Chapter 2
Cutter was already going over the maps of the anomaly site when Abby and Connor finally arrived in the briefing room. He'd been comparing charts and sonar soundings and even highly classified Royal Navy maps for the past half hour and beginning to think that if he looked at another sheet of white paper with black lines on it, those lines might just get up and start dancing right in front of him.
"Where have you two been?" Cutter snapped as the door swung shut behind Abby.
"Er, Yemen," Connor replied, slightly taken aback. "Although not both of us, obviously," he added with a grin.
"We got stuck in traffic," Abby sighed, ignoring Connor and walking over to look at the maps. "What have we got?"
"Anomaly out in the North Sea," Cutter explained. "At lease, that's where I've been told it is: I can't make head nor tale of these!"
"Yes, that is why we employ experts in underwater cartography, Professor Cutter."
The three glanced round to see Lester walking over to them, followed by Jenny and a dark haired man wearing a pale cream rugby shirt and dark trousers: the sort of thing a father might wear when taking his kids to the park. He even had the arms of a sweater tied loosely around his neck.
"Professor Nick Cutter, Abby Maitland, Connor Temple," Jenny stated, raising a hand towards each of the three in turn and pointing them out to the newcomer. "Nick, Abby, Conor: this is Captain James Beckett."
"Becker, actually," Becker cut in with crisp, clear cut tones, leaning forward to shake hands with Cutter and the others. "Typo on the internal memo: sorry about that."
"Captain Becker will be in charge of all military based operations," Lester drawled lazily, leading the way to the large, oval table in the centre of the room. The rest of the group followed him and took their seats. "He comes highly recommended from sources I'd rather not disclose even if you have signed the Official Secrets Act. Therefore, Professor Cutter, you will listen to him. While Ms Lewis has been busily rounding you all up and misreading her memos, Captain Becker and I have been organising our existing troops and making explorations of the anomaly site. So far we have one team based on a research vessel anchored a safe distance from the site and another team forming a base at Seahouses Harbour under the guise of sailing club officials considering the harbour for use in a competition. Captain Becker here has just come from there with the latest reports from our team on the research boat."
Finally sitting down, Lester waved a hand at Becker, who got to his feet and plugged a pen drive into a nearby computer. A series of images flicked up on the interactive whiteboard as he moved through the files to the presentation he wanted. He double clicked the icon and a large map of the south-western corner of the British Isles appeared, centering on the stretch of water between England and the continental coast from northern France to Holland. In the centre of the map was a yellow pin-like marker.
"This, as I hope you all can see," Becker began, "is the stretch of water where the North Sea meets the Channel. In the centre is a fishing area known as Dogger Bank. The area in and around the Dogger Bank is primarily a massive sandbank: its all fairly flat and smooth. Anything that wasn't before has been made that way by the constant use of beam trawls by the fisheries industry. Something, however, snagged one of those beam trawls two days ago and pulled it under. There was no loss of life: the crew managed to escape on their life raft only to watch their expensive boat and catch being dragged off in the opposite direction. We sent a crew out to investigate the area and, sure enough, it picked up an anomaly."
"I've checked the anomaly detector," Cutter interjected, "It's not picking up anything."
"That may be because the anomaly itself is out of range," Becker suggested, "or it may be interference from other, continental radio stations: we're not sure yet. We do, however, know exactly where the anomaly is and, more interestingly, exactly how large it is."
Becker pointed to the pin marker with his cursor and double clicked. A set of co-ordinates appeared on the screen.
"Latitude: 55°32'1.35"N. Longitude: 3°17'1.01"E." Becker read out from the screen. "But if that doesn't help you any, take a look at this."
Becker clicked another button and the screen behind the pin marker changed to show a grey line curving round by the anomaly site, joined seconds later by a few other grey lines from the direction of Germany and Denmark.
"Something to make this anomaly a little more interesting, ladies and gentlemen," Lester piped up, rising from his chair. "It's in Dutch waters."
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"How can the anomaly be in Dutch waters when it's this far north?" Abby asked as the small group settled themselves in the ARC's brand new private jet.
"It's more about fishing territoties than anything else," Cutter explained. " They're called Exclusive Economic Zones, or EEZs. Under the law of the sea, an Exclusive Economic Zone is a seazone over which a state has special rights over the exploration and use of marine resources. The North Sea has been parcelled up into these zones. While Britian gets a sizeable chunk, because we've got the longest stretch of coastline bordering it, it only goes out so far. Territorial waters normally extend something like twelve nautical miles. EEZs extend up to 200 nautical miles. The anomaly is near the meeting point of four EEZs: Britain, Holland, Germany and Denmark. According to the data, it's just within the Dutch section."
"But if they're not territorial waters, then what's the problem?"
"EEZs give exclusive fishing and research rights to their country. Not only are we investigating the disappearece of one of our fishing vessels in their waters, we're doing it in a research boat under the cover of marine biologists. If the Dutch government were to find out about us, it would probably make Lester's job more difficult and ours non-existant, at least this time round."
The group lapsed into silence, conversation killed by the sound of the jet's engines firing up and the forces that pushed them back against their seats as the plane took off. It wasn't until they were in the air and flying at a steady speed that speech once again became a possibility.
"So how's Professor Sanderson these days?" Cutter asked Connor, who was looking more than a little pale.
"Oh, you know," Connor swallowed, nervously, "sandy."
"Are you okay?"
"Fine, I'm fine," Connor replied, focusing distinctly on the back of the chair in front of him, "Just not a big fan of flying: that's all."
Cutter nodded, then frowned.
"How did you get back from Yemen so quickly, Connor?"
"Military jet: flew rea-lly fast."
"Not having a good day then."
"You could say that."
"You're okay with boats though."
"Boats are fine. Not a problem. Nice gentle boat trip: easy."
After half an hour of stilted conversation and an attempt at I-Spy, the jet began to manoeuvre into its final descent. Another half hour and the team were seated uncomfortably in a muddy people carrier heading for the seaside town of Seahouses. The closer they got to the coast, the more apparent it became that a nice gentle boat trip was completely out of the question.
XXXX
"Position holding, Captain."
Captain Thomas Johnson glared at the weather fronts rolling across his monitor. He was an old hand at storms, but that didn't mean he welcomed them. He'd heard some of the younger crew members joke that a storm would make their job more interesting, but he himself had seen far too many vessels disappear at sea to underestimate the power of nature.
"Weigh anchor," he barked at the other crewmen in the helm.
"Our orders are to maintain our position at the anomaly site, Captain Johnson," a military clad individual countered.
"I am aware of that, Sergeant," Johnson replied curtly. "I am also aware of the fact that this storm will blow us off course as soon as we raise our anchor. However, I prefer having to make a return trip from a new position to maintaining our current one some fifteen fathoms lower than we are right now!"
Turning to a midshipman who had paused when the sergeant spoke out, Johnson nodded his head and watched the midshipman dart off to give the order out on deck. The ship lurched as its anchor came free, giving the growing storm free rein on the vessel.
"Maintain analysis of the anomaly as long as possible," the sergeant ordered his small group of military personnel. The ship lurched again and he grabbed hold of a chair to steady himself.
"I suggest you strap yourself into that, sergeant," Captain Johnson shouted over the increasing gale. "This equipment is highly sensitive to stumbling soldiers!"
XXXX
"What do you mean they're heading back?" Lester shouted irritably. "They were ordered to stay at the anomaly site!"
The radio operator held out a slip of paper in explanation. "Latest message from Captain Johnson just stated that the research vessel had been hit by a severe storm and was returning to base, sir."
Lester snatched the paper petulantly and stormed out of the cabin. Not only had the harbour master ordered all vessels to remain in port, but now his only eyes and ears out at the actual site were being forced back to land too. Lester glared at the white-tipped waves washing the harbour wall opposite. It was just like the thing for the British weather to take a turn for the worst just when he needed it to be calm. It was probably a bank holiday weekend.
XXXX
"Let me see that tidal chart again?" Nick Cutter once again found himself trying to make sense of marine data. This time, though, he was sure something was definitely not quite right. He stared at the computer screen over the operators shoulder, as if willing the answer to suddenly pop up into view like one of those irritating internet sites that tried to sell you junk.
"What are you looking at?" Jenny asked, her heels clicking on the varnished floor.
"These are the water levels for high and low tides in this area," Nick replied, raising a finger to point out part of the information on the screen in more detail. "This bit shows the levels for right here: Seahouses harbour. Does anything look odd to you?"
"Not as such, no," Jenny murmured. She glanced out of the window, then back to the computer screen. "Although..."
"What?" Cutter asked, looking round at her.
"According to this, we should be at low tide just now: look at the times."
"And that's significant because?"
"Just look at the water level," Jenny pointed out of the window to a marker on the harbour wall opposite them. "We're nearly at the high tide mark. We should be nowhere near that."
"Couldn't that just be the storm?"
"Not to that extent, no," Jenny shook her head. "Perhaps, if the wind was westerly, it would be higher than it should, but look at the flags out there: they're pointing west, not east. The water should be being blown back out to sea. Instead it seems to be coming in regardless."
"Well, what does that mean?" Abby asked, coming over to join Nick and Jenny at the computer.
"It means the water level's rising," Cutter replied.
"It can't rise that much: it's the North Sea!" Connor cut in in disbelief.
"Of course it can rise, Connor: it's a basin, just like the canal." Cutter snapped. "It's just much bigger."
"But this is at low tide, with an easterly wind," Jenny said slowly, making sure she had everyone's attention. "What happens when the tide turns, and the wind slows down?"