Kinesis Child

Chapter 1

The buzzing tore through Ed Barrett’s dream, ripping it apart before he could grasp what he’d been seeing. He opened his eyes and plunged into darkness.

The red call light blinked.

He was still for a moment, waiting for his thoughts to catch up with his body, the hum of the propulsion system a reminder of where he was.

As he reached to answer, he glanced at the dim white glow of the clock: five hours since he’d gone to bed. A good night. Exceptionally good, in fact. He pushed the button. “What is it?”

“Captain, XO. VLF message received.”

Barrett switched on the light, squinting. “Be there in two.” He sat up, resting his bare feet on his cabin’s coarse carpet, reassured by the subtle vibrations of his submarine, then stood at the washbasin and washed his hands. After splashing water on his face, he stared at the mirror, examining the stubble on his cheeks and chin, wondering whether to shave. It was borderline, so he left it.

He grabbed a towel, and as he dabbed himself dry, his eyes shifted to the photo of his wife and daughters pinned beside the mirror, taken on Beth’s eighth birthday two months ago — only the second he’d been able to attend. Beth stood proudly next to her big sister, grinning as only children can, her blonde curls scattered across her shoulders. He smiled, but the strained expression of Susan, his wife, soon wiped it away. A reckoning awaited him at the end of this deployment, just over a month away.

Later.

Focus.

The message.

He turned, pulled open his wardrobe, and grabbed his uniform.

***

The control room hummed with hushed activity. The XO, Lieutenant Commander Colin Waverly, greeted Barrett. “Morning, sir.” He handed him coffee, then showed him his tablet.

“Thank you.” Barrett sipped and looked at the screen, which showed the decoded message:

HMS HAWKE - URGENT – NEW ORDERS. COMMS DEPTH TO RECEIVE SATCOM.

VLF (Very Low Frequency) transmissions were the only way to reach a submarine at depth, but the extremely low data rate meant messages were always short.

Barrett stepped up to the command chair and sat. “I have the conn.” He looked to his right. “Sonar, contacts?”

Petty Officer Clarke, the senior sonar operator, replied. “Tracking one,” he said. “Tanker bearing zero-one-four. Range thirty-four nautical miles.”

“Very good. Take us to comms depth. Slow to five knots.”

Lieutenant Barns, the Officer of the Watch, nodded and passed on the order. “Helm, rise to comms depth. Slow to five knots.”

As he rested his head back, Barrett felt the boat tilt and slow. Their current deployment in the South Atlantic close to Antarctica had taken his boat far from the threats and tension of the northern hemisphere, where most of the fleet were on task. Was Hawke being recalled, or was he about to find out the reason they were so far south?

“Comms depth.”

“Raise SATCOM mast,” Barrett said, looking at the communications officer.

“Raising SATCOM mast, aye.”

The faintest of rumbles sounded above.

“Raised. Uplink secured,” the comms officer said, then: “Message received, sir.”

Waverly checked his tablet and confirmed, handing it to Barrett.

Barrett read, his eyes widening. The orders were unusual. He looked at Waverly, who appeared equally surprised. “Send response, same classification: Orders received. Executing immediately.”

The communications officer tapped on his console. “Aye, sir. Response sent.”

“Lower SATCOM mast.”

The communications officer acknowledged.

“Take us down to three hundred feet, then heading two-four-two.”

“Aye, sir,” Barns said. “Helm, make depth three hundred feet, steer to heading two-four-two.”

The submarine dipped. Barrett sipped coffee, then stood, steadying himself as the boat swayed. He beckoned Barns. “You have the conn.”

Barns nodded. “I have the conn.”

“Once on our heading, increase to twenty knots.”

“Twenty knots, aye, sir.”

Barrett leaned close to the XO. “In my cabin.”

***

Barrett closed the door, then sat at his desk and motioned to his bed, not yet folded back into its sofa configuration. Waverly perched himself on the edge, resting his elbows on his knees.

Putting down his coffee cup, Barrett turned on the screen fixed to the panelling behind his desk, sensing the subtle change in the background hum as the submarine reached cruising speed. He tapped on the keyboard, bringing up the SATCOM message:

PRIORITY: FLASH

FROM: FLEET COMMAND

TO: HMS HAWKE

DATE-TIME GROUP: 071600Z JAN 31

CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET

1. ACTION: IMMEDIATE.
2. TASKING: DIVERT TO AMUNDSEN SEA GRID REF 12DVH24921392.
3. MISSION: MONITOR WRECKAGE OF SUNKEN CARGO VESSEL. TRACK FLOATING BLUE CARGO CONTAINER - CONTENTS CLASSIFIED. DO NOT TAMPER. AWAIT ARRIVAL OF HMS DEFIANCE EST. 3 DAYS FOR HANDOVER. ENSURE NO OTHER VESSEL APPROACHES.
4. RULES OF ENGAGEMENT: CIVILIAN VESSELS: SEND WARNING. MILITARY VESSELS: AUTHORISATION TO ENGAGE.
5. DIRECTION: CONFIRM RECEIPT AND EXECUTION STATUS VIA SECURE CHANNEL. CONFIRM ARRIVAL, THEN MAINTAIN COMMS SILENCE UNTIL HMS DEFIANCE IN SIGHT.

SIGNATURE: ADMIRAL C. WARD

“Thoughts?” Barrett said.

Waverly frowned. “Babysitting a cargo container? Hardly what we’re designed for.”

Barrett looked at his XO. “It’s obviously no ordinary cargo container, or they wouldn’t be sending Defiance to retrieve it.”

“Whatever’s in it, if it’s classified, why use a commercial ship?”

Barrett rubbed his eyes, then grabbed his cup, downing the last of his now tepid coffee. “To avoid attention? A covert operation?”

Waverly shook his head. “If so, it backfired. A cargo ship sinking will not go unnoticed, especially when a destroyer turns up. And what about the rescue teams? They must be on the way.”

Barrett looked at the message, then shook his head. “It’s no ordinary cargo ship, so it wouldn’t have sent the usual distress call. It’s unlikely anyone else is aware of it yet.”

Waverly nodded, his eyes back on the message. “You know, I’ve never seen an order authorising engagement before. Not outside of exercises.”

“Neither have I,” Barrett said, unnerved as he read again the rules of engagement. “With things as they are in the north, this could be the first of many.” He pointed to the end of the message. “Did you notice who signed it?”

The XO hadn’t. He gaped. “That’s … unusual.”

Barrett nodded. “Any admiral, let alone the First Sea Lord, signing such orders directly is unusual. Unheard of, even.” He stood, and Waverly immediately followed. “Whatever we think, they’re our orders. We’ll be cruising for close to thirty hours. I want combat drills run in that time, one for each watch. No warning. See to it.”

Waverly nodded. “Aye, sir.”

Once the XO left, Barrett sat back at his desk, picking up his coffee cup before remembering it was empty. He stared at the message. Although odd, the orders were simple enough, and the likelihood of encountering hostile vessels this far south was remote.

So why was he so uneasy?

His stomach groaned. Perhaps that was why. Turning off his screen, he stood and headed for the galley.

Chapter 2

The sun was just beginning to bloom on the horizon, staining the sparse clouds in oranges and pinks. It would be another glorious Falkland Islands sunrise, but not one Alistair Graves would pay any attention to. Yesterday’s incident was all he could think about. As his driver took him from his home at Mount Pleasant, through the grassy, treeless dawn landscape towards Mare Harbour to the south, he mulled over the details.

The weather had been fine, the sea calm, the ship new and well maintained. It was no accident.

He knew she’d sunk it.

With Doctor Abara accompanying her, it should not have happened. Why had he allowed her to regain consciousness? Graves imagined how she must have felt; her panic and terror at waking up concealed and strapped down in an utterly unfamiliar place. That was certain to have triggered her.

After the usual checks and searches at the security gate, Graves was driven past some dull grey prefabricated buildings into a small warehouse, and through a concrete arch into the hillside. The car pulled up at a doorway cut into the rock, flanked by army personnel. A woman waited, smartly dressed in a tan business suit, her long braided black hair tied back.

The driver got out and opened the passenger door. Graves stepped out, straightening his suit, breathing the chill air.

The woman forced a smile. “Good morning, Director.”

Christina rarely met him here. “Let me guess. She’s already online?”

“Five minutes ago,” Christina said, leading him inside and through more security, then towards the lifts at the end of a white, tiled corridor. A soldier held the lift doors open. Graves followed Christina in.

When the doors slid closed, he said, “How did she look?”

“Irritated. Exhausted.”

The Secretary of State for Defence always looked irritated, so nothing new there, but exhausted was new.

She’s been up all night, Graves thought. Of course she has. The incident required it. He himself had managed little sleep.

The lift doors opened two levels down onto a carpeted lobby. Graves followed Christina through a thick wooden door, then to another opposite that led to his office. She opened and held it for him. On the large wall-mounted screen opposite his desk, he could see the Ministry of Defence crown emblem, pale purple on an otherwise black screen. He thanked Christina, watching her for a second as she walked over to her desk, then stepped into his office and closed the door. Once seated at his desk, he reclined and took a slow, deep breath, holding it, allowing his heart to steady as he listened to the gentle whoosh of the air-conditioning. He tapped his keyboard. The screen on his desk lit up, requesting his Cryption authentication details, which he quickly typed, before sitting back and letting the camera above his monitor scan his face. He waited until the system approved him, then, releasing his breath, he grabbed the mouse and clicked to accept the call.

The head and shoulders of the Secretary of State for Defence, Victoria Langford, appeared. She looked annoyed. No surprise there. “Sleep well, Director?”

“Hardly,” he said.

“At least you spent time in your bed. Be thankful for that.”

She did indeed look exhausted — the bags under her eyes puffed up, her posture ever-so-slightly slumped — but her voice sounded as sharp and determined as ever.

“You’ll be relieved to know that a mission is underway to rectify the situation,” she said. “We’re fortunate to have an asset only a day away. It’ll arrive at the container early tomorrow.”

That was a relief. “Good. They’ll need to be careful lifting it on board. If Tess is awake, she could—”

“The asset is only there to guard it. They can’t retrieve it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not equipped to do so,” Langford snapped. “Another asset is on the way to do that. It’ll arrive in three days.”

His relief vanished. “Too long. Tess won’t—”

Langford glared. “If you’d ensured proper sedation, there would be no need for any of this.”

“You know I did. And Doctor Abara is with her. I don’t understand why he didn’t—”

“A lapse on his part. You should not have sent him alone.”

Graves frowned. “This is how we did it last time, according to the plan approved by you. If you thought the plan was inadequate, why didn’t you—”

“Enough,” she said, looking away briefly. “This is pointless, so let’s not waste our energy. Once the container’s recovered and delivered back to you at Section Forty, we’ll know more.”

Alarmed, Graves said, “That will be too late. We need to know before then. Someone needs to check inside, check on Tess’s condition.”

“And who would that be? No one outside Section Forty or Section Eighty has the clearance to do so or even a clue as to her capabilities. We have no choice but to—”

“I’ll do it.”

Langford cocked her head. “You?”

“Yes, me. What is the recovery asset you’re sending?”

“That’s no concern of yours.”

“I have enhanced clearance, the same as you, remember?”

“Enhanced-Two, so not quite the same as me.” She held her stern expression for a second before relaxing and allowing the hint of a smile. “But if you must know, a warship, a destroyer.”

“Can you get me on board?” he said. He expected to be ridiculed for asking, but surprisingly, after a moment, Langford’s expression brightened.

“I believe I can,” she said.

The victory gave Graves a brief hit of pleasure, before fear quashed it as he realised what he’d suggested.

“I’ll take care of it,” Langford said. “Expect to leave today.”

The screen went dark.

***

With his impending trip looming large in his mind, Graves continued with his day as best he could, heading down to level minus four for his regular meeting with the laboratory team. The two younger subjects, Evie and Quinn, aged four and ten, were being conditioned and educated, with the lessons learned from the development of Tess, and Jack before her, proving valuable. The team was unaware of yesterday’s event, and the meeting concluded quickly. Afterward, Graves detoured to the labs and watched through one-way glass, his focus on the four-year-old girl, Evie, whose control was already beyond that of Tess when she was that age. Progress was ahead of schedule and under budget, something Graves was incredibly proud of. He doubted any previous government-led project could ever have claimed such a thing. Yesterday’s setback could threaten that, of course. He was determined to make sure it would not.

As he watched Evie, Christina called. He stepped to one side, away from the technician he’d been standing with.

“You’re to report to RAF Mount Pleasant within the hour,” she said. “Commander Williams will meet you. The car’s already here. It’ll take you via your home to pack a few things.”

“How am I travelling?”

“That’s all the information I have, Director.”

“Well, I can guess,” he said, hiding his nervousness. “Thank you, Christina. I’ll be right up.”

***

His home was a spacious two-bedroom bungalow on the south side of the Royal Air Force Mount Pleasant complex, inside the security perimeter. The driver waited as Graves walked along the short concrete path, his head down in the strong, chill breeze. Once inside, he closed the front door, finding the deafening silence and the long absence of his wife particularly uncomfortable today. Quickly, he went to the living room, switched on the TV, volume high to banish the gloom, then he went to his bedroom opposite. The bedsheets looked like a war zone, a detailed record of his restless night. Embarrassed to leave it like that for the housekeeper, he pulled and flattened the sheets, making things at least partially presentable. Finally, to the soundtrack of a BBC daytime show, he took a small, wheeled suitcase out of the wardrobe, opened it on the bed, and started packing. Unsure how long he would be away, but expecting it not to be too long, he packed two changes of clothes and nightwear, then went to the ensuite and grabbed his toothbrush and shaver, putting them into a small bag which he then crammed into the case.

That should be enough, he thought, standing back. He dreaded where he was going, but he’d felt no choice but to volunteer. He was one of the closest to Tess, and he knew what to expect inside the container. As he zipped up the case, he looked at Clara’s photo on the bedside table. His wife smiled, her shoulder-length greying hair flapping to her left as one of the gloriously deserted local beaches spread out behind her. He remembered the day he’d taken it five years ago, just before she’d returned to London.

She had never been back.

It was twenty years since Graves had accepted the position of Director of Section Forty, the ambiguous name given to the underground research centre, excavated quietly in the nineteen-eighties as the Mount Pleasant Complex was constructed soon after the Falklands War. Clara, then his wife of eight years, gave up her Civil Service post to join him. It worked for a while — many years, in fact — as she soon found work in the library in Port Stanley and became active in many community projects. But she missed London, and soon the sense of isolation, something Graves had also struggled with, became too much. Her trips home lengthened, from two weeks to a month, and more. Then, five years ago, she simply didn’t return. She’d sobbed on the phone as she broke the news to him. Tearfully, he’d told her not to feel bad. We have only one life, he’d said, and we must live it as we see fit.

Graves looked at the phone on the bedside table. He should call her. What he was about to do had a level of risk he hadn’t subjected himself to before. He moved his case onto the carpet, sat on the bed, and then dialled. It would be after one p.m. in the UK.

After several rings, she answered. “Alistair?”

“Hi, Clara.”

“This is unexpected. Aren’t you working today?”

“Yes, but something’s come up. I’m going on an excursion. I was home packing and thought I should let you know.”

She was quiet for a few seconds. “Unusual, isn’t it? An excursion? Is something wrong?”

“Yes, but nothing I can’t deal with. I’ll be gone for a few days, I think. I thought it better that you know, in case you try to call.”

“I never call. I used to try, but you’re never home. When are you leaving?”

“Half an hour,” he said, a little hurt.

“Off the island?”

He was silent. She knew he could say no more about it.

“Well … I guess I should let you—”

“I miss you.”

Clara’s turn for silence.

His mood slumped.