Bembridge heard the bolts retract. He knew that the prisoners would hear it too. He raised his pistol towards where he knew the door was, and fumbled around on his belt for his torch. His hand closed around the substantial body of the Maglite, and his thumb found the rubber switch. He pressed hard, and a tightly focussed beam of light picked out the door. He was just in time. It was already swinging open.

“Stop! Step away from the door or I will shoot!” His voice boomed around the cave-like passage, making him sound far more authoritative than he felt.

The door opened wider, but nobody came out. Bembridge stepped to the left, to better see inside the brig. He had one foot on the ground, the other moving through the air, when the explosion happened.

The deafening sound ripped through the deck. A second later, the Spirit of Arcadia lurched to the side, throwing him off balance and sending him skidding across the slippery painted floor on his back. His torch fell to the ground with him and was lost, rolling away unseen. He gripped the gun tightly, desperate not to lose it. Too tightly. His finger clamped round the trigger and the weapon discharged, sending a bullet ricocheting off the thick metal walls. A tenth of a second later, his head hit one of the same walls, knocking him out cold.

• • •

Carrie Walters was attending to Captain Gibson Coote, changing the drip that kept him sedated when the lights went out. Then she heard the explosion. In the medical suite on deck five, the sound itself wasn’t so frightening. It was more of a distraction than anything.

The tidal wave that followed was another matter.

The ship reared up then listed to the starboard side, groaning and creaking as it went. The movement was violent, and it happened quickly. Carrie, like almost everyone aboard, was tipped off balance. She was thrown into the wall of the treatment room. The drip in her hand burst open, sending liquid into the air.

She could see Coote rolling towards the edge of his bed. She tried to turn, to get to him and stop him falling, but the floor had become a steep incline and her shoes failed to grip sufficiently. She watched, helpless, as he plunged to the ground, rolling in mid-air and landing face first.

• • •

The view of the explosion from the bridge was quite spectacular. Jake pulled away from Lucya in time to see it: a column of water erupting from the sea off the port bow. It looked for all the world like a skyscraper sprouting from the ocean as the seawater pushed its way upwards, higher than the deck of the ship, higher than the bridge, its tip sharpening as it stretched for the sky.

As the massive plume reached its zenith, a secondary eruption burst from the seabed, spraying black silt into the air, giving the scene in front of them the appearance of a deathly aquatic firework display.

The explosion was accompanied by a deafening boom, a sound wave that threatened to blow in the bridge windows.

As the ship reared up and rolled, Jake, Lucya, Vardy, and McNair were all thrown backwards towards the banks of consoles. Jake caught hold of a handrail that ran around the perimeter of the room and steadied himself. He was still hanging onto Lucya, and pulled her close to him again, preventing her fall.

Vardy stumbled and managed to turn so that as he pitched into the side of a control panel, he bent over double, absorbing the shock.

McNair was not so lucky. He hurtled into the map table, his back connecting with it with a crack. His head was flung backwards. He bounced and seemed to fold in two, before once again falling back, rolling away under the table and out of sight.

Twenty

BEING AN ENGINEER meant enduring derogatory comments from most other crew members at some point in one’s career. “Bolt tightener”, “stoker”, “grease monkey”; the list of belittling nicknames went on. Officers above deck enjoyed telling those below that they weren’t intelligent enough to get a real job. Engineering was where you went if you were a bit slow, they said. Martin had learnt long ago to let these types of comments pass. It wasn’t so much that he had developed a thick skin, it was more that he knew they were simply wrong. His team were some of the brightest people he’d ever met. He himself, although no genius, was also prone to bouts of inspiration and quick wit. As he watched the Lance — which from his new perspective appeared considerably bulkier than before — fall towards him, his brain ratcheted up a gear. The faster he thought, the more time seemed to slow down.

He turned so he was facing the Arcadia, then pushed his head below the water and dived. He could never have got far enough below the surface under his own power, but he didn’t need to. The timing was impeccable. As he inverted himself, he brought his knees in close to his chest. The Lance connected with his feet, and Martin pushed off with all his might. The momentum of the research ship launched him forwards and downwards. As the Arcadia was still rolling to her starboard side, he was pushed into the space that her hull was vacating, his back sliding along her underside.

Behind him there was an almighty crash as the two ships connected. The cruiser continued to roll, pushing the Lance down into the water and threatening to submerge her altogether. Martin didn’t think about that. He didn’t think about anything except kicking for all he was worth, until finally, with his lungs ready to burst, he broke free, passing under the keel of his beloved ship and into empty water beyond. Then he pulled with his arms, fighting his way to the surface. He escaped into the air, gasping, filling his oxygen-starved lungs to capacity.

Yet there was no time to recover. Behind him, the Spirit of Arcadia had rolled as far as she was going to, and had started to pitch back in the other direction. If he hung about much longer, she would come crashing down on his head. Martin took another lungfull of air, dipped his face back into the churning sea, and started to swim away as fast as he could.

• • •

The first thing Rupert Bembridge noticed when he came to was that his head was throbbing so hard he wasn’t entirely sure he was alive at all. He didn’t think it was possible to be conscious and in so much pain.

The second thing he noticed was that both his hands were empty. The Maglite had gone. It had either broken or been taken by someone, because there was no light to be seen in any direction. He knew the other hand had held something important, but his thoughts swam uncontrollably in his head. It was painful to concentrate, but that was what he had to do.

The gun.

He remembered the gun. Why had he been brandishing it? The door. The door had been open. He was trying to stop the prisoners from getting out, then something had happened and it had all gone mad.

Bembridge hauled himself up onto his hands and knees. His head still pounded but he tried to block out the intense discomfort. He shuffled forwards on all fours, feeling in front of him for a wall, the gun, the torch, or the door.

His outstretched fingers found a wall first, so he shuffled along it until he reached the opening to the hastily converted prison cell. It was wide open. The sickly smell of alcohol mixed with sweat wafted out. Rupert didn’t need a light to know that there was nobody inside.

• • •

“Are we hit? Did it hit us?” Jake found himself shouting, but the noise from the explosion had already subsided. The prevailing wind carried the falling spire of water away from the bridge and out to sea.

Vardy struggled to regain his balance. The ship had started to roll back again, causing yet more disorientation. He was winded, and spoke in barely a whisper. “No.”