There were nearly one hundred of them. All men, most weathered by years of exposure to a mixture of sun and salt water. They milled around the large assembly room, some sat at tables and downed drinks that were suspiciously alcoholic for this time of day. Others stood in groups, muttering in hushed tones. The major topic of conversation was unquestionably Sargossa’s stuttering start to the World Cup qualifiers. The pervious evening’s scrappy win in Lymantatia had done little to exorcise memories of the embarrassing home defeat to Osarius one round earlier. Improvement was needed. Not that they’d be around for the next fixture. Several weeks trawling the chilly seas off to the north loomed. Although, thought Roberto, after a fortnight of enjoying the grubby port city of Cholulá’s dubious charms the ocean would be a welcome sight.
As Roberto took in the room he couldn’t help but notice a number of new faces. Three in particular caught his attention, they were sat in a corner together, deep in conversation. An air of menace surrounded them. No, Roberto wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of any of them. A company man of twelve years Roberto Carda had started life as a netsman on the Eagle Strait run before advancing to captain his own boat and then, four years ago, his own flotilla. Soon he and his four trawlers would be drifting their nets through the cold tranquillity of the Sea of Sibir.
He was interrupted from his reverie by the appearance of a suited figure who made his way to the front of the room.
“Someone get the lights.” He said. He waited for the room to darkening before hitting a button on a projector which throw out a glowing image onto the wall behind him. Another button changed the image to a colour coded chart. “And here, gentlemen, are your target areas and quota information. You know the drill.”
Roberto scanned an expert eye down the list. No, that couldn’t be right. He approached the suit who was busily typing something into an iphone. “Um, Señor Peña?”
“Ah, Roberto.” Peña smiled. “What can I do for you?”
“You’ve got my flotilla trawling the San Vega fields to the east. I thought they were embargoed. Seeing as how they straddle Polarian territorial waters and all.”
“Apparently there’s been some talks between the respective Trade Ministries. I don’t know, I don’t follow politics. But we received confirmation from the Ministry three days ago. Some new fella. Talking of new fellas, we’ve had some late no shows on your crew.”
“Oh, really?” Roberto couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice. His crew were probably the company’s most reliable. “Who?”
“Sanchez and Geraldo were in a car accident last night. Nothing too serious but they’re a bit banged up. An another guy, I forget his name, Diaz I think. He came down with a nasty virus. Fortunately we managed to dig out some last minute replacements. Those three over there.”
He pointed. Roberto didn’t need to turn to know exactly what trio he was pointing at. “Marvellous.”
* * * * * * * * * *
Meanwhile,
“No.”
Normally such a short response from President Emparán demanded no further follow up but Adriana persisted. She was his executive assistant and one of the very few people who could safely test the Sargossan leader’s patience.
“They’re building their new superhub practically on our doorstep. Some kind of response will be expected. Let me draft a statement at least . . .”
He held up a hand to stop her.
“There’s no need. I’ll be given no statement.” He held up a hand again to stifle another outburst. “Oh they’ll be a response. Just not yet.”
“So no draft statement?”
“No. But you can get me Admiral Andrada at Central Command. Tell him I’d like to see him in my office this afternoon. I need to sign off on those naval manoeuvres.”
“Yes sir.” She turned away.
“One other thing. His department have been conducting certain blockade simulations. I’d like to see the results.”
