By Nigel Preece
Part
One
A
Promise Made
July 2043
"Atom sub Reaper
to Augusta Base, now at 90 fathoms and steady. Course 328 mark 9 at 70 knots.
Go."
"Augusta to Reaper,
confirming A.L.S. is now five and nine. Go."
"Reaper to
Augusta, thank you. Automatic Locator Signal transmitter fault diagnosed as a
dry joint in PCB connection. Sorry about the delay in getting it fixed, what
with that blip on the radar and all that. Aside from that, ship's status is as
reported earlier at 1730. On course, will rendezvous with Atom Sub India
at Providence sea dock in 3.5 hours. Go."
"Understood Reaper.
If you get another reading like that blip you saw just now, report it straight
away. Orders direct from Commodore Denver."
"You can assure the
Commodore I will do just that. In fact if anything so much as sneezes, coughs,
or breaks wind in that sea area, I will be on to you faster than you can say
Crablogger. Reaper
out."
Sam Shore sat back in
his seat, stared ahead, and heaved a sigh.
"Jack Denver. A
Commodore at 36. How the hell did he do it?" he muttered to himself. He turned
to his colleague, seated at the helm station. "Dudley, where did I go wrong? Was
it marrying Elizabeth? Was it joining the sub service? Was it getting friendly
with someone as ugly as you?"
Dudley Holden, New
Yorker with an attitude, turned to face his CO and friend, and smiled. A
sarcastic smile you could call it, but a smile nonetheless.
"Haw, haw, Sam, very
droll! I mighta known you'd bring me into dis soul searchin act of yours. Now
you know it's not marrying Elizabeth. She's an absolute babe. I'm a sucker for
that Scottish accent. As for joining da soyvice, well you could have stayed and
joined yer family foim. What is it they do now, ah yes, sell temaydoes!, and as
for the last remark about me. You think I got a face like the backside of one of
dem Thundaboids that flies around lookin for folks ta rescue, yer should see
Denver's missus, she's gotta face that could scare the devil. In other words
Sam, quit griping. You'll get your big break, I promise ya, and I'll be around
ta see it."
Shore chuckled to
himself, and realised he was as usual being way, way too hard on himself.
After all he had just
become a father for the first time.
He had a picture of
her in his top pocket. He took it out and sat staring at it for a few moments.
"You gonna give her a
moniker, Sam, or is she gonna spend the rest of her days known to da world and
beyond as baby Shore? That's gonna look kinda stupid when she walks up to de
alta on yer arm aged 25, or what have ya?"
"Uh, oh sorry Dudley."
Sam was startled. He'd been lost in his thoughts as he looked at the photo of
the infant. "As a matter of fact I've got news for you".
"What?" Holden asked.
"Atlanta. That's her
name, Dudley. It's where she was conceived. Guess it made sense. Atlanta
Elizabeth Shore. Elizabeth and I talked it over last night. I had a couple of
minutes to myself so I called her on my cabin com-board. She's
going to be baptised in Scotland, the McDonalds are a clan with whom you don't
argue. The whole Shore family will be there."
"Where exactly will
‘there’ be?" Holden asked.
"A little place called
Cromarty. It's on a stretch of land that juts out from Inverness called the
Black Isle. I've been there a few times whenever Elizabeth took me to see her
family. Did I ever tell you they all lived, all twelve of her brothers and
sisters, in a cottage just a few miles down the road from Cromarty, called
Resolis Mains? Goodness knows how they all fitted in the place. Yet they did,
somehow. It was always an occasion to go there."
His attention was
drawn by a small blip that suddenly appeared on the screen he was observing. The
radar-screen showed the sub they were in heading towards the coast of Rhode
Island from the mid-Atlantic, and on what appeared to be an intercept course was
this blip. It's speed was nearly twice that of Reaper.
"Dudley, open a
channel to Augusta, direct to Commodore Denver."
Holden flicked two
switches, and at the same time, guessing that this blip had appeared again,
tuned in his own radar-screen. He turned to face Shore.
"Someone farted," he
deadpanned inquiringly.
"Smelt it a mile away.
Its our little friend blippy the blip. Right," Shore replied, still looking at
his monitor, "Alter course to 171 mark 12, and increase to 85 knots. Advise
Commodore Denver at Augusta base of what we're doing."
The sub swung to a
north-westerly course, and picked up speed. Back in the control cabin, Shore
activated the main viewscreen.
"Throw a light out
there," he called to Holden.
Holden did, but it
made little difference. Before Shore's eyes was a misty blackness, misty with
plankton and the odd roach, cod and sturgeon veering away from the light. Then
suddenly, it cleared. He heard Holden finish talking on the line to their base.
Denver supported their action. Good, Shore thought.
On the radar, the blip
got closer, and quickly too, and Shore, realising it was deliberately heading
toward them, took the cautious route.
"Dudley, I'm going to
err on the side of caution. Arm the short range R.I.M.'s".
"Restrictive Impact
Missiles armed and ready," Holden replied.
Suddenly, from out of
the gloom, a small vessel appeared on the screen, heading toward them. It had a
red hull, short stubby wings and an elevated tail fin that resembled one
normally seen on a Fireflash. Shore noticed a rectangular observation port at
the front, and could even make out the outline of a person.
From in front of the
vessel, a small projectile emerged. It moved with speed and purpose, and it
headed straight for the Reaper!
"EVASIVE!", Shore
barked.
It was too late.
The two men felt the
impact. The ship was thrown on it's side. Both Holden and Shore were thrown from
their seats. As Holden was thrown, his console erupted in an explosion of
sparks.
Shore got up; he was
shaken, but OK.
Holden remained on the
floor.
Shore noticed, amid
the smoke that now almost filled the control cabin, that the viewscreen was
still working, it showed the red vessel leaving the area, disappearing into the
gloom. He tried to engage the main motors and begin pursuit of their enemy.
Nothing.
The missiles, now
armed, did not respond either.
Likewise the radio.
All that was working
was the air purifier – which Shore
activated, clearing the smoke – and the emergency beacon.
Shore felt the sub
come to a rest on the bottom. He let out the beacon, on a buoy. Thankfully the
impact was not too hard. The waters were not too deep either, and this would
help. Shore counted his blessings; the sub, despite the impact, was not taking
on water. In any section.
He moved over to where
Holden lay.
His colleague was
still, and Shore assumed he had been knocked out. He turned him on his back, and
saw that his eyes were open, and that he was conscious.
There was blood
pouring out from a wound just below where the heart was.
Holden was in a bad
way. He had already lost loads of blood, and Shore was stunned at seeing his
friend, his face white, in such a state.
Holden opened his
mouth to speak, his face trembling, and wincing in pain.
"Sam," he whispered,
"this is curtains. There's a tiny fragment from that console embedded in my
chest, the explosion did it." His face screwed up in agony. "I'm gonna bleed to
death before you can do anything. I'm sorry Sam, I guess I'm not gonna get to
see that daughter of yours after all."
"Quiet, you
dunder-head," Shore replied.
"No Sam," Holden
interrupted. "This is it." He drew breath. "I want you to promise me something.
My son Bradley, he's only ten. You know he wants to join the sub service. Well,
you have gotta let him. In fact you must not let anything stop him from doing
this. He must not be held back. He'll take any challenges life throws at him.
The water world is his life. He loves the sea. Do you understand, Sam?"
Sam Shore nodded; for
once he found he could not speak, as tears began to well in his eyes. Fighting
them he gave his friend of twenty years a direct order.
"Dudley, don't you
dare give up on me now!" He paused and unbuttoned his jacket, and rolled it up
into a makeshift cushion. He turned his gaze away from his friend as he did
this. Once the jacket was rolled up, Shore crouched down to place it under
Holden's head. Once again he looked down at his colleague.
Holden looked back at
him.
Looking back with
unseeing, lifeless eyes.
Samuel Arthur Shore
wept, for a friend, and for his son.
Part Two
A Promise Kept
September 2064
"Tower from
Stingray, Tower from Stingray. Captain Holden reporting. Patrol
complete, heading on course 619 mark 2 for Marineville, at rate six."
"Stingray from
Tower. OK Brad. Burn up the knots, will ya? We've got a whole bunch of the staff
ready to throw that party for your hydrophone operator, before he takes command
of Thornback. So get a move on."
"PWOR, Commander
Shore. We will be with you in about 70 minutes at our present speed."
Bradley Holden,
captain of the World Aquanaut Security Patrol vessel
Stingray,
turned to his comrade and good friend Melvin Byrne, now a Captain in his own
right, and due to take up his new command on Stingray's sister ship, the
Thornback in two weeks, after a spell of leave to see his son Barry.
Melvin was for once quiet, and Bradley was unsure what the reason was for this
silence.
"You OK, Mel?" Holden
asked.
"Oh sure Brad. Sorry,"
the blond-haired officer replied. "Guess this is it. The last time we'll be
together on this paddle steamer. Three years, and it doesn't seem no more than
five minutes."
He heaved a big sigh.
"I'm gonna miss this
place. This was the first Manta-Ray class vessel built, we were the first crew.
It's been such a honour. I'm really gonna miss this boat. Now I know it's
exactly the same on Thornback, as well as the Barracuda, and the
Spearfish, but it's just not gonna be the same without you and your sarcasm,
wit, temper, and apetite for the opposite sex."
Holden smiled and
found that, for once, he could not think of an apt reply. He did however offer
something akin to praise in its own subtle way.
"I just hope your
replacement, what's his name, Sheridan, is as good as they say he is."
In the Control Tower
at Marineville, Commander Shore turned to his daughter Atlanta, recently
promoted to Head of Communications at the WASP base. She was in civvies and
about to go out for the night.
"Now, Atlanta, if
Lieutenant Tempest gets any ideas below the plimpsol line, or above the conning
tower, just let me know and I'll have him packed off to the tracking station and
busted down to janitor."
He puffed out a huge
chunk of smoke from his cigar - only Sam Shore could get away with smoking in
the Tower - and waited for his daughter’s reply.
Atlanta simply smiled,
shook her head, and went out. "Goodnight, Dad. Troy will be a perfect gentleman,
as he is always."
The young lady exited
without giving her father a chance to reply. Deep down, Shore knew Tempest would
be just the perfect gent his daughter said he was.
He sat back in his
hoverchair, and looked out of the window. 19:45 hours, Stingray would be back at
21:00 or just before, and the bash with the lads could begin. He would enjoy the
quiet until then.
The quiet, though,
lasted just a few moments.
"Attention, Attention,
Marineville tracking station calling, un-identified surface vessel approaching
Marineville coastline, heading 128 mark 9, Speed 90 knots."
"Ninety knots!" Shore
could barely contain his surprise. "OK Tracking station, keep an eye on that
thing".
"Will do, commander,"
came the reply. Then after a pause, "Tower from tracking station, vessel has
submerged, and its speed is increasing. It was showing 120 knots on scanner, but
we've lost it now. Sorry, sir."
Shore let out a huff
of smoke, maneuvered his chair toward the console, and checked for the nearest
patrol vessel.
"Murphy’s Law", he
uttered. "Bradley."
Melvyn Byrne touched
his earphone.
"Hey, Brad, I'm
picking up a sounding. Wow! This thing is moving, whatever it is, green 120,
bearing 342 mark 7."
"What is its speed,
Mel?"
"It's going at a fair
belt, reckon about rate 5 equivalent."
"Rate 5, bet it's the
Navy, probably doing their best to get in our way again and muscle in on our
territory. What course?"
"Interception course,
its echo is getting louder. But there are no Navy exercises planned for this
region for at least the next six months. This smells."
"Stingray from
Tower, this is Commander Shore."
"Go ahead, commander,
Bradley Holden speaking."
"Captain, I want you
and Captain Byrne to investigate a vessel..."
"Sorry to interrupt,
sir, but we're on the case already, it's heading our way, we should have a
visual in about five minutes."
"OK captain, keep me
posted. Something does not add up with this. Take care, and good luck." Shore
closed the line, knowing full well that his top twosome were more than capable
of dealing with a problem such as this, without the commander snooping and
poking his nose in.
Holden looked ahead,
expecting to see for himself what all the fuss was about. The gloomy waters
ahead for the moment hid their mystery vessel, then slowly and with apparent
purpose, the object that had appeared on the scanner at the tracking station,
came into view. It had a red hull, short stubby wings, and an elevated tail that
resembled one normally seen on an old Fireflash.
Holden froze. He was
aware that next to him, Byrne was already preparing a sting missile in case
things got out of hand.
Things did.
From the front of the
craft, a projectile emerged, a torpedo that was so fast in its movement that the
crew of the WASP sub had little chance to even grab their controls and try to
avoid its impact.
It slammed into the
belly of the craft.
Byrne's console blew.
It threw the
hydrophone operator back, over the railings, and onto the floor below.
Death was
instantaneous.
The craft had been
tossed on its side, and was slowly heading down to the bottom. Holden, unaware
of the fate that had befell his friend and colleague, was slammed against the
port bulkhead.
He drifted into
oblivion.
"Stingray from
Tower. Stingray
from Tower."
Sam Shore had been
joined in the Tower by the duty officer for the evening. Sub-Lieutenant George
Sheridan was due to take up his post on the WASP flagship sub in just a
fortnight, and he was rightly concerned as his commanding officer tried again
and again to establish contact with Holden and Byrne.
"Come in, Captain
Holden, Vice-Captain Byrne. Please
respond, either of you. Please."
Nothing.
"Barrakewda can
be in the area in thirty-nine minutes Commainder," Sheridan, checking the
positions of the other WASP vessels, reported in his thick southern drawl.
"Signal the
Barracuda, Sheridan, tell them to make for Stingray's last reported
position, and fast."
"Barrakewda
from Marineville, are yer theya, Cap'n Belmont?"
"This is Barracuda,
Captain Belmont speaking."
"Cap'n, an emergency
situation has arisen, in position south south-west, 1900, reference 12. Stingray
was investigatin' a sub that was heading on an innercep coarse. No word has been
received for over forty minutes now. The craft should have rendezvoused with
Stingray thirty-five minutes ago. We have ter suspect theya's trouble"
Everything was a blur.
The room in general,
and even his hand in front of him. All a blur.
That went especially
for the figure that was standing in the corner. This figure appeared to be
dressed in black. Probably a wet suit, he thought. Now that the figure saw he
was waking up from his slumber, he walked over to where Bradley Holden was
lying, and leaned forward.
"Captain Holden,
forgive me. Sorry to have given you such a headache."
A Latin accent,
Spanish-sounding perhaps, Holden thought. Whoever this person was, he had
dragged the Stingray captain down to the lower deck corridor, and on to the
stores room at the rear of the sub, while he had been out cold.
"No, my friend, I
won't forgive you," he replied, still
breathless from the shock to his system of being flattened against his own
viewport. His vision now was clear, and he could make out a dark-haired man,
with a mustache, still wearing his facemask over his eyes, and with a harpoon in
his right hand. He moved to get up.
"Stay put. Stay right
on the floor. Now listen to me and listen good." He pointed his weapon at
Holden's head, and spoke in a very calm and restrained manner.
"For a number of years
we have tried to access information on the latest submarine technology. We have
noticed you now have these super subs patrolling the Pacific and the Atlantic
too. Making the seas safe for people to travel in and work in. Not exactly what
we want. With the oceans of the world such thriving communities, crime is surely
going to flourish, given the right circumstances. That is, if you leave us
alone. Which of course you are not about to do. So we have to see how good your
craft are, learn about them, seek weaknesses and then attempt to take them out".
"Where is Byrne?"
Holden interrupted.
"Dead," the assailant
replied, without batting an eyelid.
"YOU BASTARD!" Holden
shouted back at his captor. Who still did not so much as blink. The Stingray
captain felt sick at the pit of his stomach. He and Melvyn Byrne were friends.
Not just colleagues who happened to get on well, but damn good friends. Such
relationships were few and far between, and there were times when their
closeness reminded Bradley of his father’s friendship with Sam Shore, during
their guard patrol sub days on the Atom Submarine Reaper.
Now Holden knew how
Shore had felt, and it hurt. He thought about Melvyn's little lad Barry. He was
already without a mother.
Now he was an orphan.
The boy was only six
years old. Younger than Bradley had been when he lost his dad. Even at this
point, his mind raced back to the day he saw the men bring his father's body
back to the family home in Illinois. Shore had accompanied Dudley Holden's body
all the way back from the area where the attack had taken place, to the Sub pen
at Providence, Rhode Island, just down the east coast from Augusta Base in the
state of Maine, and then on to home, and rest, and the grief that would follow.
The grief and the
pain.
As it was then, so it
was now.
The pain would not go
away unless the creature responsible was made to pay for this.
Yet Holden could do
nothing. His captor held all the aces, but could not be allowed to get away with
this butchery.
Suddenly he noticed
something behind where the harpoon-bearing thug stood. He had forgotten that the
ship was slightly at an angle, resting on some rocks. Once or twice already he
had felt the craft ever so slightly rock.
Clearly they were not
on a smooth part of the sea bed.
Behind the assailant
were some shelves.
Three all in all.
Stacked with various items. Books, clothing, dining utencils, even a small
firearm. Not much use to Holden in the current shape of things.
Also on the middle
shelf was a glass tumbler. On its side, and presently still.
A chance had presented
itself.
"You expect me to tell
you everything about this sub?" Holden asked. "It will cost you, but if you
spare me, I'll keep quiet."
"That's you price,
eh?" the thug replied.
"Yep." Holden's answer
was sure, and sound.
He thought long and
hard about the WASP man’s offer. He stood before him, still pointing the harpoon
at the captain.
"Get up!" he barked.
Now he had his chance.
"Barrakewda
repoarts it will be in Stingray's last repoarted position in twenny
minnuts, commainder".
The southern twang of
George Sheridan pierced the silence in the Tower. Shore had been "pacing" the
floor in his hoverchair, for well over fifteen minutes.
His mind racing.
He kept thinking to
himself, "What the hell has this family done to deserve this?"
He thought of
Bradley's father, Dudley, lying there on the floor of the operations deck on the
Reaper, twenty-one years ago. Bad enough Samantha Holden had lost her
husband of seventeen years that day, now maybe her only child Bradley too.
Surely not.
Yet, everything about
the loss of radio contact seemed wrong. He considered himself to have lost a lot
in his life. First his wife, then only three years ago, the use of his legs was
taken from him; but he had been blessed with a lovely daughter. She had been his
only reason for carrying on after the terrible death of Elizabeth.
Yet by the end of
tonight, Sam thought, another Sam, Samantha Holden, would have even less in her
life to live for.
Holden felt a cramp in
his left leg.
It would be a moment
before he could straighten it.
Once straight, he
stood, his legs slightly apart, and he eyed the invader.
"OK captain, you know
the score, now don't try anything stupid." He motioned Bradley, with his weapon,
toward the engine section of the craft, looking him in the eye as he did it.
Directly in the WASP
man's line of sight, as the man in the mask looked at him, was the shelving, and
the glass, still on its side.
He put his left foot
forward, slowly.
His right foot then
collapsed from under him, and he fell back against the wall behind him, throwing
all his weight on to his side.
"GET UP, GET UP, GET
UP!!!" the invader yelled.
Holden felt the boat
rock, he hoped that the assailant would be too wound up to notice the motion of
the boat.
He was.
The boat tilted.
Out of the corner of
his eye, Holden saw, as he was getting up, the glass roll off the shelf.
It smashed into a
dozen pieces.
The invader turned to
see where the noise had come from.
What he saw was a
carpet of broken glass behind him.
What he did not see
was the front toe-end of Stingray captain Bradley Holden's left boot,
impacting on his stomach.
The captor was now,
being assailed upon himself. He fell to the floor, flat on his back, writhing in
pain.
Holden saw that he had
let go of the harpoon; he leaned over and grabbed it.
He pointed it at his
prisoner.
"Now you are gonna do
things my way," Holden said, his anger returning as he still tried to come to
terms with the death of his friend. Breathing heavily and quickly, and with
beads of sweat dripping from his brow, he set out his stall.
"Talk, you bastard,
and I'll spare you. It's as simple as that. Are we in business?"
The man on the floor
responded, heedless of his agony. "I doubt whether you would have it in your
guts to point that thing at me and fire it."
"Never assume," Holden
responded. "Now get up and go to the top deck. Keep your hands where I can see
them, don't try anything. Don't even breathe."
The man got up, Holden
pointed to the staircase that led to the top deck and the control room.
"Name," Holden
demanded as they walked.
"Morales. Francisco Morales.
That vessel outside is my ship, the Vattis." He pointed to
the front viewport as they walked up the stairs.
Holden turned to look
out of the giant window.
There the strange red
ship stood, apparently un-occupied, at least that's what Holden was hoping to
confirm. He faced Morales again.
"That crate empty?" he
asked.
"Yes, unfortunately,"
Morales replied.
"Where's Byrne?"
"Over there," Morales
said, as he pointed, and Holden looked down to the front of the lower deck.
Focused as he had been on apprehending his prisoner, he had failed to notice the
dead body of Melvyn Byrne. Lying, crumpled where he fell.
"Get over there now
and carry his body to his quarters!" Holden barked. He was determined that his
fallen comrade would have at least his dignity, albeit in death, restored, and
restored by the man who had taken his life.
Morales obliged, not
that he had any other alternative, and in a matter of minutes Byrne's body was
lying in his bunk bed, a sheet over his head, his dignity, if not his life,
restored. Holden then threw Morales in the brig.
This done Holden went
back to the cabin of his dead friend, closed the door, and paid his respects in
silence. Muttering a prayer in his head. As tears began to well in his eyes, his
thoughts turned to Melvyn's little infant son.
Young Barry was not
yet ten years old, but already he was without a mother. Poor Rosemary had been
killed in a car crash when Barry was less than a year old.
He had never known
her.
Now his memories of
his father would be confined to just a small handful of moments from his
childhood.
"How the hell can you
tell a lad he had lost his dad?" Holden asked out loud, still looking down at
Melvyn's body.
His mind then raced
back to a similar moment many years earlier.
For Sam Shore it was
just about the most painful thing he'd had to do in his military career to date.
Holden knew from listening to Shore on that fateful evening that it was no easy
task. Yet it would be his responsibility.
His peace was
shattered by the radio.
"Stingray from
Barracuda. Come in, captain Holden."
Holden raced up the
stairs, sat in the pilot’s seat, and opened the mike at his side.
"This is Stingray,
captain Holden speaking. Glad to hear you, captain Belmont. I wish the
circumstances were better, though. I'm afraid I've got some distressing news for
you all. Captain Melvyn Byrne has been killed. He died as we were attacked by
the vessel you should see opposite me as you come in. The person who committed
this attack has been captured."
There was silence.
In Barracuda's
control room, Captain Belmont, and his colleague Lieutenant Bishop stared at
each other in disbelief. They had both known Melvyn for a number of years.
They then removed
their caps.
"Gentlemen," Holden
said over the radio, "let's go home".
The Tower was a solemn
place to be.
Sam Shore had recalled
the staff, most of whom were preparing to go to a party to celebrate Byrne's
assignment to his own ship and his own command.
Now they had to deal
with the terrible news that faced them.
Shore had already made
his way down to pen four. Barracuda was towing the attack vessel and
Stingray, and was due in its pen in less than a minute.
"Commainder Shore from
Tower, Barrakewda
now aproachin' ocean dowar."
"OK Sheridan, loose
'em in," Shore sighed.
As he waited, a detail
of four security guards filed in, bringing with them a empty coffin. They were
followed in by the base padre, Father
Bell; he took his place at the end of the coffin.
The sight made Shore
nauseous, and angry.
"I never got the guy
who killed Dudley Holden all those years ago," he muttered to himself through
gritted teeth. "At least, we have the bastard who made young Barry an orphan,",
he continued. "I'll make him PAY for this".
Shore looked down at
the water in front of him; he saw the inner doors open up. First in was
Barracuda, followed by Stingray, then the Vattis slowly passed
through the door.
Shore could make out
the red hull of the ship as the doors closed.
He froze.
Suddenly, his mind
began to race. There was something familiar about the colour of the vessel.
All three ships
surfaced.
Shore's cigar fell
out, and into the water.
Suddenly in his mind's
eye he was not in the Barracuda's pen, but in the control cabin of the
Reaper.
It was as though
twenty-one years had passed in twenty-one minutes.
"Are you OK, Father?"
Shore jumped, almost
out of his chair, despite his handicap, as he felt the hand of his daughter
touch his shoulder. He was suddenly back in pen four.
He looked up at his
daughter.
"I'm fine, Atlanta,
honey. Just fine."
He forced a smile; if
nothing else, it was just to help fight the tears.
There would be more
than one person he was going to give news to today; and for both of them, it
would be in regard to the death of their fathers.
The Interrogation room
was lit only by the tiny light, hanging from the centre of the ceiling. No
shade. Crude.
Designed to make a
person feel intimidated.
Morales was seated at
one side of the table, a security officer behind him. On the other side sat
Shore, together with Holden, looking a little the worse for wear, but determined
to be present when the investigation began.
Shore got straight to
the point.
"Who do you represent,
Morales?"
Morales leaned back in
his chair, as though not bothered by his predicament. "Our organisation is not
going to be identified by the likes of me; suffice to say we have a vested
interest in the seas being rid of subs. This way we can clean up. I'm not going
to give any of this information. You cannot buy me," he grinned at Shore.
Shore's top lip
curled, but he was beaten to the punch by Holden who had got up out of his
chair, and had leaned across the table, anger written on his face.
"A lad aged just a
handful of years has lost his father. Give me one good reason why I should not
take out one of our subs, and submerge it with you still on the outside, eh?"
"You wouldn't dare,"
Morales said, appearing confident that he could escape with just a prison term.
Shore, looking on,
though, was about to give in; he probably could not get Morales put before a
firing squad on one murder alone, but two, or more? Here was his chance.
"How long have you
people been out terrorising our subs?"
"The Vattis has
been out in the sea for thirty years, trying to preserve the ocean for our
little firm." Another grin came, another curled lip appeared in response from
Shore.
The commander
continued, "On July 14th 2043, the Atom Sub Reaper was attacked. She was
sailing in deep north Atlantic waters, some five hundred-fifty miles off the
coast of Maine. She was attacked by an unknown craft. One not seen by anyone
before. The assault was totally unprovoked, and it cost the life of my
subordinate."
Holden, still on his
feet, turned and looked at Shore straight in the face. His mouth slightly open.
Shore did not so much as blink. He continued.
"The vessel that
opened fire on it matched the one we brought into the pen last night. I should
know…" He leaned forward, another cigar protruding from his mouth, a puff of
smoke coming from it and going full in the face of the prisoner. Shore took out
the cigar. "I was there Morales!" Still the eyes didn't blink. Another puff
followed.
"Were you, Morales,
were you?" Shore continued.
Holden stared at the
floor.
An old deep wound was
being re-opened, or were their bandages simply being removed?
Removed to uncover a
cut so deep, and so wide, that it had never been fully closed in the first
place. Twenty-one years of pain and suffering were being re-visited. Holden’s
stomach turned as he began to realise that the man on the seat opposite him
could be someone he vowed to get so many years ago.
Suddenly Bradley
Holden was in the cemetery. It was a hot July morning. The minister had read out
the last verse, the coffin was already in the ground.
He could see Sam
Shore, crouching before the side of the plot, his wife, Elizabeth, was standing
a few yards away, consoling Bradley's mother Samantha. Shore spoke loud enough
for Brad to hear.
"I'll find the bastard
who did this, if it takes me forty years, I'll find him. I won't stop, Dudley. I
promise."
Shore was not about to
stop; he was aware Holden was staring at him, but there was no way he was going
to stop, not now not never.
"You were there
weren't you?" Shore said.
Morales simply stared
back.
Holden walked away,
toward the security guard.
"Weren't you?" Shore
repeated.
Morales smirked back
at Shore. Holden was now alongside the security guard, staring ahead, blankly.
"WEREN'T YOU?" Shore
barked.
Morales, still
smirking nodded, "I was, yes"
It took Bradley Holden
a mere half second to reach down and grab the security guard's gun from its
belt.
It took Bradley Holden
another half second to swipe the barrel of the gun across the face of the guard,
incapacitating him at a stroke.
It took Bradley Holden
just another half second after that to level the firearm at the back of Morales.
The Stingray
captain yelled at the top of his voice, "AND THE MAN WHO YOU KILLED WAS MY
FATHER. THIS IS FOR HIM, AND FOR MELVYN BYRNE, AND HIS SON BARRY!"
With tears streaming
down his face, he discharged the gun.
Morales by this time
had turned around. Sufficiently to see the face of the man who was about to
extract revenge for the bereavement of two men, and many others perhaps.
Others known only to
Francisco Morales. Facts that he would take to the grave with him.
He fell back, arms
outstretched, flat on to the table. The bullet had hit him right between the
eyes.
Holden summoned the
outside guard.
". . . We commit his
body to the deep, to be turned into corruption, ready for the resurrection of
the body, when the sea shall give up her dead."
The body of Melvyn
Byrne was lifted on its slab. It slid down off it and into the still, calm
waters of the Pacific.
The guns fired three
times.
A young lad looked on
from the side, still unable to take in the magnitude of what was going on. Next
to him stood Bradley Holden. His hands still in handcuffs after being placed
under arrest for the unlawful killing of a prisoner in custody. Alongside him
was Shore. His face a picture of sadness.
Sadness at the loss of
two fine men. One having been killed, the other having killed.
Stingray turned for home.
Less than thirty
minutes later, the sub was back in its pen, number three. Its two newly
appointed operators George Sheridan, and Troy Tempest, now promoted to captain
in the wake of these events, rose up in their chairs to the injector lounge.
The others filed out
by the walkway from the side of the craft onto the in-pen jetty in pen three.
Holden was last to
leave her. He took one last look at her before he was led away by the MPs.
As he resumed his walk
along the jetty, he saw at the exit from the pen to the elevator shaft, a tall,
grey haired man. Dressed in a black overcoat. Next to him stood a slightly
smaller with dark hair, also in a black overcoat. They were talking to Shore.
As Holden neared the
trio, Shore held his hand up so as to stop the MPs from walking any further.
"OK, Corporal, you can
release Captain Holden, I'll take it from here."
The two MPs looked at
each other in surprise.
"Do you both have a
hearing problem, gentlemen?"
"No sir," they replied
in unison, and they unfastened the cuffs.
Once done, Shore
dismissed them, and tuned to face Holden.
"Now, Bradley I want
to introduce you to these two men. For security reasons they cannot be
identified by their real names. On the left is Mr. White, and on the right Mr.
Black."
Holden nodded in their
direction.
"Would you two
gentlemen excuse us please for a moment?" Shore asked.
"Yes of course," said
Mr. White. "We'll be outside in the main concourse."
They both exited, the
door closed.
Shore turned to
Bradley and continued, "Brad, I'm now officially dismissing you from the World
Aquanaut Security Patrol. As of tomorrow you are under the jurisdiction of these
two men. I'm not allowed to know what it is they intend to do with you as the
orders I received this morning came direct from the office of the World
President no less. I was told that your release would mean that your charges
would be dropped. Apparently, you are just the sort of person they are looking
for. Despite the events of the past seven days, they are quite keen on you. It
would appear they are prepared to forget what happened. They put it down to
personal issues and not professional ones. Your record in the service apart from
this episode is exemplary. I told them there was no chance of a repeat of what
we have been through. I was given power of veto of this transfer by the
President’s office, but I also remembered something I said to a friend of mine a
few years ago."
Holden looked on in
stunned silence.
"I made him a promise
that I would not stand in the way of his son making a career out of his chosen
field, and that when the chance came for him to better himself, I'd give him
that chance."
"If I'd stayed here, I
would have ended up in the clink for goodness knows how many years," Holden
responded.
"No Brad. I got word
from World Security Council HQ in Washington just a few minutes before we came
out. The tribunal would, because of mitigating circumstances, have simply
demoted you to Lieutenant, and let you carry on. You would have got back your
captaincy in next to no time. I would have seen to that myself."
Bradley Holden could
not help but smile.
"I don't quite know
what to say, sir, other than thank you."
Shore held out a hand.
"Thank you, Bradley. Your father can rest in peace now. Promises made, and
promises kept".
Postscript
The helijet slowly
lost height, and began its decent to the airfield. As it touched down, the doors
of an aircraft hanger began to open, wide enough for a familiar figure to walk
through.
Bradley Holden emerged
from the aircraft. He walked over and greeted Mr. White as the craft slowly rose
up and away.
The grey-haired man
got down to business as they walked side by side back to the hanger.
"Welcome to rendezvous
point Echo, Holden. As of now your rank is officially designated as Captain. As
your commanding officer, I will hold the rank of Colonel. Colonel White. Your
colour code will be Grey."
"Thank you, sir,"
Holden responded. "There are just two questions before we begin. You have told
me that we will be working flat out for at least two years just to get this
organisation up and running. Why?"
"Security. The fewer
people know of our activities at this time, the better. Therefore it seemed best
that those who will be running the agency should be those who set it up in the
first place. Better that than have a group of World Government mandarins set
everything up, and then wander off with all out secrets known to them. What was
your other question?"
"Oh, this is trivial
by comparison sir, but I'll ask it anyway, as it's still an obvious one. What is
our organisation going to be called?"
"Spectrum, Captain
Grey."
Colonel White smiled.
"Spectrum."
THE END
Some
inspired events and characters Copyright © of all trademarks materials (Captain
Scarlet & the Mysterons, Stingray, Thunderbirds, and all characters,
vehicles, crafts, etc.), owned by ITC/Polygram/Carlton. Information of the
series are all been taken from copyright © materials (books, magazines, videos,
T.V. media, comics, etc) owned by ITC/Polygram/Carlton.
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