Tamsin Beech Ch. 10: Soteria

The Ship Room was just as she remembered it from the party on her eighteenth birthday. Though the furniture had all been cleared from the room and crates of ammunition stacked untidily in one corner. The 17th century Dutch chandeliers still hung from the ceiling, the watery sunrise shone in through the ancient leaded windows. And the marble slab in the floor waited, with its Dylan Thomas inscription.

"What now?" she asked. The edge of the slab was chipped in places as if Volk or someone had tried to lift it or break it. Jessamy had assured her that would be impossible as the bunker's entrance had been built to withstand anything short of a nuclear blast.

Beyond the castle walls, a T-14 was on its way. Whether or not the Russians guessed what they were up to was irrelevant. Hamnavoe stirred between Jessamy and his stepdaughter, "Voice ... COUGH print recognition ... will activate ... the system."

Her uncle's voice sounded feeble and dry to Tamsin's ears. Would the Soteria bunker's computer even recognise his voice? There was only one way to find out.

"Do not COUGH go gentle into that good night ..." Hamnavoe croaked, "... Old age ... sh-should burn and ... and rave at close ... of day ..."

Jessamy hugged Hamnavoe close to her as his eyelids began to droop, "Come on Angus. One more line. You can do it."

The old Scot smiled grimly, "Rage, rage against COUGH ... the dying of the light."

The marble slab in the centre of the floor suddenly popped up about half an inch with a sound like the lid of a sealed Kilner jar being opened. Then on four great hydraulic rams, each easily as thick as Tamsin's thigh, it lifted five feet into the air and stopped ...

... waiting, looking like the obsidian dining table of some demonic giant. Steps led down into the space beneath, lit dimly by electric light from some unseen source. A thick rubber seal around the slab to prevent the ingress of dust and damp had long since perished into crumbling black flakes.

Tamsin had walked over this hundreds of times whilst Volk's prisoner. She'd eaten at the massive table sat on top of it and even danced on it. But she'd never once guessed that there might be a secret bunker concealed beneath.

"Well done," she tenderly touched Hamnavoe's sleeve then raised her Grach in a two handed grip and crept closer. There was precious little chance there'd be any Coalition soldiers lurking under the slab but many stranger things had happened to her since she'd last set foot on the island.

Her heart was hammering as she ducked under the foot thick marble slab onto concrete steps, every one of her senses straining. Dust sifted down from the Ship Room's ceiling, as outside the Reekies engaged Volk's troops. She found herself in a small vestibule area at the bottom of the steps. Deserted. A room no larger than a lift, with a polished steel door reinforced with thick riveted bands taking up much of the opposite wall, beside which some sort of control panel waited.

"All clear!" Tamsin called up to the others. She holstered her Grach and a minute later Jessamy and her daughter came carefully down the steps, struggling under the barely conscious weight of Hamnavoe.

"Is this what you were expecting?" Tamsin asked.

Jessamy nodded, "It's identical to the one in Gloucester."

"So we shouldn't have any trouble getting in."

Jessamy gently nudged her husband, "Hey Angus? It's time for you to work your magic."

Hamnavoe roused slowly, a sleepy smile turning up one corner of his mouth. Zabveniye for the pain? "Thought ... ye'd never fuckin' ask JB. Get your kit off, eh?"

Jessamy bit her lip. Just for an instant the old Angus had been back. The lecherous old Scot she'd once hunted like an animal then promptly fallen in love with. They had hours, perhaps only minutes left together. But instead of their time ending on the tranquil island of Kerrera as she'd always presumed it would, it was going to end here in a damp smelling underground bunker while bloody battle raged outside.

With stinging tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, she kissed her husband lightly on the forehead, then thumbed the red illuminated panel on the wall display.

A synthesized female sounding voice immediately spoke from the wall console, "INITIATING SECURITY PROCEDURE. PLEASE PLACE RIGHT HAND ON SENSOR FOR FINGERPRINT RECOGNITION ..."

With a little help, Hamnavoe did as he was instructed, spreading his fingers against the glass.

The panel flashed green, "THANK YOU ..."

"Well done Angus," said Tamsin. She looked over at Jessamy, "I'm guessing that's the easy part out of the way."

Hamnavoe groaned. They didn't have long. It was imperative they get the bunker's door open, but clear that he was suffering. Would he be lucid enough to give instructions once they were inside though? Tamsin decided they'd cross that bridge when they came to it.

"... PLEASE POSITION BOTH EYES AGAINST SENSOR FOR SECURITY RETINAL SCAN ..."

Hoisting him up by the arms, Tamsin and her aunt moved Hamnavoe up close to the wall, so he could stared unblinking into the black lenses there, as the machine scanned both his retinas.

Again the panel flashed green, "THANK YOU ..."

Fingerprints couldn't be forged. And even if they could, the patterns of capillaries on the back wall of a person's eye were as unique as their personality. Without Hamnavoe along, Tamsin knew without a doubt that they wouldn't even have gotten this far. She still couldn't believe her uncle had kept his true identity a secret for so many years.

"How much longer's this gonnae take?" Phoebe called nervously down from the top of the steps. She'd trotted back up to the Ship Room. The last thing they wanted were any Coalition troops sneaking up behind them.

"Almost done," replied Tamsin, "we'll be inside in a moment ... I hope."

"... PLEASE INPUT SECURITY CODE AND NAME FOR VOICEPRINT RECOGNITION ..."

Now came the tricky bit. In Hamnavoe's current state was he going to be able to remember a security code he'd last used twelve years earlier? He took a deep, rattling breath - the strain clearly visible on his face now, "25 ... 04/6609/05 ... COUGH 66/250719 ... Major COUGH ... Angus J-james ..."

Then Hamnavoe's eyes rolled back in their sockets and his head slumped forward.

"Angus?" called Jessamy, gently shaking him. Then more urgently with fear in her eyes, "ANGUS!"

. . .

Shoving past the burning wreck of the Kamov gunship blocking the causeway, one of the remaining two Coalition T-14s rumbled through ankle deep mud across towards the island. The tank lurched as a loose sheet of its armour plate clattered loose and was promptly driven over.

"Strelok," the commander called across to the Armata's gunner, "ogonʹ odin preduprezhdayushchiy snimok. Vysokiy vzryvchatyy."

Even if they didn't target Supreme Marshal Volk's beloved little castle directly, a few warning shots might be enough to persuade any resistance or Reekie savages to surrender.

BOOM!

The T-14 jolted back on its heavy tracks as the gunner fired a single high explosive shell in the direction of Lindisfarne's castle.

. . .

Plaster dust sprinkled down from the ceiling and the chandeliers shook as outside an explosion rocked the castle's thick walls. Tamsin quickly pressed two fingers to the old Scot's neck, checking for a pulse. It was weak, thready. But it was there, "Hamnavoe's just passed out Jess. What the fuck are we going to do now?"

She helped Jessamy carefully lower her unconscious uncle to the gritty floor.

"Without Hamnavoe's voiceprint, the system will reset in a few seconds," Jessamy angrily punched the unyielding concrete wall beside her, "SHIT! We're screwed Tamz. Bottom line is ... we can't get in."

"Fuck," Tamsin huffed.

"... GOOD MORNING MISS JESSAMY BEECH," said the disembodied voice from the console, now in a more conversational tone, "HOW ARE YOU TODAY?"

The two women exchanged a puzzled look.

Jessamy rose unsteadily to her feet, "Uh, hello?"

"GOOD MORNING MISS JESSAMY BEECH," the voice repeated, "HOW CAN I BE OF SERVICE? IT HAS BEEN 4,438 DAYS SINCE YOUR LAST LOGIN."

"Wait," Jessamy frowned, confused, "h-how do you know who I am?"

There was a pause of a couple of seconds. Then a familiar voice burst from the console's speaker. A recording. Sounding stressed and younger, but his broad Scots accent was unmistakable. It was Hamnavoe, "Laura, for what it's worth, you will accept commands from Miss Jessamy Beech from now on, override Banavie 432688."

"Laura?" Tamsin mouthed.

Jessamy ignored her and grinned, "They're linked. The bunkers are all linked. When we were in the Gloucester bunker trying to take down Thanatos, Angus overrode the system so I could use it. That override must still be in place ..." she moved nearer the console, "Laura, can you open the bunker door please?"

"CERTAINLY," responded the voice, "WELCOME BACK TO SOTERIA, MISS BEECH."

The bunker door slid silently open.

Tamsin was stunned, "Well dip me in chocolate and throw me to the fucking lesbians. All this time you could've got us in and ... and I never even knew."

Jessamy winked, "If it's any consolation, neither did I. Come on, let's get this thing done. PHEEBS, can you take care of your stepfather for a few minutes?"

"On it."

Tamsin had expected some sort of a control console immediately inside the bunker, with perhaps a display screen tracking the satellite network's position around the Earth. She hadn't expected six compact but comfortable bedrooms leading off a central common room, toilets, showers, or a wide-screen TV with a vast library of e-books, films and games. Not that she knew what most of it was. She hadn't expected a rack of NBC suits, a decontamination suite, or weapons and enough ammunition to start a small war. She hadn't expected a galley kitchen with a water recycling and purification system and enough food to last six people an entire year. All fully air conditioned and brightly lit.

"Welcome to Soteria," said Jessamy, "control room's this way. Cummon, keep up."

Tamsin gazed around like a schoolgirl in a sweetshop as she followed her aunt deeper into the bunker, "Sorry. This is my first ever secret underground bunker ..."

At the end of the room another door led into what she had expected to see ...

. . .

On the bridge of the North Korean carrier Baekdusan, Major Rosomakha nervously cleared his throat to get Volk's attention.

The supreme marshal had been hunched over an enormous chart table with Ludmila Mudak, studying the relative positions of each ship in the Coalition fleet. Apart from one or two frigates, the Baekdusan appeared to be in the prime position for a quick evacuation of the Firth of Forth, "Yes major?" he asked wearily.

"Sir, we've had an update from Lindisfarne. The Reekies are inside the castle."

Volk slammed a fist down on the scratched perspex of the chart table, "Shit! There's no reason for them to enter the castle unless they have a means of entering the bunker. It's Zakhvatchikov's granddaughter. It has to be."

It was almost inconceivable that Tamsin Zakhvatchikov could still be alive. But it was her resistance cell that had stolen the list of key Soteria personnel from Lincoln. No-one else. Had she somehow tracked down one of those on the list?

The carrier's captain, Geomi looked over at him questioningly, "Bunker, Supreme Marshal?"

Volk shook his head. Geomi didn't need to know details, "Never mind that now. Captain, might I suggest severing the bridges linking us to the Lenin and putting some distance between us and the fleet?"

After a second's hesitation when it looked as if he was about to question Volk's order, Geomi turned away and started barking commands at his bridge crew. Whatever he thought of the Russian, the safety of his ship, its crew ... and its cargo, came first.

Ludmila squeezed Volk's arm, "What is it? What's up?"

"I can't be certain ... but I think the fleet could be in tremendous danger. Major Rosomakha! Contact the Bezuprechny. Order them to fire!"

. . .

Tamsin and Jessamy stepped through into a dimly lit room only slightly bigger than the vestibule. Two padded chairs faced a huge control console that occupied the entire wall. Screens were flickering to life, gauges showing power levels, status reports scrolling across displays.

"The system boots up automatically when the outside door opens," Jessamy explained, "Hamnavoe told me that. Grab a seat. I might need your help."

"GOOD MORNING MISS BEECH. HOW ARE YOU TODAY?"

"Uh, good morning Laura. I'm very well thank you." Jessamy turned to Tamsin, "they could choose what to call the computer depending on who activated the system. Angus named it after his first wife."

Tamsin nodded, then lounged back in her chair feeling sick to her stomach. Perhaps now they were finally here, there was a slim chance they might be able to do something. Miles to the north, the Coalition fleet waited. Once Zakhvatchikov heard that Lindisfarne was under attack he'd no doubt be sending one of his destroyers or even a couple of his jets as reinforcements.

Just what did all the controls actually DO? There were literally hundreds of knobs, dials, buttons and blinking lights.

"Laura, um ... could you give me a systems status report please?" asked Jessamy. She slipped on a headset and gestured to Tamsin to do the same.

"IT WOULD BE MY PLEASURE MISS BEECH ... BUNKER SYSTEMS OPERATING AT 96.5% EFFICIENCY ..."

Jessamy nodded.

"SENSORS AT 97.5% EFFICIENCY ..."

"A bit of degradation after forty odd years," she told Tamsin, "I guess it's to be expected. The targeting system in the Gloucester bunker was fucked."

"SATELLITE NETWORK AT 92.5% EFFICIENCY. UNITS AA-23 AND IG-88 ARE NO LONGER OPERATIONAL. ADJACENT UNITS WILL COMPENSATE ..."

"Two satellites lost in forty years. Pretty bloody good going I'd say."

"TARGETING SYSTEM AT 99.5% EFFICIENCY ..."

Jessamy clapped her hand together, "Now THAT is more like it. Laura, run a full sensor sweep please ... of the inlet to the north designated Firth of Forth," she ordered, "tag any, uh ... ships, bigger than say ... fifty metres in length."

"CERTAINLY MISS BEECH. AND WHAT MAXIMUM SIZE VESSEL SHOULD I BE SCANNING FOR?"

"Oh, let's say ... any vessel up to the size of ... an aircraft carrier?" Jessamy looked quizzically at Tamsin.

"CERTAINLY MISS BEECH. THIS MAY TAKE A MOMENT."

"As easy as that?" Tamsin asked.

Jessamy nodded, "As easy as that."

. . .

At the western end of Lindisfarne's village, the majority of the men and women of McTavish's group had retreated into the sprawling ruins of the old priory, running for their lives but hoping to lure Volk's Spetsnaz into following. This was what they'd been used to in Edinburgh - stalking a stronger enemy with stealth and patience. Then at the precise moment the enemy's guard was down ... striking without mercy.

But McTavish had remained out in the streets. There was another concern that demanded more immediate attention. The T-14 Armata that had come speeding across the causeway had reached the island. Would it join the fight?

TAKATAKATAK!

Pieces of brick rained down on the handful of Reekies taking cover alongside him as the tank's large calibre Kord machine gun opened up. What good would their throwing axes and stolen Kalashnikovs be against a few inches of armour plate?

The T-14 slowed to a halt no more than two hundred yards away on the main road, engine idling. Close enough to see the fresh seaweed hanging from its tracks, the rust streaks on its armour, the corroded area on the underside where a panel had fallen away.

McTavish guessed that if its commander decided the best course of action would be turning east and heading directly to Castle Point, they'd be in serious trouble. Tamsin - would be in serious trouble, he amended. In all the years they'd known one another, he'd never once let her know how he felt about her. He suspected that he might now never get the chance ...

As the tank's turret slowly revolved - the crew no doubt searching for them, McTavish quickly scrambled the few yards to the cover of an abandoned Tigr, an all-terrain vehicle used by the Coalition. The driver had been one of the first of Volk's men to die - a black arrow pinning his head to the seat. Another Kalashnikov lay in the front passenger seat. The dead man himself carried a Grach handgun and two frag grenades - useful, but not against a 55 ton armoured war machine.

BOOM!

McTavish ducked as a high explosive shell from the T-14 ripped a whitewashed cottage across the street apart. Stone and timber showered down and bounced off the Tigr's faded bodywork as he crouched low and his ears rang. There. In the back seat sat a half full ammunition crate ... and an Aglen.

The Reekies had been hunted by Zakhvatchikov's forces since Berwick Upon Tweed. McTavish was familiar with most of the weaponry at their disposal. Including the RPG-26 Aglen. A disposable anti-tank rocket launcher, it packed a big enough punch to destroy a car, but at best seriously dent something like a T-14. Unless ...

The corroded area he'd spotted on the underside where a panel had fallen away.

McTavish snatched up the tubular green launcher and legged it back to his companions amid a hail of machine gun fire.

. . .

"CURRENTLY TRACKING TWENTY SEVEN TARGETS ..." Laura's synthesized voice announced, "... ANCHORED IN CLOSE PROXIMITY."

"Twenty seven!" Tamsin's eyes widened.

Jessamy smiled grimly, "We have thirteen satellites on this side of the planet. The rest are out of range. If we target pairs of ships anchored close together we can take all of them out at once."

"And the last one?"

"The charged particle beam weapons take seven minutes to recharge. Even if the first salvo doesn't hit it, they still won't get away. But ... consider this Tamz ... they may not all be military personnel on those ships. Zakhvatchikov brought colonists with him. Refugees? There's a good chance we may be vapourising civilians too."

Tamsin gave her aunt a meaningful look, "And possibly ... your daughter?"

Jessamy blew out her breath, "Phoebe's right. The chances of Ada being still alive ... are pretty fucking slim. This is war Tamz. We can't do things by half measures. I learnt that when I dealt with Jack Aubrey. So either we blast these bastards or we let them carry on as they are."

Tamsin stared ahead, eyes wide but seeing nothing, "I saw Novaya Nadezhda nuked by these bastards," she turned in her seat and fixed her aunt with an unwavering stare, "I saw what they did to the town of Conwy, and how they treated the Reekies once they were no longer useful. I've seen the work camps, the mass graves ... the majority of their civilians are safely ashore all along the coast at Dunbar. So I say we stick to the plan."

Jessamy nodded, "Laura, prepare to fire ..."

. . .

Miles above the Earth in the vacuum of space, thirteen identical satellites, launched in secret through the 1990s and 2000s were once again called on to do what they had been designed and built for.

Minute puffs of compressed gas from dozens of manoeuvring thrusters rotated them, tilted them and nudged them into position. Their systems, on standby for so many years, had been activated the moment Lindisfarne's bunker had been opened.

. . .

McTavish vaguely remembered playing Call of Duty on his Xbox. Back when things like social media and Xboxes seemed important. In the weeks before Thanatos rained hell down on Edinburgh he thought he knew all there was to know about war.

As he almost tripped on a bloodied limb lying in one of Lindisfarne's streets, he knew without a doubt that he'd been wrong. No mere video game could prepare anyone for the stench of battle - the smell of burnt flesh, diesel fumes, blood and fear. Or the almost overpowering noise that the average human brain couldn't possibly process all in one go - the gunfire, the screams, shouts and grating squeaks coming from the T-14's tracks.