Estrella De Asís
Copyright© 2025 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 27
Mid-Atlantic, Above the Romanche Trench — 03:06 SAST.
The South Sea Spirit lay dead in the water — hulking, silent, a titan gone still, slowly drifting on the current. Her engines had been shut down minutes earlier. No vibration ran through her steel bones anymore, no hum of power or churn of propellers beneath. She drifted, inert, like a carcass suspended over the yawning black of the Romanche Trench, where the sea floor plunged to 7,700 meters and the crushing pressure could turn steel to splinters.
The TC Rangers has effectively stopped her engines.
Roughly six hundred meters off her starboard stern, four RIBs bobbed like flecks of charcoal on the ink-dark sea. The swell still heaved from north to south, rolling in long, mountainous pulses that shifted the boats like toys. Spray hissed off the wave crests in silvery arcs, stinging eyes and chilling skin. It was just after 03:00 SAST.
I sat low in the aft section of the lead boat, my gloved hand wrapped tight around the waterproof casing that housed the detonator. It was nestled in my lap like something sacred. Around me, Stella crouched beside the radio unit, monitoring channels. The Rangers and Angels braced against the motion of the sea, silent and watching the motionless silhouette of the South Sea Spirit, which rose and fell in rhythm with the ocean’s slow, ancient breathing.
She looked peaceful now.
A lie.
Twelve explosive charges were rigged deep within her steel belly — spaced with precision, sequenced with care. Each one was shaped to rupture structural weaknesses, to bring the immense vessel down not in a fiery blaze, but in a controlled, irreversible descent — into the trench, into silence, into legend.
I glanced at Stella. She gave a single nod.
“All boats clear,” she confirmed. “Wind steady, swells pulling south. We’re safe out here.”
I looked up. A wave, distant but tall, crested and collapsed a few hundred meters behind us in a shattering plume. I felt it pass beneath our boat moments later — a slow, hungry force rolling toward the South Sea Spirit, as if the trench itself had stirred.
“This is it,” I muttered to no one in particular.
I flipped the arming switch.
The red LED blinked alive.
I held the trigger in one hand, pressed my thumb against the safety, and whispered something to myself — the words lost to the wind. Then I exhaled.
I squeezed.
There was a pause.
There was no flash, no fire, no thunder rolling across the waves. Just a sudden, subtle shift.
Then I felt it. The air seemed to grow thinner. Even the ocean’s rhythm faltered — just for a breath.
Above the sound of the sea and the wind, the groaning began.
Low and guttural, like metal remembering it wasn’t immortal. The sound carried across the waves in fractured moans and deep, tortured reverberations. Somewhere within, the ship’s keel was giving way. Bulkheads cracked. Deck plates folded. Something massive and ancient had been wounded in the dark.
The stern began to rise first — slow, almost imperceptible — tilting just a few degrees off level. Then the movement accelerated. The great screws, each the size of a house, emerged from the water, dripping black and gleaming faintly in the starlight. The rudder flailed sideways once, rudderless and useless, before the entire aft section buckled at the fracture point near midships.
A monstrous tearing sound split the night as the ship broke in two.
The bow and stern wrenched apart — like two tectonic plates forced into separation by something too deep to name. For a moment, they hung in unnatural balance. Then the Atlantic Ocean swells took control.
The bow rose, lifted by ballast and trapped air, rising higher and higher with painful majesty. The great bulbous nose breached the surface like the snout of a breaching beast, towering into the sky, sleek and predatory. For a surreal instant, it pointed skyward — still, statuesque — before beginning its final descent. Slowly at first, then faster, the bow slid beneath the waves, swallowed with a strange elegance. The sea peeled open, devoured it, and rolled on.
The stern followed, less graceful but no less massive. The giant screws caught the starlight one last time before vanishing, spinning slightly as gravity pulled the remains downward. The sound of collapsing compartments and rushing air echoed faintly across the water — dull and distant. The South Sea Spirit gave one last mechanical groan, then slipped beneath the surface with a sigh like a final exhale.
Silence.
All that remained was a soft sheen — an iridescent slick of oil swirling like black ink across the water’s skin. It glimmered briefly, caught in the trough of a passing swell, then began to disperse, broken apart by the restless ever in motion ocean.
Stella stood in the RIB beside me, one hand resting on my shoulder, her eyes fixed on the vanishing point.
“She’s gone.”
I said nothing. My jaw clenched, my eyes scanning the horizon — half in awe, half in mourning. There was no celebration. No cheer. Only the sound of waves slapping rubber and the slow, infinite breathing of the Atlantic.
Somewhere beneath us, the trench accepted its offering. Steel, secrets, and silence — descending forever.
“She was never meant to die like this.” I whispered and Stella caught whispered soft words on the wind:
The Elara Ghost stirred. Gently Stella took my hand in hers. She was reading my mind, monitoring my heartbeat with that built-in sensors of hers.
“It’s when human ideologies clash, that majestic machines have to die...” She whispered back. “Sometimes the world is not defined by logic.”
Back on the Ocean Wanderer, I was in for another surprise.
The mission out in the dark night sea had left me chilled to the bone. After peeling off my wetsuit and stowing my gear in the forward locker, I headed for the head, letting the hot spray of the shower steam the salt from my skin and the ache from my muscles. I dried off briskly and pulled on warm fleece-lined togs, the kind that always smelled faintly of diesel, salt, and comfort.
Up in the galley, the scent of strong coffee mingled with baked bread and cloves. Cookie was ladling out mugs of his signature “coffee with a kick” — spiced liberally with dark rum, a sailor’s version of central heating. The metal hull creaked faintly as the ship rolled gently in the swells. Somewhere topside, a halyard clinked against the mast, a sound that somehow always reminded me I was alive.
I wrapped my hands around the steaming mug, soaking in the warmth, and turned to find a seat.
That’s when Stella sidled up beside me. She moved quietly, like someone who knew her way around silence.
“Check your cell phone,” she said in a low voice.
I blinked, surprised. “What?”
“You have a message,” she said, then than acted like nothing unusual had happened.
Curious — and a little uneasy — I fished my phone from my pocket. The signal was faint, just a bar or two from the ship’s satellite relay, but it was enough. My heart stopped when I saw Fiona’s name.
There, in the chat window, was a text message from me — one I knew for a fact I hadn’t written.
“Missing you.”
And beneath it, Fiona’s reply, simple but piercing:
“Sailor, stop your roving. Sailor, leave the sea. Sailor, when the tide turns, Come home — to me...” Ended with a red heart emoji.
For a long moment, the only sound was the low hum of the galley’s heater and the murmur of distant conversation. My chest tightened. I could almost hear her voice in those lines, soft as sea mist, wrapping around my heart.
“I...” I began, turning to Stella.
She cut me off gently, but firmly. “I sent that text to Fiona.”
I stared at her, stunned. “Why, Stella?”
She met my gaze squarely. There was no apology in her eyes — just a knowing calm.
“Because you needed her comfort,” she said. “And confirmation.”
My throat tightened. I didn’t have the words. I just nodded.
“Thanks, Stella,” I managed at last. “You’re a star.”
She grinned. “Pleasure, Roy. Now drink your caffeine supplement and calm down. Cookie’s got cinnamon rolls on the way. It’s not the worst day to be alive.”
She gave me a pat on the shoulder and moved off, leaving me with the warmth of rum, the memory of Fiona’s message, and a deep, growing ache to be home.
The galley didn’t smell like burnt coffee anymore. That alone felt like a small miracle.
We were maybe two days out from Cape Town. The Ocean Wanderer had slipped back into her usual rhythm — engines pulsing low underfoot, Cookie cursing cheerfully at someone for not bussing their tray, the occasional burst of laughter from the poker table near the far bulkhead. I spotted Roxy bluffing hard, and Leah reading her like a book, but not calling it yet. Professional courtesy, maybe. Or just kindness.
I sat at my usual spot in the corner. Not quite a command seat — those days were done for now — but a habit. The same one that kept my back to the wall and my eyes on the exits, even with the adrenaline long gone.
The coffee in my mug had gone lukewarm. Still, I drank it anyway, mostly for the ritual.
Stella appeared beside me and set a fresh cup down in front of me with gentle precision.
“Your caffeine supplement, Roy,” she said, voice flat as a plumb line, but not cold. There was a trace of rhythm to it now. Mimicry maybe, or learning.
I looked up. She didn’t smirk, didn’t fidget. Just stood there, tall and strange and familiar. In her own way, relaxed — or maybe unguarded was the better word.
“You’re learning,” I said.
“It is more efficient to anticipate your preferences than to wait for your verbal request,” she replied, sliding into the seat across from me with that same quiet grace. “Also, Cookie claims you become ‘a surly bastard’ without this specific intake.”
She tilted her head an inch or two, eyebrows lightly drawn together. “What is a ‘surly bastard’? The compound term appears anatomically inconsistent.”
I snorted. “Yeah, you’re not wrong. It means I get cranky. Irritable. Not the best version of myself.”
She nodded thoughtfully, folding her hands in front of her.
“So: agitated, sharp-tempered, prone to sarcasm and disengagement?” she asked.
I raised an eyebrow. “That’s ... alarmingly accurate.”
“I observed similar indicators over the past forty-eight hours,” she said, as if stating a weather report. “Since the mission concluded and your equipment tasks were completed, your behaviour has exhibited signs of listlessness and impatience. You loiter near the operations console. You check the comms repeatedly, even though you have no current responsibilities. You reread the same briefing file three times this morning.”
She paused, just briefly. “You are ... unoccupied. And it unsettles you.”
I gave a short laugh — not because it was funny, but because it was true. “Yeah. Sitting still isn’t my strong suit.”
“I am beginning to understand you, Roy...” She replied and looked away.
The seat to my left creaked as Mai-Loan dropped in, her plate already half-cleared. Olivia followed behind her, looking a little more human than yesterday. The dark half-moons under her eyes had faded, and her togs were only mildly rumpled — practically formal wear, in our world.
“That was a clean insertion,” Mai-Loan said without preamble. “The silent props on those RIBs—best money we ever spent.”
Olivia nodded, tearing a roll in half and slathering it with too much butter. “Roxy’s weather spoof was art. Port authority in Ascension was chasing ghosts for eight hours. Thought they were looking at a rogue swell pattern from an undersea quake.”
I took a sip of the coffee Stella had brought. Hot. Black. Merciful.
“We were in and out before anyone knew we existed,” I said. “It was textbook. You all performed — better than excellent.”
They didn’t beam. They didn’t deflect. Just shared a brief glance between them. That quiet, wordless pride that only comes from people who’ve bled together and made it out the other side.
Dawie passed behind me, close enough that I felt the brush of his shoulder. He didn’t stop, but his hand came to rest firmly on mine for half a second.
“Confirmation just came in from Ash,” he said. “The South Sea Spirit is now officially listed as lost at sea. Presumed sunk due to extreme weather.”
He paused. Just long enough to glance at Stella — quick, unreadable — then back to me.
“Your ‘rogue wave’ left no survivors.”
His voice was low. Final. Not judgemental, not even cold. Just the gravity of truth being carried forward.
“Good work. Both of you.”
And then he moved on, just like that. Dawie didn’t linger. Didn’t do curtain calls.
Mai-Loan pushed to her feet, nudging Olivia with a half-smile. “We’ll see you at drills.”
It was a cue — gentle but pointed. The kind that let the moment settle without clinging too long to it.
“Standard procedure,” Olivia said lightly. “Just in case someone thinks we’re actually qualified to be a cruise ship.”
They left in a soft rustle of fabric and trays. The din of the galley flowed back in — laughter, clatter, the clink of mugs and Cookie yelling something about portion control in three different languages.
And then it was just me and Stella again. The hum of life around us faded to a kind of warm background thrum.
She scanned the room. Really looked at it. The card game. The mess. The people doing what people do after coming close to dying.
“I have been analysing the team’s post-mission social rituals,” she said. “There is a marked up-tick in informal speech, exaggerated humour, caloric indulgence, and physical proximity. It appears ... bonding accelerates after exposure to high stress.”
I smiled. “It’s called blowing off steam. Gallows humour. You eat too much, laugh too hard, tell stories that make no tactical sense. Sometimes you drink just enough to forget that you almost died.”
She considered this. “It’s a psychological pressure valve.”
“Exactly. It doesn’t fix the damage. Just keeps it from spreading.”
She turned back to me, eyes unusually soft. “Would you say this is also why you prefer to sit with your back to the wall?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Observant.”
“You watch the exits. You monitor behaviour. You do not laugh as often as the others.”
I shrugged. “Old habits. A long time ago, I learned the hard way that peace is a temporary state.”
“I am ... beginning to understand that,” she said. Then added, almost hesitantly: “But peace can still be valuable. Even if it is temporary.”
I leaned back into the bench, letting myself sink into the worn cushions. For the first time in weeks, I felt the tension in my spine begin to give.
“It’s not logical,” I said. “It’s human.”
She looked at me a long moment. Then, almost to herself: “I am learning.”
I sipped the coffee, let the heat soak into my fingers.
“Once we hit Cape Town,” I said quietly, “first thing I’m doing is calling Fiona.”
She nodded slowly. Not surprised. Not indifferent, either. Something passed across her expression — not exactly emotion, but something neighbouring it.
“I assumed you would,” she said. “You have ... unfinished threads. She is one of them.”
“And then,” I said, “we talk about you. And the Star of Assisi.”
A flicker of something passed across her face — not quite a smile, not quite relief, but close enough to both that I didn’t question it.
“That is a logical and highly anticipated progression of events.”
We sat in silence after that. The good kind. The kind where nothing more needed to be said.
Around us, the ship moved steady through the water, and the people inside it laughed like they were still alive — because they were.
And because for now, that was enough.
Cape Town, day seven of the journey to the middle of the Atlantic.
Cape Town appeared out of the sea mist like a half-remembered dream — all soft edges and slow colour, as if the city had to think about whether it wanted to show itself.
The Ocean Wanderer pushed through the harbour mouth just past dawn, engines throttled low, the water curling in gentle folds around her bow. From the deck, I watched the coastline draw closer, framed by the looming quiet of Table Mountain. Its flat summit was shrouded in low, winter-damp clouds — the kind that clung to the peaks like a second skin, soft and unmoving. The Twelve Apostles marched off behind it, muted and regal, half-lost in that same fog.
Typical Cape Town winter. The air sharp but not cruel. Damp in the lungs. Somewhere between sea spray and rain that hadn’t made up its mind yet. The kind of weather that didn’t demand anything of you — just invited you to keep your coat zipped and your expectations low.
Down below, the docks came alive slowly: harbour workers in beanies and windbreakers, gulls shrieking overhead, the thunk and hiss of lines being prepared for mooring. The city behind it all looked like it had just woken up, stretching in gray and steel and stubborn colour.
I stayed on deck a moment longer than I needed to. The dock was right there — cranes swaying lazily, gulls circling above the cargo stacks, the murmur of life beginning its day. I could almost smell the diesel and wet pavement, the faint sweetness of bakery air that drifted in from somewhere unseen.
And beneath it all, the thing I hadn’t let myself admit until now: I missed land. Missed the way a floor didn’t shift under your boots. The way buildings stood still. The rhythm of traffic and city noise — unpredictable, sure, but grounded. I’d spent too many years living with corners, thresholds, and solid exits. Deck plates and rolling hulls made me feel like I was trespassing in someone else’s world.
Somewhere out there, past the skyline and the waking streets, Fiona would be starting her day too. Maybe already at work answering emails of her students. Maybe still asleep, curled up the way she always did when it was cold and cloudy like this. The idea of her — real, tangible, unmoving — felt like gravity calling me back down.
Yeah. Land was calling. And for once, I was ready to answer.
Then I remembered: Fiona was supposed to be dead.
Assassinated. Silenced because she knew too much — or got too close to someone who did. Alan Anderson had orchestrated it all, pulling strings from behind boardroom doors and security clearance vaults. We’d mourned her. I’d mourned her. The woman who meant more to me than I’d ever admitted out loud, cut down and gone.
Except she wasn’t.
Ash and I protected her in ways none of us had known were even possible. And now ... was she still tucked away in Jacobs Bay, in that forgotten cottage behind the dunes? Or had Ash brought her back into the light — back to Cape Town — for the trial?
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