Chapter 17 Bullseye
Otter fishing trawlers bobbed and weaved on the Paraíba do Sul River. The river was a cesspool of industrial waste, sewage, and agricultural run-off, reeking of rotting fish and chemicals. Rio de Janeiro's favelas glowed against the moon's shadow, like a city of light on the dark hillsides above the river. The people who inhabited there were poor and struggling, but they made the most of what they had in the slums. They decorated their corrugated, sheeted houses with colorful murals and flags, creating a vibrant community amid poverty.
Unbeknownst to them, their situation was about to drastically deteriorate.
A silent phantom glided unnoticed through the dark depths. Its smooth contours cut underneath the waves like a knife through butter.
Its target: the Guandu Water Treatment Plant, the largest in Latin America and the source of drinking water for over 12 million people in Rio de Janeiro's Metropolitan Region.
The submarines used for Latin America were 8-meter-long Triton autonomous underwater vehicles equipped with echolocation, ultrasonic imaging, and graphene battery packs. Each carried six torpedo tubes designed to Gulag's specifications, with the help of the engineers, of course.
In the darkened control room above the docks. Royal Chief of Staff Robinson and his engineers watched infrared maps unfold on screens. Red dots covered the maps in dense clusters, each representing the water treatment plants. Black dots represented the submarines closing in like an echoing threat of impending doom.
The coordinates on the map were counting down, each second bringing the submarines closer to their targets.
The impressive video wall came alive in glitchy static in a mesmerizing spectacle, unraveling live video feeds from each remote submarine's cameras. Sprawling networks of concrete and steel piping sprouted from the foundations of a large complex.
"Submarine 81 is now approaching the Guandu Water Treatment Plant," one of the engineers said, with eyes on the coordinates.
"The Guandu Water Treatment Plant. Where is that?" Robinson asked.
"That's the largest water treatment plant in Rio de Janeiro. Come to think of it, it's the largest water treatment plant in Latin America," the engineer explained.
"We also have a full contingent targeting the more remote areas heading through the Amazon."
Loud, audible beeps from the red hotspots started to reverberate through the engineering console as the heat signatures of the submarines started reaching their final destinations, etching themselves onto the infrared map.
The camera's sensors picked up new footage of different underground complexes, ranging from the Indian Ocean to the South Pacific and beyond. Each submarine drone was primed and ready to deploy the virus, like a symphony of destruction. Vast labyrinths of pumps and aquifers latticed across the screens.
The engineers studied the footage, trying to make sense of it.
"Targets in Japan and Germany have been acquired," one of the engineers shouted.
"We have the Middle East. We have the full fleet locked in around our targets," a third engineer called out.
Robinson watched the footage expressionless. Screw Gulag, he thought. Screw the Royal family. A weapon of mass destruction was about to be unleashed. There was no turning back. Millions of people will soon be dead. He was also complicit; how the hell did he end up in this position?
Robinson approached the communications console where Branston, the Chief Information Systems Technician, was stationed.
"Branston, do we have an open line to Balmoral Castle? We have an audience with the King due."
"Affirmative, sir, we have an open line ready to go live."
"Do it," Robinson said.
Branston worked his magic. A moment later, the signal began to scramble to Balmoral Castle. With a live feed appearing on the screen. It portrayed the King, the Prime Minister, and Roland Blackwell sitting on tartan sofas around a snug log fire. A corgi was curled up on the king's lap.
"Ah, good evening, Robinson. Are we ready for launch?"
"Yes, Your Majesty, the submarines are in position. The payload is ready for deployment."
"Excellent," said the king.
"Then let us watch history in the making."
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
"Prime Minister, Mr. Blackwell, are you ready?" Robinson asked.
"Good to see you, Robinson. We have the popcorn at the ready to watch the show."
Blackwell giggled. "This is going to be good."
The king petted the corgi as it yelped.
"Indeed, let us begin."
Beads of sweat dripped upon Robinson’s face amid the silence, broken only by the muffled sounds of churning water and echoing sonar pings. The submarines encircled the perimeter of their targets. A glowing haze penetrated the depths. Every vantage point on the screen had a water treatment plant honed in aiming like a dart.
Robinson wrapped a pen on the console.
"Ok, let's do it. Authenticate the order."
The engineers worked quickly, their fingers flying over the keyboards. A little while later, they looked up at Robinson.
"All the codes match," one of the engineers said.
"We can proceed with the launch procedure."
Doubts clawed at Robinson like fierce adversaries.
"Get the launch key."
Two senior officers stepped forward and inserted their keys into the authentication slots on their control consoles. The countdown began, with its progress displayed on a large screen in the control room.
"10...9...8...7..."
Like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. Everyone held their breath, waiting for the countdown to reach zero.
"6...5...4...3..."
Worldwide, all the submarine's ballast tanks opened. Torpedo tubes locked into position in a synchronized mechanical maneuver of impending movements. The king threw his corgi over the sofa in nervous excitement. Prime Minister Ironheart almost choked on her popcorn while squeezing Roland Blackwell's knee.
"2...1...0..."
"We have a tipping point," Branston said.
Artificial fish drones discharged from their torpedo tubes with a casual puff. Propelled forward, shoaling together in perfect unison. They aligned themselves with the current, flowing into the dark intake gates of the treatment plants. They were small and streamlined, made of PEG hydrogel composites containing vanadium redox flow batteries, giving them a metallic sheen.
Their kidney-shaped biopolymers gracefully mimicked the way real fish moved through the water, their eyes glowing red like two tiny embers in the dark.
The nano drones navigated through the filtration systems unseen, evading debris screens and hydro traps. Emerging into the cleansed reservoirs.
Once infiltration was complete. The fish split off and began their viral missions, swimming to junctions and pressure valves within the sprawling complexes, ready to release their viral payloads of Ferox 13, now destined to nourish the entire world metropolis.
"Is that it?" The king mused.
"I was expecting something a little more dramatic."
"But you have got to hand it to Gulag; in a way, it is quite brilliant. I would love to have him at Mi6. Aurilor, can we have some of that tech?"
"Roland you know we don't have the budget for that. And anyway, where is Gulag?"
The king rolled his eyes. "I have no idea; you know what he is like, but his yield has been exceptional. I have been thinking of giving him Robinson’s role."
The engineers in the control room squirmed uncomfortably as the live conversation from Balormal enveloped the airwaves.
"Sorry, Robinson, forgive my red herring; I forgot you were there. I will send you a nice chilled bottle of Grey Goose."
"Thank you, your Majesty; that is so kind of you."
Robinson checked in with the coordinates at Branston Station.
"Is it all finished, Branston?"
"Affirmative. We have a full strike rate."
"OK, bring them home. And turn off the remote cameras."
"Do you want the feed from Balmoral kept live?"
"Yeah, just for now," Robinson said.
Branston switched off the video feed from the remote cameras of the submarines, knowing that they were now on their long voyage back to the UK.
The live feed from Balmoral Castle crackled to life in full resolution—the King, Aurelia Ironheart, and Roland Blackwell appeared on the screen. The King was beaming, raising a glass of champagne in the air.
"To a job well done."
The Prime Minister and Roland Blackwell clinked their glasses against the King's, and they all took a glug. Then the King turned to the engineers in the control room.
"You've all done an excellent job—Britain at its best. That is what it is."
"I agree," said the Prime Minister.
"I am giving you all two weeks' paid holiday. And I will see to it that you all receive a very generous bonus. That includes you, Robinson; well done," said the king to a round of applause, except from Robinson.
They raised their glasses again, and then they exited the frame.
The engineers in the control room were left alone with their thoughts when the screens went black. They had just contributed to the spread of a new virus, and they realized there was no turning back now.
Robinson took his coat in hand and proceeded to the exit door.
"Have a drink on me, everybody; I think I am going to be sick."
The artificial fish drones had done their job, with one more final sting in their tails. They began to explode silently, powdering like the sand at the bottom of the ocean. Dispersing spore-like viral particles that circulated slowly through the waters. Eventually, the particles would attach themselves to microplastics and other particulate matter.
They had unleashed the Ferox 13 virus on the world, and the damage was done.
The only question now was, how would humanity respond?"