“Coote. He says he may have something important. And Amanda, Ella, and Silvia are all coming down too.”
The captain of the Royal Navy submarine was the next to arrive. Jake was surprised to see that he’d brought ‘Eagle-eyes’ Jason Fletcher with him too.
“Captain Noah, gentlemen,” Coote said, tipping his cap to the gathering. “Terrible business. Losing a man at sea is a special kind of awful, one I have, sadly, experienced too often. One that never gets easier.”
“He’s not lost yet,” Jake said. “You know that, Coote. A man is only lost when he gives up, and those around him give up on him. We have not given up on Stieg.”
“Yes, of course,” Coote said kindly. But there was something in the way he said it that made Jake think that the navy man knew the fisherman was not coming back.
Martin wasn’t so diplomatic. “You’re wasting your time, Jake. You’re wasting the time of everyone aboard. We’ll never find him. We don’t even know how long he was missing.”
“Yes we do.”
“We do?”
“Yes. He was there when the bridge crew sat down for lunch. I saw him. And when I’d finished eating, he was gone. It was twelve thirty-six when I called full stop. I wasn’t eating for more than ten minutes. Let’s widen the margin just in case and say he went missing sometime between twelve twenty and twelve thirty-six. That’s a sixteen-minute window. We were cruising at fifteen knots, as we have been since leaving Scotland. That means we covered about four nautical miles between him falling out of that raft and us cutting power. We’ve gone another mile since. You think we have no chance of finding him in five nautical miles? Seriously?”
“Gentlemen,” Coote said, raising his voice, an occurrence so rare as to make everyone stop and listen. “I think it would be wise to listen to what Jason here has to say. I didn’t bring him here just for his charm and good looks.”
All eyes turned to Jason. Amanda and Ella entered the room as Coote was speaking. They said nothing, waiting for Eagle-eyes to have his say.
Jason cleared his throat. He wasn’t used to an audience. “I believe we spotted something, around the time you think Stieg went missing. The sonar picked up a blip, very close by. It lasted about forty-five seconds.”
“A blip? What’s a blip? Be more specific, man,” Martin said, frowning.
“I’m afraid I can’t. There was no manual lookout at the time. The sonar alerted me to something apparently popping onto the screen, but by the time I’d deployed the full optronics mast array, it had gone again. So whatever it was, I never got eyes on it.”
Jake pulled out a chair and sat down, forehead in his hand, elbow resting on the table. “I assume you tried to find it again?”
“Of course.”
“No sign?”
“Nothing. I ran a full array of checks. Sonar, visual, infrared, the lot. There was nothing there. I was about to call your bridge to see if your lookout had seen anything, when you ordered the full stop.”
“So there we are, old boy. What do you make of that?” Coote said, taking a seat next to Jake.
Jake shook his head. “I don’t know. You’re the experts.”
Martin looked at the two captains, his face creasing into a look of exasperation. “Well it’s obvious, isn’t it? It must have been some kind of malfunction. Or are you suggesting that a Martian UFO materialised out of thin air, kidnapped Stieg — presumably for one of those alien autopsies — then dematerialised just as quickly?”
Nobody appreciated the sarcasm.
“A malfunction is a possibility, but a very remote one. All our systems are twinned. False positives are extremely rare. Both systems have to be in agreement to generate the kind of alert I saw. I will, however, run a full diagnostic.”
Jake nodded. “So, Grau, what are his chances, if he’s in the water?”
“I do not know the man personally, but assuming he is in good shape, he should be able to survive a couple of hours. The water is cold, for sure, but not so bad that it will kill him instantly.”
“Stieg very strong,” one of the fishermen said. “Good swim. Strong.” He repeated the words to his colleague in their own tongue, and the other man nodded vigorously.
“Then I don’t think we need to waste time with a vote, do we, ladies?” Coote looked at Amanda and Ella. “No point gathering the others. We’re already headed in the right direction. Let’s try and find the man.”
• • •
Grace was beginning to regret ever having insisted on doing something other than patrol work. In her determination to get back to solving crime, she had forgotten the arduous leg work involved in most police investigations. Sitting at the tiny desk in the gloomy office, with the continuous noise of the food preparation area outside, and the service counter beyond that, she leafed through page after tedious page from the file.
Back home, in the real world, the world that had gone forever, she would have had uniformed officers to do this sort of thing for her. Here on the ship, she was reduced to the role of foot soldier, taking orders from a company man with no experience of real policing.
Another page. Another name: “Jones”. She banged a fist on the table. “I’m not sorting any more of these into order,” she shouted at the light fitting. Instead of locating the Js and inserting the ration record into its correct position, she threw it to the floor. She picked up the next sheet and checked the name: “Addison”. It fluttered down to join the Jones’. Grace felt immediately better. She should have worked through them this way from the start; she would be done by now. Her conscientious effort to restore the file had been a huge waste of time. Lethbridge had dropped it, she could fix it. Or, more likely, get one of her put-upon and overworked minions to do it for her.
Grace’s renewed optimism was short lived. A bleep and a crackle from her belt wiped the smile from her face.
“Grace Garet, please respond. Grace Garet.”
She looked at the small black radio from the corner of her eye, and decided to ignore it. It was noisy, and so perfectly reasonable to think she hadn’t heard the call. She picked up another wad of forms and worked through them in short order. Wright, Jobson, Patel, O’Halloran, Atton, Paschal, Washington, Gautier; the names tumbled to the floor like autumn leaves.
“Grace, answer your radio or you’re off the security team!”
Max had somehow managed to remotely increase the volume of the device to maximum. There was no pretending now. Even some of the restaurant staff outside had heard the call, looking up from spooning out portions of rice.
“Argh!” She slammed the remaining pages down on the desk, and unclipped the radio.
“This is Grace,” she said stonily.
“About bloody time. Listen, I need you up on deck seven. Call in at the stores on two and get some binoculars on your way. We’ve a man overboard. I need you on lookout.”
“Max, I can’t just drop what I’m doing. It’s not just Mr Moran who’s missing, his wife is too. We have a responsibility to find them.”
“Deck seven. Ten minutes. If you’re not there, you can go straight to Silvia Brook’s office for reassignment.”
“But—”
The radio bleeped once and cut out before she had a chance to respond.
Grace checked her watch. She figured she could get down to the stores and back up to seven in about six minutes. That still left a few minutes to find what she was looking for. She sped through more and more ration records, cursing the committee for not having prioritised a project to computerise the whole system.
Then she found it.
“Moran, Giles. Moran, Claire”
“Yes!” She punched the air.
“No!” Her fist fell, dropping limply by her side. She read the sheet, then read it again. According to the restaurant’s ration sheet, the Morans had been in and claimed their meals every day of the last week. They weren’t missing at all.