Eleven
THE SUBMARINERS ACTED on an instinct honed by years of training and regular drills. It was that instinct that saved Jake’s life. He heard someone scream “Down!”, but whoever it was didn’t wait for him to follow the instruction. A hand on the back of his neck pushed him firmly towards the ground.
His knees buckled beneath him. At the same instant, the world around him exploded in a cacophony of noise. Even before he hit the deck his senses were bludgeoned by pounding detonation after pounding detonation. He was vaguely aware of gun barrels being pointed towards the Lance. With every deafening shot the weapons appeared to spit fire.
By the time he crashed to the floor of the conning tower, Jake’s ears had surrendered entirely. Whatever was happening now, they supplied only a high-pitched buzzing sound to his brain.
The floor underneath him moved and groaned.
Coote.
The man was trying to breathe. He was also bleeding profusely. Jake rolled onto his back, freeing the captain. He placed a hand over the wound and applied pressure, recalling Grau Lister’s words from the regular first-aid courses he had been obliged to attend. Overhead, the submariners’ rifles pumped out shot after shot. With no visible targets at which to aim, it was difficult to judge the efficacy of their actions.
More shots rang out, fired from the Lance. A bullet whistled past Jake’s left ear, ricocheted off the tower and flew out to sea. Another ripped through the flesh of Eric’s shoulder, sending him flailing backwards, his weapon still discharging, a streak of bullets flying into the sky.
Brian and Ewan were on their knees now, sheltering behind the rim of the conning tower. Rounds from the hostile ship clanged into the huge black fin, but the seven-inch-thick steel hull shrugged them off like flies.
Jake reached to his belt with his free hand and found his radio. He still couldn’t hear, but he didn’t need to. He pressed the transmit button and shouted as loud as he could: “Get us out of here! Move!” He suspected the order was redundant, but he had to do something. The bridge had a perfect view of what was happening and he knew Lucya would already be doing everything in her power to get them away.
Coote coughed. Blood spilled from his mouth, splattering across Jake’s perfectly prepared dress uniform.
His hearing began to return. He became aware of sounds, although it was as if someone was holding pillows across his ears. There was the rumble of an engine. He chanced a glance over the rim of the tower and saw the tip of the Lance’s giant winch turning away from them. With no frame of reference he had no idea if they were retreating, or if the Lance was pulling away. Either way, the gun battle was becoming less intense. There were discernible pauses between shots.
He looked down at Coote. The man was unconscious, and losing blood fast. Jake made a snap decision. He sprang to his feet but remained low, crouching below the level of the tower’s surround. He released his hand from the chest wound, and put both hands under Coote’s shoulders.
“Ewan!” He screamed as loud as he could. Ewan heard, and saw immediately what Jake was trying to do.
“Too dangerous!” he mouthed. Jake was not deterred. With his back to the Spirit of Arcadia, he heaved the older captain towards the walkway that connected the vessels. Ewan shook his head violently. A bullet smacked into the handrail of the connecting ramp, narrowly missing Jake’s neck. Ewan span on his heels and fired three rounds towards the Lance. He steadied himself on his knees, targeted the bridge, and fired again. Three more shots. Blood misted one of the windows, and at the same moment the engine of the research ship roared. A swirling torrent of wash erupted from the rear and the blue boat lurched forwards, picking up speed.
Jake heaved Coote onto the walkway and began dragging him backwards. To reach the relative safety of the Arcadia meant crossing open water. It was a risk he was willing to take, if there was a chance of saving the man’s life.
The three navy men, one wounded, held their guard atop the submarine. With every shot that was fired at them, they could better target the enemy. The battle was far from over, but they were evening up the score.
“Jake!”
He heard his name, but his muffled senses gave him no idea where the voice was coming from. The walkway began to vibrate and bounce. For a second he feared the submarine was diving, but then he felt a hand on his shoulder. He was pulled to one side and two men squeezed past him. They carried some kind of makeshift shield — he couldn’t see what, and neither did he care. The person who had held him to the side also squeezed past and grabbed Coote’s legs.
It was Max.
“Go!” he shouted, although Jake saw the word more than he heard it.
Between them they carried Coote over the walkway, Jake walking awkwardly backwards, still crouching. The two security officers stayed close in, protecting them. More than one bullet bounced off their shield, and Jake realised he had been foolhardy to try and cross on his own.
It took them a full minute, a minute that felt like an hour, but they reached the sanctuary of the cruiser. Jake fell through the door, dragging Coote behind him. The second they were the other side of the wide hatch, two sailors started retracting the ramp.
Max barked orders at his security guards, who collected up Coote and carried him towards the lift.
“Eric!” Jake cried. “Eric is shot! We have to go back for him.”
Max put out a hand and held him back. “Nobody’s going outside.”
• • •
Getting from the deck-two hatch up to the medical suite on deck five was something that happened in a bit of a blur. Jake was still disoriented from the sounds of the guns, although his hearing had begun, slowly, to return to normal.
He was aware of other people as he made his way through the ship, but he saw them through a haze, hardly taking in what was happening around him.
What was happening was a kind of calm panic; an ordered chaos. Those who had been watching the encounter from the windows had fled from their vantage points and sought refuge in the inner areas of the ship. Many of those people had been watching from cabins, which meant when they ran, it was to public areas. They took with them their stories of what they had seen, and the news swept through the thirteen decks faster than a wildfire. Security had a presence on every deck, but with little more than one officer per level they would have had their work cut out to keep order, had a real panic set in. Yet for all the mass movement of people, for all the tales of horror being discussed in every corner, there was still a prevailing calmness. It was as if the population had collectively decided that given what they had all overcome thus far, a few men with guns on a strange ship weren’t going to get to them. If anything, the community was pulling together in yet another time of need.
But Jake was oblivious to all this. His mind was full of the sound of gunfire and the sight of blood. His priority now was Coote. Max had convinced him that the other submariners could take care of themselves. It would be over soon anyway. The Lance was pulling away, and the Arcadia and Ambush were also fleeing in the opposite direction.
The door to the inner treatment room was closed when he arrived, but Jake entered without knocking. There were five people inside. Captain Gibson Coote was laid out on the treatment table. His upper body clothing had been cut away and lay discarded on the pristine white tiled floor. He had an oxygen mask secured to his face, and a drip line was already inserted into his arm.
Surgeon Lieutenant Russell Vardy was stooped over the captain. He didn’t look up when Jake entered, and made no attempt at a greeting. His concentration was too intense.