The Protocols of Carstairs
Copyright© 2021 by Ron Dudderie
Chapter 28: Vengeance Was Waiting for Me
Once I woke up I found myself at sea. Literally. We were no longer under water, but the waves did wash over the hood.
“Oh my God ... You ARE a boat!”
“I am not. This is an emergency procedure. We have arrived at the coordinates for your extraction.”
I looked around. Nothing. Just waves. No land, not even on the horizon. One or two cargo ships, many miles away. The Red Sea is a busy place, but it seemed we weren’t near the well-travelled corridors. Nothing that could help me was anywhere near us.
“Well, I’m fucked then, aren’t I?”
“I am unable to parse that statement.”
I glanced at her display. The map did show me the Saudi coast line, but the scale told me it was many miles behind us. In that same corner I saw K-T’s battery indicator.
“ONE PERCENT?! You’re at ONE percent?!”
“Yes. I am currently using all battery reserves.”
Batteries get damaged if you drain them completely, so unlike combustion engine cars EV’s will eventually stop even though technically there’s still some juice left. A tow will always be cheaper than a new battery pack. K-T was now tapping into those reserves.
“Can you communicate with the ship?”
“I have had to divert all energy to propulsion and air circulation.”
“Well, can you send out an SOS?”
“This will alert the Saudi coast guard to our position.”
“DUH! That’s what we want! What happens when you run out of power?”
She didn’t answer. I was scared shitless, I don’t mind telling you. I’m an experienced boater. In fact, I sailed around the UK once. Being stranded at sea in a boat is already no laughing matter, but floating around in a car?! Even if I somehow managed to get out of this thing before it sank, I wouldn’t stand a chance out at sea, dressed in a black business suit. And swimming was out of the question.
“I want to record a message,” I sighed. “For Kate and the others.”
Just then, the car listed to port. I know, it’s usually boats that list but I WASN’T IN A FUCKING BOAT NOW WAS I?! I yelped and grabbed the door handle, but then it listed to the other side. And then, somehow, it tilted backwards. Was this it? Were we sinking? I fondled the pistol in its holster. I wouldn’t drown. That’s an awful way to die.
The back of the car rose up again. Now I saw planks. Thin planks, a few dozen of them, perfectly perpendicular. What the hell? Had I hit some sort of pallet?
Someone tapped on my window.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAH OH JESUS FUCK!”
I screamed so loudly the man, who was wearing a flotation vest, staggered back. He turned his head.
“LIEUTENANT! Gi’s a hand! He’s sedated or summink!” he yelled. K-T unlocked the door with an audible click I’d never heard before. The man opened it and undid my seat belt. I honestly thought I was hallucinating. There was no bloody ship! What the hell was he standing on?!
“Sir! Get out, we are pressed for time,” said the man, now speaking proper English.
“Who ARE you?”
“SIR!”
Another man, also wearing a flotation vest but over a white uniform rather than blue coveralls, came into view.
“Agent 327, you’re safe now. Please come with us.”
A wave washed over K-T, spraying the officers. I was grabbed by the shoulder.
“He’s disoriented,” said one of them, while I was drummed out of the car. “Well out of it. Look at his pupils.”
“Has he got any gear? Luggage?”
“There’s a laptop in the back seat. Get that, would you?”
I was hoisted on my feet. It was news to me that I could hardly walk, but it turned out I wasn’t as awake as I thought I was. When I turned around I saw a large, gleaming black tower, with a small platform at the top and some antennae.
“Oh it’s a submarine!” I said, and sighed with relief. “It’s a submarine! Oooooh that explains it! We’re on a submarine! You see?”
“Yes Sir, we’re the HMS Vengeance. Hurry up, Sir. They’re looking for you.”
I was taken to a hatch. That was a bit of a walk, because the Vengeance, a Vanguard class, is huge. There are literally cruise ships that are smaller. Not the Carnival type ships, obviously, but the ones that go up and down the Rhine are definitely smaller.
“Yes but ... my car.”
“Sir, I must hurry you.”
“Can you ... Are you gonna tie her down?”
“No, Sir. Down this ladder, please.”
Another man in a white uniform climbed halfway up the ladder and extended a hand.
“I’ll help you down, Mr. Carstairs! A privilege to have you!” he said.
I wrestled loose and started walking back to K-T.
“Yes, but my car! I ... she’s ... that’s my sister!”
“Oh God, he’s really out of it,” said one of the submariners (best not to call them sailors) behind my back, and grabbed my jacket.
“It will be alright, dear,” said K-T, amplifying her digital voice considerably via the first rate audio system. “Go with them. Don’t struggle.”
“Fuck me, it speaks!” said someone, sounding very surprised.
“K-T! KATEY, no!”
I started weeping, which I always find is an excellent way to introduce yourself to a group of professional soldiers. They were done being polite and I was unceremoniously lowered down the hatch, crying and screaming. The last thing I saw was another wave washing over K-T, which made her left side tyres slide off the slippery, wooden platform.
“KATEY! NO! KATEY! You don’t understand, we can’t just...”
A man about my age, with a kempt beard, grabbed me as I came down the metal ladder and smiled pleasantly as he spoke to someone standing behind me.
“Knock him out, quick. He’s a bit too strong to have him running around in this state.”
Something cold and wet pierced my upper arm.
I woke up in a bed, with sheets. It was a bunk bed, and I was in the top bunk. As soon as I got up, a hand moved in front of me and saved me from slamming my head into a piece of pipe that had the same colour as the wall behind it.
“Mind your head,” said the owner of the hand. I was wet.
“Oh,” was all I had to say. And then: “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Carstairs.”
A face emerged from a cloud. A pale-faced young man dressed in a perfectly normal, civilian T-shirt, sat next to my bed.
“Who are you? Why am I soaked?”
“Because you’ve been tossing and turning for the past three hours, I should think,” said the man, reaching behind him. He offered me a glass of orange juice.
“Would you like something to drink? I can get you tea as well.”
I gulped down the juice, leaning on my left arm.
“I’m able seaman Patrick Smalls. Patty for my mates. Do you remember where you are?”
“Submarine,” I muttered.
“Yes. We picked you up ten miles off the coast of Saudi. You were really confused. Hypoxic, mebbe’. Captain ordered our medic to give you a sedative and I’ve been keeping an eye on you. D’ya fancy a meal?”
I handed him the glass.
“Where are you taking me? Can you drop me off at Eilat? I can find my way home from there.”
His smile was politely sad.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Carstairs. You’ll be with us for a while. About twelve more days before our tour ends. Hey, but I have your laptop here and we even found a charger for it!”
So that’s where I am now: on a submarine, frantically writing down everything I remember about the past few months on my laptop. I’ve expanded some of my previous journals, filled in some gaps, deleted some of the more extreme ramblings and in between I’ve been spending my time in the mess and on a stationary bike.
There was also a debriefing, conducted by one of the intelligence officers. He and I spent a day going over the events at the fort. I learned that the Saudi airforce bombed the place to smithereens about twenty-four hours after they arrived, and deny that even one missile was launched. The Americans decided to help them with the cover-up. If you look at a current satellite image of the place where Omar’s fort once stood, all you’ll see is a flattened hilltop where the earth is slightly reddish. That’s because the bombs churned up all the rock in which the base was excavated. Even some roads leading to the plateau were wiped away. Literally, with brushes. Omar’s death was reported as an accident, but he was not deemed important enough for a day of national mourning. No word about Asim ever reached me.
I don’t know everything that happened. I don’t know if they investigated the computer system, or what the North-Koreans told them. I suspect I know why one of the missiles went off-course: I might have mixed up the order of the words. The location ///general.sweetly.deny is located on the African coast, which would explain why that missile headed out to sea on a South-West course.
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