Life Goes On by Tayell, Frank (large ebook reader txt) 📗

command. She’s mindful that everything she says will spread through the ship faster than hope, and she doesn’t want disappointment clinging to its heels.

“Durban was an evacuation hub for South Africa, wasn’t it?” I asked. “After Durban was overwhelmed, some South Africans drove north, crossed the border with Mozambique, and went to Maputo, which was overwhelmed in turn, and so the locals there went up to Inhambane.”

“Overwhelmed is an understatement,” Captain Adams said. “A liquid gas transport ship exploded in the harbour. We believe it was deliberately targeted. Initial reports suggested a torpedo, though our chief engineer, Mr Dickenson, thinks it could have been a subsurface drone.”

“Who would do that?” I asked.

“That’s as murky as the Mariana Trench, and nearly as fathomless,” Adams said. “At the time, a small military police-fleet was gathering in the harbour. These were coastal protection vessels, cruisers, cutters, and patrol boats from many nations on the African east coast. Lightly armed and lightly armoured. They arrived to refuel, and were then drafted into a new fleet which was supposed to come north and help deal with the piracy problem in the Mozambique Channel. Very few ships escaped the inferno, which has left a floating debris field off the coast, hence our detour. Our next waypoint is Port Elizabeth, on the eastern shores of the Cape. But this radio signal is coming from much further inland.”

“From South Africa? It’s a distress call?” I asked.

“Not really,” Adams said. “They are manually, verbally, repeating reports broadcast elsewhere in the world. The lack of formal radio discipline suggests a civilian, but one with some level of technical skill.”

“Can I listen?”

“Do you speak Swahili?” Leo asked. “I don’t. But I think that’s the language they’re currently speaking. We’ve had English, Arabic, Portuguese, Spanish, and now… ah, maybe it’s Zulu. I’m certain it’s not Xhosa. There’s been no Afrikaans yet, which is an interesting detail. But the place-names repeat, so it’s the same message in different languages. It’s a recording. Not a live broadcast.”

“What are they saying?” I asked.

“That there are pockets of survivors across the world,” Leo said. “Survivors with access to a radio transmitter. They mention Israel. Zambia. Tunisia. England. Ukraine. Other than the location, there’s no real information. Tel Aviv. The Dnieper River. They’re saying there’s a station calling itself Radio Free England. No location specified there.”

“Do they say what happened in Israel?” I asked. “Or what happened in Ukraine?”

“People survived,” Leo said. “That’s basically it. They’re saying that there are survivors, so if you can hear this, you should look for more. Help each other. Listen to the radio. Help will come.”

“From whom?” I asked.

“They don’t say,” Leo said.

“They don’t know,” Adams said. “They’re broadcasting a message of optimism to keep their own hope alive. There’s no mention of the African Union, or of the evacuation to the Pacific.”

“What about their location?” I asked.

“They haven’t mentioned it yet,” Leo said.

“We’ll keep listening,” Adams said. “But we’ve got to ask ourselves whether they’re really retransmitting radio signals, or are they making up a good-news story to bring hope to anyone listening? I think they mixed up the BBC with Radio Free Europe, and called it Radio Free England by mistake.”

“I take it we tried saying hello?” I asked.

“Partially,” Adams said. “I broadcast a message asking where they were, saying we were a New Zealand ship, off the coast. Until we know more about them, I didn’t want them to know more about us.”

“Are we going to look for them?” I asked.

“If they are who they claim, they’re a repeater-station run by a handful of survivors,” Adams said. “Our priority must always be the largest number of survivors. In this case, the African Union convoy. Once we’ve secured their position in a coastal refuge, we can arrange a search for this transmitter using soldiers who have local knowledge.”

By the time the next watch changed, everyone aboard would know of the signal, and want to know why it wasn’t being investigated. Waiting on local knowledge was a believable explanation. But the captain hadn’t wanted to explain that to her bridge crew. No, she’d summoned me to the bridge to be her Dr Watson. Why? I pondered that as I watched the waves, uncertain if I was supposed to propose we send the helicopter ashore, or voice agreement for her decision.

“We’re back to English,” Leo said. “Yep, it’s a recording.”

“This would be a powerful transmitter, wouldn’t it?” I asked. “We can find a list, and map, of large transmitters in South Africa, and narrow down our search area.”

“Contact!” Lieutenant Kane said. “It’s the sub. Bearing one-four-zero.”

“Is it the same submarine, Mr Kane?” Adams asked, her tone instantly becoming clipped, formal, far more precise.

“Yes, ma’am,” Kane said. “Royal Navy. Astute-class. Probably the Adventure.”

“Maintain course and heading,” the captain said. “Mr Renton, attempt contact. Same message as before.”

“You’ve spotted this sub before?” I asked.

“This is the second time today, the fifth sighting in total,” the captain said. “We picked her up twice over a week ago. As we approached Durban, we caught an echo. She’s the newest of the Royal Navy’s Astute-class subs. They modified the propulsion system since the first boat in that class was commissioned.”

“Does she have nukes?” I asked.

“No, but she is nuclear powered,” Adams said. “She’s an attack sub, armed with torpedoes and Tomahawk missiles.”

I surveyed the seemingly empty ocean. “Shouldn’t we go to action stations?”

“If it was our first sighting, yes,” Adams said. “She hasn’t adopted an aggressive posture. Nor will we. The boat came close to attack range while we were in Inhambane, but then retreated. The next occasion we identified her, she maintained her distance. We picked her up last night just north of Durban. Now here she is to the south. I think she’s marking her territory.”

“In Durban? I