This is a preview of the first chapter from Banner Yet Waves, my fourth story to be published in my loosely coupled Inflection Point series. It’s a hopeful Solarpunk story, a sub-genre that’s sometimes referred to as Hopepunk.
Here’s the description…
Freya Stanton is having a tough time at the maritime dredging and construction company she works for. She’s trying start an innovative new line of business in undersea construction…but it’s not going well. So, when opportunity comes knocking, she’s going to seize her moment, even if it means dealing with hijackers, absconding with a submarine, and creating an international incident.
Without further ado, here’s Chapter 1…
Rockhampton Beach, Australia
Freya Stanton leaned over the railing of the plodding 12-meter trawler that SME Limited used to ferry crews to its work locations, ignoring the breeze fluttering the long blond strands that escaped from underneath her red, company-issue baseball cap. Her vigilance was finally rewarded by the distant sight of Nessie’s plume, as SME’s latest and most expensive acquisition ejected a sandy arc over the edge of what would eventually be the new Rockhampton Beach (replacing the two previous ones that had fallen prey to the rising sea).
The Nessie was a new class of boat. Not a ship, as every ex-military submariner would tell you—submarines were boats. Nessie was a modular workhorse, currently configured as a Submersible Trailing Suction Hopper Dredger (STSHD), 220 meters long with on-board storage for 42,000 cubic meters of sand or sludge scraped off the seabed in its two detachable storage hoppers.
She loved working as the first mate of the submersible, a major step up from other positions she’d held in SME’s fleet. Nessie was a finely engineered workhorse of a vessel.
“Aye, she’s a lovely craft,” Hastie Jones said, almost as if he’d read her mind, as he joined her at the railing.
“Too bad she’s been such an albatross, so far.”
The real reason Freya had gotten such a plum position at age thirty…nobody else had wanted it. Most of SME’s vessels were busy almost full-time, but Nessie was more specialized. For the jobs she was ideal for, they’d mostly been beaten out by bigger players like Royal Boskalis Westminster, CHEC, and others. Nessie’s unplanned 50% downtime had demolished the officer and senior crew bonuses.
“Give her time, lass.” His jaws worked as he chewed gum, a habit he’d adopted soon after he’d given up his life-long habit of smoking. “Customers will learn how useful she can be.”
And he should know, Freya reflected. A 25-year veteran of the company, he was the senior engineer of the three rotating crews that kept the submersible working around the clock. Well, two crews, really, since so many had defected to SME’s other vessels.
Ten minutes later, they were moored to the Nessie, which loomed three meters above their trawler. It was quiet now; the outgoing crew had halted operations when they’d spotted their relief incoming. Freya followed Captain Liam Wilson up the rope ladder to the flat area in front of the sub’s sail, or what the uninitiated sometimes called a “conning tower.” Nessie’s current officers and a few senior crew members were waiting for them.
Smiling, Captain Wilson shook hands with Captain Jasper Smith, the outgoing shift captain.
“This ship is yours,” Jasper said.
“I have the con,” Liam replied. “Changeover at 18:14.” Both captains were ex-military, although in different navies, and had decided to run Nessie along the lines they were used to. Freya dutifully committed the time to memory; she’d be recording it in the official log in a few minutes.
Jasper said, “I stand relieved—”
A series of explosions happened in quick succession. One must have gone off next to her, because she felt a wave of heat wash over her, experienced a bang so loud if hurt, then an intense pain as the flash left her blinded. She fell backwards, might even have slid off the edge into the water, if she hadn’t grabbed hold of one of the deck stanchions.
She rolled herself toward the middle of the deck, blind, half-deaf, and coughing from the acrid smoke. She seemed to hear everything dully, as if from a distance. There was shouting and what sounded like gunfire, then more explosions, but muffled, like they’d happened inside the boat.
It took her a moment to realize that they were being hijacked.
***
Once she’d recovered from her initial shock, she’d been amazed at how quickly their attackers had gotten organized. Officers to the control room, some key technicians like Hastie to the engine room, and the majority of the crew confined to the mids, the middle area of the boat with its crew quarters and common room. Forty-five minutes from initial onslaught to having everything set up the way the hijackers wanted things.
The hijackers had been well-prepared, Freya decided.
“How many aboard?” Wilson whispered.
“Twenty,” Freya answered. The tally included both crews. “Johnson called in sick, so nineteen of us, plus the trawler pilot. And eight hijackers, as best I can tell.”
A moment later, the big, hulking hijacker who Freya had decided was in charge of the operation walked in with a smaller man next to him. Both were wearing black wetsuits and black balaclavas over their faces. Smaller was relative, of course; she pegged the shorter man at just a little taller than herself and with an athlete’s wiry, muscular build.
“OK, boss,” the big hijacker said. “It’s your show now.”
The smaller man removed his mask, revealing tousled black hair and the cheerful face of an islander of one kind of another. Maybe Micronesian, it was hard to tell.
“Who’s the primary captain?” the man asked.
“I am,” Wilson said, raising his hand.
“For now, you can call me Alpha,” the man said. “Do you have an intercom?”
“We do.” The captain gestured and one of the other officers handed a mic to the unmasked hijacker.
“All right, everybody,” Alpha said over the intercom, “you’ve been hijacked. If it’s not already painfully obvious, we’ve captured a dredger so, clearly, we have a serious dredging project in mind.”
Freya exchanged a sideways glance with the captain. That was a relief. If the hijackers wanted dredging work done, then they needed the crew. In her mind, at least, that took the danger level down a few notches.
“I apologize for the inconvenience. If there’d been any other way to get this project done, we would have done so. There wasn’t, so here we are.” The man paused and looked around the control room. “You will be treated well. We have a doctor with us. He’ll be circulating to take care of any injuries. He’ll be unarmed, so please leave him alone.”
Eight hijackers, Freya thought, but only seven combatants. Good to know.
Wilson held up his hand, then gestured toward the mic. Alpha cocked his head consideringly, then passed it to him.
He nodded at the hijacker, then spoke into the mic. “This is Captain Wilson. While I obviously don’t approve of this fiasco, their doctor is off-limits. Let him do his job or you’ll answer to me.”
Alpha took the mic back from him. “Thank you.”
“Piss off,” the captain replied, which elicited a surprised chuckle from both Freya and the hijacker.
Pacing back and forth, the hijacker got back on the intercom: “We wanted this job done legitimately, but we simply couldn’t get it done, and especially not in the critical timeframe we needed. When this is over, you’ll all be safely released. We will also compensate you for your work, and better than that Rockhampton make-work you’ve been doing.”
That seemed to be the end of the hijacker’s speech to the crew, as he handed off the mic to another officer. Coming over to Freya and Wilson, he said, “Get us underway, please. Submerged and on a northeastern heading.”
“Where are we going?” Freya asked.
“You’ll know when I need you to know.”
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