Post

Task Force “Helix”
330 Kilometres Southeast of Puerto Rico
12th of May 2022
01:59AM

A Dim blue light hangs over the Scinfaxi’s control room, aside from the occasional mumble – the crew is silent. If it weren’t for the uniforms, the Scinfaxi could be mistaken for an Erusean boat, 4 of every 5 crew members are of Erusean descent; and though speaking is seldom, its always done in French. The nostalgia in the Scinfaxi’s pressure hull is palpable, many of the submariners have hung old Erusean flags in their crew quarters. Much to the distaste of some on board.

The control room is suddenly awoken by a shrill electronic ringtone, Vice-Admiral Labarthe quickly grasps the handset.

Labarthe: “Go ahead.”

PM Gauthier: “Surface immediately, go ahead with protocol.”

Labarthe: “Understood.”

Labarthe hangs up and slings his black leather coat over his shoulders, making his way to the front of the control room. “Lights!” he barks, startling the crew; suddenly the blueish darkness gives way to an astringent bright red. The rest of the control room rises to listen to their captain. “The time has come; I have just received the order to surface. We have no way of knowing what other vessels are in the area. Although its unlikely we’ll be spotted, I want every man at his station; we have strict orders to torpedo anything within detection range. Civilian or military.” The crew scuttles to their positions and while Labarthe paces the control room.

Labarthe: “Lieutenant Arnault, flood tubes 3, 4 and 6!”

Arnault: “Oui Amiral!”

Labarthe: “Caziot, I want a single sonar ping right now!”

Caziot: “Oui Amiral!”

An almost deafening sonar pulse rings out across the pressure hull, everyone aboard waits in anticipation for an echo. Sure enough, an echo sounds back from U-129, but then so does another. And much too quickly for comfort. “Damn it that’s close! Bearing, Caziot!?” the sonar technician consults his display and replies “just east of us Amiral! 600 meters!”

Captain Rose pulls Labarthe aside.

Rose: “Admiral, I advise that we wait – if we surface now, we will surely be spotted. What if its military?”

Labarthe: “We have direct orders Henri; we must surface now and deal with the witness. Excuse me. Caziot! Radio U-129 tell them to prepare for engagement!”

Rose: “Admiral, wait. What if that’s a Britannian destroyer?! We’ll be torn to shreds by depth charges if we’re lucky, and tried for treason if we survive. This could start a war.”

Labarthe: “Captain, I’m ordering you to stand down – we must surface now, we’ve already broken silence with our sonar. If that really is a destroyer up there, it’s already too late. Say a prayer and prepare for surfacing.”

Labarthe pats the captain on the back and moves back to the front of the busy control room. “Frossard! Set depth, zero feet!” he shouts, “Oui Amiral!” replies the helmsman. The submarine begins to groan and hum as an alarm siren sounds out across the pressure hull.

Labarthe leaves the control room and heads towards the crew quarters, he turns into the second cabin on his left. “Admiral, I heard the sonar, do we have company?” says a young sailor while dressing into his surface uniform. His name is Sascha Grissot, at 22 years old he was recruited by the army’s elite ‘huntsman corps’, a special forces outfit consisting of the army’s very best marksmen. His skill and Descent from the Erusean Aristocracy is what landed him on the Scinfaxi. Labarthe leans against the doorway “Yes, something is waiting for us up there. Its small – but could be military. Get your rifle and bring a raincoat, I need you with me on the conning tower.” Labarthe turns and heads for the sail deck. “Oui Amiral!” belts the young marksman into the corridor as he readies his equipment.

The dark ocean begins to stir and undulate, angry white foam erupts from the sea.

Scinfaxi emerges.

The weary trawler captain sets his binoculars down.

“My god.”