Jake pushed himself up onto his knees, shuffled forwards until he could grab the rail, and tugged, getting to his feet.

The ocean swelled, water pushing upwards, not into a column this time, just a bulge; a giant bubble which finally burst to reveal an array of antennae. The water appeared to turn black, it became shallow, and then fell away as first the fin, then the belly of the great beast forced its way through and out into the open.

Jake stared at it. He’d seen this sight once before, in the icy waters of Longyearbyen. But this was different. This wasn’t the familiar form of the Royal Navy’s finest nuclear submarine. This menacing monster wasn’t home to his friends and colleagues. This was not the Ambush, but something quite different. Angular, grey, bizarre, like a deformed whale.

Jake stood, panting, and stared at the enemy submarine. “Mission accomplished,” he muttered to himself. “Ambush…wherever you are: have at ’em!”

• • •

She lay on the floor, a shivering wreck. Behind her, she was vaguely aware of someone clanging around in the ventilation pipe, no doubt checking to see if anyone else was trying to intrude into their stronghold.

The sound of Erica’s voice pulled her some way to her senses.

“Lucya! Are you alright?”

The girl was silenced with a brutal slap to the face. Lucya felt an immediate and powerful surge of rage. She tried to hit out, to do something — anything — to draw attention away from the child, but her arms dangled uselessly by her side.

Her eyes were adjusting to the brightness of the room, so intense after being entombed in the tube. A figure stood over her.

The leader.

“Up,” he snarled.

“I can’t.”

“Up!”

“I can’t move.”

He shouted at his men. One came to his aid, pulling Lucya up into a kneeling position.

From her new perspective, and with her eyes getting used to the light, she could more fully take in her surroundings. The virus had progressed faster than she had thought. Of the seventeen men in the room, eleven were on the floor, their legs apparently paralysed. She looked up at the leader. His face was covered in red sores, and clumps of his hair had fallen out. She could even see a drip of blood running from his ear. He didn’t know it, but he had little time left.

“What plan?” he grunted at her.

“I don’t understand.”

“You plan what? You come here, you poison us?”

“No! I came to observe, that’s all. You’re very sick. You need to see the doctor.”

“No doctor.”

The man checking the ventilation shaft hobbled over to the leader. His legs may not have been entirely paralysed, but he was having great trouble walking. He handed something to his superior and muttered into his ear.

The leader held up the item, pushing it under Lucya’s nose. “No poison? This, poison!”

She squinted at the empty plastic vial.

“If that’s poison,” she said, “how am I supposed to have poisoned you? Look at it, it’s tiny!”

“You put in air!”

“Well then I’d be infected too, wouldn’t I? And I’m not.”

From outside came the unmistakable sound of an explosion. The children shrieked and covered their ears. The leader’s head spun around and he barked commands at his men. The two who were able to walk checked the door, peering out of the window and reporting back.

“Sounds like your submarine just blew up the Lance. What are you going to do now?”

“No. Submarine not destroy Lance.”

“Perhaps they were aiming for us? In which case, we’ll all be dead soon.”

“No. Submarine not sink cruise ship. Not before—” He stopped dead, as if realising he was giving away too much information. Instead, he walked towards the door. One of the others took his place, standing guard over Lucya.

The leader addressed the window in the door. “Your time up. Lance, now, or we kill.”

She couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but she didn’t need to. She knew what the answer would be. More time. They would always ask for more time, while they waited for the virus to finish them off.

“You send girl with poison, you no find Lance. Now, we kill.”

He turned and spoke in his own language. Lucya heard a scuffle behind her, then a cry of protest.

Erica.

The girl was dragged, kicking and scratching, and was dropped right next to her. Lucya wanted to hold her, to comfort her, but a guard was behind her now, holding her hands tightly behind her back. All she could do was look into her adopted daughter’s eyes and speak. “It’s okay, Erica. It’s okay, my darling. We’re getting out of here. Trust me, alright? Be a brave girl and trust me.”

“I trust you,” Erica said brightly, defiantly. “You came to help me. I know you’ll save us, Lucya.”

“Enough!”

The leader was back. He stood over them, his back to the door so the guards outside couldn’t see what he was doing. He held the gun, but he didn’t point it at them. Not yet. Instead, he looked at it, turning it in his hand, studying it. Then he handed it to one of his colleagues. “Too noisy,” he said calmly, before muttering something to the man by his side in their own tongue. The man nodded, and turned away from his leader so as to face the door. Lucya watched as he held the weapon aloft, pointing it at the small window. His position and proximity to the doorway meant that whatever the leader did next would be blocked from the view of those outside. The security men and women wouldn’t risk entering as long as the pistol was pointed at them, and neither would they have any reason to do so. As long as they were looking at the wrong end of the gun, it meant it wasn’t being pointed at any children. This didn’t give Lucya any hope, and her worst fears were confirmed when the leader walked to the front of the room, bent over with difficulty, and picked up what looked to be a steel pole. As he brought it back, Lucya realised it was a table leg. She could see more of them by the wall. The men had ripped them from a desk in order to provide themselves with additional crude arms.

The Korean held the pole in one hand, running his eyes up and down it. He slapped the palm of his free hand with it. It sounded heavy. Dangerous. He turned his attention back to Lucya and Erica, side by side, on their knees.

“Who first?” he asked.

Without waiting for an answer, he lifted the metal leg to shoulder height and swung it backwards, ready to strike a fatal blow.

Thirty-Two

DAN MITCHELL COULD honestly say he had never seen so much bodily fluid and blood in his life. Neither had he heard so much screaming. Impressive as his wife’s lung capacity and vocal cords were, Dan hardly noticed. He was too busy shifting from top to bottom, alternately reassuring her to her face that yes, she was doing very well, that no she wasn’t splitting in two, that yes she could keep going, and that no he wasn’t going to let the baby fall on its head. He also reminded her to breathe, to push with the contractions, and to relax in the ever briefer pauses between them.

He had half hoped that the noise would bring neighbours to see what the fuss was about, and that he could send them off in search of anyone from medical, but the folks on deck ten were either uninterested, or preferred not to interfere. Whatever the reason, nobody came knocking.

When the baby eventually crowned, he felt quite lightheaded. Repeating to Vicky that she should breathe, he realised the advice applied equally to himself.

“I can see the head!” His excited words were drowned out by Vicky’s moaning, and went entirely unheard. “Take a deep breath, and push with the next contraction.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?” she bellowed.