Author Topic: "Tyrant Under the Sea"  (Read 1290 times)


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"Tyrant Under the Sea"
« on: March 10, 2010, 03:22:47 PM »

[This is part of a vignette series I'm doing.
Instead of full length stories, I will be writing scenes from various uncompleted works.
I may return to these later on to write more excerpts.]

"Tyrant Under the Sea"
Flying low above the water and islands of the Pacific Ocean, a Sea-Plane swooped up and over several rock patterns as it tried to stay as close to the water as possible.  It was a small aircraft, with a crew of two.  The pilot, a Canuck going by the name Argyle, was an experienced flyer that had lead his flight squadron through the last great war.  The other passenger was Scottish action hero Morris, a man that always seemed to have trouble following at his tail.  Two days ago, he was relaxing on a beach when his old friend blocked his sunlight and discussed business revolving around their current employer, Colonel Starling.  The English officer had a habit of interrupting Morris’ holidays.  Maybe he should stop telling them where he was going.

The plane slowly descended towards the water, hitting the surface with a slight nudge that nearly caught Morris off balance.  He had been standing in the cargo bay of the aircraft, organising the things he’d need for the day trip currently planned for him.  With the air vehicle gliding across calm waters, Argyle switched the engine off and turned around.  “Five hours ago, someone spotted a submarine down here.”

“A submarine?  What’s so special about a submarine?”

“Well, it’s a boat that can go underwater.”

“I ken what a submarine is.  Why are we out here chasing one?”

“Because,”  The Canadian began, his chin resting on the leather head-rest of his seat, looking at the man in the tight white t-shirt and khaki trousers.  “It was a Soviet sub, and there ain’t a Russian naval base around here for thousands of miles.”

The Scottish soldier tilted his head up as he tied his boots.  “Maybe it got lost.  You know, took a wrong turn at Alburquerque.”

“What, and went back home the long way?”

“Aye,” nodded Morris.

Argyle sniggered, “Well, maybe so.  But the same guys that saw this thing told us there’s a little island just up ahead that this submarine stopped at.  Been there ever since.”

Morris sighed, looking towards the island.  It wasn’t the largest slab of land around these parts, but its shape was reminiscant of a crescent moon rather than your standard, oval desert island.  It was around half-a-mile in length, with a small opening that stopped it short of being a complete circle.  The C-shape allowed the submarine to disappear in to the centre body of water, while the tall walls of cliffs and rocks prevented anyone from looking in from a distance.  People like Morris, who had no idea what to expect when he got closer.  However, through the narrow scopes of the binoculars, Morris could pick out at least two-dozen Soviet sailors equipped and ready to scare away anyone that came close.

“And you want me to swim over there, avoid the guards, knock on the submarine hatch and go ‘Hi there mister Russian Captain, sir.  Can I see your hall pass?”

The Canadian flicked at a few buttons and switches on the dashboard, and although the aircraft didn’t appear to be responding to the commands right away, the rear of the vehicle soon began opening up to allow access to the deep waters below.  The recently-inflated zodiac boat was kicked down the ramp and floated gently in the ocean, waiting to be released from the rope.  “I wish it was that easy, Morris.  But Starling wants you to climb aboard, and find any sheets of paper that’ll tell you why it’s here.  After that, you can tell all the jokes you want while you’re swimming away with what he wants.”

“Oh brilliant, Argyle.  And how am I going to get in to the submarine in the first place?  Put on a dodgy Polish accent and flirt my way on board?”

Lowering his eyebrows, the Canadian tilted his head slightly.  “Why Polish?”

“I cannae do a Russian one.”

“Let’s hear it.”

It was Morris’ turn to tilt his head and frown.  “Hear what?”

“The accent.”


“Yeah, come on.”

“No.  I’m not putting on a stupid voice to get in the sub.”  Climbing over a couple of boxes, the Scottish soldier picked up the radio receiver from the control panel and hovered his finger over the buttons.  “How do I work this?”  He had already begun pushing buttons when his hand was flicked away.

“Stop that.”  Warned the Canadian.

“I’m trying to phone Starling.  I wanna speak to him.  He'll ken what to do.”  Once again, the Scot was nearly breaking the thing with his random selecting of switches.  Argyle shook his head and brought the device to life.  Lights and motors begun to hum, and soon, Morris was punching in the radio frequency of Starling’s headquarters back home in England.

“Is it ringing?”  Asked Argyle, with sarcasm.

“It’s not a telephone.  It’s a radio.  It doesn’t ring.  It makes a stupid static noise until the person you’re wanting to talk to decides to press that little button on own his radio, and speaks.  And no, he’s not picking up.  Probably off having tea with the Queen – oh, Colonel Starling.”  Morris nodded, rolling his eyes.  “Just the man I was looking for.”  The Colonel’s voice took him by surprise.  “It’s this submarine business.  We’re having problems.  We chapped on the door, but no one was home.  And breaking in to a submarine isnae like breaking in to a car.”

The Englishman sounded like he should have been one of those officers sitting a million miles away from the front lines of WW1, giving orders without even seeing the battlefield, twiddling his moustach, gazing at an outdated map with town names from Roman times.  “Well Morris, there’s only one way I can think of, that’ll get you on that ship.”

“Fire away, Colonel.”

“Put on your dodgy Polish accent and flirt your way on board...”
« Last Edit: March 14, 2014, 11:57:39 PM by Lord Palatine »


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