An Interview in London (Part One)

The rain crashes onto the city, borne on winds that howl with a banshee's mournful cry. I pick the hood of my waterproof with one hand and pull it lower, gritting my teeth and working my jaw around to bring some warmth to my freezing face. It’s usually wet and miserable in this bloody country but *this* is a new record, especially for this time of the year.

I come to a crossroads; the pedestrian crossing lights are red. I wait, but no cars pass. Barely a month ago, there would be crowds so thick it’d raise the temperature by a degree or two. Now, people only really go out if they have to, or if they’re on the piss. The mood is sullen, reflected in mopey eyes and the constant frowns worn by the locals. I remember watching a news reporter–one from the Beeb–try to interview random passers-by the week after the attack happened. The only person who actually spoke was a drunken slob who immediately launched into an impassioned and entirely inane rant on foreign immigrants.

Smart.

I spend ten minutes wandering around the East End, following the cordon, helpfully denoted by yellow warning signs and chain-link fences, and even more noticeably indicated by the blasted, blown-out buildings that line the Thames all the way up to what used to be the Tower Bridge and a little beyond. The barriers are almost unnecessary, as no one appears to want to go within a hundred feet of the Thames or the cordon even a month after what happened.

Eventually I tire of the lashing rain and biting cold, and finally seek out the pub. I follow Poplar High Street up until I reach Bazely Street. It’s here, that the *The Greenwich Pensioner* pub sits, a fairly neat little dive slap bang in the middle of a minor housing estate. Or what certainly *used* to be a housing estate until a rain of shells blew down the neighbouring apartment buildings, and a good chunk of the terraced homes opposite.

On the entrance is a sheet of laminated A4 paper, stuck to the door with sellotape. The impromptu display informs me in bold, bright red font that there’s no running water. It’s a depressingly common situation all across the capitol, and it’s so bad they’ve got the services literally pulling up water, filling as many tubs and cans as they can and driving in to serve it up at specially-designated zones. To be quite honest, I can’t imagine anyone using this place going for water.

It’s dim inside; barely half of the lights are on and one of these flickers on and off before finally giving up the ghost and dying completely. Roughly a dozen patrons sit either at the barside or at tables while a surly looking redheaded woman mans the bar alongisde an equally surly looking man. The only muted chatter comes from a trio sitting in a corner exchanging hushed words. Everyone else is silent, and concentrating only on their drinks. If the mood outside was dour, this is just depressing.

It’s a hard spot with his gaunt cheeks and scraggly beard, but those eyes are still the same as those in the photo. He notices me looking and gives me the slightest of nods to acknowledge my entrance. I go to the bar, and order a Magners.

“Afraid we don’t have that here mate; best I can do is Bulmers,” the barman tells me. I grumble and put some money down for a bottle of Bulmers Original instead, along with a glass of ice. Then I make my way to the table, greeting the man already occupying the table as I take a seat opposite him. He’s wearing a dark fleece top and khaki trousers, a heavy navy blue raincoat hangs over the back of his chair.

“Afternoon,” he greets, his expression neutral, voice level and calm; or so he wants me to think. There’s a definite undercurrent of grief there that is only barely held in check. I think back to the file I was given on the individual I came here to speak to: Ben McLeod, twenty-eight, joined the Parachute Regiment at eighteen, served six of those years in 2 PARA before being shortlisted for the SAS. From there his history is, predictably, a blank up until a certain point in time, shortly after which he requested for a transfer to the SBS.

Then came London; where he was ‘given’ extended leave. I can see why.

Yeah, there’s damage in those bloodshot, smoky grey eyes of his. I don’t need a doctorate to know it–that morose expression he wears is a glaring neon sign even before he opens his mouth.

I tell him my name and occupation. His face barely flickers when I tell him I’m a journalist; he knows what we’re here for already, this is simply a formality. I go over the ground rules: This is held in strictest confidence, his name will not be used in the official publication, if he has any other requests, say them now blah, blah, blah. Then when I’m done, I ask him if he’d like to go somewhere else.

“No,” he declines with a soft shake of his head. “Here’s as good as anywhere.”

I try to suggest that we move elsewhere but, again, he refuses. I frown, but eventually concede. We scored this little nugget at rather extensive cost to the newspaper and if he suddenly decided against it just because I got pushy I’d be lucky if I never heard the end of it. I just have to hope if anyone does listen in that they’re not blabbermouths. Hardly comforting, but live and make do, as they say.

Or I think that’s how it goes.

Just as I’m settling down, removing my soaking raincoat and taking my essentials (recorder, notepad, two pens) out from an inside pocket of my jacket, Ben gets up and gets himself another drink. He comes back with a fresh pint of some sort of beer. He takes a quick gulp of the stuff, and clears his throat.

And then he begins to speak.
***
The guard died silently, throat opened to the world and blood streaming from the gaping wound. Ben McLeod lowered the corpse gently to the earth, head on a swivel for unexpected contact. So far they had all been lucky, and the Jihadi freaks had been none the wiser to the five-man team’s presence.

“Three,” he spoke softly into the bead of his headset as he wiped his blade clean and replaced it in its sheath, “Johnny down.”

“One, copy that Three,” came the response, before continuing, “Four: Two, Turncoat and I are in position and ready to snatch and grab, how’s the picture outside?”

“Four, not a soul in sight except for that sentry on the roof.”

“One, in that event, we’re going in. Keep an eye on the sentry and drop him if he starts acting up. All of you be ready to make a fast, hot exit; we may end up stepping on some toes.”

“Three, got it One. We’ll keep an eye out,” Ben responded.

The operator removed his NVDs and wiped his eyes before replacing the device, once more casting the Syrian village in a ghastly green glow. He kept his suppressed submachine gun clutched in both hands, ever watchful for even a hint of movement. The night was cool and utterly still, the only audible noise coming from Ben–the slow, calming breaths he took to steel himself for what he was sure was a very hot exfiltration, and the thumping of his heart.

Ten seconds passed in quiet. Twenty. Thirty. A minute. Two.

Then he heard a squawk in his ear.

“One, we have the Target.” Ben released a long, shaky breath and let himself have a moment of quiet elation. They’d done it. “Remain in position until I give the signal and regroup at Rally Point Three to exfil.”

Two squelches acknowledged the Major, and Ben geared himself to hot foot it to the rendezvous some two miles south in the wilderness. Even further south, two quads and a rugged jeep waited, guarded by two more elite operators. Once they reached the vehicles, the team would speed to the coastline where the HMS *Bulwark* waited to send either a landing ship or helicopter.
***
I wait expectantly as he pauses to take another gulp of his drink. He suppresses a belch and wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. When he’s done though, he doesn’t resume his story and I have to press to get him to resume.

“Yeah, sorry, just paused to think. I’ve… got a lot on my mind.”

I’m sure he has, but I make no comment on it. I ask him about their journey to the rally point.

“Oh, well we hoofed it back of course. Made it inside of ten minutes and then we ran back to the vehicles.”

I feel a twinge of disappointment at his simple explanation, as if I’ve somehow been cheated. I ask him if that was really all there was to it. He gives me a wry grin.

“Sorry mate, sometimes operations really do go off like clockwork and the report literally says it all–no, you *can’t* read it,” he says, cutting off my admittedly impertinent question.

“Anyway, the trip back was pretty uneventful. Some hours spent driving and watching for any Johnnies that got wind of us but we never saw anything besides the odd vehicle here and there. It was as we reached the coastline when things started to get… weird.”
***
“Does it usually get this foggy in Syria?”

The question stirred all but two of the men in the jeep–their foreign ‘guide’ who had gotten them this far, and the HVT they had been sent all this way to get. Ben rubbed his eyes and blinked to clear the heavy sense of fatigue. The sun was starting to peek over the horizon, and the darkness was starting to shrink away as a new day began in earnest. Ben craned his head about and–true enough–a thick fog was beginning to settle as they neared the extraction point. Next to him, the Major was scanning the environment with a critical eye and a deep-set frown.

“I don’t think it does Lieutenant,” he murmured. “It’s not usually humid or cold enough out here for fog. Not that I’m aware of anyway.”

The sentiment was hardly comforting, and Ben swallowed as he reached for his firearm, half-expecting a hundred Johnnies to come rushing their little convoy at any moment. The two quads driven by Three and Six, previously spread out across the route, had now closed within a few metres of the jeep so as not to lose sight of them and Ben could see the riders swivel their heads around every so often, constantly vigilant for any sign of trouble.

On the opposite side of the jeep, Turncoat groaned and mumbled in Farsi as he awoke from whatever dreams he’d been having. He took a moment to collect himself, rubbing his eyes and yawning loud enough to make the Major wince. Then he looked outside and suddenly, he was alert.

“What is this?” he asked sharply in heavily accented English. “Where are we?”

“Roundabout two and a bit miles from the coast,” Two answered. “Provided that we’ve not made a wrong turn in this bloody fog,” he added dourly.

“Easy there mate, it’s just a bit of strange weather,” the Major soothed. “We’ll be out soon enough, and then Johnny won’t be able to touch us.”

That seemed to mollify the former Islamic State fighter, who twisted his head around, peering back over his seat and glancing at the unconscious figure of the IS commander he’d just helped the six-man team snatch out from under the nose of his erstwhile comrades. His gaze lingered on the prone, unconscious jihadi leader for a moment before he turned back and relaxed.

“Don’t suppose you know if fog like this is normal for this part of the country?” Two asked him.

“I wouldn’t,” Turncoat confessed. “When I made my way into Syria, I came by plane from Egypt and then crossed over through Turkey, and when I was still one of them I never went near the coast. Sorry.”

Two grunted in acknowledgement, keeping his gaze locked on the road and manipulating the wheel as necessary. It would impress no one for them to come all this way just to crash because their driver wasn’t paying attention and–arguably even more so than the rest of the team–Two took all their missions very seriously.

“Doesn’t matter,” the Major declared, “GPS tells me we’re coming up to the EZ now, in fact…” he trailed off and cocked his head to one side as the jeep slowed down. Ben strained to listen over the diminishing growl of the engine, leaning a fraction out of the open window.

“Perfect,” Two said, a slow, satisfied grin spreading across his face. Ben heard it scant moments later; a powerful engine and splashing waves–a Landing Craft for sure. Made sense, Ben mused to himself, the fog would make for hazardous flying.

“Right boys, grab your kit and then grab him,” the Major ordered, gesturing to the still-sleeping jihadi in the boot of the vehicle. “We passed the fighting lines some hours back but let’s not overstay our welcome, hm?”

The team dismounted and grabbed their gear. Five and Six–who hadn’t really had a whole lot to do overall– got the honour of carrying the HVT while the rest of them prepped the quads and the jeep for their extraction. Ben was on watch, not that there was much to see with all this fog. Was it getting thicker? He could swear visibility wasn’t this poor when he’d woken up some ten minutes back. It didn’t feel right, and Ben had a sinking feeling that something was very, very wrong.

His gut feeling was vindicated mere seconds later when something off the coast exploded with a thunderous detonation, piercing the fog and painting the landscape in furious orange. Ben’s earpiece was abuzz with noise as each man cursed and wondered at what the fuck had just happened; all the while, the Major was screaming, both for order and the crew of the inbound landing craft to give him a sitrep.

“–n’t raise the Bulwark!”

“What the *FUCK* do you mean you can’t raise them?!”

“Major I– I think that explosion *was* the Bulwark,” the voice on the radio sounded dazed, as if he could scarcely himself believe what he was saying.

The Major staggered as if someone had slugged him. He shook his head and Ben could imagine the gears in his head turning as he processed the implications. The Bulwark was possibly gone, and if it turned out it was still out there, then it was running silent for whatever reason. Neither of those possibilities meant anything good for the team on the ground or the landing craft floating out in the distance.

“Sir?” Ben asked, trying to clamp down on his rising panic. “What do we do? Sir?”
***
He pauses again. I give him another minute before asking him why the Bulwark–a lightly armed assault ship–was on its own in waters that were considered unsafe at the best of times.

“You have to understand,” he tells me, “there was no kind of indication that DAESH had anything *like* the kind of firepower that destroyed the Bulwark. As far as we all knew, the heaviest thing they had in their arsenal was a couple of guided missiles and three old, battered Fishbeds gathering dust somewhere in a roughshod hangar in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. The Bulwark was well enough out of the way that any attempt by Johnny to attack it would have been obvious and easy to handle.”

I ask him if he or the Major ever considered the possibility of an Abyssal attack. He narrows his eyes at me and frowns.

“Listen,” he says tiredly, as if he’s had to explain this before, “despite what certain nutcases have tried–repeat, *tried*–to argue, *no one* in any kind of position had any kind of indication that *any* of this crazy shit would happen until it had already gone and happened. On that morning, to us on the ground–and in the air–the only conceivable aggressor could have been Johnny, and do you know how *terrifying* that little thought was on its own? That these murderous fucks–who had, so far, been more or less confined to land–had somehow got hold of enough firepower to *vaporise* a British Assault Ship?”

He shakes his head and takes a breath.

“So anyway, as we’re panicking, we see a shape looming in the fog; a warship, no doubt about it, and *that* made us *really* shit our pants. We were shouting for the Royal Marines on the landing craft to park the fucker and skedaddle because–holy shit–somehow Johnny’s got hold of some really big guns.

“Then, Six tells us something. We don’t take much notice of it at first because we’re all freaking out, acting like we’re not some of the hardest motherfuckers you’d ever meet. Then the Major orders us to shut up and just like that, we shut up, and no sooner does *this* happen when…”
***
Another explosion rocked the world. Much larger, and much closer, and the shockwave floored them. One of them landed badly and started to shriek, clutching at his ankle.

“What the *fuck* is going on in this bloody place?!” Ben heard a man bawl over the vicious ringing in his ears. He thought he heard the Major yell something in response but it was drowned out by a series of secondary explosions that sounded an awful lot like…

Hold the bloody phone.

Ben picked himself up and squinted his eyes at the distant shapes in the fog. The inferno that everyone was all but certain used to be the HMS Bulwark was still burning, but now there were new blazes on the looming ship. Suddenly, there was an angry flare of light in the distance, which was shortly followed by a low, rumbling boom, like someone was banging a drum.

Then Ben understood.

“Guns,” he breathed.

“What?” Four asked in a raised voice, “You say something, Ben?”

“They’re guns,” Ben told him. “Navy guns–warship guns. Someone’s having a bloody war off the Syrian coastline!”

“Fine bleeding time for it,” groused Five, who was checking over the HVT for any injuries before shooting a venomous look in the direction of the ongoing engagement. “So what, did they target the Bulwark on purpose or was it an accident?”

Only silence answered him.
***
“It was on purpose, that much is obvious now,” he tells me as he recounts the events of the day everything changed for him. “Abyssal materialised right in the Med, starts hunting for prey, and what does it spot but a nice, juicy, lightly-armed Assault Ship? As for the fog, well it’s theorised that they brought it with them when they arrived; I’m sure you’ve heard about all the strange weather that usually precedes an attack.”

That doesn’t actually happen as often as some appear to believe, but I make no mention of it, content to listen, record and make notes I feel are pertinent for the time being.

“Anyway, as you may have surmised, the Abyssal ended up biting off more than it could chew. We couldn’t see it, and didn’t much know it until later, but it was taking one hell of a hammering. We sat through five minutes of warfare, quaking in our boots and pondering what the hell was going on, wondering all the while if a shell would suddenly drop out of the sky and send us all off to meet our ancestors.”

Ben pauses to take a breath and another glug of his beer. I take a few sips of my own drink and jot down a few more notes and motion for him to continue at his leisure.

“Then it stops, like everyone’s just decided that they’ve had enough, and soon after it does, we get a message, a signal light from whatever it was that was shooting at the big bastard by the shoreline. It tells us that it’s not hostile, and that we should make our way over to it immediately. Naturally that didn’t seem like the best idea but after a bit of discussion with the Royal Marines we just decided to go for it. If it turned out they were baiting us into a trap then they’d have six troopers from the Regiment to deal with,” he pauses again. “Oh, and the Royal Marines, I guess they’d make themselves useful somehow or other,” he adds with a wry grin.

I ask him what the trip was like. He inflates his cheeks and blows out a lungful of air, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It was pretty harrowing to be honest; drawing closer to something we were pretty sure would start shooting us as soon as it saw us. Our earlier bravado was pretty rapidly drying up and in our posturing machismo; we’d kind of forgotten that we had a Jihadi commander that we had to deliver. We couldn’t really leave him on the beach so he came with us onto the landing craft.

“As we made our way across the waves, we passed by the sinking wreck of the Bulwark. It was… bad. I said ‘vaporised’ earlier? Well, I dunno how much ordnance must have been poured onto it but it must have been big and it must have hit something sensitive because aside from a few scraps and a sinking wreck of what I think used to be the bow, there was *nothing* left of it. One of the Marines started sobbing; apparently three of his mates had been on that boat.

“After we passed the Bulwark it got quiet. None of us knew exactly what we’d meet when we found our mysterious ‘saviour’. The Major suggested we keep our heading and check our weapons in case it turned into a fight. The idea was to find a shady spot to board if it all went tits up and start murdering anyone that tried to stop us. Then if the shooty-shooty went all right, we’d take our sleeping buddy on board and get the crew to take us back to friendlier waters.”

But that didn’t happen.

“No. What happened instead was we closed with…”
***
“…a battleship,” one of the Royal Marines breathed, a mixture of wonder and confusion dancing across his face. “An old one too… what the fuck’s it doing all the way out here?”

It was one of the most imposing things Ben had ever seen, and it *dwarfed* the landing craft. Four pairs of colossal guns were perched atop the deck, while six smaller ones lined the flank of the vessel. Ben had no doubt that if those weapons had been turned on them that there would be precious little to bury by the time the smoke cleared.

“Where are the crew?” Turncoat asked, sweat running in rivulets down his forehead.

It was a good question. There had been no hail when they had approached visual range through the fog; no one had called out to them, nor had they seen any sign of activity as they approached the floating leviathan. The only answer to their own shouts and yells was silence. Ben noticed one of the Royal Marines pull a small crucifix attached to a mariner chain from his fatigues and mumble a quick, quiet prayer before kissing it and dropping it back to its original place.

“This is all kinds of weird,” Four muttered, one eye locked to the scope of his rifle as he scanned the deck for movement. A chorus of grunts followed.

The Royal Marine at the controls of the craft took them around the back of the ship. Still, they saw no one. Eventually, the Major began to grow impatient and suggested they board. It took some manoeuvring, but eventually they managed to hoist all but one of the six-man SAS team–Five, who had sprained his ankle–up onto the vessel, along with nine of the twelve Royal Marine Commandoes on the craft. Turncoat and the HVT stayed behind. Turncoat wasn’t a soldier, not in the same way the others were, and nothing really needed to be said about the captured Jihadi who had somehow managed to remain unconscious throughout the entire course of events since his abduction.

“We’ll move in pairs of two,” the Major outlined once they were all aboard and relatively sure there wasn’t anyone about to ambush them. “I don’t think I need to tell any of you how much I don’t like this, so if any of you see anything that stinks, you squawk in. Check those corners and don’t shoot unless you’re sure either you or your buddy are in peril. Smart?”

The group nodded as one, and the Major favoured them all with a confident grin that was both entirely him and entirely false, “Good, then let’s get busy.”
***
“It was me who found her first,” he tells me, “I don’t know why; she could have chosen to be anywhere really. Part of me likes to think she chose to appear before me in particular, but I guess in the end it was just down to blind luck.”

I ask him what it was like, meeting her for the first time.

“It was actually pretty nerve-wracking, looking back on it. Imagine: You find a ghost battleship floating in the seas off the coast of Syria after exchanging fire with… something, after your ticket out of a potential hot zone gets quite literally obliterated in front of your eyes. Then when you board said ghost ship, after what feels like hours creeping about praying to whatever deity you think’s looking out for you that you aren’t walking into the mother of all ambushes, you come across what seems to be the only person on board standing on the bow…”
***
Ben exchanged a confused look with Six before turning his gaze back towards the figure, clearing his throat softly and calling, “Hands behind your head!”

The figure did not react. She was unmistakably female, and had her back to the two soldiers, both of whom had their weapons trained on her head. If she so much as twitched in the wrong direction, the two of them would drop her.

“I said hands behind your head!” Ben yelled, louder this time. He was starting to get angry.

“There’s no need to shout,” the figure said calmly, in perfect English. “I heard you quite clearly the first time.”

There was a brief pause, before Ben asked, “Who are you? What is this ship doing here? And where’s the crew? Are they hiding somewhere?”

The woman did not respond, instead turning smartly on her heel to face them. She was garbed in a red tailcoat with a shimmering, golden belt and a bright, sun-yellow aiguillette worn on her right shoulder which trailed down her flank to stop just above her hips, upon which was adorned a black skirt of modest length with a red trim. Tied to her waist was a black sheath, from which peeked the ornate hilt of a sword. Her legs were bare, and on her feet she wore short, white cotton socks and smart, black dress shoes, while on her hands, she wore impeccably pristine white ceremonial gloves.

She was also breathtakingly beautiful, with fair blonde hair that fell just below her shoulder line, soft emerald green eyes that seemed to Ben like glittering green whirlpools and strong, angular features with a small beauty mark on her left cheek. There was a distinctively regal aura about her as she beheld the two gruff, dirty soldiers on her deck and the corner of her rosy lips quirked for the briefest moment.

“It is rather impolite to demand a lady introduce herself before one’s own self,” she told them, resting a hand on the pommel of her sword, the other resting comfortably on her hips. She sounded English without the shadow of a doubt, her accent distinctive of the upper crust of British society.

Ben and Six exchanged another look. She certainly didn’t appear as if she meant them harm, but the whole situation that had led them up to this point had made them jittery and suspicious, and Ben had a hard time shaking that feeling off, even if he did find himself attracted to the young woman.

Eventually though, he relented, “I’m Ben McLeod,” he told her warily, “Sergeant, 22nd Regiment of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces,” then he motioned with a jerk of his head towards Six. “That’s Corporal Eoin Mcloughlin, also of the 22nd Regiment.”

“Soldiers of the Crown?” the woman wondered with a pleased grin. “A pleasure to meet you indeed, brave warriors. I am the HMS Barham, but for the sake of convenience, you may simply refer to me as Barham.”

That stopped the pair of them cold.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” Ben requested carefully. “It almost sounded like you said you were a…”

“Ship? Yes, that is precisely what I’m telling you. HMS Barham: Laid down in 1913, sailed a year later and commissioned the year after that; reporting for duty and currently at your service.”

“Starting to think we didn’t survive on that beach,” Eoin muttered beside him.

Ben took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose, the last half hour had been a rollercoaster ride he didn’t ever want to go through again and now this was happening.

“You know what, fine, whatever, not like this day can get much crazier,” he muttered darkly to himself. “Miss… Barham, can you get us back to the Gibraltar strait? We’re on a mission to deliver an extremely high-value target to the SIS. If we make it back to the base there then… shit, I’m sure *someone* will know what to do with you.”

“A plan of action? Most excellent,” the young woman clapped her hands together, a pleased expression spreading across her face. “Please, tell your comrades on that tiny little vessel that they may come aboard, I am considerably eager to learn the current state of the glorious British Empi–”

She was interrupted by a loud whoosh, followed by a detonation in the water off the… portside? Ben wasn’t sure, he wasn’t a naval rating. Barham, or the woman who *claimed* to be the Barham, narrowed her eyes dangerously in direction of the explosion.

“I should have known that would be too easy,” she murmured before turning her gaze back towards Ben and Eoin. “I’m afraid you will have to brace yourselves; the enemy has returned and this time they appear to have brought reinforcements.”

By that stage the fog was starting to dissipate and, true enough, some miles away sat three warships of varying size, one of which appeared to be at least partially damaged. Their guns flared and Ben once more heard the rushing whistle of incoming artillery. Shells slammed into the sea around them, kicking up great plumes of water that rocked the warship.

All the while, the young woman was smiling. Slowly, she removed the sword–an old cavalry sabre if Ben was any judge–and gently lowered it point-first on the ground, resting her hands on the pommel. Unlike the two operators, who scrabbled to find purchase on the tilting surface, she retained her balance, her eyes locked onto the ships that were raining fire on them.

“I’m no Navy captain,” Eoin shouted over the barrage, “but isn’t this kind of bad for us?”

He had been speaking to Ben, but it was Barham who answered.

“Hardly so,” she said, her voice brimming with confidence. “After all, they’re not the only ones who brought friends.”

And with that, she raised one hand, curled her middle finger and thumb before joining them at the tip and placing them inside her mouth. Then, she gave a loud, shrieking whistle that echoed through the morning air. Then she removed her hand, took her sabre and raised it at the distant ships.

“*Charge*!” she shouted.

A shattering chorus of gunfire answered her. This time, however, it came from behind.

Seconds later the damaged aggressor crumpled as explosions blossomed along the superstructure, ripping turrets off the frame and rending the very shape of the vessel. Smoke belched from the craters gouged into the skin of the warship and Ben heard a groan of twisting, tortured metal reverberate across the waves. There was a moment of silence, like the whole world had paused to take a breath, and then the stricken ship began to sink.

Then, Barham’s allies made themselves seen.

Five ships broke through the disappearing screen of fog behind the Barham and began to bear down on the remaining two ships. Two were only slightly smaller than the battleship, with a smaller armament compared to their larger sister. Two were smaller still, and sat on the flank of the approaching flotilla. The last of the fresh arrivals was the tiniest of the lot, but possessed a pair of guns the size of the battleship's, along with eight considerably smaller armaments. Ben and Eoin could only stand and gape as the ships unleashed a steady barrage on the remaining two enemy ships, though who exactly this ‘enemy’ was, remained a mystery to him.

“You may wish to find a safer location within my hull,” Barham said, without turning around. “It’s about to get rather noisy up here.” Then, as if on cue, the gargantuan guns of the battleship began to move, tracking a target; marking it for death.