.
"Are we sure it's a woman?"
"It's got titties. And a nice ass. Check out that sweet juicy pair of peaches, will ya?"
"I vote we screw her. Any takers?"
"You try and you'll regret it!" Caroline hissed, snake-like.

"Oh! Oh! Oh! We'll regret it? Hear that, boys? Hey, I'm shakin' in my shoes!"
"That's a suit she's wearin', I tell you. Look closely and you can see the zipper. Whaddya wanna dress yourself up like that for, sweetheart?"
"I don't see no zipper."
"Let's see if we can find it," leered the bearded man.

"What film set you wandered off, babe? Waterworld? Creature from the – no, you ain’t that, are you? Just as well or I couldn’t stick my pecker in you. Say, are there lots of other chicks like you down there in the deep? If there are I’m gonna take up scuba diving. Gonna go diving for a bit of tuna ….“
The inane comments started falling thick and fast.
Caroline felt herself start to panic. "Look, let me go!"

One of the rednecks, not too bright but more sober than the rest, shifted uneasily. At first it had been a bit of fun, hunting the fish woman. He had certainly not meant to hurt her. In all he had simply been curious. "Hey boys, this is going a bit too far," he shouted. The others ignored him.

"Guess there's only one way to find out if she's real or not," the bearded man said. He moved closer still.
"No! Leave me alone, you fool!" Caroline shouted.
"She can't be a fish woman, she talks just like us."

"I am one of you.” She backed away from him, eyes darting from one man to another, her body bent in a protective crouch. "Listen. Marcotech - the marine engineering company - they did this to me. They're...."

"So why don't you tell the cops? We'll take you down the station if you like. Fancy a ride?" They snickered at the deliberate double meaning.
"I don't want people finding out. They'd use me as a guinea pig, experiment on me. You understand what I'm saying?"

She didn't mention that an officer of the British Secret Service was on their way to meet her. These were the kind of people in whom a little knowledge could be dangerous.
They weren't taking any notice of her, anyway. Except, that was, for the guy who had tried to argue them out of it. She looked directly at him, her eyes saying help me.
The man who had got her round the waist, was examining his fingers where they had touched his flesh. "I dunno," he said, referring to the question of intercourse. "She feels sort of cold, slimy."
"That's just what I like. Hoo boy! The wet look really turns me on."
Someone sniffed. "And she smells of fish..."
"Won't bother Doug. He's inta fish, ain't you Doug you pervert?"

Evidently their leader was tired of all the talking. "I'm gonna find out whether she's a real red-blooded woman. Hold her for me, will you boys?"
Against several of them together she was powerless. In a moment they had seized her and wrestled her to the ground, pressing down hard on her shoulders and arms to keep her there. To her rage she felt two of the men grab her legs and start to prise them apart.

The bearded man was ripping off his clothes with frantic speed. "I'm comin' for ya, baby!" he shouted. “I'm comin' for ya!" His friends whooped with laughter, shouting out their encouragement and almost visibly drooling with anticipation.

The man who had tried to call a halt to the proceedings wrinkled his nose in disgust. Unable to hold back any longer, he rushed at his leader and tried to pull him back. Two of the others grabbed hold of him and pulled him off Beardie, furious that he was trying to spoil their fun. He tore free, landed a punch on one of them, and a fight broke out. Meanwhile Beardie was advancing on Caroline, naked from the waist down and very obviously in a state of arousal.

It was proving difficult to hold her down. She wriggled and thrashed with terrifying fury, several times nearly throwing them off. Suddenly one of her powerful legs broke free, and just as Beardie dived on top of her she delivered a savage kick to his jaw, putting behind it all the proportionate strength and stamina of a human-sized fish.

They heard the crack as her foot connected very hard with the side of his face and saw him collapse over her with a high-pitched scream of agony. Both his hands flew to his chin and he leapt to his feet howling like a little child. Such was the others' astonishment that they relaxed their grip on Caroline, forgetting about her for the moment. She bounded to her feet and ran.

Beardie lurched and staggered in all directions, a succession of incoherent half-words, alternating with shrill whimpering noises, issuing from his throat. What he was trying to say was that she had broken his jaw.

One of the rednecks, still gaping at the scene in amazement, was blocking Caroline's path. Before he could recover his wits she punched him full in the face. The blow sent him reeling back, twin streams of blood jetting from his nostrils. He clasped both hands to his injured nose, immediately feeling the warm liquid ooze over his fingers.

She pushed past him and ran on, crashing through the shrubbery where it encroached on the narrow path. Enraged, he flew after her bellowing at the top of his voice. "Hey, you don't do that to me OK?" As if on cue his friends joined the chase, leaving Beardie still crashing about the clearing, naked from the waist down and letting out mad cries of pain and rage. And hearing a nasty squishing sound whenever his jaw moved.

Caroline's one thought was to get back in the water as soon as possible. She was barely conscious of them hurtling along the path after her. Several times she staggered to a halt, gasping and panting, overcome by the pain. It felt like red hot knives stabbing deep into her guts. And whenever it struck it seemed worse than before. Again the fire in her chest was driving the air from her lungs, choking her. Her skin too felt like it was burning.

They had almost caught up with her when she burst from the foliage and sprinted across the short strip of scrubby grass separating it from the road. There were still a few people on the beach but Caroline was barely aware of them; she didn't notice them turn to see what the commotion was, and stiffen in both excitement and astonishment.
"Jesus, it's her! It's the fish woman!"
"Hey, look at her go!"
"Looks like something's spooked her."
Then the excitement turned to horror and alarm. "Look out!"

She could never have seen the station wagon speeding along the road towards her. The driver was conscious only of a figure dashing across the road in front of him, quite oblivious of the danger. Instinctively he slammed his foot down hard on the brake, yelling out a startled expletive. With a squeal of tortured rubber the car screeched to a stop.

The people on the beach saw the bonnet of the car slam into the "fish woman" and send her staggering. She lost her balance, fell and lay sprawled on the road for a moment, apparently stunned. Then she was up and running again, moving at the pace of an Olympic champion. In little more than the wink of an eye she was on the beach, her feet kicking up little spurts of sand, knocking people aside as she raced for the water. One or two tried to grab her but she moved too fast for them.

One punter did manage to seize her by the arm as she flew past him, but she broke free with an angry snarl.By now the hydrodeprivation was sapping her energy. Her pace slowed and she lurched forward in a staggering motion. Losing her way, she stumbled blindly this way and that, before managing with a fierce scowl of concentration to regain her bearings.
"Head her off!"
"Go for it!" someone shouted. "Go go go!"

She tripped, collapsed in the sand and lay there gasping and panting, twisting and writhing. Like a stranded fish.
A woman approached her cautiously and bent over her. "Are you alright?"
"Leave me!" Caroline shouted, struggling to rise.

Realising what the matter was, a solidly built young man in a donkey jacket ran to her. Turning to the others, he thrust out his arms to keep them away. Another man, with an intelligent but vacuous expression, was leaning right over Caroline examining her with interest. He would be blocking her if she tried to stand up.
"Leave her alone," snapped Donkey Jacket. "She needs to get to the water." The punter ignored him.
"I said leave her alone, you asshole." With a resentful look the man stepped back from her.

Caroline picked herself up and ran on, into the sea. She staggered on a few paces, then they heard the wild, ecstatic cry of pleasure as she dived, disappearing beneath the surface with a resounding splash.
A strange silence fell. After a moment a murmur of conversation started up as everyone began discussing excitedly what had just happened.
On seeing the crowds on the beach Caroline's pursuers had skidded to an abrupt halt. Unanimously and without a word to one another they decided to break off the chase, quickly disappearing back into the woods, all except the one who had tried to help her. He waited until the others had gone and then went to join the crowd. Anxiously he began asking people what had happened.

A reporter became aware of his presence and hurried over to him. "Did you see what happened, Sir?"
"I spoke to her," he said. "She said some company or other had made her the way she was. She said she was scared to tell anyone in case they, you know, did tests on her and things."
"Who were those people who were chasing her, do you know?"

He hesitated. If he got his friends into trouble over this, he'd been in trouble with them. "I've no idea. Sorry."
"I swear one of them was bleeding,” the reporter heard someone say. “Looked like something'd bopped him on the nose."
"She's dangerous? Violent?"

"Is there anything else you can tell us, Sir?" the reporter asked.
"Uh, no," said the redneck. "That's all." Several people frowned, sensing he wasn't giving them the full story.
But his words were travelling round the crowd like a ripple, an electric current.

Meanwhile Caroline, head above water, was observing the scene from a safe distance. God, she'd really stirred things up now. Best not to return to land for the time being, and keep well out to sea. Unless maybe she moved on, went further up the coast. But she could guess what would happen if she was spotted. It was quite likely the news would soon be all over America, if not the whole world.

They'd hunt her like an animal. Which is just what I am not, she thought savagely.

And she'd have to make another call to Rachel, to let her know the rendezvous point had changed. That meant stealing more money. But the thought of going through all that hassle again, perhaps getting caught….
Jesus, how long was she going to have to stay like this for?

How long would it take Rachel to get to her? She tried to work it out. Assuming there were no hitch-ups....

Rachel would have the sense to hang on until all the fuss had died down before making contact, and would expect her to do the same. Once again, she thought with a hiss of frustration, there was nothing she could bloody well do in the end but wait.


When Wayne Goertz got home that evening and turned on the TV, the story was on the national news, having by now spread to every corner of America. "New developments in the story that is gripping the nation: the the saga of the Fish Woman of Dawson’s Bay, Florida. About a hundred people who had gathered on the beach there for a glimpse of the strange figure saw her appear from a neighbouring wood and run across the road to the beach, surviving a collision with a car on the way. She seemed desperate to reach the sea, and despite attempts by several of the crowd to catch her eventually succeeded in doing so.

“One local resident spoke of a meeting with the fish woman in which she told him that a company had experimented on her….”

This time there were pictures. Still photos plus a film someone had taken of the Fish Woman as she ran hell-for-leather through the crowd, uncaring about anything but the need to reach the water. She was moving too fast for you to see her face, but it looked like it could have been Caroline Kent alright.

A zoological expert came on to give his opinions on the matter. "Too many people have seen her for it to be a hoax,” he told viewers. “A mass hallucination...possibly. But I don't think so.”

“Couldn’t someone be dressing up in order to play some kind of joke?” asked the presenter.
“There are people who would do that sort of thing, certainly. But I’d say they were taking too much of a risk exposing themselves to all those people on the beach. If they’d been caught, the hoax would have been over.” Unless, of course, they really did need to get to the sea because they really were a Fish Woman who could only spend a limited amount of time on land.
“Is it possible to tell from the film we’ve just seen?”

“Whether she’s real? I’m afraid not. She certainly moves the way a human would. But we’d need an actual physical examination to be sure, so unless she’s willing to oblige…”
“What are we to make of these rumours about a company experimenting on her?”
“Well if she really does exist, the Fish Woman, then the story about the experiments could be true also."
"Could somebody really have done that?"

"I…I really don’t know. If they could, they must be pretty good at their job, that’s all I can say. It’s….feasible, maybe.”
We’ve got to find her fast, thought Goertz.

He was still lost in anxious thought when the programme came to an end. The sound of his wife’s voice caused him to snap out of it. “Wayne…”
“What’s up, honey?” he smiled, turning to her.

“Wayne, if you wouldn’t mind just turning off the TV for a moment…there’s something I have to tell you.”
“What’s that?” Goertz asked, uneasily.
“I’m leaving, Wayne. I’m sorry but I’ve had enough. I’m going to stay with my mother for a few days, and then….well I, I don’t know right now. But I’ve had enough.”

He gave a start. He hadn’t been planning to lose her just yet. Or at all, really.
“Lucy, I thought we’d agreed to try and sort things out. We were going out for a meal tomorrow evening. What the heck’s going on?”
Lucy shifted awkwardly, biting her lip. “I…I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I just think we…we’ve grown too far apart lately. I want to start all over again. I don’t think – “ She didn’t sound that convincing; certainly not to him, and probably not to herself either.
“I’m going to pack a few things together and then leave,” she said firmly, turning quickly away. “I’d be grateful if you didn’t try to stop me.”

He stared after her as she hurried from the room, puzzled and unsettled by this wholly unexpected development. Then he got it. Lucy had noticed his reaction when they first heard about the Fish Woman; and now they’d said on the news she was rumoured to be the product of genetic engineering by some company. Perhaps a company like his, which would certainly have the know-how if anyone did.

Lucy felt she was getting in too deep. She wanted to tell someone about her suspicions that Goertz was mixed up in something unethical but was afraid what he might do if he guessed them. He made his decision there and then, knowing that if there was a struggle and she cried out the neighbours might hear.

Moments later he burst into their bedroom, where Lucy was hurriedly cramming various items of clothing and other personal possessions into a suitcase on the bed. “Lucy,” he cried. It was a better tactic than creeping up softly behind her, which would only alert her if she sensed his presence or a loose floorboard gave him away.

“I told you not to try to change my mind, Wayne,” she sighed, not turning round. “I think it’d be better for both of us if you just ….”

In his hand was the silver statuette he had been given as a prize for leading his high school baseball team to victory in the annual Divisional Tournament, years ago. He smashed it down on the crown of her head, causing her to fold in two and crumple to the floor, dead or unconscious. Then he hit her again, and again, and again, until he was sure from the amount of blood that she was gone. She was just small and light enough for him to bundle her into the suitcase; the bloodstained carpeting and bedclothes he crammed into several plastic bags. Later, at three o’clock in the morning when he knew the neighbours would all be asleep, he carried it all out to the car and put it in the boot.

He had spent the interval trying to think of a suitably lonely spot where the body could be disposed of, eventually settling for a patch of woodland about ten miles away, where he and Lucy used to walk together. When he got there the place was completely deserted, as it ought to be at such an hour. With the aid of a torch he managed to find his way to a clearing in roughly the centre of the wood where the two of them had once lain down and made love, one balmy summer night not long after they were first married. There he dug the hole and consigned his wife to her last resting place, beneath the ground where their bare feet had once seemed to laugh as they tripped over the soft springy grass, savouring the deliciously natural feel of it against exposed skin.

He lingered at the spot for a while, without quite knowing why, before returning to the car and driving back towards home. On the way he started to think about how best to explain his wife’s disappearance. Marcotech would help, of course. What they couldn’t do was to make him feel better about what he had just done. But of course there’d been no choice. No choice….


FORTY
Sheriff Benson plodded along the beach, hands in pockets, trying to decide what to make of this Fish Woman business. All manner of conspiracy theories, many of them fantastic, were being put forward. She was one of a lost race of Atlanteans, or an alien from a planet whose surface was entirely under water, or a mutation caused by the dumping of radioactive waste at sea. For his own part Benson didn't know what to think, in the end; when all was said and done he could have only one concern in the matter, and that was to do his job.

For events had taken what might be a nasty turn. Benson had thought it wise to request regular coastguard patrols, with helicopters, and station officers on the beach armed with guns firing tranquiliser darts. The place had been cleared of sightseers, who’d probably have gone away soon in any case as the novelty of the affair wore off.

This was a small town, little more than a village, in which everyone knew everyone else and nothing out of the ordinary escaped notice for long. What a doctor couldn't tell him because of the rules on confidentiality Benson could pick up from rumour and gossip. At about the same time as the incident on the beach a local resident named Kenny Montane, a real bad character, had been taken to hospital by some of his friends suffering from a broken jaw. He was notably reticent about how he'd come by the injury.

If the fish woman, who personally he had nothing against, had smashed in Montane's kisser then bully for her. But he'd his duty to consider. There might be other incidents like this, incidents in which people could get hurt. He understood the Fish Woman's fears but he had a brief to protect the public, as well as ensure her own safety.
Why had she come ashore, anyway? What did she want?

If they caught her they'd try to help her, of course. But he reckoned that after what had happened in the woods and on the beach, and the subsequent police activity, she'd probably avoid the area from now on.

He wondered who she was, had been before someone interfered with her biology. If that was the explanation for all this. It was certainly the weirdest thing he'd ever had to deal with in twenty years of law enforcement.

Benson frowned. He should have spotted Hanrahan, the officer detailed to patrol this section of the beach, by now. But there was no sign of the guy. What the hell had happened to him?

He looked up at a droning noise high in the sky. There was the helicopter, at least.
Again he frowned. He couldn't tell for sure at this distance, but those didn't look like police markings.
He could see the patrol boat out in the bay. He could see at least three patrol boats in fact, which puzzled him. They hadn't asked for more than one. And their markings, like those of the helicopter, seemed unfamiliar.


For the first time he became aware of the sound of an engine, and saw the distant shape of a beach buggy moving in his direction. He carried on walking until, a few minutes later, it came to a halt just in front of him. In the front sat two men in the uniforms of the National Guard. The non-driving Guardsman dismounted and walked towards Benson.

"National Guard," he said unnecessarily. "Sorry, Sheriff, but we're taking over this job from you."
Benson's eyes widened. "Uh, I see," he muttered. "Mind if I ask why? At present I think we're fully able to handle it."
The man smiled helplessly. "I'm don't know why, Mr Benson. But those were my orders."
What the heck is going on? Benson thought. Weird as this business is, it's not as if it was a Goddamn national emergency.
"How did you find out about it?" he asked.

"Well, it has been on the news quite a lot," smiled the Guardsman. The tone of his voice changed ever so slightly. "Now if you wouldn't mind."
Benson stared at him, shrugged. His not to reason why, he supposed. If they wanted to take it off his hands, that was their concern. He did feel a little disappointed, though.

With a curt nod to the Guardsman he turned on his heels and stomped off. "Oh Hanrahan, I forgive you," he murmured once out of earshot, and got out his cellphone. Calling the station, he was told that the Guardsmen had arrived at the scene a few minutes our before he did and ordered everyone clean away, simultaneously with the National Guard Bureau phoning the station to give notification that they were taking charge.

He was later to learn that no such call had been made, as far as was known, from the Bureau’s office, and certainly no authorisation had been given for the Guard to take over the Fish Woman case from the local authorities. Like Benson, the Bureau were frankly puzzled as to why anyone should ask them to do so.

Caroline had sensed the vibrations from the launches, the sounds of their engines in the water, and seen both them and the helicopter when surfacing, although on that occasion they had not seen her as far as she could tell.

She glanced towards the shore, and saw the men with guns now standing there, the patrolling buggy.
Her heart sank and she swore softly. Damn. They wouldn't go away, she was certain of that; not just yet. And while they were there they would prevent Rachel from getting to her. Her only chance was to keep trying to evade them, prolong the chase long enough for them to get tired and give up; or for someone to get suspicious and realise what was going on.

They must be Marcotech, she guessed, and Marcotech were operating without the consent of the legitimate authorities, if not beyond their control altogether. Her only other option was to try to reach the small town she could see nestling in a kind of natural harbour several miles to the north. This time she'd go to the police, or to somebody, and tell them everything. She'd had enough running around. But whatever happened she wasn't going back to the colony.

She could swim beneath the launches, of course. And when on the surface she would know where they were from the currents they set up. But though faster than any human swimmer, she still couldn't outrun them. One consolation was that they couldn't easily shoot from a fast-moving boat, only head her off.

Her best hope was to stay underwater, which apart from anything else would prevent her being spotted, and there lay the problem. She was getting dangerously short of air time.

She submerged, held her breath for as long as possible, and then surfaced again, to stay above as long as she dared, diving whenever any of the launches or the helicopter turned in her direction; she could usually tell if they did so by the pitch of their engines, even if they were out of her eyeline. As she kept on doing this the distant town grew steadily larger before her.

Meanwhile, the driver of the buggy was calling his colleagues in the helicopter. "Any sign of her yet?"
The pilot's voice crackled back. "No. You?"
"The same."
"OK," he said and cut off.

The buggy was there mainly to keep people off the beach, but at the same time his passenger kept scanning the sea for any sign of Caroline, the peak of his baseball cap shielding his eyes from the sun.

They passed a specially built hide where two more men, one of several pairs stationed at intervals along the coastline for some five miles, were pointing their binoculars towards the wood. The buggy pulled to a halt beside them. "Any luck, boys?" he shouted out.
One of the two lowered his binoculars. "No, nothing. It looks like she's avoiding the land from now on."
"Keep at it. We gotta make sure." He trod on the brakes and drove on.

A couple of hundred yards out the helicopter circled above the bay, every few minutes sweeping low over the water. And the launches, eight in all, continued to comb the area of their search, some patrolling its perimeter while the others criss-crossed the sea within, the men on board training their binoculars on the water.

The bay had been cleared of all non-Marcotech vessels and the road cordoned off for four miles in either direction. All in all it wasn't likely they were going to be disturbed.

Altogether the forces of Marcotech were spread out over an area of about thirty miles. That was about as far as they could cast the net. Any wider and they might be spreading themselves too thinly, running the risk of missing her. Of course, it was possible they already had.

The man in the passenger seat of the buggy continued to scan the waves before him with a precise, almost inhuman patience, the sort that can only be ingrained by rigid discipline.

It was when she surfaced for air that Caroline would be most vulnerable. A brief moment or two was all it would take to get a fix on her.

In one of the launches Kevan McDermott, the ex-Delta Force man in charge of the operation, tossed his spent cigarette over the gunwhale and watched it drift lazily away.
"Remember what Mr G says about pollution," warned his companion, a former Marine named Calvin Westman.
"He ain't here to complain about it," snorted McDermott, and resumed his watch of the sea around them. A minute or two passed. "Hey!" he shouted suddenly.
Westman sat up sharply. "Got her?"

"I saw something that looked like a swimmer. They surfaced for a moment then went down again. They're staying under longer than you normally do."

Westman grabbed for his radio. "Did you get that, guys?" The radio was multi-way so those in the helicopter and the launches and on the beach could all hear what was being said at the same time. "Sure did," they chorused.

"Bearing 35 degrees NNW." Above the launch the helicopter wheeled and changed direction.
Again McDermott lifted the binoculars to his eyes. And gave a start of excitement. "There it is again!"
"Sure it wasn't a seal?"
"Could have been. Bring her in a little closer, will you? 'Bout fifty yards."

He grabbed hold of the side of the launch to steady himself as it turned sharply, heading towards where he thought he had seen the fugitive. Again he glimpsed the dark, rounded object break surface, and this time he was certain. A little of the body was also visible and he noted the fluting of the back which gives the human form its distinctive, and aesthetically pleasing, outline.
He gave a whoop of triumph. "Think we got her."
"Yeah, we saw her too," said the chopper pilot.

The launches slowed to a halt, cut their engines. In each, one of the occupants swiftly donned a diving suit and then picked up the waterscooter which lay at his feet. Once each man was fully kitted up he sat on the gunwhale, the scooter cradled in his arms, and fell over backwards into the water. He twisted over onto his stomach, kicking to keep himself afloat, grabbed the scooter and hit the start button.

The divers streaked along underwater at the maximum speed a human could endure, converging on the point where Caroline had been spotted. Each man carried spearguns, firing tranquiliser darts, attached to his belt.

The launches started up again, and they too converged on the point where Caroline had been seen, the divers taking care to keep well below them. The idea was to trap her inside an ever decreasing circle, launches on the surface and the divers with their waterscooters beneath.


In the water Caroline sensed the vibrations and felt a pang of dismay. Divers; lots of them, coming at her from all directions, and travelling with a smoothness which suggested some kind of powered assistance. Probably water scooters, able it seemed to go a lot faster than those currently on the open market. With those, they could travel through the water every bit as fast as she could.
Bad news.

Had she been spotted already? If they had a fix on her position, it would only be a matter of time before she was cornered.
She guessed that since Marcotech, to give them their due, preferred not to kill people unless absolutely necessary the guns probably fired some kind of tranquiliser dart. But once they were within range, they would use them.

Well, let's give you a run for your money, she thought. Diving again, she kicked off towards the distant town. Just before she went down she noticed that the men standing up in one of the launches had a net strung out between them.

After a minute, the need for air drove her to the surface again. She swam on in a powerful breaststroke, gulping in as much air as she could every time her head was out of the water.

Ahead of her and to the west she saw the outline of something big emerging from the water, a huge grey mass of rock rising straight up from the bottom. A small island. She'd noticed it earlier when surfacing to take a look around. It was joined to the mainland by a narrow causeway submerged except at low tide; and the tide right now was high.

The helicopter buzzed her, the downdraft from its rotors flattening out the waves and driving her beneath. The pilot was skilled: a foot or two lower and he'd have taken her head off. She could guess their intent. Give yourself up or we'll force you to stay below until your air runs out, as they knew it must eventually.

She had no idea whether any of the divers had spotted her yet. One of them - no, two - were within a few hundred yards of her, and closing fast. The others were some way further off.

Should she make for the coast? They probably had that covered too. If she surfaced to make sure they'd see her. And once she was out in the open....

She came up again, gasping for breath. And again the helicopter banked towards her, driving her below.
She was running out of time, out of air, out of luck.

Only one chance. As the helicopter swung away, prior to making its next approach, she surfaced once more, took several very deep breaths, submerged again. And made for where she knew the island to be.

She swam round the huge jutting mass of rock, keeping it between her and the Marcotech vehicles. By the time she was sure she was in the right place, her heart and lungs were on the point of bursting. She came up with a great shuddering cry of relief and once the painful heaving of her chest and lungs had subsided took a look around. She couldn't see the helicopter or the launches, the island hiding them from her view. Which hopefully meant they couldn't see her.

Before coming up she had sensed the other divers, further away now but positioned between her and the town, cutting her off from it, in case she decided to make for there.
But they must have anticipated she'd head for the island. Maybe no-one was stationed there because they didn't want to spread themselves out too thinly.
It didn't offer much scope for concealment. They'd be bound to catch her in the end. Unless perhaps....
She rose dripping from the water and stepped onto the rocky little beach which fringed the island. It seemed she was out of sight from the watchers on the shore, at the moment.

Hugging the wall of rock, she began to work her way cautiously around it. She found a fold in the rock where there was a kind of crevice and slipped inside it. It would shield her from the view of anyone in the helicopter, should it decide to circle the crag. Or from the launches if they did the same. But she hadn't bought herself much time, because they'd surely work out what she’d done eventually.

She listened to the sound of the helicopter's rotors, and heard the aircraft sweep by the island. She slid out from her crevice and continued to work her way round the crag, her wet feet slipping and sliding on the rocks and stones beneath them.

She rounded a corner of the crag and tensed with excitement. Her supposition was confirmed. She'd thought she'd seen it when she first noticed the island; a deep indentation in the rock, ten feet high and fifteen wide, within which only a mass of blackness was visible. A cave; it looked just right for her purposes although from here there was no way of telling how far in it went. And it was between two projecting spurs of rock which screened it from the beach unless you happened to be looking at a particular angle.

She waited by the cave mouth, listening. Whenever the sound of one of the launches, or of the helicopter, suggested it was approaching close to the island she darted inside and buried herself deep in the darkness, pressed against the wall and listening, until she was sure it was safe to venture out.

"OK, thanks. Keep searching for another half hour." McDermott stowed away the underwater cellphone. "No luck," he sighed. They've had no sign of her. Can't figure out why, she'd need to come up for air by now." He surveyed the sea around them, and the coast, with a frown of annoyance.

Calvin Westman was doing the same. Suddenly he yelled out in triumph, pointing, as his eyes fell on the the thrusting mass of rock over to the west. "The island! That’s where she must be!"

"We should have put someone there," McDermott said. He reached for the cellphone again. "We think she's on the island. Might be trying to get to the mainland, by that causeway. Two of you - Frank and Johnny - get over there right now. Gino, go stand on the causeway to cut her off."

"Sure thing," the three men answered in unison. Gino, who had been among the watchers on the beach, ran to the causeway and took up position half way along the curving finger of masonry. Frank returned to his launch, then Johnny gunned the motor and sent the boat round in a wide arc towards the island. The rest of the divers would continue their own search for the moment, just in case Westman was wrong.

It could be a shark had got Caroline, or she'd met with some accident, maybe become caught on a wreck - there were a few about the coast at this point - while trying to hide from them in it. They'd go on looking until they were sure.

In the cool, damp darkness of her cave, Caroline waited. It seemed she still hadn't been spotted, but her luck was bound to run out eventually.

The cave was quite large, but the rear wall was solid apart from a narrow fissure nowhere near wide enough to admit her. She’d have to come out sometime in any case.

She heard the sound of a launch approaching the island from the other side. It slowed, the engine cut off and died away with a splutter. Just one launch, with hopefully no more than a couple of men inside it. But they'd guessed where she was, alright.

With any luck the other guys would have been told to go on searching elsewhere. They wouldn't be keeping an eye on the island right now.

She heard the sound of someone getting out of the launch. Leaving her hiding place she moved cautiously in the direction they had come from, towards a ridge of rock which projected forward just to the left of the cave, partly overhanging the narrow path formed by the sparse beach of shingle and pebbles around the island. She trod carefully, anxious not to scuff the pebbles and make a noise.

There were enough ledges and indentations in the sloping fold of rock for her to lever herself up onto the overhang. Fortunately the sun had dried her out a bit so she wasn't quite as slippery. Moving as far back as possible, she went down on all fours and waited, heart pounding with nervous tension.

Eventually the men's voices became audible. One was American, the other English with a London accent.
"Must be round the other side."
"Maybe she keeps moving round the island, so we'd never spot her."
"Nah, the others would see her too easily. She's round here, I'll swear to it."

They came round the left-hand spur into her view. One of them was still wearing his exposure suit. On seeing the cave they stopped. "She must be in there," said the American.
"Best place," the Englishman agreed. "OK, let's take a look. Better be careful though."
They made towards the cave, ignoring anything that might be crouched on the overhang, above their eyeline.
Caroline was crouching almost flat, her grey-blue skin blending in with the surrounding rock and giving her an element of camouflage. Her lips had curled back in a mocking grin of triumph. Stupid men.

She sprang, leaping through the air with ape-like agility to land right on top of the pair, knocking them both to the ground. The speed and suddenness of the attack took them completely by surprise. They dropped their stun guns and before either of them could react Caroline had jumped back, as she did so snatching up one of the weapons from where it had fallen and kicking the other out of reach.

As Frank, the English one, started to get up Caroline shot him with the stun gun. She heard the "phutt" of compressed air as the dart left the muzzle and embedded itself in his neck just above the hem of his wetsuit. He crumpled and lay still. The American just had time to glance around wildly for his own weapon before she did the same to him, the dart penetrating the thin nylon of his shirt and sending him into oblivion.

She dragged the unconscious bodies into the cave, making sure they were right inside and so less likely to be spotted. Then, taking the stun gun, she crept round the island in search of Frank and Johnny’s launch.

On the causeway, watching the island through binoculars, Gino saw her appear from behind the left-hand spur. He was too far away to shoot her with his stun gun. He called Frank and Johnny, and was concerned to receive no reply. Guessing what had happened, he began creeping along the causeway towards her, aware that if he ran she'd hear him. Once she was within range....

Now that she wasn't screened by the spur of rock, Caroline knew she was at greater risk of being spotted. She glanced anxiously to her left, saw Gino and broke into a run. Gino did the same.

Her feet slithering over the wet pebbles, on which she was constantly slipping, she rounded the south-west corner of the island, just as an anaesthetic dart missed her by inches and lodged in a crevice in the rock. She was out of the Marcotech man's view now, hopefully buying herself precious minutes. How many minutes exactly she couldn't say. But he'd catch up with her before very long. And the helicopter or the launches would now be sure to spot her, if not perhaps immediately. But before her in a little cove she saw the launch, bobbing gently up and down. She waded through the water as fast as she could, jumped into the boat and started the engine.

It took her a moment or two to master the controls; though she'd been in one of these things before, as a passenger, her ideas of how they worked were a bit vague. She relied on her good memory and the truth that being in a desperate situation tended to concentrate the mind wonderfully.

Caroline swung the boat round, revved the engine up to full throttle and pressed the starter lever. Gino came round the corner just in time to see her shooting away into the distance, out of range of his dart gun.

He radioed his friends, to find they'd already spotted her. He decided to go and look for Frank and Johnny, and McDermott agreed.

The other launches were converging on Caroline's from all sides, attempting to surround and head her off. She was sure she felt a knockout dart zip through the air close by her. Her one advantage was the difficulty of hitting a moving target. But sooner or later she knew they'd get lucky.

In the bottom of the boat was the water scooter. She picked it up and inspected it briefly. She'd used one of these things before, not so long ago, while snorkelling. Any skilled diver could operate one after just a few minutes of instruction. She had gained some valuable air time on the island, and could stand being submerged for a while. Holding the scooter out before her, she jumped from the speeding launch into the water and dived. She gunned the scooter's motor up to full, and grinned in delight as she streaked away, scything through the water at an exhilarating pace. Nippy little things, these. Must try it again sometime, if I ever get out of this.

Normally, a scooter towed divers at no more than two to three miles per hour, about the same speed that you could attain using your fins. The Marcotech divers must be men of exceptional strength and fitness, specially selected to use these high-powered versions. It seemed her augmented body could handle the stresses even better, giving her another crucial advantage.

Generally the device was easy to handle. By angling it slightly, or even just turning your head, you could get it to tow you in any direction.

With the advantage of speed the odds had been evened. And now there was a gap in the ring of divers encircling her, because she had knocked out two of the enemy; Frank and Johnny weren't available. To make up for it Marcotech had to spread themselves out further, and that gave her a chance to slip through their net.

If she could just get far enough up the coast to be beyond Marcotech's cordon, before her air ran out again...

Minutes passed with no sign of pursuit. She decided it was time to surface and take her bearings, to find out how close she was to town. She made the mistake of stopping the scooter straight away instead of first slowing it down. The sudden abrupt halt sent a jarring shock through her body and caused her to let go of the scooter. She was catapulted some distance through the water, arms and legs flailing.

Recovering, she swam back to where the scooter had sunk to the bottom, lying half buried in the silt. That was one valuable lesson learned, she thought. Treat these things with care.

She surfaced, taking a deep breath for good measure, and glanced to land. She was about three miles from the little town; with the scooter it wouldn't take her long to cover the rest of the distance.

Once there she should be safe, from Marcotech at any rate. They wouldn't want to attract too much attention.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the helicopter swing round and dip towards her. Uh oh, she thought. It's seen me. She submerged again, started up the scooter and shot on her way.
The helicopter pilot immediately sent out the alarm. "Just spotted her, bearing of 47 degrees north."
McDermott considered his next move. "Everyone back on board the launches," he ordered. The boats cut their engines and waited. Minutes later the divers appeared at the surface, their scooters having covered the distance to the launches in no time. They clambered on board, and McDermott told the launches to converge on a point a few degrees north of where Caroline had been seen.

The scooters were fast, but the launches were faster. Even if Caroline guessed their intent she couldn't outrun them, not without doing fatal damage to even her modified body.
"You're sure she's still heading this way?" asked Westman.
"Yeah. She's trying to reach the town," McDermott said.
When they reached the spot he had indicated the divers took their scooters and went down again.

Twenty feet below them, Caroline's brain sensed a confusing jumble of signals that threatened to overwhelm it. They'd picked up her trail and were all converging on her position. She stopped, this time remembering to slow first, reorientated herself and restarted the scooter, shooting off to the right.
On land she'd be a sitting target. She had to lose them in the open sea.
Then suddenly it seemed the water around her was full of divers. They were coming at her from each side and from behind, and their speed of course matched hers.

She presumed they carried stun guns on them somewhere. Their problem of course was that to use them, they'd have to stop or let go of the scooter. Emboldened by this thought, she sped on. Several of them tried to get off a shot at her, but she moved out of range too fast for the darts to find their mark.

She found a Marcotech diver drawing level with her. Suddenly he let go of his scooter and as she started to flash past him grabbed her tight around the body, pinning her to him in a savage bear hug. The pull of her scooter broke his grip and she slipped from his grasp, leaving him far behind.

Another diver, managing to get a couple of yards behind her, let go of his scooter, its momentum carrying him on a little further and compensating slightly for the loss of speed. He drew the stun gun from his belt, aimed it at her and fired.

And got lucky. A second before she would have passed out of range the dart struck home, and Caroline felt a sharp pain in her leg.
To her horror she realised what it was.

All at once the leg felt numb, lifeless. And the wooden, dead sensation was creeping steadily throughout the rest of her body.

Teeth gritted, she held on even tighter to the scooter's handgrip, letting the machine carry her on, and fighting the effect of the dart every inch of the way. She ploughed blindly on, leaving her pursuers far behind, before her numbed fingers finally lost their hold, slipping from the handgrip.

The chilling thought that she might drown before Marcotech could locate her galvanised her into action, sending adrenalin coursing through her body and for a moment overriding the effects of the drug. With a desperate burst of strength she kicked upwards.

Her head and shoulders broke surface and she splashed about frantically, arms windmilling as she sought to attract the pursuers' attention, wherever they might be. She kicked out, performing rapid circular movements with her legs in her frantic struggle to stay afloat.

It was one of the launches which spotted her first. The man in its bows saw her surface, then sink, then surface again, floundering.

The launches slowed as they closed in on Caroline, forming a circle around her. The man in the nearest launch threw out a net and she felt its folds wrap themselves around her, entangling her arms and legs. A diver scrambled onto the boat and joined him, the two of them pulling hard on the ropes and drawing the net tight until their catch had been hauled up over the side and into the boat. She thrashed about for a moment or two, then one of them bent over her with a metal rod in his hand, like a cattle prod.

He touched the taser to her shoulder. Caroline jerked sharply, her mouth opening in a cry of shock, and went limp. Her eyelids fluttered, then closed.
McDermott called the helicopter. "It's OK, Jim, we got her."
"Yeah, I saw. Well done, boys."

All the divers were soon back in the boats. "I guess we can all go home now," McDermott announced. "We'll meet up on the beach. You can get back to base now Jim," he told the chopper pilot.

The man had fallen silent, as if something had happened to distract his attention. "Hey Jim, you there?"

"Yeah, I'm here alright. It looks like the boss guy's sent some reinforcements. Shame they got here a little too late."

McDermott turned to see the three motorboats heading towards them. As he did so he noticed, at the periphery of his vision, something in the sky to the east that hadn't been there a moment before. Another helicopter.

The other boats slowed, then just before stopping turned so they were side on to the Marcotech boats. Like the chopper they lacked insignia. But instead of T-shirts and jeans, he saw that the men on board wore black military-style combat jackets. He certainly didn't know any of them.

And what was more, they were all carrying M16 assault rifles, held ramrod-straight and aimed point blank at him and his companions. The Marcotech employees stared at them in shock. "Hey, what's going on here?" McDermott demanded angrily. "Who the hell are you?"

His words were drowned by the boom of a thunderous explosion. He spun round, to see the wreckage of the Marcotech helicopter falling towards the sea in blazing fragments.

It registered that just before the explosion he had been aware of a whooshing noise as of something travelling very fast through the air towards the chopper. Ground-to-air missile, he thought feverishly. Probably fired from a vessel out to sea.

The men in the black combat jackets opened fire, spraying the cluster of Marcotech boats with their bullets. McDermott staggered against the gunwale, keeled over it and fell into the water. One of the Marcotech men managed to get off a wild shot with his dart gun, but it failed to find its target. Then a hail of bullets slammed into his chest and ripped it to pieces, the impact flipping him over backwards. He fell sprawling in the bottom of the launch, other bodies landing on top of him as his comrades dropped like flies.

The operation was precisely co-ordinated. At exactly the same moment that the helicopter exploded, and the men in the boats were slaughtered, other shots fired from the woods took care of the watchers on the beach and in the buggy. The Marcotech men patrolling the woods were ambushed while on their way back through them to rejoin McDermott’s party.

Having found the unconscious bodies of Frank and Johnny, Gino had stayed by them waiting for them to come round. The sound of the explosion had drawn him from the cave. As soon as he appeared on the other side of the island, looking round for its cause, he too was shot down.

The newcomers boarded each of the boats, checking that everyone on them was dead. Then one by one they rolled the bullet-ridden corpses into the water, joining those that were already there.

When the job was done their leader spoke into his three-way radio, calling first the man in the helicopter. “Coast clear, Don?”
“Yeah, no problem. You got her then?”

“We sure have. Opposition well and truly eliminated. How about you guys on the beach?”
“We’ve taken care of them all. No sign of movement anywhere.”
“Guess we can all go home then. See you back at base.”

He signalled to a couple of his men, who stepped onto the lead Marcotech boat, picking up the net with Caroline in it between them. They passed their burden to two of the men in the lead launch, who laid it gently down in the bottom of the boat. The leader studied Caroline’s unconscious form for a moment and grunted, satisfied she wouldn’t be causing any trouble for now.

While his colleagues returned to their own boat he seated himself at the controls of his launch. Starting the engine, he wheeled it round till it was facing out to sea, then raced away at top speed, the other boats following just a few yards behind.

Gradually the sound of their engines receded into the far distance, and silence fell across the bay. The water lapped gently at the abandoned Marcotech boats, and at the dead bodies of their occupants.

The wake left by their passage disappeared and the waters of the bay settled, peace and quiet reigning over it once more.


FORTY-ONE

Prior to the main invasion of Pakistan members of the SAS and of Delta Force, its US equivalent, infiltrated the rebel-held north of the country to make contact with Musharraf supporters there, win hearts and minds and organise resistance against the militants.

Then shortly afterwards, at 09.00 hours GMT, the Allied forces with the Americans in the lead had begun moving north along the main highways through the Indus Plain towards Islamabad. Simultaneously air attacks began on rebel strongholds and training camps in the west, in and around Quetta, Kalat, Drug, Kharan, Dalbandin, Nokkundi, Pishin and Chaman. Great care was taken not to stray over the Iranian border and further inflame tension in the Middle East through causing “collateral damage” there.

The advance towards Islamabad was thought unlikely to present major problems, since the low-lying countryside permitted speed and the Pakistani army wasn’t much to speak of in comparison with the US or British. It would simply take time, that was all, because of the overall distance to the capital. The flat terrain did however expose the invaders to long-range fire from groups of armed militants, especially when some obstacle slowed down the advance. However there wasn’t much these people could do against a tank or armoured personnel carrier. They blew up bridges, of course, but where the rivers could not be crossed by amphibious vehicles the Royal Engineers or their American equivalent soon built new ones, though quite a few personnel were killed or injured by sniper fire while engaged in this work.

The main problem would be the guerilla-style fighting needed around Quetta and the nuclear sites in the Chagai Hills and Baluchistan, where the terrain was not suited to conventional military campaign and particularly not the use of tanks. The very difficulties of operating in this area, combined with the knowledge of what was at stake, made the Allies all the more desperate and determined to win, and the fighting here was fierce and bloody, not least because the enemy were fanatical Pashtun tribesmen, the scourge of colonial armies in the nineteenth century, who saw the war as a re-run of an old conflict with Western imperialism and were more likely to support al-Qaeda than any other ethnic group. Almost every day Chinook helicopters ferried more and more troops to this theatre of conflict, the hope being that by sheer numbers they would succeed in overwhelming al-Qaeda and their allies and compensate for the disadvantage of their lack of familiarity, except where the Special Forces were concerned, with this kind of ground and the style of warfare needed to win it.

One blessing was that the traditionally troublesome Kashmir and Afghan border regions, along with Afghanistan itself, could be safely ignored as all the militants were in Pakistan. But thanks to their help, al-Qaeda were in control of the whole of that country north of a line running through the Chagai and the province of Baluchistan and then east via the Suleiman Range to the Indian border, cutting Pakistan more or less in two. To say that they were in control of it was a bit of an exaggeration, for in many places outside the capital anarchy reigned. But they had come dangerously close to the missile sites in the Chagai, the Allies arriving only just in time to beat them off and safeguard the installations for the time being.

The nuclear facilities at Rawalpindi, Kahuta, Chashma and Joharabad had already been bombed to destruction by the B52s, but the likelihood was that a certain quantity of uranium and plutonium had already been smuggled out, to perhaps be used one day in the making of an atomic bomb. There was nothing that could be done about that. In any case, it had long been a foregone conclusion that (a) nuclear material had already fallen into the wrong hands, due to the incontinence of security in the former Soviet Union, and (b) al-Qaeda or a similar group were bound to end up in possession of the bomb sooner or later and the West would just have to take things as they came. One consolation was that although they might be in possession of the right materials it would be a while, so the experts thought, before they could acquire the expertise and facilities to put them together.

In the mountainous western areas, ground troops were supported by aerial bombardment from Apaches, Fighting Falcons and B52s. US planes carpet-bombed rebel front lines and defensive positions with 15,000-pound “daisy cutter” bombs. Apart from the nuclear facility at Kahuta there was no bombing of the northern cities because it was not thought necessary to secure them and there was an acute awareness of the danger to the Allied cause which too high a level of civilian casualties could inflict.

Since the eastern half of the country was mostly low-lying (the Indus Plain) and, beneath the line of demarcation, under the control of Musharraf supporters there was little obstacle to the passage of troops and armoured personnel carriers northward along the main highways towards Islamabad, Lahore and Peshawar, assisted by the pro-Musharraf forces who fought bravely. The militants threw several squadrons of aircraft from the rebel-controlled Pakistani Air Force into the battle, but they proved no match for the Tornados, Eurofighters and F15s of the RAF and USAF. Among other things, they suffered from a shortage of skilled personnel and there was not enough time available in which to train them. It was the same with their tanks, which were quickly mauled by the Abrams and Challengers.

Most of the opposition to the Allied advance came from teams of suicide bombers. As soon as they crossed the line of demaracation the Allies were attacked by groups of militants – fedayeen – with rocket launchers and grenades. The rebel positions were bombed by US and British warplanes, which were occasionally shot down with SAM-7 surface-to-air missiles. Roadside bombs killed a number of soldiers. Casualties were by no means negligible but although they slowed the Allied advance significantly, they could not halt it. Just three weeks from the opening of the conflict the forces of the free world, as it was euphemistically called, were well inside enemy territory and had split into two groups, one making for Lahore and Faisalabad in the Punjab while the other pressed on to Peshawar and Islamabad.

Parties of fedayeen arrived in the northern cities and took over whole sections of them, siting their headquarters in civilian areas so that the Allies would either be deterred from attacking them or would be vilified because of the resulting casualties. The Allies in fact made quick progress down the main boulevards leading to the city centre; it was in the narrow streets of the suburbs and outskirts that they faced the greatest problems. Since saturation bombing from the air was out, they had to clear each district slowly and with precision, street by street and house by house, in constant danger from snipers and booby traps. When the Americans were joined by the British, who had gained plenty of experience of this sort of thing in Northern Ireland, progress was much faster.

Each platoon would make its way carefully along the street, hugging the buildings on either side, until it came to a known or suspected enemy hideout, when the door of the house would be blown off its hinges with a shotgun or blasted open with explosive, and the soldiers rush in and sweep each room with rifle fire. The work was carried out by the infantry with support from tanks and Warrior armoured cars as well as, where appropriate, helicopter gunships and warplanes. In cases where particular stealth was needed Special Forces were brought in. They were already heavily involved in the fighting in the west, but due to the large number of countries, each of which had their own equivalent of the SAS or Delta Force, taking part in Operation Rapier there were just about enough of them to go round. Many Western hostages were rescued from the buildings where they had been held prisoner, though an equal number had been killed by their captors when the invasion began.

Surveillance from the air, along with information supplied by sympathetic locals, enabled the Allies to identify the rebel strongholds and take them out without causing too much suffering to innocent civilians, using smart bombs and guided missiles from B52s and the B2 Stealth bomber. Snipers took out individuals who had been identified as leaders of the resistance. It proved fairly easy to destroy key administrative buildings, such as local government offices, barracks and the Presidential Palace in Islamabad.

Here as in the main thoroughfares the militants erected roadblocks to slow the Allies down, but these were easily pushed aside by tanks. Though the tanks and other armoured vehicles were often hit with RPGs and shells, they were rarely disabled and in cases where it did happen the crews were usually able to escape unharmed.

At key strongpoints barriers were constructed by combat engineers against ramming by cars driven by suicide bombers, and these usually worked. Generally the militants, keen though they were, were poorly trained and no match for the professional soldiers of a variety of nations. They were still converging on the cities in their hundreds, but soon the flow of reinforcements stopped as a cordon was thrown up around them by the Allies. It was to remain in place indefinitely, and every now and then suicide bombers would succeed in blowing up one or more of the soldiers detailed to guard it.

Along with the support of most ordinary citizens of the country, except where people had been accidentally killed or injured by Allied bombing or gunfire, the Americans and their allies were helped in the north by the fact that most militant activity was concentrated in the west, where al-Qaeda rightly or wrongly believed the missile sites to be. However this did mean that pacifying the West would take a very long time and perhaps never be fully achieved. The militants were so excited by the prospect of capturing the missiles that the fall, with the exception of isolated pockets of resistance, of the northern cities had little effect on their buoyant morale. The destruction of rebel positions merely drove the thousands of militants still alive into hiding in caves and bunkers within the hills and mountains where food and weapons had been stockpiled. A cat-and-mouse game, that seemed never to end, followed in which al-Qaeda would emerge from hiding, carry out hit and run attacks on Western or Pakistani forces and then disappear back into their caves, gloating at having killed a few more infidels. The attacks did slacken off after a while, as the equipment they had stockpiled began to run out; their main source of guns and ammunition must have been cut off at some point, leaving their infrastructure susceptible to natural wastage. But there were always be sympathizers who would be keen to supply them with as much as possible of what they needed, and although the Allies might succeed in keeping them away from the missile bases they would never winkle them out of the region altogether. But in the north the religious police force set up by al-Qaeda had stopped their regular patrols and the outbreak of looting signified the collapse of the militant government’s authority. Soon the invaders’
principal task would be that of restoring order.

By now, it was possible to argue that the Allies had more or less won, and in a shorter time than they had triumphed in Iraq. They had done it while keeping the moral high ground, in spite of accidental bombings of mosques, Red Cross warehouses or friendly villages in the west. Of course victory had not been achieved without a cost, to either side. Apart from the several thousand Allied soldiers and Pakistani civilians killed – or who would die in subsequent peacekeeping operations – the temporary cessation of Western aid and the disruption to public services proved crippling to an already struggling economy. As well as a permanent US military presence Pakistan would need massive economic aid and a major humanitarian effort was required to bring food and medical supplies to the starving.

There were quite a few “Private Jessica” situations, out of which the media, who of course covered the war extensively, made rather a lot; sadly, however, in many cases the captured Allied servicemen and women were not treated as well as had been the case in Iraq, and several didn’t come out of it alive. It served to remind everyone that about a hundred hostages still remained in captivity somewhere in the country, threatened with death unless the soldiers of their home countries vacated Pakistani soil immediately. Since this wasn’t likely to happen, no-one gave much for their chances of survival.

But most people could breathe a sigh of relief, including moderate Muslims who were as uneasy as most Westerners at the thought of al-Qaeda with a nuclear capability. The missile sites appeared secure, the meltdown at Chashma had not occurred, and the public were not told about the likely theft of bomb-making materials from the other facilities. Once again, it seemed the world and all its peoples had been spared from nuclear disaster.


FORTY-TWO
Johnny came round to find himself, frighteningly, surrounded by total blackness. In a moment of horror he fancied he'd died and gone to hell. Then as he glanced fearfully about him he saw the daylight streaming in through the mouth of the cave twenty feet away, and with a sense of utter relief relaxed.

He saw Frank struggling to sit up and went to help him. "You OK?"
"Yeah," muttered his friend thickly. "Yeah, think so." With an effort he managed to stand up.
Johnny realised he had a splitting headache. "What the fuck happened?"
"The bitch jumped us...knocked us out." Frank called McDermott to tell him what had happened but got no reply, just a faint crackling of static. Johnny tried his own radio, with the same result. "What the hell's going on?" he snarled.
"Let's go and find out," said Frank practically.

They made their way back to the launch, to be further put out by the discovery that it had gone. Skirting the island, they saw the cluster of boats, apparently empty, and what was clearly the wreckage of a helicopter floating on the surface over to the west. The larger fragments of fuselage looked like pieces of a giant eggshell, gleaming white in the sunshine.

"Shit, what the hell's going on?" repeated Frank. "What the fuck's happened here? Stay there, I'm gonna take a look at those boats."
"How about I search the beach and the woods?"
"Fine, but be careful."

He swam over to the launches and proceeded to inspect each one, climbing into it and searching it briefly. Once he had finished he returned to shore, to be met by a stunned Johnny. "They're dead. Everyone's dead. What did you find?"
"The same. No sign of the girl anywhere."
"Maybe she got away."

"She might have done. Or maybe whoever killed the others took her with them. Shit, I dunno what this means but I'm pretty certain it ain't good."
Johnny shook his head in disbelief. "Jesus Christ, someone.....someone blew up the 'copter and……and killed...but who?"
He shook himself back to his senses, breathing hard. "We gotta let Greatrix know about this right away."


The 18-wheeled articulated lorry was hermetically sealed as if carrying canisters of plague bacilli. Its body was made from reinforced, armour-plated steel and on the inside it was lined with metal and plastic ribbing and fitted with baffles to act as shock absorbers, all covered with a thick padded material designed to insulate everyone and everything within from the jolts and vibrations suffered by any land vehicle in motion. Most of the interior was taken up by a huge water-filled tank made from specially strengthened glass. A network of straps and webbing braced the tank to the internal walls. The water surged and rippled with the movement of the lorry, especially when it had to negotiate a turn, but none of it sloshed over the top of the tank.

The remainder of the space was partly filled by a padded couch and the array of scanning equipment surrounding it, leaving just enough room for the people in the portable laboratory to move around comfortably. Caroline Kent lay on the couch, secured to it by webbing at her wrists and ankles just as she had been at Marcotech. Electrodes, attached to her chest and forehead by adhesive pads, led over to the instruments on the console nearby.

The four people occupying the compartment wore Paramedic-style uniforms. One of them, name of Dr Graham Hendricks, was at the console watching the pulsating blips of light on its various screens intently, and listening carefully to the high pinging the equipment was giving off. The others stood a little way behind.
“How is she?” someone asked.

“By her own standards, fine,” replied the scientist. “I don’t think the anae they injected her with did her any harm. They’d have known that, of course.”
He peered again at his instruments. "Heart rate steady, but slightly faster than ours. For all we know that could be completely normal for her. Breathing ditto.”

One of the men in combat jackets appeared from the other, smaller of the two compartments into which the body of the truck was divided. Hendricks turned to him as he came up to the group. "How long has she been out of the water now?"
"I think about an hour. She doesn't seem to be suffering any ill effects - yet."

Hendricks gazed down at Caroline. "Presumably she's amphibious, since she can breathe on land; the evidence suggests she needs to alternate between both environments, but I don’t know on what basis.”

The pinging of the instruments changed in pitch and frequency, becoming much louder, the intervals between each note shorter. A red light started flashing. Hendricks studied the zig-zag patterns on the screens before him.
A second scientist joined him at the console. “Massive increase in adrenalin levels,” she announced.
“Heartbeat and breathing rate increasing rapidly,” Hendricks said. “She’s going into overdrive.” He spoke into a hand-held recording device. "Subject showed signs of distress after approximately one hour within an aerobic environment.”

Caroline was twisting from side to side, her body straining against the straps that held her down. Her breathing came hard and fast.
Hendricks came to a decision. "Put her in the tank,"

Two of them unstrapped Caroline from the couch and removed the electrodes. With professional gentleness one picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. He went over to the tank, climbed the ladder at its side onto a narrow platform, and deposited his burden carefully in the water, face down. She thrashed about for a moment, then turned turtle and dived to the bottom where she lay flat, gills rippling as they took in the precious liquid.

Hendricks studied the steady rise and fall of her chest through the glass. "Breathing continues autonomically when she's underwater, just as it does in air. This is fascinating."
He turned to his colleagues. "The moment she shows any signs of discomfort, get her out of there. We don't want to lose her."
"Is it all natural, or engineered?" asked the woman.

"I don't know yet. I'd rather wait until we’re in normal lab conditions before I take any samples. But it depends how you look at it, I guess. Bit of both, perhaps. Genetic engineering involves manipulating what nature's already provided."

He stood watching Caroline intently, not taking his eyes off her for a second. After a few minutes her eyelids fluttered and she began to stir. "I think the injection’s wearing off."

They saw her clamber into a kneeling position. She saw them staring through the glass at her but didn’t react. She kicked upwards off the floor of the tank, propelling herself to the surface. Grasping the edge of the tank she heaved herself over the top onto the platform and stood looking down at them.

Weary resignation in her face, she came slowly down the ladder. "I suppose you'll have to give me the drug now, won’t you?" She frowned. "Don't recognise you lot. High staff turnover rate, or is this just a different shift?"
Hendricks looked at the others. "Engineered."
He turned back to Caroline. "Who did this to you, honey?"

She started visibly, feeling a surge of hope. "You mean you're not Marcotech?"
"Marcotech?" said Hendricks. "You mean as in Marcotech Consortium?"
"That's right. Who are you?"
"I, er, think it's better you don't know for the moment. Not until we've...made certain arrangements."

Caroline's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Now look, I've already been held prisoner and experimented on by one bunch of dodgy characters. I hope you aren't thinking of doing the same." There was a distinct warning note in the unearthly voice. She seemed to be tensing herself for a fight.
"We want to help you," said the woman scientist, smiling in a motherly fashion.

"Oh yeah, sure. You mean you want to carry out lots of interesting experiments on me. Well don't expect me to be a nice obedient little guinea pig. I want to live like a normal person again, and not have to run around from people like you all the time, or get caught and have electrodes stuck up my arse." Her lip curled suspiciously. "Are you CIA, by any chance? FBI?"
The man’s reply was guarded. "Not...exactly."
"What does that mean?"

"I'm not free to tell you," he said. "None of us is. I'm afraid you're asking of us what we can't deliver. Wouldn't it be better if you just co-operated with us, and then we'd all get along nicely."

“Look, let’s stop playing silly games. Marcotech have got a whole colony of drugged slaves down there under the sea. Genetically engineered without their permission, to turn them into..." She pointed to herself. "To this. It's not right, what they're doing. We've got to - " She suddenly realised the information she was giving these people might be dangerous in their hands, and broke off helplessly.

Her attention focused on Hendricks and the woman, she didn't notice that one of them had managed to slip behind her. She felt the prick of a needle against the flesh of her upper arm, the brief pain as it sank in, before consciousness drained away and she folded slowly in two, collapsing gently at Hendricks' feet.

He knelt to examine her. "Different metabolism," he said reprovingly. "You might just have killed her."
"Only way," the man shrugged. "Besides, anything we do to her medically is bound to carry some degree of risk."
They dried her down and lifted her back onto the couch, reattaching the electrodes. A brief examination showed she was suffering no ill effects from the serum in the hypo.
"That should last until we get back to the Centre," Hendricks told the others. He grinned at them delightedly. "Did you hear what she said? A whole colony of these things. I have a feeling this’ll turn out to be very interesting."


Greatrix listened in silence as Latimer explained to him what had happened. He looked graver and more subdued than Dave had seen him for a long time.
"Who do you think it could have been?" Latimer asked.

Composing himself, Greatrix pondered the question for a moment. “There are various possibilities. But whoever it was, they'll find out what we're up to and try to use it for their own ends. Once she comes round they'll make her tell them where the colony is, and then they'll be down here straight away."
"We don't know they've got her," Latimer pointed out.

"We don't know they haven't. I'm not the sort of man who takes chances."
"Does it really make any difference if the Americans get hold of the technology?" Latimer was assuming the people who had taken Caroline were American. "What's the difference between them using it, and us?"

Greatrix gave him a long, hard, suspicious stare. "It makes a lot of difference," he snapped. "We're interested in saving lives. They're only interested in power, of the sort you get from knowing how to kill people. Control. I won't have that."
"Have you ever wondered," Latimer said, "whether they've been thinking about what's going to happen in the world, and coming to much the same conclusions as we have? Preparing for a new way of existence, a new order."
"They're not doing it for altruistic reasons. You know what
They're like. The whole spirit behind it will be wrong."

He sat up straight in his chair, galvanised into action. "Hard to say how long we've got, but at a guess they'll be over here fairly soon. We'd better make it quick."
"Make what quick?" asked Latimer.
"Strategy C," said Greatrix. "We're going to have to implement Strategy C." His voice seemed flat, dead, toneless.
Latimer gaped at him in horror.
Greatrix met his eyes, unrepentant. "There's no choice," he said simply. "No choice."
Latimer was silent for a moment, then remembered something. "Oh, Doc Zuckermann reckons we've got all the aquanoids we need to make the colony fully viable. The crew of the Atlantica will be the last."

Greatrix nodded vaguely, but didn't seem to have really heard him. Concluding he was dismissed, Latimer turned and walked out. Whatever happened, he told himself, it would be preferable to a life in prison. He went off to implement the arrangements he knew Greatrix expected him to make, having discussed them with him on numerous occasions during the past few years.

After a while Greatrix snapped out of his trance-like state. He began making calls to the heads of each of the companies which made up the consortium, summoning them to the colony for an urgent meeting. It was so urgent they must immediately abandon whatever they were doing, however important, and make their way to Miami where the submarine would ferry them out to the colony. He couldn't explain why because it would take too long and there simply wasn't enough time.

Having acquired a monentum of its own, the whole plan was now unfolding steadily before his eyes, like a beautiful but deadly flower.


FORTY-THREE
Rachel Savident shivered in the chill evening air, thrusting her hands deeper into the pockets of her overcoat as she trudged sadly up and down. It wasn’t quite clear what had happened here; there was evidence that someone had set up a cordon closing off the beach, road and also a stretch of nearby woodland, which had later been taken down. But certainly there was no sign of Caroline. Something must have gone wrong, surely.

She heard the sound of a car engine in the distance and turned to see the vehicle coming along the road in her direction. It looked like a big job. It slowed as it neared her, and she felt her heart quicken.

She waited apprehensively while the sleek black Buick drew to a halt beside her and four men in suits got out. They were all young, or in early middle age, and tough-looking. Rachel stiffened, her fingers instinctively searching for the butt of the handgun in her pocket, tightening around it. She had the disquieting sensation that they’d expected to find her there.
"Did you want something?" she asked politely.

"May we ask what you're doing here?" said the older of the four men.
"I'm waiting for somebody," Rachel said. "It’s, er, not a problem I hope?"
"So you're waiting for somebody," the fortysomething man replied. "Would it be anything to do with this Fish Woman business, by any chance?"
Rachel stared at him. "The……Fish Woman? I'm sorry, I don't understand."
A disturbing suspicion began to gnaw at her.

"Don't you know about it in England yet, honey?" one of the younger men asked. "Let me explain." He told her the full story. Something clicked in Rachel's brain. Marcotech were into genetic engineering, weren't they?
You’d have to see it to believe it…..and I’m not ill exactly, but I do need help pretty quickly.
Then there had been the sound of her voice.
Was it possible...
Oh Caroline, what have they done to you?

She became aware the American was speaking again. "Believe it or not, this "Fish Woman" was seen making a call from that phone booth over there. We checked it out. It was to Global Datasystems Incorporated - otherwise known as MI6 or SIS, the British external security services."

Rachel looked them up and down. "Would you mind telling me who you are?"
"Don't play the innocent with us. Among your people we tend to be known as The Company."
The slang term MI5 and 6 used to refer to the US Central Intelligence Agency - the CIA. "Well, for the time being I'll have to take your word for it," Rachel said solemnly.
She nodded to show they were in business. "My name's Rachel Savident and I'm a Case Officer with MI6. What's your interest in this Fish Woman business?"
"What's yours?"

A pregnant silence fell. As if someone had thrown a switch and turned on the gamma rays, the four suits all fixed her with a hard penetrating stare, which she met impassively.
She let the stalemate continue for a moment longer, then spoke. "I can cause an awful lot of trouble for you, you know. Unless you're planning to get me out of the way somehow, and I wouldn't advise it. Not a good idea to make a habit out of bumping off agents of your number one ally, especially when everyone else isn't too happy about the way you're trying to run the world's affairs."
All the same, she felt very vulnerable right now on this lonely stretch of road.

"We'd no intention of doing that, ma'am."
"Personally I wouldn't put it past you," she muttered. Because you've got too much to protect. It makes you paranoid, and therefore ruthless.
She thought hard and fast. Her prime consideration was Caroline's welfare; and also if she could to prevent the Americans getting hold of anything which might be dangerous in their hands. On the second count, she might already be too late.

She took a deep breath. "It's about Caroline, isn't it? Caroline Kent. She's the Fish Woman, isn't she? Someone’s...operated on her.” And that someone had to be Marcotech, Rachel reasoned. The company Caroline had been investigating when she'd disappeared, who knew rather a lot about such things as marine biology and genetic engineering.
"She didn't tell you what had happened?" asked a third American, a man in his early thirties with close-cropped ginger hair.
"No, just that she was in trouble and needed help. That was the gist of it, anyway."
"Why'd she ring you?" The older man spoke now.
"Because she's one of our agents." Their superiors would probably know that already, from the other incidents Caroline had been involved in. "Or was. She still comes in useful to us from time to time. That's why you'd better not touch her."

He ignored the threat. "And she didn't want anyone but her own people to know what had happened."
Because she doesn't trust you, Rachel thought. In fact Caroline didn't entirely trust MI6 either, apart from herself. "She was afraid she'd be experimented on to find out what makes a "Fish Woman" tick. She contacted us because she knew me and hoped I could help somehow." What they could actually do was a moot point; Caroline couldn't be returned to normal without someone or other finding out what had happened.

"Have you got her?" Rachel challenged. "Is that why she hasn't turned up?"
The suit hesitated before answering. "All right, we've got her. And you're not having her back unless you co-operate."
"How do I co-operate?"
"Make sure your people stay off our backs until we've finished with her. There may be a lot we can learn from what was done to her. We'll try to see she doesn't come to any harm. We might even share the knowledge with you one day, if you're lucky."
"If you don't fulfil your part of the bargain," Rachel said, "we just might let everyone else know what you're doing."
"How d’ you mean, our part of the bargain?"

"That you return Caroline to us safe and sound. And let us share in the technology. It'll have to be OK'd by my superiors, of course. But I imagine that's what they'll say."
The man nodded, seeming satisfied with the arrangement. After all, he wasn’t paid to anticipate what his bosses might or might not agree to.
“It’s the Marcotech Consortium who are behind this,” Rachel said. The American indicated he knew this already. “And behind the tanker sinkings, we think.” If they could enlist the Americans’ help in the matter, so much the better, although it was always possible the company’s influence might have penetrated even the CIA.

“Your friend will confirm it,” he said. “She’s already told us all she knows. We’d been looking into the sinkings ourselves, but we haven’t found anything yet. If it’s Marcotech, they’ve been covering their tracks well. But we’ll sort ‘em out, once this Pakistan business is cleared up.” In the meantime, it seemed, the Fish Woman had appeared sufficiently interesting to provide a distraction from events in the Indian subcontinent, all-important though the latter business was.

Interesting, though, for all the wrong reasons. Rachel didn’t like the idea of the Americans taking over Marcotech’s base and copying their biotechnology, using it for God knew what military purposes. For that reason she didn’t tell them about the operation she’d been carrying out together with IPL and the Royal Navy. With events beginning to move fast, she’d rather have some time to think before sharing everything with an ally whose behaviour caused as much harm as good in the world.

“I’d like to see Caroline,” she said. “Just to confirm she’s all right. Where is she?”
A pause while the cold, calculating brain behind the American’s steel-grey eyes weighed up the request. “We’ll be in touch,” he said. "You’d better give us a phone number. Meantime, I’d suggest you get on to your friends in London and give ‘em the gen. And I'd advise you that if you tell anyone else there’'ll be trouble.”

Without a word, Rachel scribbled the number of her cellphone on a scrap of paper and handed it to the American. As one the four suits turned, got back into the Buick and drove off. Rachel walked back down the road to her hired car where she sat thinking very carefully about what she was going to say to London.


The technology programme of the US Navy was under the co-ordination of the Office of Naval Research, which had established a research laboratory at San Diego in California. It was here that the Navy’s ongoing Marine Mammal Research Programme – since this was the nearest thing to what Caroline was, although some disagreed, thas wat where she was taken – was based. Since the 1960s it had been carrying out detailed research into the physiology and behaviour of whales, dolphins and sea lions to see if their hydrodynamic efficiency could be applied to the design and development of torpedoes; whether their auditory and echolocation systems could be copied to make a better sonar with which to detect enemy submarines; and how they might be trained to carry messages and perform tasks more effectively than human divers, who were handicapped by the limited time they could remain submerged, poor visibility the further they went down, the effect of water currents, and the need for extensive and expensive medical and surface support, or submersibles. They had successfully used dolphins to retrieve lost hardware and carry equipment and messages between the Sea Lab project and the supporting shore base, but had so far not made much headway in turning the dolphin into a weapon of war – either indirectly or, as was sometimes rumoured to be their intention, in more controversial ways.

In a lab somewhere deep in the heart of the sprawling complex Dr Graham Hendricks watched as a team of medics performed various scans and X-rays on the unconscious Caroline, who was once more strapped down to an operating table. The man standing beside him was from DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, the branch of the Department of Defense responsible for the development of new technology for use by the military. Though it existed to serve all three branches of the armed services there had always been close links between it and the Navy, several of the latter's key personnel having worked for it at one time or other.

It was often whispered that DARPA had become a power in their own right, acquiring whatever information and materials might be of use to their clients through means normally used only by the military themselves or the intelligence services.

"The spooks seem to have fixed everything for us,” the DARPA representative was saying. “The British won’t poke their noses in unless we decide to let them.”
“Good,” the scientist nodded.

"Could a private company really have done this?" the DARPA man asked. He looked annoyed, if not very angry, at the thought of it.
"Well if they have they've stolen a march on everyone, ourselves included."
"But how is that possible?"
Hendricks sighed. "I dunno....but they’d have to be very clever, and very wealthy, which they are. And to have…dedication."

"Whatever the facts of the matter, it'd be to our advantage to know exactly how they did it. It could have...applications."
Moving a little closer to the table, they saw the surgeon gently insert the point of a scalpel beneath one of the scales on Caroline’s arm, just above the wrist. A drop of dark red blood bubbled out, and he sucked it up with a pipette before squeezing it out into a test tube. Then he removed a small sliver of skin and placed it carefully in a petri dish.

He examined the samples under a microscope, at the same time making notes and drawing sketches of what he saw on a notepad, consulting the textbooks where necessary, while from time to time his colleagues, who were going over the data they’d obtained from the X-rays, would fill him in on the results. The DARPA man went away for a while, then came back, to find Hendrix staring at his notes with a dream-like expression of wonder on his face.

“It’s incredible,” the scientist remarked. “The readings we’ve been getting….her whole metabolism is like that of a human fish. The liquid content of her cells, the respiratory and cardio-vascular systems, the composition of the blood and muscle tissue, the kinds of hormone and other substances her body is producing and the amounts of them….there’s a swim bladder, gills forming in effect a secondary respiratory system..it’s unbelievable. We have just got to find out how they did it.”

Caroline's eyes opened, then she closed them again with a sigh. It really was getting tedious.
The scientists standing over the monitoring equipment were the same ones as in the lorry, only now they were all wearing white lab coats. The woman looked up from the machine and addressed her colleagues. "She's come round."

"Very observant of you," Caroline said. Hendricks moved to stand over her. "How do you feel?" he smiled.
"Fine thanks," she answered wearily.
"You don't sound it."
"I seem to have the habit," she observed, "of getting into these situations."
"Know the feeling," he said vaguely.
"What are you going to do with me in the end? Have me stuffed?"
"Please don't be afraid, Miss Kent, you're in no danger. While you're here we're gonna look after you and do all we can to help you."
"I'm not afraid," she said angrily.
"OK, so you're not afraid. Sorry."

"And I don't believe you. Look, despite all they’ve done to me I’m a human being, OK, not some…animal you can experiment on for the sake of your own curiosity.”
“Actually, it’s difficult to know what to classify you as,” he told her. “Genetically you’re part primate, part fish, part seal, part frog and part virus.”
“Oh, thanks,” she said.

"Cheer up," smiled the DARPA man. "One of your friends is coming to see you."
Caroline perked up a bit at this. "Who?"
"Lady by the name of Savident, Rachel Savident."
She smiled delightedly. "Rachel! Does that mean you're going to let me go?"

"I'm afraid not, not yet. For one thing we'd like to ask you a few questions."
"I'm not answering any of them until I've spoken to Rachel."
"I'd better make one thing clear, Miss Kent. Whatever happens you'll still have to co-operate with us. We'll be making sure Miss Savident understands that. Eventually it may be possible to let you walk out of here safe and well, and hopefully restored to your natural form. But there's no chance of that unless you do what we say."

It was clear to Caroline she had no choice. "Fire away then," she said sulkily.
"This place of Marcotech's; the one where they operated on you. Where is it exactly?"
"And what are you going to do with that knowledge, may I ask?"
"Let's just say we're motivated by considerations of national interest."
"You mean you want the technology Marcotech used so you can make more....fish people like me. Genetically engineered aquatic humans. Because you think it'll benefit you somehow. How exactly I don't know and I don't think I want to. Who are you anyway?"
"US Navy Intelligence Division, if you must know. That's all I'm prepared to tell you right now. Now are you going to start talking?"

By her reckoning she’d been breathing air for some time now. "Listen, if I'm not put back in the water soon...."
"Don't worry, we'll see to that. He put a touch of steel into his voice. "It's like this, Caroline. If you don't play ball, we'll ban anyone outside this facility from seeing you. We'll also deprive you of food, or keep you out of the water until you die. Whichever you'd prefer."
"Don't threaten me, please."

"And remember, we may need access to Marcotech's laboratories if we're to get you back to normal. So...." He paused to let the full implication of her position sink in.
Suddenly overcome with anger, she lifted her head and spat at him.
"Oh and by the way," she added, "an aquanoid's saliva is poisonous. All it takes is for it to get in through one tiny pore in the skin, and you'll probably be dead in a little while."

Hendricks smiled and shook his head. "Sorry. We took most of the samples we needed while you were unconscious. There's nothing toxic in your body chemistry."
"You should have asked me first."
"No more stalling, please." The spy studied her thoughtfully. "You know, I think there's only one way you're going to get the message."

He nodded to his companions, who followed him automatically as he made for the door. "She can't get out of those restraints, and we'll make sure the door's locked," he said to them. "The instruments will record how long it takes her to die and what the exact physiological effect is." Everything about his tone and manner was deadly serious. He paused and looked back at the helpless Caroline. "So long, honey. At least we'll gain some interesting data."
His fingers closed around the door handle.

"No, wait!" she shouted frantically, twisting and thrashing against her restraints, but to no effect. This time, they were of solid metal.
He turned from the door and slowly walked back towards her.

"I...don't exactly know where the Marcotech base is," she said.
"Sure you're telling the truth? Remember, if there's the slightest doubt about it we're gonna cut off your water supply. I don't know what that's like for you; painful, I should imagine. Now it can't be too far from where you disappeared, can it?"
"All right," Caroline sighed. "It's off Grand Bahama. In the Bahamas," she added.
"I'd never have guessed. How far off there and in which direction?"
"About ten miles north off Indian Quay. That's a rough guess." "How did you find out it was there?"

"I just asked around, went round the bars picking up the gossip. The place isn't mentioned in any of their publicity so you might not know about it except from rumour. They’ve got plans, brochures, but they’re trying to keep it under wraps that they’ve actually built the place.
"They got to know what I was doing and decided I was getting too close to them," she added wistfully.
"What about their other bases around the world? You know if there's anything there?"
"No, I don't. I don't think so."
"And the tankers? The reasons why they blew them up, and how they did it? Just in case it's anything we ought to know."
"They thought a spill might damage the ecosystem of the colony, so they had to knock out the transatlantic oil trade. As for how they did it, well you don't have to find out from me. Once you've taken over the place you'll have all the answers you need."

He considered this for a moment, then gave a satisfied nod. "Well, I guess we've got enough to go on for now."
"You may already know about the mutations; the giant squid, the shark. Marcotech were responsible for that as well. I'd watch out for them, if you're going to pay the place a visit."
"I expect a few torpedoes should take care of those monsters." He made a quick call on his mobile. "Thankyou for your co-operation," he said when he'd finished it.
Caroline glared up at him. "If I wasn't tied down like this I'd...."
Hendricks perched himself on a stool beside her. "Right. Now we need to carry out a few tests, if that's OK with you."
"It wouldn't make any difference to you if it wasn't," she said bitterly. She turned her head to look at him, warily. "What sort of tests?"

"You'll see. We'd also be grateful if you could oblige us with stool and urine samples at some point."
"What if I don't?"
"Then I'm afraid we'll just have to get them by force."
"Bollocks."
"'Fraid so. Now when you were with Marcotech, what did they feed you on?"
"Fish, mostly."
"I'll make sure you get a regular supply of them."
"Where am I going to live while I'm here?"
"We're preparing suitable quarters for you right now. You'll have to stay there all the time, except when you're allowed out to exercise - under proper supervision, of course. Incidentally, I should advise you there's no point in trying to run away. You'll find the security here's much too tight for that."
"Can you get me something to wear?"
"That shouldn't be a problem."

He got up from the stool. "You'll have to stay here for the time being, I'm afraid. We'll come and fetch you when your accommodation's ready."
She grunted an acknowledgement. "One last thing," she said. "Do you stay in this job because you like it?”
He thought about this. “Partly,” he conceded. “But as I see it I’m also serving my country.”

“Nothing wrong in being patriotic. But I think you and I ought to have a little chat about ends and means.”
“I see. You’re saying one can’t legitimise the other?”
“No, I’m saying it depends on the circumstances. Right now – “
“I’m sure I’d like to have a fascinating philosophical discussion with you sometime,” he smiled, “but right now I’m afraid I’m a little busy. Catch you later.”

They went out, closing and locking the door behind him. Alone, Caroline stared blankly up at the white tiles on the ceiling. Rachel will do something, she thought. She's got to.


"This is getting more and more hard to believe, Rachel," observed Assistant Director Roger Bullard, Rachel Savident's immediate superior at MI5. Rachel was sitting on her bed in her hotel room, filling him in on the situation over her mobile phone.

"My sentiments entirely, Sir," she replied. She had explained what had happened as truthfully as she could.
"Though I suppose it's no more weird than that Ishtar business. For one. And you can't say exactly what it is they've done to her?"
"Not at the moment, Sir."
"So what's going to happen now?"

"I'm on my way over there first thing in the morning, Sir. It, er, might be best if you had a look yourself." Then he could believe it, and stop moaning all the time.
"Have you reached some kind of agreement with the Americans?"
"Not as such. But now we know what's going on, sort of, they're going to have to come to some form of arrangement. That's why I think you ought to come over."
"Too right I will. I'll let you know when as soon as possible. OK, was there anything else?"
"Not really, Sir."

"I wish we didn't have to keep on baling out this bloody Kent woman," he sighed. Rachel said nothing. "Well, I suppose we'll have to wait until we know a bit more before we decide what we're going to do. Speak to you soon."
"Goodbye, Sir," said Rachel. Bullard cut her off.

She drew her legs up onto the bed, and sat there with her arms around her ankles for a long time. It would be simpler if they could make a call to the White House, or someone high up on the staff there, and tell them everything. But that would be going against an unwritten code of conduct, as well as setting a dangerous precedent. Both they and the CIA kept things from their governments, probably because it was better that way at times. Firstly, politicians couldn't be trusted to act on the information in the most sensible fashion. Secondly, they didn't have as much control over affairs as they liked to think. And the more they opposed what the security services saw as the best way to run the country, the more they were putting themselves at risk. The CIA were quite capable of arranging the downfall of a President whose policies they considered dangerous to the country. Quite likely that was what had happened to John F Kennedy.

She got out her map, marked the position of the Naval Research Facility on it, then turned in for the night.


Pity about Caroline Kent, thought Charlie. He'd been told what they'd had to do to her. Still, it was better than dying. But when he learned that she had escaped a part of him was glad, as well as admiring. It didn't alter the fact that he was supposed to keep a lookout for her, but much to his relief she did not seem to have come back to the island. He didn't think she would.

Charlie was a drifter. He'd gone to the States because there was too little going on in the Bahamas; it had seemed too much of an ossified backwater. He wanted to see the wider world. But he hadn't fitted in in the States, which was why he'd come back here, where characters like himself abounded. Perhaps he wouldn't fit in anywhere; anywhere but here, and sometimes he wasn't quite sure about that.

He did know that he didn't want to live anywhere else. Out here things were free and easy and he could have more or less the kind of life he wanted, provided he kept his bosses at Marcotech happy.

That life revolved around drink and women, and of late he’d felt he needed the solace they provided more than ever. It was a good job he never drank to the extent that he became a security risk, because if there had been the slightest possibility of that Marcotech would have….the thought made him shudder. Then he dismissed it and concentrated his attention on the task in hand.

He had been enjoying himself in Maxie’s on the waterfront at
Lucaya, a pretty girl cuddling against him. They'd been sitting together chatting and drinking the whole evening and although she wasn't quite pissed as yet the flow of alcohol had put her in the sort of relaxed, easy mood where she might feel well disposed towards him.

He decided the moment was now right to pop the question. "Hey," he said brightly, "you wanna come round to my place for a while? Just for a couple more drinks, maybe some music..." He made it sound as if he’d only just thought of it.

She smiled blandly and said "Yeah, OK," without really thinking about it. He realized she was a bit more drunk than he’d supposed, and felt a twinge of guilt at what he was doing. But he was already slightly drunk himself and by his reckoning that made it quits.

Then he fell sombre again, his shoulders slumping and his head with them, until the varnished floorboards occupied all of his field of vision.

The girl was staring at him with a mixture of bewilderment and impatience. “You OK?” he thought he heard her say.

The cellphone in his pocket rang. He had to be on call all the time, nuisance though it was, in case Marcotech should have urgent need of his services. In fact it wasn’t a nuisance. Because right now he didn’t really care, to be honest.

The call jerked him back to full sobriety. "'Scuse me a moment," he muttered, and left the bar. Outside, he searched around until he found a little dark alleyway between two shops, both now closed for the night, and answered the call.

It was Dave Latimer. "The balloon's gone up. You need to get down to the colony as soon as possible. Get over to Miami and take the next sub out. This definitely will be the last one. We're fully stocked up here and by the time supplies run out it probably won’t matter.”

"Why? How's the balloon gone up?" Charlie asked, feeling tension grip him like a vice constricting his chest. "What's happened?"
Latimer told him. "Just keep your cool and do as I say." He paused. "If you don't you know what'll happen, Charlie."
"We're going to put Strategy C into operation," Latimer went on.
"Do you mean you're really going to...." Now that the moment of truth had come it suddenly seemed an unbelievable, unacceptable risk to be taking.
"'Course not. The threat of it should be enough. Now get going, Charlie. I'll see you - whenever." He heard the click as Latimer cut him off.

The threat should be enough. Oh yeah....so why then were they warning him to go down to the colony?
What the hell, he’d no Goddamn choice anyway. They were probably watching him right now, had made sure they had men in position before Latimer made the call.
Charlie just stood there for a moment, attempting to absorb the impact of developments. He looked back towards the open door of the pub, the chatter and sound of music coming from within, the girls....

The island girls; they were the nearest thing to a family that he had. Something in him ached to warn them but he knew he couldn't, that it wouldn't be wise. Had that not been the case, it was most unlikely Marcotech would ever have let him join their little operation.

Finally, Charlie pocketed the phone and walked away into the night, leaving his date to wonder vaguely what had become of him.


FORTY-FOUR
The following morning the US Navy warship Augusta, fitted with echosounding equipment and a selection of depth charges, and the aircraft carrier Andrew Jackson left their home base of Norfolk, Virginia and began cruising at a steady pace towards the Bahamas. Below the surface three US Navy nuclear submarines, each equipped with torpedoes, and one with a team of Seals (the name given to the waterborne wing of the US Special Forces) on board, were also converging on the Marcotech base, their orders to blow it out of the water unless its personnel agreed to surrender.

A few days before news of what had been happening at the colony reached DARPA, the CIA and through them the White House, the USS Strategic Ballistic Missile Submarine Connecticut (SSBN-685) had left the olde-worlde New England charms of the naval base at Groton, in the state after which it had been named, to the tearful goodbyes and handkerchief-waving of the wives and children of the men on board. The Connecticut’s mission was very different; nothing more than a routine, though essential, patrol of the North Atlantic, just to make sure that although the Cold War was now over the SSBNs were still there, prowling the depths ready to respond immediately and lethally in the event that anyone did decide to reopen hostilities with a vengeance.

One of the ten nuclear-powered, nuclear-armed Ohio class, a vital component of America’s naval defence capability, she had been built by General Dynamics Corporation’s Electric Boat Division at Groton in 1979 and refitted several times since. Displacing 16,700 tons, 360 feet long - larger than most modern cruise liners - and 33 in diameter, she carried 24 intercontinental ballistic missiles in launch tubes located to the rear of the sail. They were Trident D5s, the most powerful, and accurate, items in America's nuclear arsenal; each was twenty-six feet long and consisted of a three-stage rocket booster, with propellant, and between eight and twelve independently-targetable re-entry vehicles with 475-kiloton warheads, 15 times more powerful than the bomb which destroyed Hiroshima. With a maximum range of 12000 kilometres they would have been capable of obliterating the whole of the former Soviet Union. The missiles carried by the Ohio class subs constituted the bulk of America's strategic nuclear strike power.

Launching from out at sea, or under it, was cheaper than a land-based delivery system, and a submarine much harder to detect than a ground installation or aircraft. A modern nuclear sub could remain hidden beneath the surface of the oceans for months at a time, and travel for distances up to 600 miles, at high speed, before the core of her reactor required refueling. For defensive – and, where necessary, offensive – purposes she was equipped with an armament of 22 torpedoes.

To withstand the pressures of the deep she had a strengthened steel double hull of high grade, high tensile steel, approximately three inches thick with the space between the pressurised inner hull and the outer hulls providing room for water ballast, plus the fuel tanks and missile tubes. The hull was composed of a series of rings welded together at the building yard.

Within the sail structure, or conning tower as it used to be known, were housed the retractable periscopes, radar and radio antennae, and snorkel tubes. The structure also provided a platform, or bridge, for the navigating officers and lookouts when the submarine was on the surface.

In all Connecticut carried a crew of 155 men, led by Captain Harlan R Scobee, a handsome dark-haired man in his forties with the coppery skin and high cheekbones of his Cherokee Indian mother, and despite being well aware of the deprivations which the creation of the American nation had meant for her people fiercely loyal to his country. If you found it odd that that should be so, then perhaps you didn’t understand America.

Right now Scobee was standing at the very top of the great black sail jutting up out of the water to a height of nearly seventy feet, looking out over the vastness of the surrounding Atlantic. He watched the bow wave set up by the sub as it cut through the sea, water streaming down the vessel’s sides; felt the wind blowing into his face, the thrill of being in command of such a powerful and majestic machine as this, and smiled. It was for moments like this that he’d joined the Service.

Scobee had got to where he was now by a route somewhat different from that of the enlisted men who served under him. The Navy insisted that those who commanded a nuclear submarine had to have degrees in science and engineering. That was no problem for Scobee, for he had been interested in those subjects from an early age and had already had degrees in them. Scobee had gone through the US Naval Academy at Annapolis, Maryland, before spending a year at a special college for would-be commanders of nuclear boats; it was deemed vital that such people had the same detailed knowledge of their vessels’ workings as the engineers. Once this was completed he was then put on the three-month Submarine Officers Basic Course at Groton. There had followed a further gruelling series of courses and trial periods of service on various submarines and surface vessels, during which any mistake however slight could have resulted in his disqualification, before he had finally achieved command of his first sub. When the class to which it belonged had been declared obsolete and withdrawn from service, he was appointed captain of the Connecticut.

It was a harsh life in many ways. Not much room, an eerie disorientating silence within the relatively confined space of that metal tube far below the surface of the sea, very little noise, very little news from home and virtually no privacy. But you got used to it after a while. However, to stand the initial stress of such an environment you had to be one of a special breed of men. The knowledge that you could all stand it, and stand it together, resulted in a compensating esprit de corps.

Scobee liked the loneliness of the submarine commander, which was as great if not greater than that of the captain of, say, an oil tanker. There was also the knowledge he was protecting his country; though he often wondered what he would do if it actually fell to him to be asked to fire his vessel's missiles. That seemed, for the moment at any rate, unlikely since for geographic reasons it was the Pacific Fleet who were dealing with the Pakistan crisis. Conversely, it riled him at times that he was doing a job which often seemed gloriously unnecessary, though he also felt unpatriotic thinking so. With the end of the Cold War - God, to think that was over fifteen years ago - it was a matter of some debate what the Ohios and the other SSBNs, or the SSNs, the hunter-killer attack subs, were needed for. No new ones were likely to be built when the current generation started to become worn-out around 2015 (they had been designed for a service life of thirty-five to forty years). Cuts in spending had already meant the withdrawal termination of other, relatively less essential submarine types.

There had been an assumption that in the foreseeable future at any rate, no nation equivalent in military power to the Soviet Union would arise to challenge the global domination of the United States and threaten her vital interests. There were no hostile nations with an equivalent nuclear arsenal, the inclination to use it, or the ability to wage a conventional war outside a fairly limited area. Rogue states like Libya had got the message when America invaded Iraq and toppled Saddam Hussein on the pretext, real or fabricated, that he might be developing weapons of mass destruction, and abandoned their own efforts in that direction. In reality, however, there were several areas a renewed threat could potentially come from. That was the problem and the frustration, not knowing which of them it was likely to be.
Russia herself was supposed to be friendly these days. But apart from that being something you could never entirely take for granted – there had been some friction lately - there was North Korea. China might be a problem at some point. And this current Pakistan crisis, above all, showed why the Ohios were still needed. Scobee was glad of it in a way. The trouble had been that until such a threat did emerge the submarine crews were merely keeping their hand in, important as it was to do so. Inevitably, with no clear and present danger looming on the horizon it had all begun to seem a bit stupid. This would breathe new life into the whole thing.

Time to see how things were getting on down below. Scobee lowered himself through a small hatch into the tiny, cramped area of what was really the bridge. Here a ladder led down three storeys to the port side passageway. A few feet aft from there was the control room.

It was brightly lit, the air clean and fresh, full of people stationed at consoles, and packed with equipment; the bustling, beating heart of the ship, humming and throbbing with power. In the centre of the room was a raised platform with the periscopes mounted on it. Forward of this stood the console where the officer of the watch sat scanning the room with eagle eyes, supervising all its many functions; the fire control stations - that is, the weapons control consoles for the BSY-1 combat system, the sonar system, the ship control area from which diving and surfacing and trim were regulated, and all down the port side the various navigational systems: the Navstar GPS, deriving its accuracy from a network of twenty-four satellites in low earth orbit, the SINS with its gyroscopes, and the new microwave communication system designed and installed by Marcotech, which rendered the others more or less obsolete although it had still been thought wise to retain them as a backup. The VDUs on the navigational consoles showed the exact longitude and latitude of the Connecticut's current position in relation to the nearest landfall on a computer-projected map of the world, and changed constantly. All these systems were controlled by the battery of computers beneath the consoles.

At the rear of the control room were the tables where the sub's movements could be plotted manually if necessary. Beside it was the communications console, containing the radio and radar equipment plus Marcotech's improved Gertrude. It was from there that contact was maintained with the satellites, and encrypted messages sent to families and to the shore base.

The Gertrude was now more or less a satellite phone, which made it additionally secure as a means of communication; codes transmitted by it were hard to break and it could only be intercepted if you happened to be at a particular point in the submarine’s immediate vicinity. It was ideal for communicating both with a shore base and another submarine, irrespective of where in the world the latter might be.

Scobee’s eyes rested for a moment on the BSY-1 controls, on the same console as the sonar systems with which they were more or less integrated. The BSY-1 handled navigation and fire control for torpedoes and missiles. Information was fed into it by the sonar systems, principally the fifteen-foot spherical sonar array located in the bow which had both active and passive (listening) modes. Signal processors and other equipment translated the sounds emitted, or collected, by the sonar into the data displayed on the console VDUs. There were four consoles in all, three occupied each by a technician and the fourth by the sonar watch supervisor.

Scobee saw that in the room chatting to the Officer of the Watch was his second-in-command, Chief of the Boat Rick Samuels. Samuels had joined the Navy as an enlisted man, wishing to see something more of the world than the small and somewhat rundown village in rural Kansas where he’d grown up. So he’d applied to his local recruiting office, where during his initial interview it was learned that he had an aptitude for machinery of any kind, something gained repairing tractors and combine harvesters on his father’s farm. Six months at the Nuclear Power School in Orlando, Florida, were followed by six of training on a sub with a prototype reactor. From there Samuels progressed to Submarine School at Groton, after which he spent a couple of years on an SSN before joining the crew of the Connecticut.

The submarine service treated their enlisted men well. New recruits were immediately made petty officers, which gave them enough money to get married, start a family and provide for it. And those who were keen stood a good chance of further promotion. All the same, Samuels had done well to attain the ultimate prize of COB. He was often held up as a shining example to would-be recruits, many of whom came from poverty-stricken backgrounds where there was not much hope of advancement, and relished the chance to gain some kind of status as well as the sense of purpose their current lives often lacked.

Scobee went up to him, and Samuels broke off his conversation with the Officer of the Watch. “Everything alright?” the captain asked. It was part of the COB’s job to motivate the enlisted men who made up most of the lower ranks, get them involved; and to listen to any worries they might have.

Samuels drew him aside. “Yeah, no worries. Garbage compactor was giving trouble earlier, but it’s fixed now. I was a little worried about Thomson after his girlfriend ditched him – not sure how that slipped through the censors – but he seems to be OK now.”

Scobee nodded. "Reckon we could dive now," he told the two officers. He crossed to the Intercom on the wall panel. "This is the Captain speaking. We are about to dive. Would any personnel currently on the bridge please evacuate the area immediately. Close all hatches, repeat close all hatches."

They waited. A couple of minutes later, the diving officer checked the status boards in front of him to make sure all external hatches had indeed been closed, and that the air banks had the right amount of air pressure. He turned to Scobee and nodded.

The diving officer gave an order to the two enlisted men, the planesman and helmsman, who sat strapped in to their seats at the ship control console, and whose job was to operate the diving planes and rudder. Consulting their dials and gauges, they began to turn the aircraft-style control wheels in front of them.

The ballast tanks were flooded to allow enough water to enter them to make the sub slightly heavier than the water surrounding her: in other words, negatively buoyant. Once she had sunk to the required depth the amount of ballast would be adjusted further so that she weighed the same as the water, making her neutrally buoyant. Then the diving planes mounted on the conning tower were inclined to the correct, computer-determined angle.

The Connecticut descended to about a hundred and twenty feet, the whole process taking about fifteen minutes. Until recently subs had normally stayed at around sixty – periscope depth. But with the innovations introduced by Marcotech, she did not need to do so to establish contact, when required, with base. She could go down much further, to the bottom if necessary.

From now on the diving planes, along with the forward motion of the sub, and regular pumping of water in and out of the ballast tanks under the supervision of the officer of the watch, would maintain the sub at the correct depth. And so the Connecticut could cruise gently along at twenty nautical miles per hour, a thousand feet above the bed of the Atlantic.

"We're under way, boys," Scobee announced. He thought for a moment or two. It was unlikely that an al-Qaeda Pakistani hunter killer submarine would try to knock her out, but all the same Connecticut needed to spot any potentially hostile vessel. He ordered the sonar boys to start pinging, for the moment in passive mode.

It was vital the Connecticut was not detected herself. With this aim in mind the hull was coated with anechoic tiles, made from a soft rubbery material which both absorbed sonar pulses and reduced the noise made by the sub's internal machinery.

In fact the whole design of the submarine was intended to minimise any extraneous sound. There were no unnecessary excrescences or protuberances which would disturb the water flow and thus create noise. The huge seven-bladed propeller was made of a special bronze alloy designed to prevent cavitation. Each piece of equipment that moved or made noise, such as the turbines which drove the vessel, was mounted on rafts that isolated them from the hull and damped out the vibrations that could be transmitted to it and from it, out into the water. Noise-monitoring sensors alerted the crew if anything was loose or malfunctioning and therefore liable to create a din. People walked around in eerie silence, or whispering like ghosts, having learnt after a while the art of keeping their voices low all the time. Each man went about the tasks assigned to him with scrupulous care, knowing that slamming a toilet seat too hard could bring an enemy down on them in seconds. And once the sub got under way there was little or no sensation of movement. It was the kind of environment which could drive certain people mad, especially if they were also claustrophobic into the bargain. But then that kind of person never made it into the Service.

The air on board the sub was the usual one of comfortable monotony, people bustling around cheerfully on their various jobs. Deciding he could leave things to run themselves for the time being, and deciding to grab a few hours’ rest, Scobee nodded to Samuels and went off to his cabin, located just forward of the enlisted mess on the second level. This level contained most of the living space aboard the boat – apart from the mess area there was a lecture room, cafeteria, cinema, games room, soft drink dispenser, berthing spaces. The Connecticut was well-appointed, the recreational facilities serving to break the gruelling monotony of life on a sub. There was also a conference room and dining area for senior officers, who of course also had the prerogative of using the facilities in the enlisted mess, meaning that officers and men ate together creating an atmosphere of unselfconscious informality. The food provided was good.

Scobee’s cabin was not large, but still the best room on the sub, being considerably less cramped and affording more privacy than the berths for the enlisted men, who slept in bunks and were allowed only a few personal posessions to cram into their lockers. The smallness of the rooms was designed to strengthen the feeling of togetherness and comradeship.

This one contained a bed, a desk, and a safe for classified documents – which also held one of the two sets of keys needed to arm the ballistic missile firing system, the other being in the possession of the COB. On the wall was mounted a multifunction display, tied into the combat system on the bridge, which kept Scobee updated on the position, course, speed, heading, and depth of the sub as well as the current tactical situation, which could be either neutral, green alert or high alert. On the desk and pinned to the walls were a few postcards and family snaps.

He made himself a cup of coffee, then threw himself on the bed with a book from the vessel’s library, which he read for an hour or so.

He decided it was time to send a “Familygram” home. The need for stealth and secrecy meant that personal messages to and from family and friends were limited to a once weekly batch each consisting of no more than forty words. Scobee also knew that the messages would be heavily censored by Groton, but he had no worries. It was a necessary precaution designed to avoid the kind of problems they might have had with Thomson had he not proved in the end strong enough to cope with them. And the captain was totally at ease with his job. In any case if the censor did detect any sign of future trouble, they would call him in for a genuinely friendly chat and try to sort things out. Because the Service looked after you.

The transmitter looked and functioned like a fax machine, only the messages were transmitted through water and relayed to the Base via satellite, courtesy of Marcotech Ltd. Scobee sat down at the desk, switched the device on and started to key in the message.
523. DOE LTJG 23/8: HI ALL. HOPE THE THREE OF YOU WELL. EVERYTHING OK HERE. AFRAID NOT MUCH TO REPORT BUT GLAD KIDS ENJOYED FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL. BEEN THINKING OF YOU, GUYS. MUST CELEBRATE: HOW ABOUT A WEEKEND IN THE COUNTRY WITH GRANS WHEN I GET BACK? KNOW YOU’D LIKE THAT. DAD.
CARRIE: THINKING OF YOU TOO. BY THE WAY YOUR COOKIES WENT DOWN VERY WELL WITH ALL ON BOARD. CAN YOU DO SOME MORE?
ALL FOR NOW. ILY, HARL.
With that Scobee lay down on the bed again, closed his eyes and went to sleep.

*

The Connecticut like all the US Navy’s submarine fleet ran a shift system, in which a crewman worked six hours on and twelve hours “off" spent eating or sleeping, carrying out essential maintenance or studying for further qualifications. There wasn’t much opportunity for relaxation. One of the ways the Navy helped the sub crews to keep their minds off their loved ones back home, plus any problems they might have, was to work them hard. Every day the officers and men stood watches, tended equipment, performed fire and evacuation drills, attended lectures, and pored over books in the library. All the time the COB would tread the corridors of the submarine casting a keen eye over everything that went on and intervening to reprimand or to help out wherever necessary. Just now he was in the port forward passageway, about halfway along the sub, on his way to the control room.

A few yards from there he stopped suddenly, thinking he had heard something scraping against the outside of the hull.

Could have been any one of a number of things. Dismissing it from his mind he resumed his tour of inspection, unaware that outside a laser beam was cutting out a shallow trench in the metal of the hatch in the conning tower beneath which where the escape trunk, the submarine’s airlock, was located. It was held by a scaly, blue-grey hand webbed hand with retractable webs between the fingers.

In the control room a red light flashed on one of the environmental control consoles, and the pinging sound of an alarm cut through the low humming of the other systems, as the equipment detected the change in pressure.

"Slight leakage in escape trunk, Sir," the crewman at the console explained.
The Officer of the Watch, Lieutenant Dan Terlezski, frowned. "How serious is it?" he asked.
"Well it seems to increasing, Sir."
Terlezski made an announcement over the Intercom, asking Scobee to come to the bridge. Once he was there, they apprised him of the situation. Scobee made his decision fast; they couldn’t risk this developing into something that would compromise the structural integrity of the sub and the safety of those on board.

He gave the order to surface so that the affected area could be inspected and the breach repaired by welding. He had no idea of the cause of the leak, but the most likely explanation must be a slight fracture in the metal of the hull.

The airlock was used as a means of access or exit in an emergency, by any Seals personnel the submarine happened to be carrying on a mission, and by the four qualified divers among the crew when carrying out external repairs such as the clearing of fouled propellers. Designed to accommodate two men at a time, it was essentially a pressure vessel forming a cylindrical chamber about eight feet tall and five in diameter. Once the sub was on the surface Terlezski and the COB entered it through a door in the wall on the uppermost level of the conning tower, and stood looking around. A narrow rivulet of water was trickling steadily down the wall on the far side of the chamber.

They heard something hit the floor at their feet with a soft plopping sound. Then were aware of nothing at all as complete, all-enveloping blackness descended on their brains.

Five minutes later a man stepped through into the control room of the Connecticut, briefly studying the unconscious bodies lying on the floor or sitting slumped over their consoles before giving a businesslike nod of satisfaction.

He was a tall man with mid-brown hair, a straggling beard and strange, intense, burning eyes.


One hundred and fifty miles further north HMS Poseidon, built by Vickers at Barrow-in-Furness a couple of years earlier and based at Plymouth Devonport, the Royal Navy’s principal submarine base, was maintaining her own regular patrol of the oceans, or of the North Atlantic anyway, just to let everyone know that Britain was still a world power with its own more or less independent nuclear deterrent.

After the US the largest builder and operator of nuclear submarines in the Western world was the UK. Currently the British had twelve SSNs and four SSBNs. These vessels owed their existence to two things: Britain’s natural desire to preserve something of the power she had enjoyed in the days of Empire, in order as much as anything to protect herself in a turbulent and sometimes unfriendly world, and America’s need to use that power to strengthen her own, taking advantage of the “Special Relationship” where it suited her. The sharing of technology still went on, for the sake of maintaining that relationship, even though Britain’s closeness to potential points of conflict in Europe was no longer a factor of importance following the end of the Cold War. There might also have been some in the corridors of power at Westminster and Whitehall who felt for the UK to abandon Trident would be to leave more and more power in the hands of America, that ally whose friendship was increasingly a double-edged sword and whose policies were causing so much conflict and instability in the world. Something, you had to admit, that the CND and Stop the War people didn’t take into account enough. Its Commander, Adam Hillyard RN, would certainly have agreed with this; and what gave him an additional buzz was that potentially hostile countries, it was said, still feared British submarines and their crews as the most lethally professional bunch in the business, more than the Americans. The Argentines in the Falklands conflict had certainly had cause to. That was why Hillyard had become a submarine commander and remained in the profession.

From the Royal Navy Academy at Dartmouth Hillyard had gone on to the Navy's submarine school at Portsmouth, HMS Dolphin, graduation from where was known in the trade as qualifiying for one’s "dolphins". Like his American counterpart Harlan Scobee he had familiarized himself in detail, while serving as a Seaman Officer on his first tour, with the technical functioning of the kind of vessels he hoped in due course to be commanding.

He had risen up through the hierarchy to become first a Navigator and then an Officer of the Watch, impressing his superiors enough for the Chief of Staff, Submarines, at Northwood to send him on the "Perisher", the Navy's submarine command qualification course. It was an emotionally brutal regime, and on average as many as forty per cent of trainees didn’t make it. Had he dropped out he would have been barred from ever stepping on board a British submarine again, though only after they’d given him a bottle of whisky and escorted him back to shore. It was said the burden of being a failed Perisher would always weigh you down. But the course did produce, he liked to think – with all respect to the Americans – the finest submarine commanders in the world.

Once a Perisher trainee had graduated he was assigned as the first lieutenant of a Royal Navy submarine. Hillyard had served on, and then commanded, in succession a diesel boat, an SSN, and finally an SSBN; the latter, of course, was HMS Poseidon.

She belonged to the V-class of British SSBNs, like the Vengeance or Victor or Valiant, but was called Poseidon because no-one could think of any more names beginning with “V”. Part of the 2nd Submarine Squadron, she carried a crew of twelve officers and 97 enlisted men; plus, forward of the conning tower, sixteen launch tubes for her Trident ballistic missiles, of the same time and with the same capabilities as those carried by the Connecticut. Like her American sister, she was powered by a PWR-2 pressurized water reactor.

Unlike her American counterparts Poseidon was built not so much for speed as for stealth. She was smaller than they and shorter, around 250 feet long. And quieter, not least because unlike the American boats she had no propeller, instead being fitted with a device called a pumpjet propulsor which looked like a lampshade attached to the stern. It worked like a fan drawing in water and pushing it aft to drive the boat forward. The system was less noisy than the American and operated more smoothly, with no increase in vibration when changing speed. Altogether she was more stable in the water and more manouevrable than the long, narrow hull of Connecticut. Though appearing stocky and compact in comparison she was in fact more streamlined, the only protrusion being the sonar dome forward of the conning tower. Like the Connecticut and her sisters she was covered in anechoic tiles. Her hydroplanes were on the forward part of the hull, not the sail as was the US practice. She had a top speed of about 30 knots at depth.

She took about as long to dive as Connecticut, but was somewhat easier to trim. Generally she steered very well, responding quickly to the slightest change in the attitude of her rudder. She increased and decreased speed equally quickly and smoothly, with no noticeable sound or vibration.

Returning from a few minutes spent above breathing in the sea air, Hillyard descended into the roomy conning tower, which housed the array of periscopes and masts and the dome for the Racal ESM (Electronic Support Measures, that is electronic warfare) system, then through the narrow and cramped stair shaft into the control room. The landing for the conning tower ladder could be converted to a chair for the Commander to sit in when he came down, and this had been done. Taking his seat, Hillyard settled down and surveyed the equipment laid out before him, which was much the same as on the Connecticut: the radar, radio and Gertrude - the last two linked courtesy of Marcotech to a network of communications satellites owned either by the Americans or the European Space Agency, the fire control and sonar consoles, the plotting area, the two periscopes, the mast for the Racal, the Global Positioning System and the SINS. In the past not all these systems had been together in the same room, on either the British or the American subs, but when the various Marcotech adaptations had been made the opportunity was taken to integrate everything into a single, immediately accessible unit.

On the port side of the room was the ship control area, with one man controlling the bow and stern diving planes from a single position. The ballast control panel, where the diving officer was seated, was to the right of it.

The ratings went about their tasks with an exaggerated solemnity, born of nervousness at knowing Hillyard’s eyes were on them all the time. Becoming aware of this after a while, the Commander left them to it. They were a perfectly capable bunch and if anything would perform better without his constant supervision. Besides, it was nearly time for lunch.

Leaving the control room, where the Officer of the Watch would remain in charge in his absence, Hillyard descended the ladder to the second deck where the cabins and dining areas for the crew were located. On the port side were the officers' quarters and wardroom; to starboard, the berths for the enlisted men, cramped and uncomfortable by comparison but still pleasantly snug and cosy. The only thing that really rankled with the crew was having to share with somebody; every cabin apart from those allocated to the most senior officers was equipped with bunk beds. The officers and ratings ate separately.

One thing which the top brass had sensibly allowed to relieved the comparative austerity of life on board a British submarine, and for which Mike Hartman and his lads on HMS Nelson were especially grateful, was that they were allowed to bring beer and wine on board, though woe betide anyone who drank to excess. The Navy’s philosophy was that if a man was responsible enough to go to sea at all, with its risks of a horrible death by drowning, he should not be denied the basic pleasure of a drink if he wanted it. In fact, most of the alcohol on board was consumed when the subs were in port; the sensible sailor generally never drank while at sea, being well aware of the attendant dangers. Every now and then, however, Hillyard and his fellow officers felt themselves entitled to splash out. Their wardroom, along with the senior ratings’ mess, both possessed the luxury of a bar where Foster’s Lager and John Courage could be had on tap.

As with Connecticut the daily routine on board the submarine included plenty of drills of all varieties. The US practice of “Familygrams” was also followed. Hillyard dashed off a quick missive to his wife and children, then made his way along to the wardroom where the Commander and Sub-Lieutenants had already taken their seats around the dining table, beneath an oaken plaque listing all previous Royal Navy vessels to carry the name Poseidon, with their commanding officers and the battles they had taken part in. The floor was carpeted unlike that of any other room on the sub, the walls panelled in varnished wood.

Stepping in, Hillyard nodded affably to his colleagues and took his place, removing his peaked cap and placing on the table before him. Now, as at all other times on board, he kept on his blazer uniform with yellow stripes and “porthole” insignia at the cuffs. The other officers wore white short-sleeved shirts with epaulettes and, except at times like this, usually a cap as well. It was in some contrast to the American preference for informality, where just the short-sleeved shirt with its “medals” and other insignia, the cap only occasionally, was the order of the day.

An orderly appeared and dished out their ration of steak, sautee potatoes and mushrooms in gravy, to be followed later by chocolate ice cream and finally champagne, the glasses for which were already laid out. With nods of thanks to the man, they proceeded to tuck in.
“Wonder how things are going on in Pakistan,” said Hillyard.

“I expect they’ll tell us if it’s the end of the world,” grinned Hillyard’s first lieutenant and Number Two, plus fellow “Perisher” graduate, Commander Derek Winton.

“Hope so,” joked the Captain. They all had visions of the Poseidon roaming the seas for all eternity like the Flying Dutchman, constantly sending out messages to a dead world, messages to which no-one would ever reply.

“It won’t come to that,” said the sub’s Navigator. “They’d never have let the rebels get anywhere near those nukes, and al-Qaeda must have known that. Makes it all rather pointless really. Though I suppose someone somewhere must have known what they were doing.”

“Tell you one thing,” grunted Hillyard through a mouthful of his steak, “I’m still glad it doesn’t fall to us to launch a strike on them if it comes to the worst.”

“It’d never have done. They need us round this neck of the woods – of the seas.” Though a British sub off Pakistan would not have gone unappreciated, it wasn’t really necessary; the Allied presence in the region, in the air, on land and at sea, was already sufficient for al-Qaeda to get the message. In so far as they were people who could be reasoned with.

“I’m rather more worried about this squid thing that’s supposed to be lurking around,” a Sub-Lieutenant said anxiously. “I wonder how big the bloody thing’s going to get?”

“I think that’s some way down south,” Hillyard reassured him. “But what still bugs me most of all is those oil tanker sinkings.” That the Navy had been quite unable to prevent the attacks was a major blow to its pride. “I still don’t understand it. With all that new Marcotech equipment on board all three vessels – and especially the Neptune – should have been able to detect whatever it was stuck the bomb on the Knight.”

The Sub-Lieutenant was suddenly struck by something. “Unless they designed the equipment in the first place. Then somehow they’d know how to…” He put down his fork with a clang as he realised what he was saying.
“You don’t suppose Marcotech – oh come off it, Jim. That’s quite absurd. What possible reason would they have to – “
The Intercom on the wall bleeped. Hillyard got up and went to answer it. “Captain speaking.”
It was the Officer of the Watch. “Sorry to disturb you, Sir,” he said. “But it looks like we’ve got a slight leak in the bridge area."


USS Connecticut
"OK lads, let's get to work," said the man with the burning eyes. "Make it quick, now."

He’d already taken the two keys from the unconscious bodies of Scobee and the COB. Now the two technicians, both carrying bulky plastic toolboxes, moved over to the control panel. They set to work with spanners and screwdrivers, removing the cover on the console to expose the wiring and circuitry within. With surgical precision they removed some wires and cross-connected others. Then they removed from one of the boxes a complex-looking arrangement of circuits and microchips and proceeded to wire it into the workings. They worked hard, but with precision; the operation was a delicate one and in the end took almost an hour. When it was finished, however, they had what they wanted. The "manipulator" they had installed would allow them to fire as many of the missiles, at any time and in any way, that they desired.

Meanwhile their colleagues on the Poseidon were doing much the same thing.


US Navy Research Facility
In the main laboratory Admiral Edward A Feakins, US Navy, and Graham Hendricks stood watching a CCTV screen which showed Caroline Kent sitting on a bed in the room which had been allocated to her, reading a book. She now wore a T-shirt and a pair of jeans, but her feet were bare. Happening to glance up from the paperback, she noticed the camera and stuck out her tongue at it.

At length she rose, stretched, stripped down to a bikini and went through a connecting door to the pool area beyond. There, she dived into the water and struck out for the other end of the pool with smooth, powerful strokes.
"Fascinating," said Hendricks. "She behaves just like a normal human being. And yet she isn't, is she?"
Feakins noted the effortless grace with which Caroline moved in the water, the speed with which she covered the length and breadth of the pool. "Not as far as we're concerned," he said bluntly.
"It's astonishing," Hendricks reflected, "to think that a private Company, without the resources of the state behind them, should have been able to achieve something like this all by themselves."

"Fortunately they aren't the only ones who can pull strings," Feakins said. "Still, it means we've got to be careful in future." He swung round to face the scientist. "I don't think they did it entirely by themselves. They had help from within the Federal government, the governments of Britain and the Bahamas, probably the Florida state authorities. I think it was them who vetoed us helping out with that giant squid business. They may also be the reason why we didn't get very far with our own investigation into the tanker sinkings."

His gaze returned to Caroline. "Now all that's gonna stop," he said harshly. "Because they've got something we want." Whatever happened they would need access to Marcotech’s laboratories. They could work out how to do it all themselves, given time. But it made sense to speed things up if possible.

He just couldn't take his eyes off her. After all, the advantages of it were obvious. Divers who could breathe underwater for far longer than an ordinary human, who could outswim other divers, who could cover vast stretches of ocean without tiring, who would register on sonar and radar as a shoal of large fish, not as some kind of enemy submarine. And who with the aid of drugs would be fully controllable.

Hendricks wondered whether he ought to say what he'd found in Caroline's DNA sample, and in the end decided he shouldn't. He had a feeling it might just complicate matters.
"Of course some people would have ethical objections to what we're thinking of doing," he ventured.

Feakins snorted to show just what he thought of them. "They’d just want the technology for themselves. That includes the Brits. She's one of them, remember; MI6. That means we've got to think twice before letting her go.

The Admiral's cellphone trilled. While he answered it Hendricks continued to observe Caroline carefully: the time she spent underwater, the ease with which she performed the different swimming styles, how long it took for her to complete X number of lengths or breadths of the pool. He had a digital stopwatch in his hand.

"What?" he heard the Admiral exclaim. "Are you sure of this? I see....right. But how could they....oh right, yes of course." He fell very silent, then seemed to gather his thoughts. "So what's being done about it....uh-huh. Well, make sure you keep me informed. You know where to find me." He stowed away the phone.
Hendricks was regarding him anxiously. "What's up?"

"A little complication's come up," Feakins told him. "It...it's pretty serious actually." He took a deep breath, obviously shaken. "Let me tell you precisely what Marcotech have just gone and done."


Marcotech’s underwater colony, ten miles north of Gran Bahama
One by one the executives filed into Greatrix’s office. Their manner was a little apprehensive, but composed. Then they registered the armed men standing against the wall, and Greatrix sensed the alarm and tension in them as they became unsettled. They glanced nervously at one another.
"Is there anything wrong?" Putyachev asked Greatrix.

"If you'd all care to sit down, I'll explain," the millionaire said, taking his seat at the head of the table.
Slowly they sat down. The eyes of every one of them went to him, anxious and questioning.
He cleared his throat. "Strategy C has had to be put into effect. A British and an American nuclear submarine, both armed with intercontinental ballistic missiles, are now under our control. I have warned the authorities to leave the colony alone or we'll fire the missiles. You...will of course understand the implications of this development."

For a few silent moments the executives were busy digesting the information. Once it had sunk in there were looks of dismay, anger and concern on their faces. The Japanese, Kobyusato, rose stiffly to his feet. He spoke for all those concerned. "You have allowed us no time to collect our families, our personal belongings. We demand an explanation." The others nodded vigorously, a murmur of agreement rippling through the group.

"Why did you not inform us in advance?" demanded Otto Kleistmann. "That was our original agreement." His stocky body tensed for a confrontation.

"You'll forgive me I trust, gentlemen and lady, but things have moved faster than I expected. One of the aquanoids escaped and I believe is now in the hands of the authorities. She will tell them about the colony, and everything that's going on here. They'll want to make use of our project for their own purposes, which I cannot allow."

The Indian, Rajani, was frowning. "But surely, if she was treated with the drug..."
Very slightly Latimer's head turned in Greatrix's direction, and his lips tightened.
"The drug appears to have worn off," Greatrix said. "We're not sure why. It happens, sometimes."

"If there's anything I can do about your families I will," he promised. "There was no time to collect them. But after all the years we have spent working together, I thought the least I could do was to ensure your own personal safety."

None of them seemed mollified by this. "And if you can't help them?" said Bert Hammerstein. The tone of his voice was dangerous. "What happens if they're on a plane, driving a car, or anything like that when we decide to move on to Strategy D?"
"They'll be safe, I assure you."

"Can you guarantee that, Mr Greatrix?" the Chinaman Kai Ling asked in his soft, melodious Oriental voice.
"I said I would do what I could. In any case, I think it's very unlikely the authorities will be so stupid as to attack the colony while we have their submarines under our control. There will be no holocaust."
"But as Mr Hammerstein has just pointed out, when Strategy D is put into operation there is a possibility our loved ones will die."
Gerda Wenge suddenly spoke up. "Herr Greatrix, could not the safe passage of our families to the colony be made an additional demand?" Her manner was polite and reasonable.

Greatrix answered at once, showing he had anticipated the request. "It would mean a certain amount of contact with the authorities. If there is too much of that, we create too many openings, too many opportunities for something to go wrong. It increases the number of points of weakness, the probability of complications. What if someone exploits the arrangement to get into the colony? This installation must be a closed system, a fortress no-one is allowed to get in or out of. It's quite likely the US Navy are already surrounding the base."

"I am sure we would not compromise the security of the project," Wenge assured him, frostily.
"Nevertheless, it would be best in the meantime if you all remained here."
"This is not in order," protested Kleistmann. "We should decide these matters democratically. It must be a majority decision by the board of management."
Silence fell. The executives each looked at Greatrix, he eyed them all back. There was a lot of embarrassed shifting.

"It's too late for that now," the millionaire said suddenly. "It'd take far too long." He nodded to the chief of the guards. "If you could escort our friends here to the guest suite."
Without a word the executives stood up and made for the door, knowing there was no point in resistance. Their faces were ashen.
The guards followed them out, keeping no more than a pace or two behind them.

"Can we do anything about their families?" Latimer asked once they had all gone.
"You heard what I said about creating dangerous openings."
"We could ask the Americans to stand off."
"They must have some kind of presence on the spot. It's a concession we must allow them. If they don't they may get worried things are happening which they have no power to stop."
"Of course," he smiled, "we very much hope they won't stop it."
He buried himself a little deeper in his chair. "It would have taken too long to get their families together, and then over here," he insisted. "I didn't want to leave them any time to get cold feet in. What if they'd come along, found the whole operation wound up and the colony surrounded by the Navy, and panicked? They might have decided to make a clean breast of it to the authorities. They might have told them about our...last resort."
"You didn't tell them the whole truth there," Latimer said.

"What I did tell them would sound alarming enough to the world. All the same, the thought crossed my mind. But it's always possible they might like it even less than what they think is the alternative."
"They're still pretty pissed off. They thought they'd have time to get their loved ones down here safely. I mean, you promised them."
"I don't break promises without a good reason. If the authorities knew about Strategy D they might decide to take the colony whatever the consequences. And I don't want to unleash a major nuclear holocaust, Dave. Not if I can help it. It would mess up a lot of things, and that's putting it mildly. Our "last resort" might not be any help then, although we can't be entirely sure."

Latimer leaned close to him, grinning slyly. "You never wanted to tell them the truth about Strategy D, did you? Because you don't want to admit that when push comes to bloody shove we don't want it done to us or ours. We're a bunch of right bloody hypocrites. Listen, for your information I couldn't give a toss one way or another. Nor could any of the lads. That was why you picked us, wasn't it?"
"As long as their families were here with them they wouldn't have minded."
"But that hasn't happened," Latimer reminded him. He changed tack. "Anyway, we've probably fucked up everything as it is. What happens if those al-Qaeda loonies get hold of the Pakis' nuclear weapons?"
"You mean the Pakistanis' nuclear weapons. And they won't. I knew that when I first had the idea for our little Asian adventure. The West will never allow it, purely and simply." It was why the executives hadn't been too worried about Strategy B’s ultimate consequences. "No, right now only we have the power of life and death over the world. Only we can bend everything and everyone to our will, decide the fate of the entire human race. Only we."

Greatrix was staring fixedly at the wall of the office, his face blank and impassive like someone in a deep trance. Latimer knew that whenever his boss was in this mood it was best to leave him alone.
He remembered something. “Charlie’s arrived safely. And Wayne Goertz.”
“Oh good,” muttered Greatrix.
Latimer decided he might as well continue. “I should warn you Wayne’s a bit upset. He, er, had to kill his wife.”
“Really? Whatever for?”

“He reckons she twigged what we were up to down here. Heard about a Fish Woman on the TV and put two and two together.”
Latimer saw Greatrix wince, a trace of emotion showing briefly in his face. “It would have been preferable if that had not been necessary.”
“He says he thought about telling her everything and trying to get her involved. But he’s not sure she’d have approved. The thing is, it’s sent him over the edge a bit. He’s still sobbing his heart out and praying for forgiveness.”

“It would be understandable if he were to experience feelings of remorse.”
“Yeah, sure. But I reckon he’s….”
Greatrix meditated on the news. For someone to go seriously off the rails in a closed environment like the colony could only be dangerous for the others there. “Just make sure he’s securely locked up. Separately from anyone else, preferably. In due course he’ll find out whether it was all worthwhile. If it comes to the worst we can always make an aquanoid out of him.”

Latimer nodded. He took one last look at his boss’s face, and decided it was time to go. "Got a few things to do," he grunted, and went.
Greatrix barely noticed him leave. After the door had closed behind him, the millionaire reached forward and picked up the photograph of the little boy from his desk. Holding it in both hands he stared down at it for some time with his hollow, haunted eyes.


FORTY-FIVE
The Poseidon was the first to go off the air, the Connecticut following a few minutes later. When the subs failed to make their regular routine calls to base air and sea searches were instigated by their respective countries. They failed to find any trace of the vessels on the surface. Each power thought that something had gone wrong with its sub's communications equipment, or some kind of accident had disabled the craft. The latter was a pretty alarming scenario, not least because of the possible consequences if the reactor was damaged. But when it was learned by one that the other had had problems too, the dread thought began to creep in that this could be no coincidence.

Was it possible that someone had hijacked the subs and was going to use it to attack the West? Could al-Qaeda have...whatever the explanation, it was all pretty alarming. First Pakistan, and now this.

The uncertainty was ended when a radio message, apparently originating from somewhere in the Bahamas, was broadcast on all US and British government frequencies, to be picked up immediately by Fort Meade and GCHQ at Cheltenham. In Britain the special committee known as Cobra, which met at times of national crisis and whose membership varied according to the nature of that crisis, met at 10 Downing Street. On this occasion it consisted of the Prime Minister, the Secretary of State for Defence and several other senior Cabinet ministers, the Chief of the Defence Staff and the other heads of the Armed Forces, including the Flag Officer, Submarines, for the Royal Navy, Vice-Admiral Sir Gordon Pemberton, and his Chief of Staff, Submarines, Commodore Roger Farries, who together commanded the British submarine fleet from the Joint Command Operations Centre at Northwood, Middlesex. If necessary the government’s civil defence supremo, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner and one or more of the Chief Constables would be added to the team.

The President of the United States called a meeting of his senior aides and military chiefs of staff in the Situation Room at the White House. It would be followed in due course by a joint meeting of the heads of NATO in Washington. Among the civilians present apart from George Bush himself – though in one respect he was not a civilian, being overall commander-in-chief of the armed forces - were the Vice-President, National Security Adviser, Secretary of State and the Secretaries for Defense and the Navy. In their military rather than their civilian capacity, the latter were represented by the Chief of Naval Operations and the Commander of the Atlantic Fleet, Admiral Harrison Baker.

A tape of the message was played back. "This is Marcotech Consortium Limited speaking to the governments of Britain and the United States of America. We have taken over two of your submarines, HMS Poseidon and USS Connecticut, and will fire their nuclear missiles at populated areas in both the Northern and Southern Hemispheres if any attempt is made to raid our undersea installation off Grand Bahama. For the sake of millions of lives we hope you will heed this warning. We are engaged in an enterprise which will be of immeasurable benefit to humanity, and for humanity's sake must be allowed to complete it. There are those who would seek to pervert what we are doing for their own unethical purposes and we cannot allow that.

“The crews of the submarines have not been harmed and will be released, alive and well, at the earliest opportunity." The tape came to an end.
The President spoke. "Are we sure this isn't a hoax? Could Marcotech really do this sort of thing?"
"They designed the computer codes," Admiral Baker reminded the meeting. "Built all the hardware."
"Oh shit," said Bush.

The National Security Adviser said, "I wouldn't rule it out, considering the line of work they're in. They’ve created some pretty advanced stuff for the defence industry. The code for launching the missiles and the associated software was designed by a subsidiary of theirs. They've probably installed some means of making sure they can fire the missiles whenever they want. Or maybe just taken the keys.
“Right now the Brits are carrying out a full investigation into Marcotech, and we're doing the same over here. We've raided all Marcotech's onshore bases around the world, and we're questioning the key personnel. The ones we could find, anyway."
"The ones you could find?" asked the Vice-President.

"Quite a few of them seem to have disappeared, including Zuckermann their chief scientist, Latimer the head of security, and Edward Greatrix himself. I think they were the people who really knew what was going on. The others seem mystified about the whole business, and I don't think they're putting it on.

"The company's been suspended from trading while an investigation's been carried out into its affairs. It's not the first time it's been investigated, actually. This time there wasn't any option but to get tough."
"I guess all these people disappearing prove it is them behind it all," said the President.
The NSA nodded. "And no-one else has come forward."

“Are we going to ignore the Marcotech base altogether, then?” asked the Secretary of State. “For the time being anyway?”
Admiral Baker answered her. “My Second Fleet have effectively put a cordon around it and are maintaining a watch of the area. So far Marcotech haven’t made any objection. But we can’t do much more than that. The submarines have been withdrawn and all ships and aircraft are staying at least ten miles away from the colony. But it looks like they must have something else in mind because they know they can’t maintain the stand-off forever.”

"We won't know the answer until we can get inside the base, and that's precisely what would incite Marcotech to fire those missiles,” said the Secretary for the Navy glumly.
"Before we go any further, there's something that's worrying me more than anything else,” the President said. “How did they know where the submarines were in the first place?"

"That's something we'll need to look into, of course. One thing's clear, they must have had inside information. Either someone in the Navy or someone high up in Joint Chiefs of Staff administrative structure. That’s a serious matter but we’ll have to deal with it later.”
Wearily, they turned their attention to the question of what to actually do about the problem.
"Those subs can stay at sea for months, maybe years. And we wouldn’t know where they were.”
“Yeah, but sooner or later whoever's on board will need food and other essentials. The reactors will require refuelling..”

"We may receive a demand in the next few weeks that all the right materials be supplied to them. And if we try and take the chance to seize the subs they’ll launch the missiles immediately.”
"All the same, they can't expect to keep this going forever. Spend too much time cooped up on board one of those boomers and you go crazy. And the longer it goes on for the bigger the likelihood something'll happen to mess up their plans. You’re right, Admiral, they’ve got to be waiting for something. I don't know what, but it's sure worrying me."

"What's this "enterprise which will be of immeasurable benefit to humanity?", do you suppose?”
“Seems to me that's got to be the clue. It's something at the Bahamas base, and that's why they don't want anyone to raid it."
"Unless they tell us, I don't reckon we'll know."
"We’ve been raiding all their other assets. They don’t seem too bothered about that, as if they’ve already passed some point of no return.”
“They did that the moment they took the subs,” growled the NSA.

“Marcotech were involved in work on a revolutionary new mariculture project. It might be something to do with that."
"To find out we'll have to get in there. And if anything went wrong, they'd panic and fire the missiles."
"It'd be just as risky to try and retake those subs. Either by force or by stealth."
"Can we do that anyway?"
"Nothing like it has ever been attempted before. Of course the British Special Boat Service are pretty good, as are our own Navy Seals. We're looking at possible options right now. The job of retaking the Poseidon will be down to the Brits, since it's one of theirs. Re Connecticut, the Seals are already on standby.

"But of course we’d first have to find the subs, and that’s going to be difficult. They've got millions of miles of ocean to hide in and trying to locate them by sonar is always a hit-and-miss affair even if we happened to be fairly close to them. We could try, of course. Marcotech didn't say we couldn't. Second Atlantic are looking for the Connecticut as we speak and the British are doing their best to get a fix on Poseidon.”
“And there’s been no luck so far?”
“None at all.”

Admiral Baker continued. “My guess is that the Poseidon will be somewhere in the Northern Hemisphere, the Connecticut the Southern. But if we do manage to get a more precise fix than that, it’ll be by pure luck. Of course with the new system they don't need to surface to make radio contact or to check their position, so it’s almost impossible to track them.” The process involved what was not, strictly speaking, a form of radio but rather microwave radiation emitted by a satellite, which could penetrate water more easily than either radio waves or laser beams. It removed the need for a sub to surface to raise an ELF mast, thereby risking giving her position away. Information vital for navigation could be communicated by the same means.

“We could monitor their transmissions but it’s difficult with the new system – that was the whole idea. And who designed it with Marcotech themselves? As for shutting down the satellites, we know they’ve got their own and the radio link’s probably been rerouted to them.”

"What about knocking out their satellites with an ICBM?" the Vice-President suggested.
"That might be possible,” the Defense Secretary told the meeting. “Trouble is, Marcotech have said that if the subs lose contact with their base they’re to launch their nukes immediately. Also the satellite might be at too high an altitude. And there’d be a whole heap of trouble if it came down in the wrong place.”
“And we don’t have the slightest idea what to do when we have found them,” sighed the NSA.

"We could only attack if we were certain of knocking both subs out at the same time.” The moment one was neutralized, the other would retaliate. “But we couldn’t be. And they’re probably going too deep for depth charges anyway.”
“Who do we think is in command of those subs right now?” asked the Secretary of State.
“They've obviously replaced the original crews with their own,” replied the Chief of Naval Operations. “Mercenaries, probably. People with some military training and probably technical expertise."

"I just hope they do know what they're doing,” muttered Admiral Baker. A nuclear-powered ballistic missile submarine isn't a toy."
"They know exactly what they're doing," the NSA grunted. "They have the knowledge and the expertise. And they've been planning it for years, you can tell."
The meeting seemed to have lost its way a bit. “All the time they were secretly developing the knowledge, the hardware, for their own uses, and we never realised it,” mused the Vice-President, wonderingly.

“That’s not the issue,” snapped Admiral Baker. “At least, not at the moment. The point is to actually do something about this little problem, and it seems we’re nowhere near making a decision.”
“I suggest we wait until the last possible moment, and then if there’s no other way out we send in the Seals,” argued the Vice-President. “If we’ve found the Connecticut by then.”
“But we won’t know when the last moment is,” the Secretary of State pointed out. “Because we don’t know what Marcotech’s ultimate game is.”

“I’d suggest a provisional deadline of two weeks from now, to be brought forward or postponed depending on whether we can acquire additional information.” The heads around the table considered this, then nodded. “Sounds like a good idea,” the President agreed. “We’ll need to liaise closely with the Brits of course, know exactly what they’re doing. For all we know it could be New York or DC that the Poseidon’s got in her sights.”

“I’ll see to it,” said Condoleezza Rice. “In the meantime, do we tell the public?”
"There's no immediate likelihood of the missiles being fired, that we can see,” said the Vice-President. “Until there is it's not worth the panic it'd cause. Things would spiral out of control.”
They left it at that. Like all politicians they had a history of being economical with the truth, whether for fair or foul reasons, and they weren’t going to suddenly change now.

"What notice would they give us, do you think?" asked the President.
"Let's just hope it doesn't come to that," the Vice-President sighed. "I certainly don't think there's any reason to suppose Marcotech will fire the missiles on an impulse. If we don't do anything stupid..”
"They may just want time to relocate the base somewhere else," said the Secretary for Defense.
"I don't think it's that. The Navy have already surrounded the area, and so far Marcotech haven't told us to pull them out.”

The political leaders would, of course, be evacuated to their own personal shelters, whether beneath the capital or out in the country, within minutes of it becoming clear that an attack was likely.
It was always possible, thought the Vice-President, that Marcotech’s ultimate plan was something harmless, something genuinely beneficial which they wanted the freedom to do but which people acting from selfish or wicked motives might seek to frustrate. If that were the case, storming the subs would be to risk Armageddon for nothing. And if Armageddon happened….

Briefly his eyes lingered on the President. Does that man really have the ability to make the decision, in the end, he wondered. Or the right decision?


US Navy Research Facility, San Diego
Though abundantly lit by the arrays of fluorescent tubes in the ceiling, the vast laboratory somehow had the dingy, slightly nauseaous air of an aquarium. It certainly had the look of one, partly due to the enormous tank at one end, filled with saltwater that had been specially shipped in. It was designed to reproduce exactly an underwater environment, with sand and silt at the bottom, rocks, the fronds of sea plants undulating gently in the current set up by an electric motor. It had everything except artificial bubbles and a model of a sunken galleon, Caroline thought drily. Nearby scientists stood or sat at a bank of instrument-studded consoles examining computer-generated diagrams of her anatomy and metabolism.

Below floor level her pool was glassed in on three sides to form a sunken tank which projected into the the laboratory on the level below. There was no way of entering or exiting the pool other than the connecting door to her quarters.

All the previous night technicians and workmen had been busy demolishing walls, erecting partitions, moving equipment in and out. They had also installed a sleep tank similar to the one at Marcotech, for her to use when necessary.

In the tank Caroline swam about listlessly, looking bored and miserable. Hendricks came in and paused by the glass, once more studying her in fascination as she swam about. He noted the rippling motion of her gills as they drew in water, and the play of her muscles as they flexed with each swing of the arms, each kick of the legs.

He went over to his chief assistant, Yoshiro Saito. "How long has she been in there now?"
"Just under forty-five minutes. We said an hour...."
Hendricks waited a bit longer. "All right. Seal off the top of the tank."
With a hum of electric motors a steel cover slid slowly into place over the tank, a fraction of a millimetre above the surface of the water. Caroline didn't notice it at first.

The scientists saw her swim upwards, making straight for the surface. Time to get some air.
Her eyes widened in horror as she realised she was trapped within the tank. She swum to the glass and banged on it with an angry expression. Silently she mouthed the words, what the hell are you trying to do?
They stared back at her without emotion.

She dived to the bottom of the tank, and crouched there on all fours for a few seconds, gathering her energies. Then she sprang, shooting up through the water in a spectacular leap, propelled on a little further by furious cycling movements of her legs. She put up her arms to protect her head and they slammed against the steel lid, the impact appearing to jar her painfully. The sheet of solid metal stayed firmly in place, not even the slightest vibration noticeable.

She tried again, with the same lack of results. Instead of making another attempt she remained at the top, kicking to help keep afloat and trying to suck in air from the tiny space between the water and the metal surface above it. She used it up in seconds.

Sinking back down, she went to the wall again and this time stayed there, hammering on the glass with increasing desperation.

By now there was a painful burning sensation in her lungs, like they were being squeezed in a red hot vice. And it was getting worse minute by minute.
The scientists went on scribbling in their notebooks, observing her with clinical detachment.
Subject exhibited signs of distress after approximately one hour in the tank....
Caroline had realised what they were trying to do. If I do you'll be in serious trouble, she mouthed.
Maybe they couldn't lip-read.

Frantically she continued to pound on the glass, her lips working soundlessly in a wordless appeal for help.
Still the scientists regarded her with that look of studied detachment, Hendricks' pencil recording everything he saw in his notebook.
After five minutes rapid movement of the diaphragm, and of the gills, was observed accompanied by convulsive swallowing motions….

The pain was incredible. The water in her lungs was choking her, she was losing consciousness. Again she swam up to the top of the tank, her hands running rapidly over the smooth metal surface as if trying to locate an opening that wasn't there. She made them into fists and punched at it furiously.
"All right, remove the cover," Hendricks shouted. "We don't want to lose her just yet."

In her distress she didn't feel the faint trembling as the lid began to retract. But then suddenly her fingers were clawing empty air and with a sobbing cry of relief she kicked up, into the open. She flipped over and backstroked to edge of the pool, to hang from it sucking in the precious oxygen with great wheezing gasps. The look on Henricks' face was one of utter fascination.
Saito came up to him. "Another test?"

"Leave it for a bit," he said. "Too much stress in too short a time could kill her."
Caroline sat by the pool with her head buried in her knees, breathing steadily. Some time passed. Then Hendricks nodded to Saito. “She’s had long enough to recover. I think we can try the next test.”
“It’s not quite time.”
“I don’t think a few minutes either way will matter.”

Caroline was stretched out by the pool with her arms crossed behind her head, thinking of nothing in particular, when a couple of the guards came along, one motioning to her abruptly with his rifle.
"Get back in the tank," he ordered.
"Since you ask so nicely."
"Get back in the tank," the man repeated.
She dived in, making sure she splashed a good deal of water over the guards. Her head broke surface for a moment. "Oh, sorry," she smiled, and popped under again.
Several more guards appeared, each carrying a couple of buckets filled with a dark red liquid. They went to the edge of the pool and began emptying the contents of the buckets into it. Another began tossing in chunks of raw meat.

Caroline suddenly realised the water around her was turning blood red, saw the pieces of meat and had a nasty suspicion as to what they were planning.
The cover was sliding back into place again. She made for the edge of the tank and clambered out. "What's going on?" she demanded.

The nearest guard raised a taser threateningly. "Get back in the tank. You know this can hurt you."
"That's nothing to what I'd do if I...."
His patience snapped. "Get back in the fucking tank," he snarled, advancing on her with the taser. His companions joined him and together the five of them herded her back towards the pool. The cover was now more than halfway closed. She stood about a couple of feet from the edge.

She hesitated, then jumped in, diving to avoid being crushed between the cover and the edge of the tank. With a dull thud it connected with the top of the far wall.
Now what, she wondered.
In the main lab Hendricks spoke into an intercom. "All right, open the gate."

The tank was really one of a number of tanks, all connected to one another by a series of metal doors which were normally kept shut. The one in the far wall of Caroline's tank began to open vertically and a huge, white, deadly shape, streamlined for killing, swam through the opening into her view.
Maddened by the smell and taste of the blood in the water, the great white made straight for her. She froze in terror, staring as if paralysed into the shark’s face. That horrible face.....

In just seconds the shark was too close for her to orientate herself to kick it, or so she judged. She corkscrewed, twisting round and over onto her front in the same movement, and shot off towards the opposite end of the tank in one single, fluid, darting motion. The shark streaked after her.
To her relief she saw that the gate in the wall there was opening. Veering off to the right a little, she sped on towards it. The change of direction had caused her to slow down fractionally and she pushed herself even faster in order to compensate.
To the watching scientists it seemed she reached the opening in little more than the wink of an eye. She swam on through it and the gate slammed down behind her like the blade of a guillotine.

The shark was going too fast to stop in time, and its nose slammed straight into the gate. It rebounded from the metal and for some minutes swam crazily about, lurching from side to side, evidently stunned. Serve you right, thought Caroline, who by now had acquired a visceral dislike of sharks.

She stared out through the glass at the scientists, accusingly. Hendricks turned away, not wishing to meet her eye. "Her speed...did you see her go? That's what we want, alright."
Saito was looking unhappy. "What if it had caught her?”

"She was never in any danger," said Hendricks. "She couldn’t be sure we’d open the gate, that’s all. Besides, that's how you find out these things."


General Parviz Sharifah strode purposefully along the corridors of the upper floor of the barracks near Karachi which had been taken over by the legitimate – if you could call a regime which had seized power in a military coup and kept it by stage-managing elections in which its leader was the only candidate legitimate – headquarters.

Sharifah was no supporter of democracy, of course. Had Pervez Musharraf been politically more to his liking, he would have heartily approved of the coup which had brought that man to power.

But that was not the case and so Musharraf had to die. Most likely Sharifah would lose his own life in the process, but that of course didn’t deter him from his task. Or rather he felt the fear, but was utterly determined to do it anyway.

There were always two soldiers guarding the President’s bedroom. He would go up to them and say that he urgently needed to see the President, the reason if he needed to give one being that he had uncovered a conspiracy among Musharraf’s retinue and that an assassination attempt was being planned this very moment. When he had killed the President they would probably kill him, and so any prospect of escaping with the casket that contained Musharraf’s copy of the key was out. A pity. But the assassination of Musharraf would cause alarm and concern throughout the West, so he would have achieved something. He was a solid bulwark against what they insisted on calling “Islamic extremism”, and the man whom they would prefer to lead the country in the aftermath of the war, supposing that they won it.

Sharifah turned a corner into the passage that led to his destination, and stopped dead in his tracks, startled. There were no guards outside the door of Musharraf’s room. He was puzzled, and for a moment uneasy. Something was wrong. But it wasn’t likely he’d get another chance to kill the traitor, still less take the casket, so he pressed on. He came up to the door, turned the handle and gently pushed it open.

Stepping in, he closed the door behind him and drew his silenced automatic pistol from his holster with one hand, the other groping for the light switch. Click.

As the light flooded the room he looked around and saw the casket on the table beside the bed. It was heavy, really a small safe, and no doubt only Musharraf knew the combination to lock it. But there were ways of breaking it open, once he had managed to smuggle it out to one of the rebel strongholds. Getting it out of here was the tricky part; he’d just have to call his comrades, giving them the signal to move, and while they mounted a determined, suicidal attack on the barracks sneak from the building with it, somehow without anyone noticing. He’d better stay here for the moment, in case someone came across him while he was lugging the casket down the corridor to his own room. If discovered, he could claim to have heard a sound and gone to investigate, discovering to his horror that the President had been murdered.

Musharraf’s death would throw everything into confusion, so maybe he needn’t worry too much. He raised the pistol, aimed it at the huddled form on the bed and fired twice. It seemed to jerk under the impact.

He stared at it for a few moments, then took a step towards it, the beginnings of a frown wrinkling his brow. Something wasn’t quite right…he could sense it…..

The object on the bed was no more than a bundle of blankets, arranged so as to suggest a sleeping human form. He’d been tricked.

“Please do not move, General.” The voice came from the corner of the room, beyond his field of vision. “We have you covered.”

Briefly he considered resistance, but decided Allah would not thank him for throwing his life away in vain. He dropped the gun and looked to one side to see one of the guards training a rifle on him. The man must have stood far enough away from the door to be out of his vision field.

Footsteps approached him from the right; the other guard, also covering him point blank with a rifle. Then the door to the balcony outside was opened, and from the darkness General Pervez Musharraf, President of Pakistan, stepped into the room. His movements were still a little shaky from the after-effects of the explosion, and his face bore fading scars, but his bearing was that of the soldier he’d always been, and there was a grim determination in his face. “So,” he said. “You. I couldn’t have known, but I’m not altogether surprised. It seems anyone can turn out to be an extremist, these days.”

The President had always known, of course, that there were spies within his retinue. It was a constant danger and problem he would have been glad to be rid of. The assassination attempt at the cabinet meeting, which had led to a coup d’etat, war and the effective partition of the country had been the final straw. By employing a little deception, he had now succeeded in smoking out at least one of the conspirators. And maybe through Sharifah he would be able to learn who the others were.

“You will torture me, of course,” the General said. “I will not talk.”
“We’ll see,” Musharraf replied.
“If you cannot break me, and I live, what will you do then? Execute me, turn me into a martyr? That would be most unwise. Because there will be others who seek to kill you and depose your unholy regime, whatever happens. You are a slave to everything a true Muslim despises. A servant of the Americans and the British.”

Pervez Musharraf threw back his head and laughed. “You think it is like that? How little you understand. I have had plenty of cause to be angered by their arrogance and their foolishness, the way they seek to bend the world to their will. The Americans threatened to bomb us once, if you remember. It has not been an easy relationship. But they know my patience becomes strained at times and are careful not to offend me, because they know how vital I am as an ally in their war on terror. I could make things very difficult for them if I wished. It is my choice to go on supporting them – mine alone – because I know what you would seek to do is even worse.”

“And what do you think will happen to our nuclear weapons, after this? The Americans will demand we surrender them. There will be no Islamic country with the means to rival Israel and the West. We shall be weak and powerless, which is what they desire. You have lost everything.”

“We shall not lose our nuclear arsenal. Muslim opinion – and my opinion – would not permit it. Besides, if both we and the Indians have such weapons it is less likely one side will do anything to antagonize each other. In the long term fear of the consequences will force us to settle our differences. There will be a proper balance of power, which is how things should be.”

“You are interested only in power for yourself. You are a brutal tyrant, a butcher. You have consigned the majority of our people to poverty and denied them any right to express their opinions.”

Musharraf shrugged his shoulders sadly. “Pakistan is still not ready for democracy. It suffers too much from the circumstances of its birth. Perhaps if we had never been under British rule things would have been different, but it’s beyond our power to turn the clock back. For now the country needs the rule of the army. Say what you like about me, General; but I’m a practical politician, I deal in the possible. There is much that is wrong with Pakistan; it may be the West’s fault, or perhaps we are simply different from them; but to do things your way would be worse. And believe me, I have the country’s best interests at heart. And Islam’s. Let history, and God, decide. But not you.”
Then he told the soldiers to take Sharifa away.


Having run out of things to do, Caroline was sitting cross-legged on the bottom of her tank, motionless as a statue of some underwater Buddha. Through the glass one of the scientists caught her fixedly staring eye and smiled, whereupon she pulled a sour face.

She went on watching them at their work. Over time she had got to know all their individual mannerisms, their body language and what it signified. People really were a most fascinating species. In a way it's you who're the fish in the tank, she mused, and me who's gawping at you. The thought gave her some considerable satisfaction.

She could sense that the way she sat and silently watched them made them uneasy. Oh what a shame.
It was a pity the telepathy didn’t seem to work on humans anywhere near as well as it did animals. It might be because she was talking to people a bit more, even if she didn’t entirely care for the company. It might also be because they had lost such abilities, along with for the most part the related properties of intuition and second sight, when they evolved into creatures who (supposedly) used reason to work things out, and found their brains didn’t have the capacity to accommodate that and the telepathy as well. It was widely believed, though not yet scientifically acccepted, that animals – who used instinct rather than reason - had some kind of telepathic faculty, and her own experiences now proved this was true. In humans the power was still there but it was weaker, preventing them from receiving her own transmissions or themselves transmitting on a frequency she could pick up.

It was a pity because she relished the thought of knowing all their dark secrets, which of them was a secret sexual pervert or having an affair with that attractive junior technician who brought in the coffee and cookies every couple of hours. Still, there was a lot you could suss out without the aid of telepathy, and without needing a great deal of time in which to do so.

Meanwhile, Hendricks was sitting at his desk at the side of the room drawing up a report which summarized the findings so far from the tests they’d been carrying out on their subject.
“Subject needs to alternate between land and water on hourly basis.
“Heartbeat and breathing rate higher in water than on land. In a terrestrial environment, or when motionless in water, pulse rate averages at 75 beats a minute (human normal 60-70 beats), and rate of respiration at 15 breaths a minute (human normal 12 to 14 breaths); when swimming, pulse rate is 220 beats per minute (human normal, for a young adult female, is 200-210) and rate of respiration 200 breaths per minute (more or less the average for a human). This takes into account the fact that when immersed a swimmer’s heart rate may drop by 5-8 beats per minute, water tending to facilitate the return of blood to the heart and thus reduce the work the cardiovascular system needs to do. Were it not for this I suspect the figures I have given might be higher and indeed are, particularly in water, when the subject is exposed to stress or needs to perform rapid physical movements:


Land Water Human average

Heart rate (bpm) 165 185 160(l), 200(w)*
Breathing rate (pm) 40 40 35

* depending on age and fitness levels

“The subject is of average muscular development for a woman, by human – or at any rate humanOID – standards, but the various adaptations she has undergone make up for this. However she is not significantly faster or stronger in the water than the average human swimmer, except when under threat and therefore experiencing the adrenalin rush.

“Buoyancy - excellent. Visibility in water - excellent. Hearing ditto, though no doubt assisted by ability of water to carry sound waves.

“Extreme sensitivity to vibrations in water. After a safe interval the experiment with the shark was repeated, this time with the subject being allowed no indication of what was planned until the vibrations from its motion reached her. Without actually seeing the animal, she immediately moved as quickly as possible away from their proximity. The hatch was then closed, denying the shark entry to her section of the tank, as the object of the experiment had been achieved. It was repeated a third and fourth time with harmless marine mammals, a dolphin and a young humpback, with entirely different results. The subject showed no alarm, even manifesting signs of pleasure, indicating she can recognise the vibrations given off by different marine species without needing a visual fix. Over how great a distance this faculty can operate would require actual marine conditions to assess, which is not practical at present.

"Sensitivity to pressure acute. One of the experiments involved simulation of conditions prevailing at extreme depths; its termination was necessary after five minutes as the psi could have proved fatal within seconds. Indicates subject unable to function at depths of below 1,000 feet, and therefore possesses a still partly human metabolism.”

He looked up on hearing footsteps approach him in a brisk, stacatto, military fashion. It was Admiral Feakins, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “How did that temperature test go?”

Hendricks read from his notes. ““Subject exhibited signs of discomfort at 10-15 degrees centigrade. Suggests some form of protective clothing necessary in polar regions, which would impair effectiveness.” Above that level, she’s fine. Tunas have a high resistance to cold; they’re found over all the world’s oceans, except for around the North and South Poles. She doesn’t need to wear anything, except scuba gear if she needs to stay under for a bit longer. Just as well, because it slows her down like it would a normal diver.” The Navy man grunted his approval.

“I think I’ve more or less worked out what Marcotech did to her and how. And I’m convinced there's an application.” He handed the sheaf of notes to Feakins, who read through them approvingly. "But..." he began once the Admiral had finished.
"But what?" Feakins demanded, his expression changing.

Hendricks led the way over to the tank and gazed up at Caroline, who was swimming about again. "I don't think they could be very efficient as water breathers. Everything she's told us is true. She can only stay under for about an hour before she starts to get uncomfortable. I think she finds it a bit of a raw deal having to switch between the two environments all the time."

"It doesn't really matter. We're only interested in the military application."
"It could get in the way of that," Hendricks pointed out. "It depends how long they'd need to be in the water for. It could render a sustained operation non-viable. They'd need an artificial backup. There'd be no savings in terms of cost and it might even turn out to be more expensive."

The Admiral grunted again by way of reply, clearly not happy at this. "But if we built on what Marcotech have done," he said, "couldn't we get round the problem somehow?"
"You could give them proper gills like an axolotl, say, has; but what you'd be left with wouldn't be human. The whole physiology would have to be changed to match. You might as well try to train a real fish to do it."

The Admiral sighed, still not very happy. "What's an axolotl?" he asked vaguely.
"It's the larvae of a species of salamander, found in a series of lakes near Mexico City."

"However," Hendricks went on, "your basic suggestion's sound. We'd simply use different genetic material to create a more exact human-fish hybrid. As long as it had limbs like ours, and the sort of brain that could be trained, it could plant a bomb on a ship, in dock or at anchor, or an oil rig. And fish DNA would give it the right swimming ability. Only problem's the gills, like I said. They'd be a bit unwieldy, might catch on things. I'm not sure how you'd get over that."

"What about...." Feakins frowned. "What about something exactly like a fish, but human arms and legs? Or is that what you’re suggesting?”

"Well if we could get rid of the external gills, give it a tail for added propulsion, and limbs in addition to fins..it’s worth a try. It wouldn't have to have a human intelligence as long as it was clever enough to be trained. You can teach some quite simple life forms to do things. Of course we've tried something like this before, with dolphins, only people didn't like it."

"They wouldn't like this if they knew about it," Feakins replied.
"To be frank it's not our brief to worry about the ethics of the matter."
Hendricks scratched his chin thoughtfully. "We might be able to drop the legs, as long as the arms didn't upset the balance...."
Feakins nodded towards the tank. "Do we use her as the subject? The template?"
"Maybe. Seems a shame to spoil her looks, though. It'd be simple enough to find someone else."

"I'm sure it would. But if we've already got an existing specimen, why not use it?" Feakins continued to study Caroline thoughtfully. "You tried her in chlorinated water?"
"No. With her altered metabolism it could very well prove poisonous to her."
"What about freshwater?"
"That too. I think they're designed mainly for a saltwater environment."

"I wanna find out. Just think if one of these things could sneak up river from the sea, and blow up a power station, say, or some other enemy installation…"
"It could kill her," Hendricks persisted.

"I want to find out." Feakins enunciated every syllable precisely. "Make that the next test, will you? If she dies we'll just have to find someone else, like you said."
He looked round as a security guard came up to them. "Excuse me, Dr Hendricks, but that Savident woman’s here."

The scientist glanced at Feakins. "Show her in," grunted the Admiral, then stood deep in thought until Rachel was ushered into the laboratory, gazing around her with interest. They went over to meet her. Curtly the three of them exchanged formalities.
Rachel continued to look round the vast room in some awe. She saw Caroline and froze in astonishment, staring open-mouthed.
Catching her eye, Caroline waved at her. It was partly a greeting, partly an appeal for help.
Recovering from the initial shock of her appearance, Rachel strode briskly over to the tank. Caroline dropped to her level and swam up to the glass, pressing the palms of her hands against it with the fingers splayed out. On the other side of it, Rachel did the same.
Caroline's jaw was working soundlessly. She lip-read the words.
Get me out of here. If you can.
I'll try, Rachel mouthed.
They're carrying out tests on me. Tell them to stop.
What sort of tests?
Horrible ones, Caroline replied.

If the Americans realised they were having a silent conversation they might get suspicious. She turned to speak to them and saw they had come up behind her, obviously intending to listen in.
"Well?" she said tersely.

"She says there's a whole colony of these, ah, beings down under the sea off the Bahamas. They're all being kept drugged. Some sort of crazy experiment."
"Can you get her back to normal?" Rachel asked. "I mean, I don't suppose she wants to stay like that."
"I dunno at this stage. Besides it may all be academic. You'll have heard what Marcotech have just done?"
"Of course. Our government's pretty worried about it, but so's everyone else. The thing is, it seems they just want everyone to leave the colony alone."

"There's more to it than that," Feakins said darkly. He added, "we wouldn't mind knowing how Marcotech managed to hijack those subs."
"Perhaps by the same means they attached the bombs to the oil tankers," Rachel suggested.
"We were figuring maybe they used something like this." He nodded towards the swimming figure in the tank. "We've tried asking her, but she claims she doesn't know exactly how it was done." It was clear he was convinced Caroline had been lying.
"Perhaps she reckoned you knew too much as it was," Rachel said.
Feakins ignored this. “We were thinking you might be able to persuade her to open up a little.”
“Or you’ll do what?”
Feakins coughed. "In view of the relationship between our two countries - "

"You don't want to jeapordise that relationship by pushing your luck," Rachel warned. "There's little danger of a big falling-out while the present government are in power, but it's always possible something could leak out to the general public. There'd be an outcry, particularly when it was learned you'd been experimenting on a British citizen against her will.” She locked her eyes with the Admiral’s.
"Who'd believe you?" Feakins sneered.

Rachel realized she had no answer to this. She could only hope her political superiors could be persuaded to make a fuss, publicly or otherwise, if Caroline seemed likely to come to any harm.

"We can't let her go just yet," Hendricks told Feakins. "We still know too little about how Marcotech did, the exact process they used, to be able to reverse it. We've got to get into their base somehow."

Rachel decided to drop the subject of Caroline's fate for the moment. "There's something I ought to tell you before we go any further. Another oil tanker was attacked last night and the crew kidnapped. Whoever did it used some kind of submarine, and we've been tracking it. We've got a man on board with a homing device.

"We were trying to prove that it was Marcotech who've been attacking the tankers, and now we know we were right. The submarine was heading south-west through the Atlantic, on a course which might have taken it to the Bahamas. Then suddenly it did a detour and went east - to where the Poseidon was when she was hijacked. So it must have been the craft which did the hijacking. The submarine's now back on its previous course. And now we know where it is, we may be able to intercept it."

"What good'll that do us now? We can't touch Marcotech at all, now while they've got those subs under their control."
"I think there might be a way to get back the Poseidon, at least.” Rachel explained her plan. “Then Marcotech wouldn't be able to cause quite so much devastation."
"How are you going to get on board the Poseidon in the first place?" He said “you”. After all, the Poseidon was a British sub and therefore a British responsibility. There was no point in his country bothering with something if the Brits were going to do it for them. They’d better be damn sure not to muck it up, that was all.

"It means using Caroline,” Rachel said. “You gave me the idea just now when you said how Marcotech might have got on board the subs. An aquanoid."
"It could work," Hendricks said thoughtfully.
“What about the Connecticut?” asked Feakins. “Could we take that the same way?”
“That might be a bit more difficult. Let’s just take it one step at a time.”
“It’d be a good way to test her,” suggested Hendricks brightly. “Just the kind of job we want these things to be doing.” He looked uncomfortable for a moment, wondering if he’d given too much away.

“I’d already guessed,” Rachel said. “And Caroline isn’t a “thing”.”
"Our people will have to be in on this," Feakins told her. "Just to make sure you don't get up to any tricks."
“So it’s on then?”
“I guess we don’t have anything to lose.”
“Right. All this has got to be for some reason. Marcotech are waiting for something, and I bet all your little games pale into insignificance beside it."

Hendricks looked at the Admiral. "They told us to steer clear of the colony. They didn't say we couldn't try to retake the subs. Let's do it."
Then he frowned. "I don't see how she could get close enough to the sub without getting sucked into the propellers. Whatever did it would have to be powered. She hasn't got a built-in electric motor."

"Wait a minute," Feakins snapped. "Brit subs don't have propellers. They've got a pumpjet propulsor instead, it’s not quite the same thing. It’s enclosed, so it’s less dangerous. And what about those things we’ve been working on, the Seasprites?”
Hendricks’ eyes lit up. "Of course! It might be possible. Worth a try anyway.”
Feakins indicated Rachel by a brief bob of his head, and sighed. “We’ll have to let them in on it.”
“Sorry if that’s a problem,” Rachel said.

"We'll have to get the all-clear for this from Washington," Feakins told her curtly.
"I'll have to get the all-clear from London," she said. “OK. We'll leave discussing what's going to happen to Caroline until later. And now if you don't mind, I'd like to speak to her."
Hendricks banged on the side of the tank, and Caroline gave him an enquiring look. He jerked his thumb upwards, signalling to her to get out of the tank.


Towelling herself down, Caroline dressed and made her way back to her room. There she flung herself down on the bed and leafed through a book until a knock on the door announced Rachel's arrival. The guard slid back the hatch and shouted through it. "You got a visitor." He opened the door to let Rachel enter, then withdrew, slamming and locking it behind her. Caroline sprung up from the bed and they hugged each other joyfully.

Rachel couldn't help wrinkling her nose and drawing back a little as the ammonia smell hit her. "Is it that bad?" Caroline said, a trifle hurt.
"Sorry," said Rachel hastily. "It's a bit hard to get used to. I couldn't believe it when I saw you for the first time. How are you feeling?"

"I'm OK right now. Just at bit bored, I suppose. It was fun at first but I think I've had enough now. I want to be back the way I was."
"I'm sure you will be, eventually," Rachel said, trying to reassure her.
She looked round the little room. It was a plain, sparsely-furnished affair with a bed, a table and a chair, and a toilet cubicle in one corner. A few paperbacks lay on the table.
There was always a guard just outside the door, which was nevertheless kept permanently locked. It was a combination lock and they had made her turn away when they keyed in the number, so she couldn't tell an accomplice what it was. It looked like you had to press an Intercom button whenever you wanted something. There had been a number of cameras positioned at intervals along the corridor, as well as the one in the room.

Caroline gestured to Rachel to sit on the chair, while she perched herself on the end of the bed. "Do you know what they did to me?" she said quietly. “The people here, I mean.”
"You mentioned some tests."

She told Rachel everything, and especially the incident with the shark. Rachel stiffened with anger, her face tightening.
It was a moment before she was able to speak. "I'll take that up with our government. I'm afraid the Americans won't let you go until they've got all they want from you. However, I've tried to make clear there'll be repercussions if you're harmed in any way."
"Do you realise what they did to me?" Caroline snapped, her anger rising to the fore. "The indignity, the humiliation..."
"Let's be realistic. There's nothing we can do to change their minds. All I can do is make sure you come out of it still alive and in one piece."
"I know too much, don't I?"
"You're one of us. I think you can be trusted to keep quiet."

She looked at Caroline warningly. It needn't be Rachel's doing, but if there was any suggestion that she might not keep quiet then something terminal might well happen to her.
"I'm not stupid," Caroline said huffily.

Rachel drew herself up. "That’s not the only thing we have to worry about. A lot's been happening while you've been underwater."
As she explained about the hijacked submarines Caroline could only gawp at her, almost falling over backwards in her astonishment. "He's gone crazy," she gasped. "Really flipped this time. He must have."
"We think you may be able to help recover the Poseidon, and maybe the Connecticut too. I mean, if Marcotech used the aquanoids to sabotage the tankers and hijack the submarines..." she looked enquiringly at Caroline, who was biting her lip thoughtfully.
She outlined what she had in mind. "What do you say? They'll
probably make you do it anyway, of course. And there is rather a lot at stake.”
“Is it going to be dangerous?”
“Possibly.”

Caroline sucked her teeth. “Well,” she sighed, “it’s better than being cooped up in here all the time.”
“That’s what I was thinking. So – you’ll do it?”
“I’ll do it. I’m just not happy about the Yanks knowing how to do what Marcotech did to me.”
“If it wasn’t them it’d be us, or the Russians, or the French, or the Chinese. Or any number of people one might think of, given time.”
Rachel suddenly realized she hadn’t told Caroline about Chris yet.

Caroline absorbed the information in horror. When Rachel had finished she stood up straight, a gleam in her eyes of a kind the agent had seen before. “In that case yes,” she said softly. “Oh yes. I’m going to do it alright.”


FORTY-SIX
In a storeroom deep in the heart of the Facility, Feakins and Hendricks were standing at one of the series of metal racks which lined the walls; Hendricks had pulled aside a length of plastic sheeting to to reveal a larger version of the standard make of water scooter, fitted with one or two adaptations the commercially available model did not possess. It was almost identical to the ones Caroline had said Marcotech used, which was not surprising since that company had been instrumental in designing it in the first place. Only Marcotech had actually succeeded in perfecting their version. “I’d say it’s ideal for the job,” Hendricks declared. The Seasprite, as it was called, was probably too small to register on sonar, besides which the body of its operator would mask it so that the system would think it was a large fish. Nonetheless, the precaution had been taken of coating it with anechoic material.

“I should have realized before,” Feakins said. “Marcotech thought of the damn things in the first place, didn’t they? They must have secretly built some for their own use and that’s how they got onto the Connecticut.”

Hendricks nodded. “The aquanoids can breathe for longer underwater but they might still need powered assistance to get around quickly.” Drag imposed limits to the speed of any marine life form, which could only be overcome by artificial means.

"If we've got these things, we may not need the girl," Feakins mused.
"They're experimental, remember. This'll be a great opportunity to test them. She should be able to stand the stresses a bit better. It’s preferable to risking the lives of our own men."
Feakins gave a short sharp nod of the head. "OK, then it’s settled.”


White House Situation Room
“The more I think about it,” the Vice-President said, the more I’m convinced Marcotech must have had something to do with the Pakistan business.”
The President breathed in sharply. “Wow….they managed something like that all on their own?”
“It wouldn’t be any more incredible than some of the other things they’ve done,” pointed out the Defense Secretary. “It just shows what you can achieve if you’re sufficiently….ruthless.”

The National Security Adviser nodded his agreement. “I think I can understand what they were about. This Greatrix guy wanted to cause as much disruption as possible on land so that while everyone was busy dealing with it he could get up to whatever he liked under the sea. And so they engineered a crisis; the most serious anyone could think of in today’s world."

It was all falling into place now. Over the years Marcotech had diverged into all the branches of industry they needed to be proficient at for Greatrix's plan to succeed; drugs, marine engineering, mariculture, genetic engineering, arms (to enable al-Qaeda to mount a serious challenge to the Pakistani government), underwater technology (to reach the tankers and the submarines undetected and override their security systems), and electronics/computers (to operate the subs' missile control systems, and probably modify them to ensure that any commands given them could not be overridden). It was all very clever, and now you could see the overall picture it made sense.

"Well,” sighed the Chief of Naval Operations. “First of all, I think the suggestion that we use the Kent girl makes sense. The Brits have cleared it at their end and someone from MI6 will be coming over as an observer and to make sure nobody tries anything stupid.

“As the Poseidon is a British vessel, the actual operation had better be carried out by their Special Forces. But we’ll have a few of our own people on board the sub that’s going to take the Poseidon, with arms, in order to guarantee our interests should they be jeopardized by anything the Brits do."
“What about the Connecticut?” asked the Secretary of State.

“That’s another matter,” replied Admiral Baker. “We don’t have a trace on it. Her last reported position was about a hundred miles east of the West Indies. Other than that, we’ll just have to keep looking and hope we get a lead.”


In the Planning Room of the Joint Command Operations Centre at Northwood, Middlesex, UK, Vice-Admiral Pemberton and Commodore Farries, in full Naval uniform, were studying a chart of the North Atlantic on the overhead projector while Nigel Haverhill, an Executive Officer with MI6 and Rachel Savident’s immediate superior, looked on.

“I’m sure your plan’s perfectly feasible,” Pemberton was saying, addressing the MI6 man. By you he meant Haverhill as an individual. The spy had been talking at great length about the scheme as if it had been his idea, rather than Rachel Savident’s.
“The Chief of Staff certainly like it.” Haverhill beamed smugly.

They had the colony on all their charts, from Caroline Kent’s information. “There it is,” said Farries, indicating it with a ruler. “Now my guess is they're on the way there to drop off the crews of the oil tanker and the Poseidon. Working from the approximate time at which contact was lost with the Poseidon, and the maximum speed of a modern nuclear submarine, we know roughly where Poseidon must be now.” He described a large area of sea with his ruler. “But only roughly. It’s a pretty big area, a radius of at least a hundred nautical miles. No chance of getting a fix on it, and as for Connecticut…” He sighed. “So to get our foot in the door, we’ll need to take that submarine.

“We need to intercept it before it reaches the colony. That means moving pretty fast. Fortunately it’s lost time detouring to hijack the Poseidon. And judging by the speed it's going it's a diesel electric, not a nuclear. A good deal slower.”

“I understand a diesel electric submarine needs to surface every now and then to raise a snorkel to draw in air for its engines,” said Haverhill, keen to show off his knowledge. “Why can’t we – “

“Spot it when comes up? We’d still have to know roughly where it was to do that. And we know anyway, because of your homing device.” Pemberton spoke a little impatiently, and Haverhill felt crushed.

“Now fortunately one of our subs, HMS Nelson, is already in the area,” Farries continued. “Since speed is of the essence, we'll have to use it. We'll have it make a detour to the submarine base at Groton to pick up the girl and certain other equipment that will be needed. It'll have to be adapted to carry her tank, but I reckon that if we move fast we can just about do it.

“Equally fortunately, there happens to be an SBS unit on the sub at this very moment,” he smiled. “They can carry out the actual operation, with help from Navy personnel when required. The men were seconded from the SAS and have been going through a pretty rigorous training course. Doing very well, so I understand. Of course I’m not happy about using people who are still in training, but in the circumstances there’s simply no alternative.”

Pemberton nodded. "I take it we all agree to the presence of CIA agents on board?"
"We haven't much choice," Haverhill said.

It was a crazy scheme anyway, Pemberton thought, because it was probably pointless. But then we’re British, aren’t we? It was the kind of spirit which had seen the country through the Second World War: do what you can, whatever its chances of succeeding, because it’s better than nothing. And who knows, everything might just turn out alright in the end.


HMS Nelson
Mike Hartman’s squad, minus the Major himself, were sitting together at one of the tables in the enlisted men’s messroom, laughing and sharing jokes over non-alcoholic drinks. Bob Moretti was now singing the theme tune from Yellow Submarine, without much improvement on his impersonation of Rod Stewart.

They had now settled completely into life on the submarine. The edge between them and the Navy men was now gone, although they still tended to sit apart from them out of habit, and sometimes for reasons of confidentiality.

There was an underlying current of tension beneath their relaxed and carefree manner. The announcement had come just a few minutes earlier: “Captain to all personnel. We have orders to proceed to the US Navy base at Norfolk, Virginia, for briefing on an urgent mission. Would Major Hartman please report to my cabin immediately. The Officer of the Watch will address the rest of the crew shortly.”

The Major entered and strode over to them. “We’re about to see some action, boys. A lot sooner than we expected.”
“What’s up, Boss?”
The Major explained. “Fuck me,” gasped Steve Ferris.
“You’re not serious,” said Dan Riordan.

“It’s vital we don’t put a foot wrong. I know this puts a lot of pressure on us. But this sub’s the nearest to where the action seems to be taking place.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?” Captain Bryant had asked him. “Of course we bloody are,” he’d laughed. “Our training’s more or less finished. It’s our job to do these things, anyway.”
“Having said all that, it’s not clear if we’ll actually be needed,” he told the squad. “But we’re to remain on standby just in case.”
“Oh, right,” Moretti growled. “So we’ll just stand around looking pretty, then. If you want to bark why not use your fucking dog?”

“They didn’t give me the full details,” said the Major, “but there’s someone very special being entrusted with the job. Apparently there’s something about them that makes them particularly good underwater. I haven’t a clue what it’s all about but I’m sure we’ll find out in due course.”


US Navy Research Facility, San Diego
Quite frankly, Graham Hendrix would be glad when the tests were over. Caroline Kent had been a difficult subject, constantly complaining and generally refusing to co-operate as much as possible.

Right now she was racing a dolphin; the dolphin, Hendrix noted, was still faster. He began scribbling away on his notepad. Interaction with other marine life…

They had also tried her with a sea lion – the two had spent many happy hours tossing a ball to one another - a seal and a young humpback. The animals had all been happy to play along, seemingly unfazed by her weird and unfamiliar appearance. But then animals often were. They’d take to people no matter what they looked like, which was more than you could say for people themselves. Indeed Caroline seemed to have an astonishing empathy with the specimens, the reason for which he couldn’t quite explain.

After some minutes the guard went and banged on the side of the tank, signalling the end of the game. Sensing the dolphin’s sadness that it was over, Caroline gave it a consoling pat on the head.
Hendricks was there to meet her as she stepped out of the pool. “Enjoy that?” he enquired.
“Uh huh,” she grunted. She started to towel herself down. ”Oh and by the way, he says the water in the tank is too cold. Could you turn the thermostat up, please?"
He laughed. "Hey, that's very good!"
"I'm not kidding," she said, fixing him with her steely stare, which being an aquanoid hadn't made any difference to. "Do it."
He stared at her in amazement. "How did you know....."
Oh shit, she thought.
Don't let them know you're telepathic. Don't EVER tell them
that. She didn't care to think what the results might be.

"All right, so I am kidding," she said. "How d'you expect me to get by in this situation without a sense of humour? But turn the thermostat up anyway; I felt it."
Hendricks gave the necessary order to a technician. "Time to go," he told Caroline. “They’re ready for you.”

Escorted by half a dozen guards, plus a couple of Hendricks’ colleagues, she went outside to the lorry that had brought her to the Facility a couple of days before, for the long journey to the other side of the country during which she could immerse herself in the tank whenever required. Shortly after it left the Centre, HMS Nelson docked at Groton and work immediately began on adapting one of the submarine’s storage holds to take the tank which had been designed for her use while on board.

Meanwhile the two Marcotech submarines continued on their way back to the colony. That which had taken the Connecticut would take longer to reach it in any case, since the SSBN’s position had meant she had to travel a greater distance. The other didn’t have so far to go but was delayed by the need to surface for air and at the same time stop to recharge its electric batteries. At its present speed, it would reach the base in about another two days.

The following morning Major Hartman and his squad, along with Captain Bryant and his senior officers, assembled in the briefing room at Groton. The briefing, as it turned out, was given not by a representative of the SBS or the Navy, or even a civil servant, but by an MI6 officer; a sure sign there was something very intriguing going on, the Major thought. They weren’t told the man’s name or anything else about him. Seated at the side of the room and looking on stonily were a couple of high-ranking US Navy men and several characters in suits who, the MI6 man explained in due course, were members of the CIA. In view of the “special relationship”, although he stopped short of actually putting it in those terms, it was thought appropriate they should accompany the British team for the duration of the mission. Rachel Savident was there too, but seemed to have decided it was best just to look on for the time being.

“It’s essential that a high level of security be observed throughout the operation,” Nigel Haverhill began. “You’ll be carrying a very special passenger, someone who's ideally suited to carry out this mission. At present her existence is classified and therefore it's important to keep quiet about it. As it's going to be impossible to keep her concealed from you, I'd better introduce you to her.

"We've given her the codename Ariel. Her real name will not be disclosed, again for security reasons. I'll explain fully in a moment." He went to the door and opened it, nodding to someone who had been standing outside. Caroline stepped into the room, the two armed ratings who had escorted her from her quarters moving forward into the doorway and taking up position on either side of her, one closing the door behind them.

Everyone froze in astonishment. They stood gaping at the exotic figure as it came to stand before them, its expression deadpan.
"What the hell is that?" one of the Major’s squad gasped, quite unable to suppress his astonishment.
"She," said Caroline. "I'm a she." Haverhill shot her a look, indicating that it might be best if she kept quiet.

Mike Hartman frowned, thinking there was something familiar about the figure’s face, its voice. He peered a little closer, and beneath the covering of blue-grey scales made out to his astonishment the features of Caroline Kent. He gave a little start.

It couldn't be, thought Hartman. But then was this any more incredible than any of the other situations Caroline had got into during the time he’d known her?

She caught sight of him and reacted immediately, her surprise and delight evident to the others in the room. He wouldn’t let her come to any harm, surely.

She steeled herself to hide her feelings. If they realised she knew him it might cause problems.
"You'll all have heard of genetic engineering,” Haverhill said. “What you see before you is the result. I don't like it, but she's vital if this mission is to succeed."
Caroline stood there saying nothing, allowing no expression to creep into her face.
Ariel, thought the Major. After the central character in Disney’s The Little Mermaid, presumably.

Haverhill explained what her role in the operation was to be. “After the Marcotech submarine is taken we’ll then hand over to Major Hartman’s team, but she’ll be kept on standby in case she’s needed.”
He nodded briefly to her, and she turned and left the room with the two ratings marching on either side of her. Something about the spectacle was not to the Major's liking.

Later, as the meeting broke up, Haverhill took the Major aside. He bent to mutter into the SBS man’s ear. "Do you know her by any chance, Major?"
"As a matter of fact yes I do, Sir."
Haverhill bit his lip, cursing inwardly at the unforeseen complication. Someone must have known about the connection, but it seemed to have simply been overlooked, partly due to the pressure of events and the speed at which they’d moved. But it wasn’t as if it made any difference. There wasn’t time to assign a different unit to the job, not now.
"You realise you'll have to keep quiet about this?” he whispered.
"Yes, Sir," answered the Major woodenly. "Of course I do." Hide your true feelings, he told himself. Like you did when Gillian died.
“I expect she’ll be returned to normal when all this business is over. In the meantime I need hardly remind you that as a serving member of the Armed Forces we’ll be expecting your full co-operation. Alright?” With that Haverhill left him to his thoughts.

As they went out to the sub the scales of Caroline's body gleamed brilliantly in the morning sunshine. She was flanked by two ratings with taser guns. They walked along the gangplank onto the hull of the submarine and she felt the anechoic tiles give under her feet, a pleasantly springy sensation.

She was followed on board by the CIA and MI6 minders, the SBS unit and then Nigel Haverhill. Rachel was about to join them when Haverhill, still in the doorway, stopped, barring her way, and turned to face her.

"Sorry, Rachel," he said. "I've decided it's better you keep out of things for the moment."
Her face fell. "Why, Sir?"
"You and the Kent girl are on friendly terms with one another, aren't you?"
"You could say we're mates, yes."
"Well then you're emotionally involved. I'm not sure that in truth you really approve of what we're doing."
"She's quite happy to go on the mission, Sir, if it means we can stop - "
"I wasn't talking about that, and you know it. I was talking about what happens afterwards. I'm not sure I can trust you to stay in line." Rachel was silent.
"You don't like the idea of anyone experimenting on her. Well, you think about it. If you spill the beans on this one, the same kind of thing will happen to someone else; assuming you're believed. People will know it's possible and set about trying to do it themselves.

"Look at this way. If not Caroline it'll be some other unfortunate, or unfortunates, once we work out how it's done. Maybe tramps, homeless people off the streets..nobody would notice anything. Or would that be better?"

It was a question Rachel knew was impossible to answer. Nonetheless she opened her mouth to protest further, but Haverhill forestalled her. “Please. I don’t want to hear any more of it. You’ve taken too many liberties already and I don’t think you should push your luck any further. You're a good agent and I wouldn't want to have to lose you." He smiled broadly in a bid to make her feel better. “I’ve already promised we’ll do our best to ensure her welfare. So don’t worry.”
“I’ll try not to, Sir.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said encouragingly. “Well – all things being equal, I’ll see you back at HQ.” With a final brief nod he hurried along the gangway and disappeared inside the submarine, leaving Rachel to make her lonely way back to London.

On board the sub Mike Hartman led his unit to the room which had been assigned to them for when they needed to confer together, as on the start of a mission like this one. He made sure the door was firmly shut so that no-one could hear what he was about to say and then cleared his throat. "If I could just have a word with you all, lads," he said.


To Caroline every inch of wall on board the submarine seemed
festooned with wires and cables, lined with piping, or studded with valves and junction boxes. Everything was painted a uniform pale green colour, a little drab but not unpleasing to the eyes.

They halted outside the door of her specially prepared quarters, and without a word one of the ratings produced a key and opened the thick steel door. She stepped through it, momentarily catching his eye as she did so.

The door clanged shut behind her, the key turning in the lock. She surveyed the room for a moment. It was large and spacious; had to be in order to accommodate the tank in the corner, which like the one in the lorry was full of salt water. Otherwise the place was sparsely furnished with a bed, chair and table, and toilet.
Proper little home from home, she thought.
She climbed into the tank and lay floating on her back on the surface, more for relaxation than because she needed to.

What now? she thought, and then decided it was no use moping about that. After all the dangers and stresses she'd been through over the past few days, she had no more mental energy to spare for worrying. Let the future take care of itself.


MI6 HQ, Vauxhall Bridge Cross, London
Sophie Cameron-Davies listened with a frown as Nigel Haverhill poured out his worries to her down the phone. “But Hartman, and several members of his squad, know her.”
“It’s too late to do anything about that now, Nigel,” she sighed.
“I’m aware of that, ma’am. I just thought you ought to be told.”
“The SBS," she said, "are an elite unit. And to be one, they have to be highly disciplined. Which means they'll do what they're told with no questions asked." And that, as far as she was concerned, was the end of the matter.

*

Normally, the order to launch any of America’s nuclear arsenal could only come from the President, and the captain and senior officers of the submarines involved had to agree that the command had indeed come from him. Once they were satisfied it had, several keys had to be turned simultaneously to arm and then launch the missiles. No one person had possession of all of them at the same time, a precaution to prevent a madman starting World War Three. The British procedure was more or less the same; even, though it was a matter of some conjecture how far the principle would actually be followed in the event of a serious disagreement between the two powers, to the extent of obtaining Presidential authorization, since it was at the moment unlikely Britain would take such a drastic step as to bring about Armageddon without America’s say-so.

But once the missiles had been armed the launch sequence would begin; the doors to the missile tubes would be opened, the tubes flooded, and the whole of the sub’s hull shudder would shudder as the missiles were blasted free by compressed air. Their first-stage rockets would ignite a second after they broke the surface, carrying them up into the higher atmosphere, where the second and then third stages cut in to boost each missile into a sub-orbital trajectory, just beyond the Earth's atmosphere. Three minutes after launch the third stage would burn out and the missile enter its post-boost phase. The submarine's navigational systems would interface with the missile's own guidance system, which took navigational fixes from the stars, to direct it to the right point above the Earth from which it should release its cluster of warheads. These warheads - Multiple Independently-Targeted Re-entry Vehicles - were each programmed to land exactly in the centre of a major enemy city. The error margin their designers had felt constrained to allow was no more than about 20 metres.

The disaster supremos in London and Washington had already worked out the most likely scenario to follow, as had Sir Edward Greatrix sitting in his office/study in his base at the bottom of the sea off the Bahamas. He imagined four missiles, each with a warhead of between 200 and 300 kilotons, landing on London. With no prior warning, the catastrophe would catch everyone completely by surprise, however directly or indirectly they were affected. Without warning the warheads would explode simultaneously in the sky above Central London, within a two mile radius of Trafalgar Square. Where exactly did not matter. But those within the radius would see a towering pillar of fire soaring up in all its terrifying majesty toward the heavens from which the messenger of death had come, lighting up the sky with its unearthly, unnatural radiance. Those not close enough to be blinded would stand staring at in first awe and then, as they realised what it was, utter terror. Fleeing, screaming crowds would trample underfoot anyone unlucky enough to be knocked down in the rush, crushing them to a pulp. Cars and lorries and cyclists would crash, killing or seriously wounding their occupants and many of the pedestrians crowded on the pavements. Men and women alike would foul themselves in their terror, a terror which the children would pick up on and which would be all the greater for them because they could have no idea what was going on. Animals would be thrown into panic, dogs attack people in a mad frenzy. Those of a religious frame of mind would fall to their knees in prayer, pleading that whatever God they worshipped might deliver them and their fellow humans from whatever catastrophe this was and praying for everyone’s soul in case it presaged the end of the world and the Day of Judgement. Some would stare in rapture at the pillar of fire, which would resemble indeed some Biblical apocalypse, welcoming the disaster as the execution of God's will. Others would hop about madly shouting at people to repent, informing them that this was their just punishment for all their sins.

Those at the epicentre of the blast would be instantly vaporised, charred into shapeless heaps of radioactive dust the wind would later blow away. Within three kilometers from it the force of the blast would shatter their bodies into fragments so tiny they would never be found. Buildings would be reduced to rubble or, further away, left gutted and windowless, so badly damaged they were unusable, or not restorable without extreme cost. The imprints of running figures would be burnt indelibly into the walls of shattered buildings, as at Hiroshima. At twelve kilometers many would be left alive, but hideously burned and screaming in agony. Those who lived would either be scarred for life or have to undergo expensive surgery. A considerable number would be permanently deafened. All the older people would probably perish from shock.

All in all, two million people would be killed and many thousands left permanently ill or disabled. The cost of treating them and of burying the bodies of the dead would permanently bankrupt the National Health Service, even supposing it could cope with the scale of the disaster, which it couldn’t. The cost of reconstructing the built environment would also be astronomical. And the death and injury toll would rise as the winds blew the fall-out over a wide area, until it began to disperse sufficiently for the damage it caused to be reduced to manageable proportions. Furthermore the electromagnetic pulse which followed the detonations, and the interference with radio and satellite communications, hampered efforts at reconstruction and co-ordination in the aftermath of the disaster.

All London's great landmarks would be destroyed. The psychological effect on the British of the destruction of their past, and of their capital, the focus for their national identity, would be a profound and extremely damaging one. It would contribute in no small measure to the problems which followed.

Of course contingency plans would have been drawn up long before the disaster occurred. An Emergency Committee would be set up, headed by the Prime Minister and including senior ministers and civil servants and heads of the armed forces, to oversee the distribution of medical aid, rehousing and eventual reconstruction. The Royal Family would have been evacuated to Balmoral, Windsor and probably Sandringham being considered too close to the fall-out zone. In the long run the loss of population, the reduction in the number of mouths to feed, would actually make the task of governing a small yet densely populated country a lot easier - until floods of immigrants came in to replace those killed, at any rate. But that assumed all things were to be equal, and unfortunately they would not. The holocaust exposed the strains inherent in complex modern societies with a host of underlying social problems which remained unresolved.

A Trident missile from a sub in the Irish Sea, say, could hit anywhere in the Northern Hemisphere. And if you had two subs at your disposal….what happened in London would be repeated in all the world's major cities. Washington, New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Moscow, Paris, Berlin, Rio de Janeiro, Tokyo, Sydney…. In each nation the loss of the capital would cause massive disruption, however careful the emergency planning had been - and in some areas it was lamentably deficient, as studies into the ability to respond to a major terrorist incident or environmental disaster had revealed. The physical disruption was accompanied by psychological disruption. Perhaps no-one had quite envisaged a disaster on this scale, because the people who it was thought might want to create it did not yet have access to the right equipment.

The effect on economic life was so severe as to plunge an already shaky world economy into outright recession. The job losses and the resulting poverty added to the misery caused by overstretched public services, the general shock of the disaster, the loss of loved ones in the holocaust, and feelings of fear for the future.

There were riots as law and order broke down. In each of the countries directly affected martial law had to be imposed and the police, assisting the armed forces, given extra powers. They were authorised to shoot to kill. First Britain, then France and Germany, then throughout Europe and the United States democracy crumbled away like sand. The sacrifice of freedom didn’t even fulfil the purpose it was intended to achieve. The centre proved incapable of restoring its authority and each country broke up into what was effectively a host of independent fiefdoms, ruled by criminal bosses or local politicians who had arrogated to themselves absolute power and were forced to use autocratic methods to cope with the scale of the problem, executing looters or indeed all those who were suspected, often wrongly, of committing some offence. Frequent uprisings broke out against this kind of rule.

In some areas totalitarianism reigned, in some anarchy, and in yet others the two alternated. But no-one anywhere was quite safe in their home, unless they assumed responsibility for their own personal safety, defending themselves with makeshift clubs or knives or stolen guns, which they carried around with them quite openly. Criminals engaged in violent clashes with the police, as well as bloody turf wars among themselves. Vigilantes took advantage of the situation to seek out and kill those known to have committed crimes, or personally wronged someone, both before and after the catastrophe. Ethnic minorities and immigrants were targeted by racists and many of them were forced to return to the lands of their ancestors, not always a good thing from an economic point of view.

Gangs of concerned citizens affected by the collapse of public services took the law into their own hands and commandeered buses and trains, further adding to the disruption and confusion. Hospitals couldn't function as normal, and people died. Fuel depots, shops and supermarkets were raided, people taking whatever they could grab, the hard cases among them beating anyone who objected into submission. Crime careered out of control.

Essentially, the capitalist economy ceased to be able to function. Only a completely planned society, effectively a totalitarian dictatorship, could run things efficiently, but not even the most efficient and ruthless state apparatus, and many dictatorships were in fact clumsy and unwieldy, could cope with the scale and extent of the problem. The state was no longer able to provide its citizens with the food and other essential commodities they needed, and as a result they continued to die. The severity of the situation was aggravated by the crowds of refugees from the nuclear devastation in the cities. In the general disorder it was hard to keep track of known or suspected terrorists, some of whom mistakenly believed their fellow travellers had struck the first blow and hurried to emulate them. They let off their bombs freely, in particular targeting fuel installations and transport networks. And sooner or later, such was the anarchy that the authorities were no longer able to safeguard nuclear power stations and bacteriological research centres.

While the national governments remained in control of nuclear weapons (and they had taken steps right at the beginning of the crisis to ensure this would be the case), or the precise situation could not be ascertained, no one country took advantage of the crisis to invade another. There were no wars; rather, nations fell apart from within.

Eventually only a few pockets of law and order would remain, a few scattered communes trapped in a mediaeval or stone age way of life. Those who were not accustomed to such a decline in the standard of living and could not adjust to diminished expectations tended to kill themselves. The heads of local government, trade union leaders and gang bosses survived in their fortified private houses while the ordinary inhabitants of their localities died, but eventually they too succumbed. There were not enough people left to maintain society in its modern, technological form, just as a colony of animals that fell below a certain size could not survive. The same situation would eventually occur in the countries indirectly affected, as the trouble spread like a chain reaction, a domino effect.

Just as lethal in the long run as the socio-political collapse, and certainly contributing to it, were the combined effects of the nuclear blasts on the global environment. Depletion of ozone in the atmosphere let in more ultraviolet radiation from the sun, bringing about a massive increase in skin cancer. And so delicately balanced was the global ecosystem that the massive increase in atmospheric temperature caused by multiple simultaneous nuclear holocausts was followed by a decline in global surface temperature which badly hit commercial wheat growing in the Northern hemisphere, so that even a return to an agriculture-based pre-industrial economy would bring no benefits.

Over the miserable years to come thousands of people and animals, including among the latter those on whom the livelihood of farmers depended, or organisms which played a crucial role in the ecosystem, would die from increased radiation or radiation-related illnesses. There would be sterility and genetic mutations, an increase in levels of cancer and leukemia. The very young and very old would be most vulnerable. Children would be born deformed or mentally retarded, in many cases because they had inherited the diseases contracted by their parents. Many species of birds, insects, plants, and important or beneficial kinds of bacteria would disappear.

The effects on the developed, and traditionally relatively wealthy, regions of the world would be nightmarish enough. Those on the poorer countries of the South did not bear thinking about. From a combination of all these different factors, about three-quarters of the entire human race would eventually die out.


FORTY-SEVEN
The northern Atlantic Ocean, approximately five hundred miles north-east of the Bahamas
On HMS Nelson everyone was in the control room, gathered round the sonar screen. Caroline now wore the bikini suit that had been designed for her for the operation, which would create much less friction than full diving gear.

The weird note of the sonar, sounding to her like a giant heartbeat, filled the room and an eerie green light bathed her face as she leaned forward to take a closer look at the data on the screens. One of them was dsigned to display data transmitted by Marcotech’s new underwater communications system. A little blob of white light represented the signal from the homing device MI6 had given Chris Barrett.

"It’s still transmitting normally," remarked the Major. "That means Marcotech don't know it’s there.” It also suggested Chris was unharmed, much to Caroline's relief.
“How far away is it now?” asked Captain Bryant.
On the screen a second blip of light stood for the Nelson, while superimposed over both blips was a grid on which a line of figures were constantly flickering and changing. “About ten miles, Sir,” said the radio operator. “Bearing 47 degrees north-northeast.”
The blip from Chris’ signal seemed to be growing brighter, the pinging from the instrumentation louder. “The signal’s definitely getting stronger, Sir.”

They waited with their eyes fixed on the screen, feeling the tension steadily mount, because for the moment there was nothing else to do. Caroline was suddenly very conscious of the millions of tons of water all around them, in which almost anything might exist, and which at a certain depth could crush and suffocate you. The thought of a leak, and the submarine flooding, didn’t cause her any anxiety because she knew she could survive if it came to the worst. She felt sorry for the ordinary humans on the craft, who weren’t quite so lucky. She had always wondered how they stood it.

They had no idea whether the enemy was using its own sonar – perhaps they did not anticipate anyone would be so foolish as to actually attack them – but didn’t want to risk it. So as always, noise was being kept to a mimimum on board the Nelson, which at the same time was specifically designed to be quiet. The smoothness of the submarine’s running, and the way everyone was so quiet, moving about with ghost-like silence, resulted in an atmosphere that was eerie and unnerving till you got used to it; like a tomb or a graveyard. Which is what it would be if the sub sank and they were trapped in it, she thought uneasily.

The signal from the transmitter could not in any case guide them right to the enemy’s exact position. Despite all Marcotech’s wonderful innovations in underwater technology, you still needed sonar for one sub to locate another. But using this method had always been a hit-and-miss affair; a case of constantly looking out for the signals indicating the presence of your quarry amongst the thousands of others given off by wrecks, undersea life forms etc, and hoping to get lucky. The likelihood of detecting it was affected by a variety of factors such as the temperature and salinity of the sea, depth and pressure, and currents and waves, the vibrations from the latter often travelling down quite a way in the event of a big storm.

Passive sonar often wasn’t much of a help, because of course enemy subs were always careful not to be detected. In addition it wasn’t good at detecting diesel-electric subs like the one they were tracking, which were very quiet once they were submerged and the electric motors in operation. Active sonar risked being detected and could be heard at least five times farther than it could pick up a target.

Fortunately with Chris’ gadget to home in on, and Caroline, they didn’t need sonar.
"This is as close as we can go without being in their sonar range, Sir," said the radio operator.
“You know what to do?” the captain asked Caroline. She nodded curtly.
"Good luck," they chorused. She smiled over her shoulder at them. “Thanks.”

She hurried from the control room to the foot of the vertical metal ladder leading up to the airlock in the conning tower, and the compartment beside it where the Seasprite was stored along with scuba gear should she need it. Like American subs, British ones were equipped with an escape trunk for emergency transfer to a DSRV, diver access, or emergency ascent escape by the crew from depths down to 600 feet.
When she was ready she called the control room over the intercom.
The circular hatch in the top of the conning tower opened upwards and she burst from the airlock in a shower of bubbles.

Two SBS divers followed a moment later, both equipped with their own Seasprites, loaned by the Americans since the Royal Navy did not yet have its own version of the device. The Major and his men had already received some brief training in their use and found they could master them in just a few minutes, and without any great difficulty. The Americans didn’t mind sharing the technology and expertise since it had been more or less agreed that they would do when the time came. All part of the Special Relationship.

For a moment she hovered motionless in the water, head cocked, listening and concentrating, every sense in her body attuned to the different sounds of the underwater world.

The Marcotech sub was too far away for her to be able to see it, even dimly, but with a metabolism altered to suit her to an underwater environment she could sense the vibrations it was giving off, if only faintly. Those from a diesel-electric sub were different to the ones from a smoother-running nuclear vessel, and she knew at once they’d struck lucky. It was part of the reason they were using her to carry out the operation.

She knew for sure it wasn't a whale. They moved very differently, possessing their own unique signature like every other species of marine life. The signals she was picking up were from something that moved too smoothly through the water to be natural. A man-made, mechanical structure. And from their relative strength, very big.

She turned round, switched on the Seasprite's engine at full power and swam in the direction they seemed to be coming from. They had been growing fainter as the sub moved away from her, but now became gradually stronger.

The SBS men followed her, moving a little more slowly. The chances were they couldn't stand the stresses of this kind of travel as much as she could. They needed to keep some way behind in any case.
The Seasprite carried her smoothly through the water like an arrow, her body stretched straight out behind it. Its speed matched that of the submarine, in fact slightly exceeded it. She should have time to complete the operation before she started to run out of air and had to return to the Nelson.
Twenty minutes later, she saw the whale-like bulk of the Marcotech sub looming up ahead.
Keeping a tight grip on the handles of the Seasprite, she swam along the length of the sub until she was level with the airlock.

In the Marcotech sub's control room its Captain, Rod Knox, himself an ex-Royal Navy petty officer, was sitting in his command chair idly watching his crew go about their business. Since they weren’t likely to be attacked there wasn’t really much for anyone to do until they reached the colony, except keeping an eye on the sonar so that it could alert them to impending collisions with whales, undersea mountains and the like. The submarine had high-resolution cameras which functioned effectively like monitor screens, installed by Marcotech of course, but no-one bothered to watch these most of the time since the sonar would warn of any serious hazards and anyway nobody was prepared to sit gazing at what was more or less the same picture for hours on end. Usually they were turned off to conserve power.

Knox glanced up at the man standing beside him, an ex-Para named Frank Linslade whom he’d trained to perform the duties of an Officer of the Watch. “Tell me honestly,” he said, “When all this is finished what are you going to do?” There was no formality in his manner; Marcotech’s private army were enough of a brotherhood for exact military-style discipline to be unnecessary, although some of the ex-officers drifted into it from instinct.
“Enjoy myself, that’s what,” Linslade answered honestly. “The world’s gonna be our oyster, isn’t it”
“How are you going to enjoy yourself?”
Linslade looked suddenly blank. “Well…..dunno really. How about you?”
“I don’t know either. The plain truth is none of us has any idea what’s going to happen – afterwards. Have we?”
Linslade thought of something, and grinned broadly. “I’ll get hold of all the booze I can lay my hands on and drink myself to death.” Greatrix had banned alcohol, along with drugs of any sort, from the colony. Smoking was out too, though mainly for safety reasons.

“Everything will be ours for the taking,” he went on. “As for not knowing where to start, that doesn’t bother me. I’ll just be glad not to be cooped up underwater all the frigging time. We all will.” But whatever happened, it would be at least marginally better than sitting begging outside Kings Cross station.
He saw that Knox had stiffened. "What's up?"
“Did you hear something just then?”

“No,” Linslade frowned. Then a loud "clunk" sounded clearly inside the control room.
"That's coming from outside," Knox said. “Maybe we’re grating against a wreck.”
“There’s nothing on the sonar,” a technician called out, overhearing them.
The sound was repeated, once, twice, three times. “Something's tapping on the hull, near the airlock."
"Maybe it wants to come in," said Linslade vaguely.
They glanced at each other uncertainly. "What do you reckon it is?"
The tapping sounded again. Tap tap tap tap tap tap TAP
Tap tap tap tap tap tap TAP
There was a definite rhythm to it. So it must be caused by a person.
The sonar technician, Maitland, looked worriedly at Knox. "Someone's found us."
"They couldn't know where we were."
"A diver?" suggested Linslade.

Maitland glanced up from his screen. "It can't be more than one, or they'd show up on the sonar. Right now all it's picking up is the fish."
"They couldn’t know where we were,” repeated Knox. All the same he told Maitland to try the scanner.
The scanner was a little more powerful than most cameras, but the technology was still in its infancy and the image therefore a little hazy. It might still have been able to pick up whatever was now causing the noise, depending on the latter’s position.
"Nothing,” he reported. “It must be too close to the hull, right up against it."
There was a pause. "I don't like this," Knox muttered.

One should be easy to deal with. He considered for a moment, biting his lip. Then he hurried to the intercom. "This is the Captain speaking. It looks like someone’s trying to get into the airlock from outside. Two men get down there with a couple of rifles."
"Open the outer door," he ordered one of the men at the consoles.
Outside Caroline saw the hatch cover swing up, and swam in.
The tapping had ceased. Presumably, this meant whatever had been making it was now inside. "Close outer door."

Caroline waited while the water was drained from the airlock. Then she stood just to one side of the inner door and took something from the pouch at her belt. She tensed herself, heart pounding.
"Open inner," ordered Knox.

The inner door slid soundlessly back, and she tossed the pair of white capsules onto the floor at the feet of the two Marcotech men. They exploded with a bang and immediately the two men were surrounded by a cloud of dense white vapour. Instinctively they dropped their guns and clapped their hands over their streaming eyes, coughing and gasping and choking. Then they folded in two and collapsed, alive but quite unconscious.

Mask on in case she wasn’t immune to the gas, she watched as the stuff was sucked into the submarine's air conditioning, the trails of vapour disappearing through the grille over the ventilation duct just below the point where the ceiling met the wall. In just a few seconds, before they could warn their base, everyone on the sub apart from herself would be unconscious. The plan for retaking a nuclear submarine that had been hijacked had been worked out long ago.

She waited a bit longer, then cautiously ventured out into the corridor. A few yards down she could see the unconscious body of one of the Marcotech crewmen.

She took an underwater radio from her belt pouch and called the Nelson. "It's OK, I’m safely on board. It looks like the gas worked." A little later she heard the tapping on the hull that told her the SBS divers wanted to be let in. Guided by the Major over the radio, she found her way to the bridge, identified the airlock control and opened the doors.

They started to explore, the Navy men keeping close to Caroline at all times, their orders not to let her out of their sight at any cost. One of the Navy men got out his own radio and called the Nelson. “I think it's an adapted ex-Soviet Kilo class. Shouldn’t be too difficult to figure out how everything works.”

They made their way to the control room and took up their positions. They brought the sub to the surface, and twenty minutes later the Nelson surfaced alongside it. An extendable tube telescoped out from the British sub’s conning tower until it overlapped the rim of the Kilo’s by a foot or two. A door in the end of the tube slid open and Mike Hartman, Roger Bryant and a few SBS and Navy men stepped out onto the Kilo, Captain Bryant leading the way down the ladder.

"Let's take a look around," said the Major. The Navy and SBS men fanned out and began to search the submarine, rounding up the unconscious Marcotech personnel as they did so and transferring them to the Nelson, except for the captain and a couple of his officers. A couple of them stayed with Caroline in the control room, just to make sure she didn’t run away.

In a compartment on the lower level, a section of which was walled off in plate glass and filled with water to form a tank, Steve Ferris and Bob Moretti found the half-a-dozen aquanoids, swimming about peacefully. In the next room about thirty or forty men were lying on rows of bunks, asleep or unconscious. Among them was Chris Barrett.

Ferris examined them briefly. "They've been sedated," he said. "I’ll get the doctor to take a look at them. Bob, stay here.”
He reported back to the Major in the control room. “They should be alright. And it looks like we’ve taken care of all the crew, they’re well and truly KO’d.”

"Well done, Caroline," said the Major. He looked down at the unconscious body of the Marcotech captain lying crumpled at his feet. The man was just starting to come round. Groggily he picked himself up and blinked at the dim figures gathered round him, waiting while they grew gradually more and more distinct. On realising who they were he started, face tightening as he took in the situation sunk in.
"Slept well, did you?" the Major beamed. "Good, we've got a job for you."

Nigel Haverhill and the two CIA men suddenly appeared, stepping forward. "Marcotech must know the standoff won't last forever,” Haverhill said. “So what are they waiting for? I want to know."
Knox stared back at him blankly. "We don't know," he said simply. "We were just told to take the subs, transfer our own people to them and then head for base.”

The Major eyed him suspiciously, then decided he was telling the truth. "Well here’s what you're going to do. You're going to send a message to the Poseidon saying Marcotech have changed their plans. You're to shadow them just in case anyone tries to storm the sub.” It was the sort of thing, he supposed, that he might might conceivably do if he was in Greatrix’s position. “OK?"
"And what if they check that with our base?"
"They've no reason to doubt you're telling the truth."
"What happens if I don't do as I say?"

The Major glanced at Linslade, Maitland and the technicians, now also recovered from the gas and looking on solemnly under the guard of several Navy ratings. "Then I kill you, so that when I tell one of your crew to do it they'll know I mean business."

Knox fell silent. He had no idea whether Hartman was telling the truth or not. It was the level, menacing stare, the glint in his eyes, the frightening expression of grim dedication in which his square jaw was set, which invariably did the trick. "All right," he said finally.

"All the same, it'll be blown if Marcotech decide to ring in to check everything's OK," Bryant muttered in the Major’s ear.
"As long as they think it is, there's no reason why they should," Hartman answered curtly.
“Will Greatrix be able to track our movements?” asked Caroline. “If he notices we’re not where we’re supposed to be, he’ll smell a rat.”

A Navy technician answered her. “He monitors his subs’ positions by homing in on a radio signal they send out. But we’ve turned it off now.” It was one of the first things the Navy men had done on boarding the Kilo.
“But he can still contact the subs when he needs to talk to them?”
“Yes, and the subs each other, using a different frequency.”

“So chummy here is going to contact his base and tell them there’s a fault in the radio,” the Major explained. “Since they’ll have got a mite suspicious when the signal stopped moving. Aren’t you, chummy?”
“Got no choice, have I,” grunted Knox.
“You are of course working hard to repair the fault.”
“Of course.” Under the watchful eyes of his captors, Knox made the call. The radio operator at the colony seemed satisfied nothing was wrong.

Roger Bryant was rubbing his hands briskly. “Right, let’s get going.” It would be his job to pilot the Kilo to the Poseidon, as the SBS men weren’t deemed to have quite the right experience yet.
In the meantime, there was a lot to do.


Chris Barrett saw a green scaly face staring down at him as the haze in front of his eyes cleared. At first he thought he was having a nightmare and sat up sharply, with gasp of alarm.
"It's alright," said the face. "It's me, Caroline."
He stared at her stupidly, still slightly befuddled. "Caroline?"
"Yes, that's right," she smiled patiently.

"Like the new look," he grunted. He shook his head furiously, not entirely sure he wasn't still dreaming. "If you don't mind me asking, what are you got up in fancy dress for? You look like something out of - "
"It isn't fancy dress," she said softly. "It's real."

He sniffed, registering the fishy smell for the first time. It wasn't unpleasant, but it did seem odd that a human being could give off that sort of odour.
She held out her arm. "Feel that."
He was sure nothing artificial could have that smooth, slippery, slightly moist feel. "Shit," he breathed, letting his hand fall away. "What - how did - "
"Marcotech experimented on me. They turned me into..." she spread her arms helplessly.
Finally Chris felt himself start to absorb the shock of it all. "The bastards!" he hissed, clenching his fists. "They had no right to do that. If I could get my hands on them....."
"Oh, it's not so bad sometimes," she said. He looked at her curiously. "And how are you?" she asked. "They didn't hurt you?"
He drew his hand across his forehead a couple of times. "No, I seem to be in one piece. So what's been going on then? Did Marcotech - "

She told him everything that had happened from her abduction to the capture of the Kilo. "I don't know what's going to happen to me in the long run, but you know how it is; you'll have to go along with it or else." Chris suddenly became very aware of the two armed ratings flanking her.
"The Major's here, by the way," she said. As if on cue Hartman entered the room, giving a nod and a smile on seeing him. "Alright, son?"
As the Major was only a few years older than him Chris found this term of address a little patronising. "Alright, Dad."
"You're welcome."

Caroline returned her attention to him. "Rachel told me what you were doing,” she said, touched that he’d put himself to such risk just for her.
"Only for the best," he murmured. She smiled with pleasure.

"So what's happening now?" Chris asked, turning to the Major for an answer.
"We're going to get the Poseidon back," Hartman said crisply. "That's what." He looked at Chris. "There really isn't any need for you to stick around here. I'm sure we can handle it."
"We're staying together," Chris said, nodding towards Caroline.

There wasn't much time for Hartman to make up his mind in. They needed to get the Poseidon back before Greatrix realised they’d retaken the Kilo, as he surely would before long.
The Major glanced warily at the two ratings. "As long as you realise you've got to keep quiet about everything you see," he told Barrett, saying it as much for the Navy men's benefit as anyone else's. "And that I'm not going to be responsible for anything that happens to you."
"If you can handle it OK, I'm not going to be in any danger am I?" said Chris cheekily.

"Then nor is Caroline," the Major countered with a smile. "Look, just remember what I said."
“I’ll consider myself under your orders,” Chris said seriously. It was best, he knew, for the professionals to be completely in control of what happened. “But I’m not going to stay shut up in a submarine while all the action’s going on.”


In the control room of the Kilo ex-Chief Petty Officer Knox was speaking into the submarine’s Gertrude. Modified, the system performed more or less the same function as the underwater radio.
"Kilo Two calling Poseidon."
After a moment the voice of Teague, the Marcotech radio operator on the Poseidon, answered him. “Poseidon here. Anything wrong?”
“Greatrix has decided he wants us to shadow you for the moment, just in case anyone does anything stupid like trying to recapture you. You'll have to cut your speed of course, but that doesn't matter as long as nobody knows where we are."
“I’ll hand you over to Sam,” said Teague.

"What about the prisoners?" asked Sam Kovich, the captain, and Knox could detect the frown in his voice.
"It'll be alright. There's enough provisions for everyone.” Kovich would know it was possible to vary the dose of sedative so the prisoners could feed themselves when necessary. “We'll just have to be careful they don't try anything. Besides, they’ll still be under the influence of the drug.”
And if it comes to the worst and we have to ditch them, so be it, Kovich thought.
“Anyway, it’s the boss’ orders.”
The paranoia was typical of Greatrix, Kovich reflected. “OK,” he said. “Can you get a fix on us from this transmission?”
“Sure. Once we’re in range, use your sonar and we’ll home in on that.”
“Be seeing you then. Out.”

Bryant glanced at the computerized plotting screen. “About one hundred and fifty miles to the east of here. Should take us a while to get there.”
“Then let’s not lose any time,” said the Major.
The crew of the Atlantica, most of the captured Marcotech men and the six aquanoids were already on board the Nelson. From what Caroline had told them, its crew knew the aquanoids would more or less do whatever they were told, as they had at Marcotech. They were to be taken to the research facility at San Diego passage to America, while it was decided what to do with them. They could use Caroline’s sleep tank during the journey, and Caroline the tank on the Kilo. In truth she might not be needed on the forthcoming mission, but they couldn’t be sure. Afterwards, unless it proved possible to use her to recover the Connecticut she would be returned to San Diego, remaining there until a decision was taken on her future.

Once the Nelson’s second officer had assumed command of it, leaving Bryant and a few of his men to join the SBS team, together with the CIA and MI6 agents, on the Kilo the latter filled its tanks, dived and set off eastward towards its rendezvous with the Poseidon.


FORTY-EIGHT
Kilo Two
As on the Nelson, everyone was clustered in the control room watching the various screens. Friendship naturally made Chris stand close to Caroline. He studied her with interest. From almost constant immersion in the water her hair had darkened to a mousy brown; it was a nicer colour than people tended to think, and he found it very attractive. He thought it showed her from a completely different angle. She had just come from the sleep tank and it was hanging down in a tangled mass like seaweed, slightly tinged with green.

"Greatrix was right,” he said. “You do make a beautiful aquanoid."
"Why, thankyou," she replied, pleased despite her reservations at all Marcotech had done to her biology.
“But presumably you don’t want to stay like that forever. Is there any way of reversing it?”
“They’ve kept tissue samples from various parts of me in their laboratory. They also have stem cells you could grow a new heart from. And somehow they’ve solved all the problems you get with tissue rejection. Yes, it should be possible; Marcotech certainly seemed to think so.”
"We should be within sonar range now,” Maitland announced.
“Then start pinging,” ordered the Major.

A moment later they heard the warble of the sonar and saw a vertical white bar appear on the grid on its screen.
Maitland switched to the Poseidon’s frequency. “Kilo Two to Poseidon. We have you on the sonar, so we’ll be with you in just a few minutes. Got any supplies to spare for the prisoners? As we're going to be at sea longer than we expected..."
There was a pause while Teague conferred with Kovich, then he came back. "There should be enough. You wanna send someone over to collect it?"
"Yeah, will do."
"Right. We'll send a couple of the guys over to meet you."

Ten minutes later, the Kilo was manouevring into position above the Poseidon. From its underside the docking tube, identical to that which subs now used to dock when on the surface, extended downwards to connect with the hatch in the top of Poseidon’s conning tower. The clang as the two met reverberated throughout the Poseidon.

The Poseidon’s inner airlock door swished open, and the two Marcotech crewmen heard the clatter of booted feet as the men from the Kilo descended the ladder. They seemed to pause halfway down. Then two small white capsules landed on the floor in front of the Marcotech men and burst.

Two SBS men in black Nomex assault suits with integrated masks and helmets, each incorporating a respirator, jumped the last few feet of the ladder and turned to regard the unconscious bodies of the two crewmen. Stepping over them, one went to the nearest ventilator duct, took a couple of the white capsules from his belt pouch and shoved them through the grille, crushing them as he did so. The two soldiers waited until they knew the gas would have dispersed, then one of them radioed the Kilo, informing them it was safe to board. The gas would spread faster than the life support system could filter it out.

As an additional precaution the pair each had a gas gun, a stubby-looking weapon rather like an oversized pistol, attached to his belt. The Major had specifically requested it just before the Nelson had left Groton.
A couple of minutes later the Major, accompanied by the rest of his squad, and Captain Bryant stepped through into the Poseidon’s control room, grinning in triumph. A little hesitantly Chris and Caroline followed them on board, since no-one had specifically told them not to.

"Well done, boys," said the Major, presumably to the two men who had taken out the Marcotech crew with the gas. He scanned the room. It was now a little full up; besides the rest of his squad, Bryant and his men, and the US and British intelligence chaps, the Poseidon's real crew had now recovered and were standing looking on. A chorus of triumphant clapping and shouting broke out.

Nigel Haverhill was rubbing his hands gleefully. "Well done, Major, well done!"
The Major nodded in acknowledgement, smiling blandly. A rather strange silence fell, as if no-one had any idea what to do next.
Haverhill beamed at him as if prompting a child what to do next. "Well I think you can bring your men back on board now, and leave the Poseidon to Commander Hillyard."
The Major said nothing, just remained standing where he was. His face was expressionless. The Poseidon's crew were eyeing one another uncertainly; one or two took a couple of steps towards the door, then halted.
"What's going on?" demanded one of the CIA agents.
Haverhill frowned. "Major? Is there a problem?"
Hartman's lips moved. "Sorry, Sir, I'm afraid that's not possible."

Haverhill realised that the two SBS men with the gas pellets were now back in the room and had taken up position on either side of the door, aiming a pair of gas guns into the centre of the room. Both had their respirators still on. He saw the Major and the remaining SBS soldiers move out of their line of fire.

Suddenly the two CIA agents had their handguns out. But before they could properly aim them, the twin streams of grey-white vapour had knocked them unconscious. The blast caught several of the Navy men, who fell limply across the Americans' bodies.

The rifles of the other SBS men came up and they shuffled backwards into a position from which they could cover the whole room. Having known what was going to happen they were in a position to move faster than the armed Navy ratings, who hadn’t.

Haverhill could hardly believe what he was seeing. For a timeless moment he was quite unable to speak, his mouth hanging open and gaping helplessly at Hartman. In fact it was Captain Hillyard who broke the silence. "Major, would you mind telling me what you're bloody well doing?"
"I'm taking command," announced Hartman. "It's as simple as that."
"What?"
"I said I'm taking command."

“You can’t be serious, man,” gasped Roger Bryant. “Have you gone stark raving mad?”
On the sidelines, Caroline's face lit up joyously. She’d known the Major wouldn't let her down.
Haverhill finally managed to compose himself. "I see." It was clear he thought the Major was unbalanced. "For what reason are you doing that, Major?"
The Major nodded towards the aquanoid standing at the side of the room. "She's not going to have to run around like a hunted fugitive. Nor is she a test bed. On past experience, and reading between the lines as it were, I think I can guess what’s been happening and if your hunch is that I don’t like it you’re absolutely right.”

Haverhill's eyes narrowed. "You assured me earlier, Major Hartman, that you weren't emotionally involved in this matter."
"If it were anyone else I'd probably still do it," Hartman said, though unsure if this was actually true. "I'll do what I must for my country as long as it isn't involved in anything unethical. It isn't right to treat someone who's helped us in the past in this way. I can guess the sort of things you'll do to her while she remains in your hands. She's a good person and she doesn't deserve any of that." He told those who didn’t already know as much as he could about the whole Marcotech affair, all that had happened to Caroline, and the various reasons why she didn’t deserve it. He kept looking at Hillyard as he said all this, making sure the Commander was included in the conversation. The Navy man looked extremely uneasy.
"Have you any idea what you're doing, Major?" Halliwell snapped. "You could lose your job for this, or worse."
"I'm not doing it lightly, Sir."

"You'll be court-martialled, probably end up in prison. Mutiny, disloyalty, insubordination; stealing a Royal Navy vessel, that's what it amounts to; treason, maybe. Are your men backing you in this?"
"I've told them I'll take the flak, Sir."
"That's not what I asked you," Haverhill snapped.
"No, but you can take it as a "yes" if you like."

Haverhill shifted indecisively for a bit, then smiled, regarding the Major with a friendly expression. "Major, the regiment's overstretched as it is, in Iraq and Afghanistan, and there are too many people leaving it. Now you're a good officer and we don't want to lose you."
"Then don't, Sir," the Major said woodenly.
Meanwhile the Poseidon's crew had been looking on in increasing astonishment. The Major glanced towards Adam Hillyard. "Where do you stand, Commander? If you don't want to go along with this, we'll surface and put