Aftershock, p.1
Aftershock, page 1
Aftershock
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by R.D. Shah
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
To Phillip and William. Two of my oldest friends. For adventures past and those yet to come. Cheers lads, I’ll see you soon
Chapter 1
‘Wait, there it is again.’
The man standing opposite pressed his headset even closer to his, his eyes squinting, as he strained to hear the sounds. He stood there motionless, his body rigid and primed for a response, but after a few seconds of hearing nothing he loosened his grip on the headset, placed it back on the small table and slowly shook his head.
‘I can’t hear anything, Lieutenant,’ Captain Kelso noted with a grimace. ‘Are you sure?’
Lieutenant Carol nodded firmly before the captain had even finished speaking. ‘One hundred per cent, sir. It was faint and intermittent, but I heard it.’
Kelso eyed the young radar operator intently before expelling a slow, measured breath, now pondering the oddity.
‘We’re two hundred metres deep in the Atlantic Ocean, Lieutenant, and you’re hearing… voices, somewhere out in the blue?’
‘No, sir, not the sound of voices. The sound of music.’
As a ten-year veteran commander of HMS Resolve, one of the United Kingdom’s nuclear submarine Vanguard class, Captain Kelso had come across many stories from deep below the cold foamy waves of the Atlantic Ocean. But never once had they involved music. He had encountered electrical issues, a couple of near misses with both Russian and American subs and, on one occasion, a collision with a humpback whale had damaged the ship’s bow, sending them back to the port… but never music.
Kelso looked up at the small group of sailors who stood at their work stations in the command room in silence but were all staring at their captain for the next order.
‘All right, gentlemen, unless Julie Andrews turns up outside singing a tune I don’t want to hear about it. Eyes back on your stations.’
Kelso waited for his crew to continue with their duties before returning his attention to Lieutenant Carol whose focus was still on the headset as he listened for even the faintest trace of a melody, his teeth grinding back and forth rhythmically and his frustration obvious. No one on earth likes their judgement called into question, and that went a hundredfold for the sound operator of a Vanguard nuclear submarine.
‘Pack it up, Lieutenant, back to the job at hand,’ Kelso said stiffly. After receiving an accepting nod from Lieutenant Carol he stepped through the open grey hatchway leading back to the main command room.
‘Sir!’
Kelso halted in his tracks and leant backwards so only his face appeared at the opening and he stared over at Lieutenant Carol who thrust his finger up in the air. ‘I’ve got it, sir.’
Captain Kelso was through the hatchway and back to the sonar station within moments and snatching the spare headset off the table as Carol adjusted the volume. His first impression was of fluctuating static, similar to the sounds of waves crashing against rocks, but as the lieutenant set about adjusting his equipment further, the chaotic sounds took form until, after a few more seconds of mixing, Kelso heard it.
Music.
It was scratchy and fading in and out, but definitely music, and it sounded familiar. Kelso looked up in surprise to find the young lieutenant smiling at him, happy to have been proved correct. ‘Is that Wagner?’
Lieutenant Carol’s eyes widened further and he slowly nodded. ‘Yes, sir. “Ride of the Valkyries”.’
Both men stared at each other in a moment of shared bewilderment at the bizarre spectacle taking place two hundred metres down in the Atlantic Ocean, just less than twenty miles off the mainland coast of Spain.
Kelso opened his mouth, his lips beginning to form a word, but he never got the chance.
‘Contact. One hundred metres off our port side.’
Kelso immediately shifted his attention to the radar technician on his left. ‘Sub?’
‘No, sir. It’s going too fast… Contact, eighty metres.’
Kelso’s stare hardened as he began to bark out orders. ‘Hard rudder to starboard. Flank speed.’
Within seconds the command room was running like a well-oiled machine, each station performing their job as they’d been taught, but as the radar operator called out his revised distance Kelso already knew what was about to happen.
We’ve been caught dead in the water. But where the hell did it come from?
‘Sixty metres until contact.’
‘Release countermeasures.’ Kelso ordered as he and everyone else in the command room steadied themselves as HMS Resolve pulled a full turn in an attempt to put some distance between them and the torpedo.
‘Countermeasure away, sir.’
‘Forty metres and closing.’
The entire hull creaked under the pressure of such a tight manoeuvre and the lights overhead began to flicker.
‘Full speed ahead,’ Kelso ordered. The throttles were punched to the maximum position as the radar operator called out the closing position of the torpedo.
‘Thirty metres until impact.’
‘Countermeasures have failed, sir. Object still approaching our stern.’
‘Ten metres.’
‘Sound the collision alarms,’ Kelso ordered, and he then grabbed the metal steadying handle next to him, his knuckles white and his body rigid.
‘Eight, seven, six…’
‘Prepare for impact.’
‘Three, two, one…’
The entire hull heaved violently, the force ripping two of the officers from their chairs, the deafening explosion so powerful that their seatbelts snapped from their fixtures, sending the sailors hurtling to the floor. Kelso clung tightly to his handrail as a second explosion sent the entire room into momentary darkness before the red hue of the emergency lighting bled through the gathering electrical smoke, which was rising in swirls from the damaged equipment below.
Kelso reached for the black handset dangling next to him and began to bark off orders. ‘Damage report—’ was all he managed. He felt the heavy popping of a pressure change in his ears and turned back to the open hatch entrance of the command room.
He could hear what was coming before he could see it, the thrashing sound of water filled the air like a death note and he watched in dread as a dark blue barrier of water flooded up the corridor towards him. Instinct pushed him towards the open hatchway. ‘Get this hatch closed,’ he yelled as the nearest sailor joined him and they pushed their combined weight against the door. Kelso grappled the circular twist lock and spun it into place, sealing it shut.
The pounding of the water hitting the other side sounded a car crash, metal on metal, and as Kelso stood back there came a sound from the other side that sent an unpleasant shiver through the seasoned veteran.
The frantic thudding of fists on the other side of the hatchway sent a similar shudder through everyone in the command room as the sailors outside desperately attempted to gain entry. The awful sound brought the room to complete silence.
Kelso said nothing. He didn’t need to. Instead he turned and locked eyes with the small group of men and women left inside the room, and with great sadness slowly shook his head.
There was nothing they could do.
The thudding sounds fell silent. At their current depth hypothermia would have killed the sailors nearly as quickly as drowning would have. Kelso placed his palm against the hatchway door and dropped his head in respect. There were over one hundred and twenty lost souls in the now flooded part of the submarine. Good men… Kelso’s men.
‘Lieutenant Kale, how fast are we descending? What’s the bottom depth at our location?’
The young woman wiped the debris from her station and scanned the numbers before throwing back the answer.
‘Ground depth is five hundred feet, sir, but we’re descending slowly, at twenty feet a minute.’
‘Engines?’ Kelso now asked, turning his attention to a thick-shouldered, blond-haired man at the far end of the command room.
‘Engines are dead, sir.’
Although disheartening, this response had been expected. Kelso turned back to Lieutenant Kale. ‘Release the distress beacon.’
Kale removed a key from around her neck and began to unlock the metal cover protecting the red eject button as Kelso sought to reassure what was left of his staff.
‘We’re deep, but not deep enough to stop a rescue mission. We’re descending slowly, one of our ballast tanks must have held, so we’ll make it to the bottom intact. What we have to focus on now is oxygen. It could be six or seven hours before they reach us… But we will make it.’
Of course, most of this was just for morale. He had no idea how badly HMS Resolve was damaged, and touching down on the bottom of the sea could cause the hull to crack. Six or seven hours to mount a rescue mission was also generous. It could take help days to get down here, and the oxygen they had was just a drop in the ocean, literally.
‘Distress beacon away, sir,’ Kale announced.
As Kelso considered what other, if any, options were open to him he caught sight of Lieutenant Carol appearing at the open hatchway leading to the sound room. In his hand he held his green headset, which he lifted into the air.
‘It’s started again, sir.’
Kelso raised his chin and the young lieutenant moved back to his station and pressed one of the buttons, flooding the command room with the sounds that had once again started playing through his headset.
The remaining sailors listened as Wagner’s ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ flowed loudly from the speakers. It was eerie, and they remained silent until Kale spoke up once more, beads of sweat peppering her brow.
‘Sir, I have contact.’
Staying calm and collected, Kelso licked his lips apprehensively.
‘Is it a sub?’
Kale remained silent, uncharacteristically caught in the moment. When she replied, her voice wavered in disappointment. ‘No, sir. It’s going too fast to be a sub.’
* * *
Six hundred feet above, the yellow blinking light of the distress beacon broke the surface and began to roll among the towering waves as a heavy Atlantic storm descended from the night skies. Amongst the rolling waves and crashing rain it was barely possible to see the vast erupting bubble of air bursting from the depths like a foamy volcano. Within seconds the outline of the huge bubble disappeared and once more the shrieking wind filled the torrid night air. In the distance, the small yellow light of the emergency beacon blinked rhythmically as it was swept along by the heavy current, further out into the dark waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
Chapter 2
‘This way, gentlemen,’ the man in the grey suit announced, his French accent thick and guttural. ‘You’re the last to arrive.’
Hans Bauer gave a subtle nod and followed his guide along the craggy stone pathway leading upwards to their destination. He sensed the comment had been laced with sarcasm, but he ignored his suspicion and continued on in silence. The French had a strange take on humour, as far as he was concerned, but he was in no mind to mention it given the significance of what would take place within the next hour. It was going to be an important night, and one the Daedalus führer had been looking forward to.
Bauer glanced back at his chauffeured Range Rover still parked on the beach below and scanned the French city of Saint Malo, its streetlights twinkling just beyond the beachline. Located on the Channel coastline, some had considered it to be a logistically challenging location for the event, but Bauer knew better.
It was perfect.
He turned his attention back to his guide, who led him up the weathered rocky path, and gazed at the small stone fort ahead. He allowed himself a smug, nose-flaring smile.
Perfect indeed.
Constructed on a tidal island a few hundred metres off the walled city of Saint Malo, the fort was only accessible by foot during a low tide. It was built in 1689 to protect the city’s port from the English, but these days it was nothing more than a tourist attraction. A place where sightseers could explore a time in history when travelling to an invasion point could be just as dangerous as committing to the battlefield itself. But tonight the fort had another purpose and Bauer was once again running the evening’s plan through his mind with great relish. His guide stopped at the small wooden gate at the top and unlocked it.
‘Just through here, Mr Bauer,’ the guide directed, and then he paused for his guest to pass inside before locking the gate behind them. ‘They are all waiting in the central room; we’ll be ready shortly.’
Bauer was led inside the surprisingly cosy stone interior of Fort National and up a flight of wide stone shelf steps to a red door on the first floor. The stone walls held a number of woven tapestries, most likely replicas, celebrating the fort’s history. The guide paused at the doorway and delivered two firm knocks.
‘Come in,’ a muffled voice called out from the other side. The guide pushed open the door and allowed Bauer to stroll though it before swiftly closing it and taking his position, standing guard, on the outer landing.
‘Mr Bauer, good to see you,’ a tall, balding man with unnatural looking cherry-red hair said in welcome, and he extended his hand.
‘As with you, Ernst,’ Bauer replied, shaking the man’s hand firmly. ‘The prime minister asked me to thank you again for all your help and input arranging this whole thing.’
Ernst Dupont was not a man who could be judged easily. The saying never judge a book by its cover was made for men such as he. At just over six feet tall and with a spindly frame, one could easily take the gaunt-faced Frenchman for a liberal arts professor, but to do so would be inviting peril. With his large hands and a seemingly clumsy demeanour, a stranger might be concerned the man would trip up over his own feet and tumble into them by mistake. Of course, anyone who knew him well would never entertain such idiocies. Because, simply put, Ernst Dupont was one of, if not the, most dangerous men among the attendees that night. Having served in the French Land Army since the age of seventeen, the talented soldier had gone on to be recruited by the special forces division of the 1st Marine Infantry Parachute Regiment. A nasty leg wound in Iraq and many clandestine operations later, Dupont had been promoted to Special Operations Command, a desk job… hence the seemingly clumsy walk. Still, as the unofficial representative of the French president tonight, he was a welcome addition so far as Bauer was concerned. Not because of his connections to the government, but rather those that only Bauer knew of. As far as everyone else in the room knew, Ernst Dupont was a patriotic nationalist with a rare dedication to everything within the sphere of the French government and its citizens. But in reality Mr Dupont had been a Daedalus operative since birth. The fascist organisation, the remnants of the Third Reich, had moulded the man since birth. He had a strong Germanic bloodline, the right bloodline, and it was Hans Bauer himself who had overseen and orchestrated Dupont’s rise to this position of power. Dupont was a nationalist all right, but he was a disciple of the Fourth Reich.
Bauer stared into Dupont’s blue eyes and raised his eyebrow slightly, acknowledging his young protégé’s dedicated work in organising and pushing for tonight’s affair.
‘You’re welcome, Mr Bauer, but you should know the American delegation has decided not to attend.’
The information brought with it a look of surprise from Bauer, but of course this little piece of body language was fabricated solely for the Frenchman.
‘Well then, Ernst, it would seem that it’s up to the French and British to move things along. Shall we get started?’
Dupont offered a firm nod and he stepped back and directed Bauer towards the only other people in attendance, a man and a woman both in black suits. The man was middle-aged with short curly brown hair, rosy cheeks. The woman was slightly older with a greying blonde ponytail and darkened teeth, a consequence no doubt of strong French cigarettes. The two guests said nothing and offered little more than a nod because everyone attending knew who and what would be going down that night.
Bauer turned his attention to the far end of the room, which formed a balcony, allowing attendees to look down to the lower level, a stone-floored room below and, as Bauer leant against the siderail and took note of a wooden contraption, bolted to the floor, he was joined by Dupont.
‘We’ll be using French servicemen to ensure it’s legal, but unacknowledged. The men were handpicked by General Perdieu and are unknown even to me, which adds a layer of insulation for us.’
‘Yes, I know. I left a message for the general on my way over, thanking him for the men, and his discretion. You’ve got a good one there.’
Dupont offered a smile before pulling a trim, black walkie-talkie from his inside jacket pocket and raising it to his lips.
‘Bring him in.’
Down below, the thick oak door at the far end of the room slowly creaked open and a man wearing a plain army-green boiler suit was frogmarched inside by two red-beret-wearing soldiers. The man’s hands were shackled by steel chains, which attached to a padlocked waist belt. Cuffs around each ankle made his short trip to room’s centre awkward, his shoes scraping against the stone floor. The two guards brought him to a stop and then backed away before placing their hands behind their backs and looking down to the floor respectfully.
