Shadow of War, page 4
The true reason for my visit was Sahar Noor, Mayor of Churchill Sands. She had quite a reputation in the undersea colonies already—and probably topside as well—because of her status as not only a young, captivating leader, but also as a woman and a practicing Muslim living in the undersea world. I was curious, I had to admit. I’d seen videos of her at cabinet meetings, at political rallies, and giving speeches.
Colonists were rough people. We were hard, you could say. Determined. Many of us worked for our colonies to see our city prosper. We rarely took time off. We were often outside, in the water, working the fields or extracting resources. On off-time, we usually volunteered at other jobs around the city. And when we weren’t doing that, we were sleeping in our tiny living spaces. It was not relaxing, it was not luxurious. We had families and raised our kids in the underwater cities, but they were a different breed as well. They all lived the same drive as the rest of us: the need to work hard and make sure our lives underwater continued. We wanted to make our colony efforts profitable and necessary to the topsiders, so they couldn’t try to pull the plug on us.
We also wanted to make sure they didn’t control us too much, but that was another story . . . one that involved war and suffering and death and subterfuge.
But Sahar was not just surviving in this situation; she was enormously popular and seemed to be thriving. She had become a bit of a celebrity in recent months. I was anxious to meet her.
Johnny Chang, another crucial member of my team and my Deputy Mayor, would stay at Trieste and keep things moving. We had several projects on the go: the shelters for our citizens under the modules were largely completed—carved into bedrock—but there were still some finishing touches to complete. Richard had been in charge of the construction. The remote launchers needed constant monitoring and upkeep, not to mention repairs to the one that had just exploded. There were countermeasure stations to add, as well as more sensitive listening posts to plant. Incursions—by warsubs or even individual troops—in our waters was something we always needed to be prepared for. It had happened to us numerous times in our recent history, most notably the Chinese theft of the SCAV technology in 2129, and the attempt on my life by German special forces during the previous summer, in 2130.
We boarded my ship, SC-1, powered out of the Docking Module and into the Gulf, banked to the east, and accelerated away from the city.
—••—
Within minutes I’d activated the autopilot and leaned back in the pilot chair and stared at the clear waters surging past the cabin viewport.
I loved the oceans, and always had. The mystery, the depths, and even the danger—it all appealed to me. It seemed as though I’d never lived topside, though of course I had as a child before my dad had moved us to Trieste. I had a few memories of living on land. I remembered the blue skies, the dirt under my shoes, the heat, the sun.
The blistering sun . . .
I preferred the relatively cooler waters where I was now. Even the pervasive danger didn’t bother me.
I glanced around at the ship’s interior. SC-1 was the size of small recreational vehicle topside. The control cabin had two pilot chairs; the console between them was for ballast to manipulate our depth and trim. Directly behind were the bunks, recessed into the bulkheads, then a living space with comfortable couches, the moonpool hatch in the deck to exit from the underside of the seacar—but only if our interior pressure of four atms matched the exterior, meaning thirty meters—and then the airlock, engineering, and behind that, the SCAV machinery.
The supercavitating drive.
It was the greatest innovation in undersea living since Cousteau’s aqualung. Invented by the Soviets in the 1970s, the concept was simple: the seacar’s blunt bow caused gases to churn from seawater as we plowed forward. Cavitation is a common issue around the blades of screws; it could cause bubbles and noise, which most stealthy warsubs want to avoid. But with supercavitation, the gases built into a bubble that eventually enveloped the entire vessel. At that point, friction lowered to almost nothing. Our fusion reactor flash boiled seawater and ejected the steam from the aft thruster, propelling the vessel forward. It was loud—there was no hiding from sonar while using it—but it was fast.
—••—
We were moving at full speed, northward, through the Atlantic and toward the English Channel. It was still difficult to wrap my head around the concept, even having lived it for the past two years, but the journey would take less than a day. It was simple math calculated by the onboard navigation system: 8,200 kilometers at 450 kph. That meant the journey would be only eighteen hours. We travelled at a 200-meter depth to take advantage of the northward Gulf Stream/Atlantic Drift current, which would give us an added boost of speed.
The comm beeped and I moved to answer it.
“Mac, it’s Cliff, back at Trieste.” His face appeared on the console screen.
“How are things?”
“Just running this investigation.”
“Find anything?”
“I’ve finished monitoring the video surveillance of that launcher. Nothing out of the ordinary. A few swimmers out for regular exercise. Some sightseers. We’re investigating them too, but they’re lifelong Triestrians.”
He stopped talking and I frowned. “That’s it?”
“About possible suspects at the scene, yes.”
I stared out the viewport. The bubble surrounding the seacar distorted things; it was shimmering and out of focus, like looking the wrong way through a telescope or wide-angle lens. The thrum of the fusion reactor vibrated the deck and chairs, and its loud, pervasive noise blanketed us in cold comfort.
Beside me, Richard watched the exchange in silence.
“But there must be more,” I finally managed, trying to urge him to give me important information that just wasn’t there.
“There’s nothing. I’m sorry, Mac. We’ll keep looking, of course.”
“Is Renée helping?”
“She doesn’t remember much of the actual event. She’s concussed, and dealing with that right now. I’ll talk to her again when I can.”
I knew she was still in the clinic, recovering, and had insisted that I continue on my original plan to go to Churchill with Meg and Richard.
“What about the actual explosive?” I asked.
“I have the mining division looking into it.”
I frowned. “Why?”
“I think it was a mining explosive. Used in underwater blasting.”
“Why?”
On the vid screen, Cliff paused and glanced at something on his desk, probably his notes. “It’s relatively common. It’s stable and easy to handle. Plus it wasn’t a massive detonation.”
“Meaning it was a small amount?”
“Yes, the perpetrator didn’t want to create a shock wave that would have damaged a city module.”
I considered that. “You’re suggesting the assassin wanted to kill me but protect the city. That doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t, you’re right.” He looked at me for a moment. “Look, Mac. This is delicate.”
“Go on.”
“Renée is lucky she was behind that outcropping when the blast went. But the fact is, it wasn’t a huge explosion anyway. I’ve seen the video of it.”
“Maybe he was hoping the torpedoes would also detonate.”
“That’s possible, but they weren’t armed. They may have known that the weapons wouldn’t explode. But there’s more, Mac.”
“What?”
“The location of the bomb. It actually wasn’t close to the launcher. It was twenty meters from it.”
“So the person didn’t want the torpedoes to explode.”
“That’s right.”
Which gave further credence to the notion that the assassin actually wanted to keep damage restricted to a small area. It was mysterious.
Cliff remained silent, waiting for me, which was a character trait of his that I appreciated. He was staring at me.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“One thing. The mining division has narrowed the explosive type down to either TNT or AN.”
“Ammonium nitrate? Really?”
“We use both extensively for undersea blasting. It would have been easy to get the explosive, even from our own activities.” Before I could ask for it, he continued, “I’m investigating our mining division procedures for securing their supplies, of course. Someone could have stolen it, or the perpetrator could even work with us here.”
“Understood.”
“I’ll be in touch when I know more.”
He signed off and I sat in the chair, in SC-1, powering through the Atlantic in a bubble of air at 450 kph, staring outside for long minutes.
Richard was silent too.
—••—
Churchill Sands was located on the sandy bottom of the English Channel at a depth of thirty meters, like all other large underwater colonies. Global agreements had mandated all structures underwater to maintain four atmospheric pressures, to make movement between them practical—no need to depressurize, and docking between vessel and module was simple, through the use of umbilical.
There were of course many undersea habitats and modules located at much deeper locations, for mineral extraction, research, military purposes and so on, but even those maintained four atms as well. It made travel through the oceans as simple as on land; the only restriction was that people who lived in the colonies couldn’t travel to land without an extensive period of decompression first.
The currents were strong in the Channel, and the water murky as a result. I’d experienced it before at the French undersea colonies as well. The view outside was nowhere near as pristine as ours at Trieste, where the water was clear and warm. This water was dense with churning sediment and visibility out the city viewports was low.
The city consisted of several modules and the population was greater than 100,000 people. Its purpose was mostly fish farming for the United Kingdom, though I noted with interest a large cluster of modules in the southeastern quadrant. It was one of the more famous institutions of study in the undersea world: Churchill University.
We piloted into the Docking Module, secured the seacar, and prepared for our meeting with Sahar Noor, the city’s Mayor.
—••—
“Greetings Mr. Mayor, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I stared at her, taken aback for just a moment. “And you, Ms. Mayor,” I finally managed. She was tall—probably five foot seven—and wore a black hijab that covered her head, ears, and neck. There was a bright topaz scarf around her shoulders, and makeup accentuated her dark eyes. Her eyelashes were long and thick. She was also wearing red lipstick, a nice contrast against her olive skin. She was captivating, there was no doubt about it. There was a magnetic aura to her personality, and I could immediately see why she was so popular in the undersea colony.
I had done my research before the visit. Sahar Noor was British by birth, but her heritage was Saudi, though her parents had emigrated to England in the 21st Century, so there were other nationalities mixed in now as well. She had a reputation as a free diving competitor as a teen, and had obviously grown to love the ocean while training and competing. She held numerous national records in the deep-diving sport, as well as a few international ones. She’d run for election three years earlier, and had won in a landslide. Her people didn’t just like her—they adored her. She had run on a platform of self-reliance for the colony, but knew not to push things too much and say independence. If she had, she likely would have found herself arrested or her career sabotaged by the British Submarine Fleet. I’d watched some of her campaign speeches, where she spoke of investing in mineral extraction to make their colony more important to the UK, and expanding their fish farms. She knew they were crucial to the UK’s economy.
Sahar meant “just before dawn” and Noor meant “light” or “divinity.” Its meaning was clever, and I thought for a moment that her parents had given this woman a very appropriate name.
Richard had researched her even more than I had, however, and he seemed to know that she would be receptive to our quest to achieve Oceania, a collection of independent undersea cities.
She laughed and said, “We don’t have to be so formal, now that we’ve met. May I call you Mac?”
“Of course. And I can call you Sahar?”
“No.” She paused and stared at me, a serious look on her face. I glanced at Richard and he seemed concerned. He also looked at me.
Then she laughed again and said, “I’m just joking, Mac. Sahar is great.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “That’s nice, thanks.”
“I have followed your career closely over many years.”
“Really?” I’d heard such things before, of course, but wanted to be polite about it.
“Yes. Your dad, his quest for independence, his murder, your sister and your current activities in the oceans.”
It was a lot all at once, and I swallowed, not knowing exactly what to say. Her mention of Dad’s murder implied that she felt it had been an unlawful action.
I glanced around at her office, stalling. It was larger than mine, but still sparse. She didn’t have many luxuries—even her chair was metal—but there was a single red flower in a vase on her desk—rare, in the underwater world, like her—and some photos of her family on the bulkheads. Most were pictures from topside; the sun and sky visible in them. Only Richard, Meg, and I were with her; her staff had ushered us from the Docking Module, walking us through the central Commerce Module to the upper level and her office. She’d said something to her assistant about a “Clarke,” who I guessed would be joining us. I didn’t know who that was, but I’d noticed Richard nodding when she mentioned the name.
I finally said, “They killed our dad for his beliefs.”
“Independence, yes, I know.”
Meg, who had been silent up until then, said, “It’s a touchy subject nowadays.”
“But a common one.” Sahar focused her dark eyes on my twin. “I have heard about your family for many years. I know what you’ve been through. I know about the drive for independence now.”
I shifted on my feet. “It’s growing more common, you’re right.”
She gestured to a seating area in the corner of the cabin, and we lowered ourselves. I noted that she waited for us to sit before she herself took a chair. “I have watched your career closely.”
“You said that, yes.”
“I know about your SCAV drive. I know about your efforts to increase technological development in the oceans. I have heard rumors about a deep diving technology as well.” She frowned, tilted her head, and watched my reaction. “I’ve heard your subs can dive to over six kilometers. Is that true?”
“Purely rumor.”
“But other mayors are mentioning this to me. Six thousand meters! Some are saying even deeper, perhaps eight kilometers.”
I shot a glance at Richard. He had a smile on his face, but he was quiet as he watched Sahar. She transfixed him too, I felt.
“We’ve been able to dive that deep for a century or longer.”
“Those are exploration vessels. I’m hearing that your common seacars can do it. Not even large warsubs!”
“If that’s true,” I said, “it would give us an enormous edge in ocean colonization.” Inside, I shuddered. Knowledge of our Acoustic Pulse Drive was getting out. I’d expected it, since the USSF had watched our battle against the Russian dreadnought, but it was the last thing I’d expected at this meeting.
“It would give you ocean superiority. You could simply sail under your enemy and shoot up at them. Like air superiority on land, but inverted.”
“That would be . . . a magnificent advantage in the oceans,” I managed. I was growing uncomfortable, but not in a bad way. I felt that she was not criticizing me . . . that she wanted the tech for her colony as well. And that signified the possibility of a treaty with her.
She watched me for a moment, deciphering my thoughts. “We can wait for the Commodore to arrive to discuss it further.”
“The Commodore?” I immediately grew nervous.
Richard turned to me. “I didn’t mention this to you.”
Meg’s face hardened and her eyes flashed. “I didn’t agree to this!”
“Now just a—”
“I won’t fraternize with some BSF asshole who thinks we’re going to join him in partnership!”
Richard glanced at Sahar nervously. “I don’t think this is the time for—”
Meg interrupted: “You just listen to me, Richard! I am not going to deal with senior military officials who are only good at inflicting pain and torture!”
She was breathing hard and her face was flushed. I touched her hand. “Meg, just hear him out.” I eyed Richard. “I’m sure he has a reason for this.”
Sahar Noor had watched the entire exchange with a perplexed expression. Then she leaned forward and put her hands on Meg’s shoulders. “I understand where this pain comes from, trust me.”
“How could you?” Meg snapped, but she wasn’t mad at the woman. Her fury at that moment was directed at Richard, for leading us into meeting someone for whom we were not exactly prepared.
“Easy.” Sahar sighed and eyed me for a moment. Then she looked back at Meg. “You and your brother moved to Trieste when you were young. The CIA and USSF—senior military leaders who no doubt pretended to be friends—ended up betraying your dad and killed him in a travel tube in 2099. You fled to Blue Downs when you were eighteen, which a senior military officer—Captain Ventinov of the Russian dreadnought, Drakon, later destroyed. Then, back in Trieste, after you’d rejoined your brother and his quest to be Mayor and bring the world’s undersea cities into economic and military partnerships, you had dealings with Captain Heller and then Admiral Taurus T. Benning.” She frowned. “Heller died later in battle somewhere in the Atlantic; the circumstances are still murky. As for Benning, I’m not precisely sure what happened, but it’s common knowledge that he had in fact played a role in your dad’s death thirty years earlier. And now, he is either dead or missing, but your anger toward senior military—especially men—is totally understandable.”
