Bongships Part 2

The distant target exploded, a bright, blazing flower blossoming from within the superstructure in an instant. Petals of roiling smoke expanded from their violent cradle and wormed their way skywards. Ben saw debris scatter across the water; a thousand twisted, blackened steel needles stabbing into the surface of the North Sea.

“How was that?” a distinctly feminine voice asked him, her voice muffled by the thick ear defenders he wore.

Ben reached up with a hand and removed the bulky set, rubbing an ear with his other. Despite the protection they were still ringing from being in such proximity to the bellow of her titanic guns. Shrunk they may be with her fit-out, but those weapons still packed as much punch as if they were mounted on a battleship of yonder years.

Technically speaking, they still were.

“I’d say it’s right and proper fucked,” he said, looking over at the figure.

“As eloquent as I’d expect of you, Sergeant.”

Ben grinned, knowing that despite her tone of disapproval, the battleship wore a measured smile of her own.

HMS Barham stood on the water’s surface a few scant metres away, a feat that would usually warrant intense scrutiny but for the fact that everyone like her was capable of it. The wind caressed her wavy blonde hair, and a few strands caught on the contours of her face. She raised a gloved hand to remove them–an act Ben found mesmerising–before turning to him.

“Oh dear,” she said, frowning, “have I got something on my face?”

Ben blinked and remembered what–and more importantly, where–he was.

“No, no,” he said with a shake of his head, racking his head for a decent excuse, “just…” he trailed off and caught sight of the burning target vessel in the distance. “Holy shit, you really did a number on that thing, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose I rather did, didn’t I?” she says, sounding not a little smug about it. “I feared that after all the time that’s passed my rangefinders might not be up to scratch, but I see that… that…” she trailed off, her face growing pale and her expression slackening into one that sat comfortably between panic and pure, abject terror.

Ben frowned and turned to see what Barham had seen. Peer as he might, he couldn’t see anything on the water–

No…

Wait!

There was something knifing through the water, leaving a distinctive trail in its wake as it crossed through the water past the pair. Ben suddenly heard a voice cry out, “Sorry! Fired one off by accident! Might have been a misfire.”

“T-t-t…” Barham stuttered, trying and failing to articulate exactly what was causing her such distress…

“Easy there,” Ben soothed. “Just calm down and tell us what the problem i–”

“T-T-T-TORPEEEDOOOOOOOO!” Barham shrieked.

Then, with surprising grace, she actually *leapt* off the surface of the water and towards Ben, who made a split-second judgement and moved to catch her–

–only to stop mid-stride as he remembered that, with her fit-out materialised, she would crush both him and the pier he stood on when she landed.

Acting as fast as his body could manage, he tried to reverse: the worst that would happen to Barham was that she might get splashed if she kept her fit-out deployed.

He was almost too late.

Barham kept her rig deployed all the way until she crashed through the wood of the offshore pier, and she made a great, walloping splash as she hit the water and began to sink. Ben McLeod was pitched into the drink as he lost his balance trying to avoid the worst of the splintering wood caused by Barham’s sudden landing. As soon as he was in the water, all those weeks in P Company kicked in and he forced his eyes open, trying to push through the way the salt water stung his eyes. He sighted Barham’s blurred outline and swam down after her.

Despite his worry, however, Barham was fine. Mostly. Shaken by the sight of the passing naval warhead, the sudden cold had delivered exactly the shock she needed to pull herself out of her panic. Then she realised exactly what was happening and she began to panic anew; the memory of falling, falling into an abyss blacker than even the darkest of nights, of her hull rending away as she sank.

Then she felt a pair of hands on her, and looked up to see Ben McLeod pulling her towards the surface, towards the light. She raised a hand and tugged on his shoulder, and the ex-Paratrooper stopped, glancing down at her with a quizzical expression. He stopped completely when Barham pulled him closer to her.

She was smiling.

She took both his hands in hers and pulled them both closer together. Even through the cold of the North Sea, Ben felt the warmth of her body, and the pulse of her heart. She was such an anomaly in this world: blood and oil, flesh and steel, soft and firm and unyielding all at once. He’d been trying to distract himself from it ever since he’d first met her off that distant coast in Syria, but in that moment, he gave up trying to fool himself.

Still smiling, Barham opened her mouth to speak…

…and blood began to stream from her mouth.

Ben blinked, and suddenly, the lovely, warm creature he had been with not moments before was gone; replaced by a carcass leaking blood and oil, her emerald green eyes cloudy and glazed over.

Forever lifeless.

Ben’s eyes widened in horror and he opened his mouth to croak out… something, *anything* that might deny this hell. Barham’s hands clutched his in the sort of grip only a corpse possessed, and refused to release him. They were cold; so cold that it hurt. He saw his hands freeze and ice begin to form along his wrists and up his forearms. Panic settling in, he tugged and pulled to get free, but he remained stuck fast. His lungs burned and ached for air. He wouldn’t last much longer; he needed to be free and he needed to be out *now*.

So focused was he on freeing his hands that he didn’t noticed the figure that sunk with them until he felt her cold, pale hands clutch his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the same figure that he had caught the most fleeting glimpse of in London. He couldn’t make out any real details; only her long, flowing dark hair, and two crimson orbs that burned with liquid malevolence, an unstoppable desire, a drive to extinguish life, to take it like a dread thief.

He caught movement from Barham, and saw now that she had pulled herself so close they had almost bumped foreheads with each other. Her eyes, once shimmering green, were now blazing, evil red. She wore a grin that was so wide and so very, very sadistic that Ben almost felt his heart stop.

“Sink with me,” she purred in a shrill, hissing voice.

Then she pressed her freezing lips to his own and pulled him into the deep.
***
Ben awoke with a dry throat, covered in a sheen of sweat. His breathing was ragged and he had to gulp a few times before his normal rhythm returned. He sat up on his bed and looked about his room, realising that it was still dark. It was standard Navy quarters, which meant small and economical; there was a sink, a small rack for hand towels, a sizeable closet in the corner of the room with a chest of drawers next to it, and a desk. There were also a few boxes next to the desk which contained a few articles of clothing and a couple of more personal effects. Ben had yet to completely unpack.

He recalled the dream, or nightmare, and rubbed a hand over his face, frowning. A beautiful memory perverted by one more painful, and more recent.

Goddamnit.

Quick, heavy footsteps outside his room diverted his thoughts away from his dreams, and Ben offered a quick thought of appreciation towards whoever it was that was dashing about.

This appreciated dried up like ice in a desert when a voice boomed, “WAKE UP, BROADS AND BASTARDS! THERE’S WORK TO BE DONE AND SHIT TO BE ROYALLY FUCKED UP!”

Ben winced; the voice had been so loud it felt like it had shaken the whole building. He heard a muffled groan from the next room over, followed by a hushed, shaky and distinctly quieter voice.

“E-Effingham, this is not polite! Couldn’t you have woken them up more peacefully?” the other voice pleaded.

“I’m sorry, what was that? I couldn’t hear you OVER THE SOUND OF SAILORS NOT WAKING THE FUCK *UP*!”

Growling, Ben threw his sheets up and swung his legs out of bed, standing up and making his way towards the door. He undid the latch and swung it open, ready to shout at whoever was raising the ruckus–

–and came face to face with HMS Spartan, who appeared to be trying vainly to keep Effingham from serving as an impromptu alarm. Both girls froze at the sight of him.

“Okay,” Ben started; his voice croaky with fatigue, “I appreciate the effort, Effingham, but seriously, could you keep it the hell down?”

“No can do, guv,” Effingham denied with a casual salute, “Admiral’s orders, y’see. Said so the other day he’d like it if everyone would be up at 0200 bright and early for Muster, so he did.”

Ben frowned, Effingham on the other hand, kept her bright grin.

“Spartan?” he asked. “Why are you here with her?”

Spartan did not answer him. She appeared fixated on Ben, or rather, from the neck down. He blinked, and realised that he was dressed only a simple white sleeveless undershirt and a pair of khaki boxers. Spartan’s eyes were wide and her face was so red it resembled a tomato.

“Spartan,” Ben said, snapping his fingers. “Hello? Anyone home up there?”

Spartan replied by releasing a high-pitched shriek that outdid even the loudest Hollywood scream queen. The girl raised her hands to her face to shield her eyes and turned away from him to flee down the corridor, babbling all the way. She made fourteen steps before her feet caught on her dress and she tripped, tumbling face-first into the carpet with a terrified squeak. She groaned pitifully and mumbled a few words Ben couldn’t hear before her voice broke and she began to cry.

“Awww,” Effingham cooed. “Ain’t she adorable? Sometimes wish I could just pick her up and squeeze her like a little puppy, so I do.”

Ben cocked an eyebrow at her before he sighed and moved to push past her in order to help. He stopped when a door opened and a Naval rating poked his head out. He appeared fairly young, with a bright face, a strong jaw and the clearest blue eyes Ben had ever seen on a man. Despite his obvious fatigue, he favoured Spartan with a warm, kind smile and offered her a few soothing words and a hand to help her up.

Spartan looked up from her sobbing, and froze, as if struck dumb. The young rating said something else to her, and Spartan nodded her head softly, eyes locked onto him. She saw the hand offered and looked away, her face flushed. The rating took a tentative step towards her, appearing very much aware that she might not be comfortable being so close. Spartan glanced shyly back towards him and then looked away in the same instant.

“She ain’t…” Effingham breathed.

Ben noticed more doors opening, and several heads poke out, no doubt wondering what the racket was all about. They glanced at Effingham and Ben, the former of whom gave them a cheery wave and a grin, before finding the scene unfolding between Spartan and one of their own, who had taken out her fan and had hid her bashful face behind it.

“Lawks a lordy, she has!” Effingham murmured, totally enraptured by her sister’s behaviour and that of the young rating, who had taken hold of her hand and was gently helping Spartan to her feet, whose fanning increased in tempo as she rose. She looked back towards Effingham, her expression pleading for help, for advice. She was to be sorely disappointed, as Effingham’s reaction was to raise both fists and extend her thumbs, sporting a wide, shit-eating grin all the while.

“You go girl!” the boisterous shipgirl shouted, no doubt with every intention of supporting Spartan. Unfortunately, what it did instead was rattle her even more. Spartan’s eyes were wide with panic now and darted back between Effingham and the Rating until eventually she broke and started to cry again.

“Hey, hey,” Ben heard the Rating soothe. “Come on, what’s with the waterworks?”

The man had a patience of a saint, but it was clear he was starting to wonder what exactly he was supposed to do with the poor, wailing creature if the way he was starting to glance around was much indication.

“I–I just…” Spartan sobbed, looking back up at the Rating. Her face flushed bright red once more and she resumed her weeping.

“Uhh, should we help?” asked another Rating.

“Nah, nah.” Effingham waved dismissively. “She’s got this, you’ll see. It’s the old vulnerability card y’see. If he’s half the bloke I wager he is, those croc tears she’s shedding are already luring him in, so they are.”

“Croc tears?” one man wondered.

“Means she’s faking it,” replied another.

“Oooh. You sure about that?”

“No,” Ben answered before sighing and running a hand through his hair. It was far too damned early in the morning to be dealing with this sort of crap.

“Make sure nothing happens,” he said to no one in particular before re-entering his room and pulling a pair of black trousers and a navy blue shirt. He was only peripherally affiliated with the Navy and he hated the colour with a passion that was probably unhealthy, but while he was serving alongside naval assets on Royal Navy installations and vessels, he had to abide by *a* dress code, and the powers that be decided that it might as well be theirs.

Dressed, he sauntered out of his room and strode toward Spartan, who had stopped sobbing but had retreated fully behind the cover of her fan. The way her hands shook as she held the thing spoke of her distress even as her Rating tried vainly to coax her out. Then he noticed Ben approach and glanced up towards him.

“Thanks,” he said in a hushed voice, “I’m trying to get her out of this funk she’s in but she’s kind of… well…”

“Yeah, I see that,” Ben observed with a nod. “What’s your name?”

“Leading Hand Stenson,” he answered, appearing not a little relieved at having an authority of sorts on hand.

“Leading Hand…” Ben murmured. A quick rack of his brain eventually reminded him that Stenson was of roughly equivalent rank to a Lance Corporal.

“Stand back,” Ben commanded.

Stenson did so, but not before asking, “What are you going to do?”

Ben didn’t respond, instead reaching down and scooping Spartan up with both arms and throwing her over his shoulder in much the same way he had done with Bedouin yesterday afternoon. Spartan gave a high-pitched yelp of surprise and scrabbled to keep herself from falling.

“Wha-what?” she squeaked. “What’s going on? Why are you ca-carrying me?”

“We’re leaving the mad house,” he explained as he worked his way through the corridor, ignoring the bemused stares from the groggy, waking sailors. “And I’m carrying you so you don’t block the hall. Some of those poor buggers Effingham woke up need to make their way to the shower.”

“Oi!”

“Speak of the devil.”

Effingham hurried after the two, her expression one of considerable consternation.

“What the hell are you playing at you burke?!” she demanded. “She was *IN*! All she needed to do was turn up the tears a mite and when he closes a little then *POW*: smacker right on the lips. He’d have fallen for her in a snap!” the warship punctuated her declaration by snapping her fingers.

“Uh huh, really?” Ben asked, raising an eyebrow at Effingham.

“Hell bloody yeah, really!” Effingham fumed. “That is until *you* went and fucked everything up! We don’t even know the sodding name of the bloke–”

“Stenson,” Ben interjected.

“Right, Stenson. As I was saying, no name! He could be serving on any sodding ship in this pla–”

Effingham suddenly froze, and Ben could almost hear the gears shifting in her head as she worked over the information she’d just been given, and then she started to grin, a Cheshire smile spreading across her face like a widening fault line. She gave Ben a slow nod of approval and pointed her finger at him, cocking her thumb like she was holding a pistol.

“Niiiiiice,” she said, her grin still fixed in place. “I see what your bug is: we play the long game; get them to know each other first. Maybe when we find out what ship he’s on we could find a nice quiet storage room and just lock the two of them i–”

“*Excuse* me?!” Spartan cried, sounding utterly horrified. “Effingham that is really not appropriate! A-also why are you speaking about this as if I… as if I l-l-l-l-”

“What, as if you want him to moor in your port? Dock in your harbour? Get his anchor aweigh? Adjust your trim with his bottlescrew? Haul on your bowline? Push your boilers to red? Give the little sailor a Burial At C? Navigate you by starlight with his sextant?” Effingham’s face was a picture perfect portrait of smugness as she rattled off innuendoes, and Ben would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little impressed by the display.

Spartan, in sharp contrast, was agape; her mouth hung open, her eyes were wide as dinner plates and her face was so beet red Ben thought steam might start leaking from her ears. Deciding that it would be an idea to give her some space to recover from Effingham’s barrage, he slid her gently off his shoulders and set Spartan down on a chair, who gracelessly started to slouch in her seat, so total was her shock. Ben rolled his eyes and gave Effingham a dull look.

“What? Was I wrong?”

“Not the bloody point and you know it,” he told her. “Look, just… stay there and don’t do anything daft. I need to go see the boss man about this.”

“Admiral,” Effingham corrected.

“*Rear* Admiral last I looked,” Ben shot back.

“Still an Admiral, and no mistake,” Effingham maintained in a sing-song tone of voice as she plopped herself on the armrest of the chair Spartan occupied and began to play with the catatonic shipgirl’s hair. Ben frowned but eventually decided to drop it. He really needed to know where he stood as, aside from getting a quick pointer as to where he would be quartered when Effingham had blitzed the pair of them into his office the night before, Ben hadn’t really *met* the man in charge of Battlegroup Warspite.

John had informed him that, because his role was so ‘flexible’ (or unspecific as Ben saw it) he was effectively outside the chain of command, able to act on his own discretion for most tasks. In other words, he was a spook; the very thing his former comrades in the 22nd loved and loathed in equal measure, oftentimes on the same day and for the same reasons.

The thought of his former regiment soured his mood. He dearly longed for the good old days where nothing was complicated: infiltrate, see baddie, shoot baddie, grab a file, plant a bomb, exfiltrate and then hit the pub for a few victory drinks. None of this strange business with ships returning from the depths–

–with eyes that shined like emeralds and a smile so bright it seemed to light up the very air around her–

–blowing up precious convoys and wreaking both sorts of havoc on military installations worldwide.

Finding the office took some remembering, but a quick interrogation of some of Devonport’s Security personnel yielded swift results, and he soon found himself in front of an office door. A dull steel nameplate read: ‘Holloway’. Ben raised a hand and knocked three times.

“Enter,” was the prompt response, which Ben obliged equally promptly.

Rear Admiral Douglas Holloway regarded Ben with an indifferent expression as he entered the office, making sure to shut the door behind him. He appeared to be in his forties, and was dressed in a crisp white shirt with a midnight black tie and two patches denoting the rank of a Rear Admiral on his shoulder.  His sandy-blond hair was cropped short, and there was a sliver of grey touching at the sides. His storm grey eyes were hooded and bloodshot–Ben wondered when he had last slept–and he had a strange looking moustache that seemed almost like it was perched atop his lip instead of having grown there.

“Specialist McLeod,” Holloway said with a curt nod. “How can I help?”

“Kinda needed to talk to you,” Ben told him. “Also, we didn’t really get to speak a whole lot yesterday.”

“Mm, yes, Effingham’s rather…” Holloway trailed off, racking his brain for the right word to describe the rambunctious shipgirl.

“Energetic?” Ben supplied.

“That’s certainly a word, yes,” the Admiral agreed. “Not at all like two girls I know,” he said, giving a pointed look towards a corner of the office.

Ben followed his gaze and, to his surprise, found Dainty and Delight sitting on two chairs by the wall. Dainty was reading a different book, some science-fiction thing if the cover was any indication, and appeared completely uninterested in the contents judging by the frown on her face. Delight, on the other hand, appeared as dopey as she had when Ben had first met her, swinging her legs gently underneath the chair and rocking her head from side to side as she hummed softly to herself. Ben was starting to get the feeling that Delight wasn’t quite all right.

“You’re up late,” Ben remarked.

“We can’t sleep,” Delight stated with a cheery smile before continuing to hum.

“You’re the one who can’t sleep,” Dainty groused, glancing up at Ben. “By the way, I don’t suppose you found me something decent to read?” she asked, setting the book on her lap.

“Not with Effingham dragging me all over the place yesterday,” Ben answered.

“Shame. Oh well, let me know when you do.”

With that, Dainty raised the book back up and resumed reading. Delight stopped humming and started to giggle. Ben and Holloway shared a look with each other, and then with Dainty, who spared her sister a curious look.

“Dainty’s always got her head in a book,” Delight hummed. “She’s a little book worm. She keeps reading even if she says she doesn’t like it. It’s nice.”

She turned her gaze towards Ben, as if noticing him for the first time.

“Oh hi, you’re the guy from yesterday. Are you having a nice time here?”

It took Ben a while before he realised that the strange little shipgirl was entirely serious.

“You should be; it’s really nice. Everyone’s been so nice to me and Dainty since we came back. Some of them were a little scary, but Mr Holloway here’s taken good care of all of us. He’s really nice, you’ll see.”

“I’m sure.”

“Mhm. He’s super-duper nice,” Delight said, dialling up the wattage on her already beaming smile.

Dainty lowered her book and raised an eyebrow at her sister.

“Yeah, you know, I think we’ve outstayed our welcome here,” she said, marking her page before closing her book and hopping off her chair. She then took hold of Delight’s hand and pulled her gently up. “Come on, Delight. Let’s leave the boys in peace.”

“Okay,” Delight chirped pleasantly, allowing Dainty to lead her out of the room, waving at Ben and the Admiral all the while.

“Strange girl, but she’s certainly easier to handle than some others I can name,” Holloway murmured after a brief pause.

“Wouldn’t know,” Ben grunted in response, “but I guess she’s...” he trailed off, searching for the word that would convey the right meaning.

“I know what you mean,” Holloway reassured him. “Please, take a seat.”

Ben grabbed one of the chairs the two girls had occupied scant moments beforehand and dragged it up to the desk before plopping himself down. He noticed that there was a sizeable stack of paperwork next to a keyboard connected to a switched-on monitor, no doubt consisting of orders, requests, notices; all the usual humdrum that any functioning military would, tragically, grind to a halt without. He suppressed a shudder; paperwork had been his least favourite part of being a senior NCO, not helped by the fact that, even in the Parachute Regiment, the practice of Junior Officers foisting work onto their Sergeants was depressingly common.

“So, what can I do for you?” Holloway asked.

“Did you ask Effingham to wake everyone up early today?”

Holloway stared at him for a moment with a hooded expression.

“How early?” he asked after a noticeable pause.

Ben checked his watch. It read 02:16.

“Half an hour ago, give or take a few minutes.”

“Why in God’s name would I tell her to do anything like that?”

“She seemed to think you did.”

Holloway propped his elbows on his desk and held his face in his hands. Ben heard him take a long, deep breath through the nose before exhaling noisily.

“I’m going to tell you something,” he started slowly, “and I want you to listen. With God-only-knows-what going on in the seas with whatever these Abyssal monstrosities are, those girls are quite literally a godsend. In other ways, however, they’re… well, exhausting.”

“Yeah, I can relate,” Ben said with a sage nod.

“Ah, yes. Battlegroup Barham,” Holloway said aloud, as if remembering it for the first time, causing Ben to flinch. Even after all the time that had passed since London, that name still stung. He forced it to one side: New day, new problem.

“So, anyway, Effingham?”

“I’m afraid there might not be a whole lot that I can do,” he sighed. “I can speak to her, but ever since she returned, Effingham’s been a rather headstrong girl.”

“Well surely talking about it couldn’t do any harm, right?”

“You never know with that one,” Holloway told him with a rueful expression. “Usually though, these situations with her resolve themselves. She’ll keep it up for a few days before something else catches her interest and she moves on.”

Ben considered asking if that was really a wise decision, but eventually decided that Holloway probably knew what he was doing and decided to drop it. He supposed he’d have to catch some shuteye whenever he could, at least until Effingham got bored and moved on, whenever that would be.

“If that’s all, Specialist? I’d rather like to see some of this ruddy paperwork done before Muster.”

Ben shook his head and got up. He’d privately hoped to have gotten a better read on the man before stepping out, but aside from some idle chit-chatty questions, he really didn’t have much of a reason to remain, and that stack of paperwork did look quite intimidating. He considered himself lucky that all he’d need to write in his new role was a weekly report–one to John and his lot at Vauxhall and one to the admiralty of the Royal Navy.

“Pleasure to meet you, Admiral,” Ben said. “I’ll send you a copy of my weekly report when the week is over.”

Holloway gave him a grunt of acknowledgement, his head buried in his paperwork, and with that, Ben took his leave. He didn’t really have a lot to do until Muster at 0630, so he decided to return to his quarters and have a shower before finding a quiet spot to bunk down for a few hours’ kip before breakfast.

The morning dragged on by without any undue happenings. The destroyer girls turned up for breakfast first, Dainty dragging Delight about like a mother drags her young child while the German girls Zenker and Giese tagged along, followed by a distinctly uncomfortable and awkward looking Bedouin. Spartan and Effingham followed shortly after, the former still red in the face as Effingham chattered at her with a veritable mountain of assorted foodstuffs on her tray. Warspite made her entrance next, taking a seat next to the other girls as if it was only natural. Only Glorious and Avenger were a no-show, something Ben decided he might as well get to the bottom of as he polished off his eggs.

At least until the sirens began to wail.
***
“It’s an SOS,” Holloway explained. “A shipping freighter to be specific, claiming to be under attack.”

“Abyssals?” Ben asked.

“What else would it be in the north Atlantic?”

Ben shrugged.

“I assume you’re scrambling a task force?”

“Of course we are.” Holloway told him, as if any other action were impossible to even conceive. “We’ve got the closest assets available to sortie out. Unfortunately, we’re also not going to be able to save the ship or its cargo–the signal originates some hundred odd miles out into the Atlantic and that’ll take time to cross, plenty of breathing space for those things to sink an unarmed freighter–but we might be able to save the crew.”

“And avenge them if we can’t,” Ben growled.

Holloway’s lips twitched and, for a moment, Ben thought the Admiral might frown. Instead, he continued.

“Both the HMS Monmouth and Northumberland have been made ready and are about to head out. They’ll be joined by the destroyer girls as well as Spartan and Effingham, and will make all due speed to the location of the signal where they will conduct immediate S&R after ensuring that there is no Abyssal presence.”

“I want to go with them.”

Holloway blinked.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Ben folded his arms and fixed the Admiral with a look that said there would be no compromise.

“I’m here to observe, so let me observe,” he stated, shoulders set and eyes unblinking.

“Fine,” Holloway grunted, after a moment of silence. “You’ll need to hurry though, they’ll be leaving fairly soon.”
***
A little more than three hours later, he was out of Devonport. The rain was ferocious and it lashed down on the Type 23 Frigate like a hundred thousand freezing needles. The few personnel required to be out of the relative comfort of the ship’s bowels rushed around trying to keep their balance as the waves crashed against the hull. Ben fancied himself a fairly hardy man–the Parachute Regiment didn’t settle for anything but the best–but he was certainly not sorry he was standing on the bridge alongside the ship’s Captain, one Commander Fiona Bond; a considerably tall woman at roughly five feet eleven with short, honey-blonde hair and unnervingly green eyes.

Also with them was a Major from the Royal Marines. His name was Colin Witts, and he was possessed of a crooked grin that reminded Ben uncomfortably of that spook, John. He was fairly short–at least half a foot smaller than Commander Bond–and wasn’t especially bulky either, but he made up for it by oozing confidence in every action he made. He also seemed quite popular among the contingent of RMCs on board.

“We’re approaching the last known position of the distress signal, ma’am,” an Ensign called from his station.

“Radar isn’t picking anything up,” added another. “Picture seems clear but, well, you know how that can change with these Abyssals.”

“Acknowledged,” Bond confirmed. “Keep an eye out ladies and gentlemen; our Merlin will conduct S&R but we’ve only got the one and I do *not* want those ruddy abominations shooting it down, am I clear?”

“Crystal, ma’am,” came the unanimous response from those bridge personnel that weren’t too deeply focused on the various screens and dials and switches that permeated their stations.

“Calling all cars!” Effingham’s cheery voice chimed through the bridge speakers. “We have hit water and all units are now on the hunt for suspicious ships behaving suspiciously. Also, have you *seen* these bloody waves? This is awesome! I bet I could ride them like one of those surfers! Eff out!”

“Effingham, what are you doing?!” they heard Spartan cry. “We’re supposed to be on the lookout, this is no time to be surfing!”

“Woohooooo!” Effingham whooped before terminating contact.

Bond took a deep, long breath through the nose, but kept (or forced) her expression neutral. A few of the bridge crew snickered. Others looked stunned or simply weren’t paying attention. The Major laughed; a great booming cackle which was immediately stifled when Commander Bond whirled around and fixed him with a harrowing glare. He held up his arms in an apologetic gesture, but gave Ben a sly look when her back was turned.

“Rescue One to Monmouth, we’re spinning up the rotors now and will commence S&R once airborne. Rescue Two from the Northumberland is already up and searching.”

“Acknowledged, Rescue One. You keep your eyes peeled for crew; we’ll worry about any nasties roaming the waves,” was the response from the Comms Systems officer.

The rest of the bridge lapsed into a focused silence as each man and woman concentrated on their task. Occasionally a pair would exchange quick words and exchange information to pass along to someone else, but aside from the hushed voices and tap-clack of keys, the only real noise came from Commander Bond as she patrolled her bridge, observing her crew. Ben had to admit it was a fairly impressive sight. He’d only really seen such focus in the SAS, or when he’d been on a field deployment with 2 PARA.

Minutes later the silence was broken once more by Rescue One.

“Rescue One; be advised Monmouth, we’ve spotted what look like muzzle flashes to the South-West of your position. Possible Abyssal contact, recommend those girls investigate, over.”

“Report acknowledged, Rescue One,” the Comms Officer responded. “Keep searching for drifters, we’ll have someone go and look, Monmouth out.”

“Solid copy, Monmouth. Rescue One, out.”

“Send a few of the destroyers,” Bond ordered, “plus one of the cruisers–Spartan. Have the rest take up a holding position.”

The Comms Officer nodded and began to relay Bond’s orders as Ben felt the ship lurch beneath him as it turned about on a fresh heading.

Then, in the distance, he saw it. They were gone just as swiftly as they appeared, but there was no mistaking the flash of weapons fire. The sight brought back memories of Ben’s first encounter with the new powers haunting the oceans all that time ago on a Syrian beach.

From the way the bridge suddenly became abuzz with chatter, he’d wager he wasn’t the only one who had glimpsed it.

“Captain, radar’s picking up contacts! Three–no, two!”

“Abyssals?” Bond demanded to know, her voice sharp.

“Unknown at this time, but…”

The chatter faded into muted nothingness as Ben fought one of the hardest battles of his life to stop himself from losing it completely. He could feel it like an ache that went all the way through to his very soul. They–

*killed her*

–were close; so close he could taste them on the air. His hands started to shake and he dug them inside his pockets so that no one would notice. A curious chill swept through his body to complement the ache. He didn’t feel cold as such, but he certainly wasn’t warm either. Was he sweating? He couldn’t tell.

*They killed her*

He took a breath through his nose, dimly aware that the pace of his breathing was starting to quicken. He clenched and unclenched his shaking hands and tried not to think about the baleful glowing eyes and matte-black carapaces that so haunted his sleep whenever he wasn’t dreaming about–

*Theykilledhertheykilledhertheykilledhertheykilledhertheykilledhertheykilledherthey–*

A hand on his shoulder jolted him out of his terrible reverie. He jerked his head back to see Major Witts standing behind him, a curious expression on his youthful features.

“You all right there, old boy?” he inquired. “You don’t look quite so chipper.”

He turned away from the Royal Marine and willed himself to calm down, taking three deep, long, steady breaths. The shakes, the chill, and even that strange tang he could swear he’d tasted on the air began to fade.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Ben told him, without looking back.

Witts said nothing. Ben heard him shift dubiously on his feet before eventually he took a few steps back and leaned against a wall.

“If you say so.”

Ben resisted the urge to snap. He didn’t know why his blood was up, he’d come out here damn well knowing that there could well be contact with Abyssals. Was it the thought of seeing them in person once more that was doing this to him? Or was it something else? He remembered a phrase repeating itself through his head in his own voice during his little episode but scant moments on he couldn’t remember what it was.

He was distracted from his line of thinking when one of the radar operators suddenly screamed that there was something very large coming at them very quickly.

“Brace for impact!” Bond roared, but even before the command left her mouth, everyone had moved to do just that. Even the Major scarpered from his place against the wall and took a position next to one of the bridge crew. Only Ben stood upright, confused and lost.

Ben swore he heard a *whoosh* before the thing–whatever it was–skittered across the front deck of the frigate with such force that it ripped the 4½ inch gun from its position with a shriek of tortured metal and pitched it into the roiling, inky black depths of the Atlantic. Someone swore, which was immediately followed by another crewman providing a damage report to confirm what everyone paying attention had just seen with their own eyes.

“What the *fuck* was that?!” someone shouted.

“Have we lost anyone? Tell me there was no-one near the turret when that thing hit us!” cried another.

“Did you see it?” one woman said in hushed words.

“Yeah,” nodded a man next to her.

“It looked almost like one of those…”

“Yeah…”

“Um, Monmouth?”

The last voice was Spartan’s, broadcast over the loudspeakers in the bridge, and she sounded rather uncertain. The Comms Officer took a moment to collect himself before answering.

“Go ahead, Spartan. What’s the matter?”

“Well, I’ve taken the two German girls with me and we’ve conducted a search of the indicated position. There are no Abyssals but, well… there’s a man here.”

The whole bridge fell into silence.

The Comms Officer blinked and shook his head. “Uh, say again, Spartan: a *man*?”

“Yes, a man. One of us, actually, at least I believe so. He certainly doesn’t appear to be an Abyssal and he hasn’t attacked us but he’s rather… intimidating.”

The Comms Officer gave his captain a quizzical look. Bond frowned, and gave her radar systems operator a glance.

“No additional contacts on radar, Captain,” the woman confirmed.

 Bond paused, digesting the information, and eventually nodded her head slowly.

“Tell them to bring him in,” she directed, “but keep a damn close eye on him. If this is some sort of trick then we want as many guns locked on him as we can manage.”

Petit nodded and relayed the instructions to Spartan.

“Aye aye, Madam Commander,” Spartan confirmed, sounding more sure of herself now. “I’ll call Effingham and the other girls over then. Spartan out.”

Ten minutes later Ben, Bond and Major Witts, along with the Monmouth’s entire complement of Royal Marines, stood out on deck in the freezing rain. Ben noticed much to his own chagrin that he appeared to be the only one having difficulty staying balanced on the soaking, shifting surface.

“Permission to come aboard, ma’am?” Effingham called from the waves below.

“Granted sailor,” came Bond's response.

“Coming up!”

Seconds later, eight figures powered themselves up onto the deck of the warship; Spartan and Effingham, with the five destroyer girls in tow, all forming a loose circle around the newcomer.

And what a sight he was to behold.

He towered over the whole party by a significant degree, and wore a soaking wet light tan, unbuttoned bush jacket with a white, short-sleeved shirt underneath and equally soaked midnight black trousers with a bright yellow trim, while on his hands he wore pair of white gloves. He looked old–far older than Warspite–with grey hair, blue eyes and a thick but neatly maintained beard. He was also built like a brick wall, with muscles that put most bodybuilders Ben had met to shame. Most noticeable, however, was the anchor strapped to his back; dark and crude and angular.

Yeah. With all that to take in, Ben could well imagine how he might seem intimidating to Spartan.

His stern blue eyes wandered over the welcoming committee of Royal Marines that Bond had laid out for him, and then to the girls surrounding him, to Ben, and lastly to Commander Bond herself. He frowned for a moment, the action pronouncing his wizened features.

Then he grinned.

“So, women in the Royal Navy now, hm? Now there’s a notion I can get behind.”

Some of the Royal Marines exchanged looks. Bond narrowed her eyes, but said nothing.

“Ah!” the big old man exclaimed, “sorry, sorry. I’ve been out here so long I’ve forgotten my manners. HMS Cornwallis of His Majesty’s Royal Navy at your service, Madam,” he said with a sweeping bow.

Bond said nothing for a while. So long, in fact, that for a moment Ben thought she might not have heard him. Cornwallis must have been thinking along similar lines, as he raised his head a fraction, brows knitted together in curiosity.

“Commander Fiona Bond,” she said, finally, her unblinking eyes having remained fixed on Cornwallis the entire time. “This is my ship, the HMS Monmouth. The girls around you are Returned like you, and I’m sure you will acquaint yourselves with one another soon enough. In the meantime, you’ll come with me, we are in the middle of search and rescue and a distraction like you is not helping the drifters.”

She spun smartly on her heels (an act Ben would not dare attempt to mimic on the wet, constantly shifting deck) and began to walk back to the bridge, motioning for Witts to disperse his troops. The Major cocked an eyebrow but acquiesced and gave his troops the order to fall out, save for a handful he picked to come with him back Bond.

“Search and rescue?” Cornwallis asked.

Bond stopped and turned back to the old, returned warship with an expression of considerable impatience.

“Yes, search and rescue. There was an engagement here–a slaughter, to be more precise. In this sort of weather we can’t have much time before–”

“I’m afraid you’ll find no survivors, Captain,” Cornwallis said gravely.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I heard their distress call some hours beforehand. I’d have gotten here earlier but, unfortunately, my boilers are old, and I’m afraid I’m not quite as fast as I was in my own time. I got here just in time to watch them set their monsters on the survivors…”

Bond paled.

“You can’t mean…”

“I do,” Cornwallis said, with a look of deep and profound regret on his craggy face. “I arrived too late to do anything but watch as they ripped the last of the drifting crew to shreds. I’ve spent the last hour hunting the miserable creatures down. It took some work, but I blew three of them to atoms with my guns, and the last?” he reached an arm around to pat the anchor on his back. “Well, I daresay it bit off far more than even it could comfortably chew.”

Ben noticed some of the Royal Marines start whispering to themselves and point to the anchor, and then glance in the direction of the frigate’s bow.

“I see,” said Bond, her face unreadable.

“I have a question,” Ben spoke up. Cornwallis turned to face him.

“Who are you?” the old ship asked.

“Later,” Ben told him, “questions first: From what you’ve said, you’ve been out here a while on your own. How long?”

Cornwallis paused to think, scratching his chin with a hand.

“Hmm, I’m not sure I could give you a satisfactory answer. It’s been some time, I can tell you that–at least two weeks.”

“And in all that time, you’ve never thought about making contact with the British Isles?”

“W-well it’s an embarrassing story,” Cornwallis said, averting his gaze and moving his hand to scratch his cheek in a sheepish fashion. “I imagine my radio set isn’t quite up to scratch and my usual methods of communicating didn’t draw any response. I only really caught that distress signal by chance. There’s also the fact that I was attacked shortly after I reappeared by the same creatures that set upon this ship and its crew, and I thought that hunting them down and ensuring they were no longer a threat to the Empire was of greater importance than making contact. I also rather made the mistake of underestimating their speed.”

“You’ve not had any contact with anyone at all until now?”

“Not as such. Every now and then I’d happen to pick up a few things with my radio set, but I never approached or spoke to anyone. I guess I was too busy hunting for monsters.”

Ben grunted. It was a sentiment he could certainly appreciate.

“If you’re done, gentlemen, perhaps we could get out of this biting wind so I can recall the helicopters,” interjected Bond. “Besides, if what you’ve told us is true, Cornwallis, then there’s no longer any point in lingering here.”

Ben and Cornwallis shared a look but nodded.

“Lead the way,” Cornwallis said with a gesture. “I’m sure I’ve got quite some catching up to do.”

Ben chuckled. What was it the old warship had said? ‘Threat to the *Empire*?'

“Oh, you have no idea.”