We Float Upon a Painted Sea Read Free Page A

are not fishermen.”
    “Anyway, the fishing industry collapsed since our new fracking friends moved into the area, so what else are they to do apart from picking up the odd crab?” The Commandant frowned and said,
    “As long as that's all they are doing. I heard reports that some fishermen have been unloading the odd crate of Poitín with their catch of the day.” 
    “I wouldn't know about that, but as I said, times are tough with subsistence fishing since aquaculture squeezed them out the market.”
    “Ok Mac, if I wanted a lecture on the fishing industry, I’d call someone at the Marine Conservation Alliance.”
    “The MCA got shut down years ago Saul, or didn’t you hear?” The Commandant looked at the antique clock hanging on the wall.
    “I know, I was just saying. Can you get on with your updates?”
    “Aye, if you like, but I keep getting the feeling I’m repeating myself here.” The Commandant sighed,
    “I don’t like virtual presence technology. I don’t feel comfortable communicating with a collection of shape-shifting nano-bots. I like it face to face.”
    “Well, that’s true. All digital data is analysed by someone these days, but as long as you have nothing to hide, then what’s the problem right?” said McIntyre sarcastically. The Commandant replied tartly,
    “Let’s not revisit that old chestnut. I wanted to see you anyway.”
    “Why?”
    “You’re family. You’re married to my sister.”
    “We’re divorced Saul, or have you forgotten?”
    “We don’t recognise the concept of divorce, but we’ll talk about what you did to my sister another time. Continue with the updates.”
    “As I said to your 3D projection, we were unable to shed any light onto why so many naval vessels were present in that area. Usually, we are given prior warning if there’s going to be any exercises, but not this time. The satellites are down and the Lidar surveillance system needs calibrated, but strangest of all, the MoDs have instated a no-go zone with a forty mile radius of St Kilda. I was put through to someone called Myron, a big MoDs cheese I believe. He was a cagey bastard, Saul.”
    “Mac, I don’t mind you calling me by my first name in private, as we are here,” the Commandant waved his hand as if to introduce the room, “but for future reference, please address me as Sir when we are in company. You do understand the chain of command?”
    “Aye, anyway, Saul, as I said earlier, Myron at the MoDs said there were a few technical hitches with the satellites thermal imaging capabilities and we should sit tight until they come back online. He said MoDs will be coordinating search and rescue operations for now. I told him he was full of shite and that there was no way this wave was a result of a fracking tremor, and if it was, the Coast Guard, and not the Military would be leading search and rescue. I asked him what he was hiding.”
    “What did he say?”
    “He said to follow orders or he would pull some strings and I would be cleaning out public toilets back in Glasgow.”
    “And what did you say to that?”
    “I might have called him a wee piss weasel, but I couldn’t confirm that.” The Commandant brought his fist down on the desk.
    “This isn’t normal protocol Rob," he wailed, “this Myron boy is keeping the Coastguard out of the loop. Nothing ever happens out here in this backwater, and now we have a natural disaster, we’re treated like lepers and told to stay away.” McIntyre expanded the 3D map of St Kilda to display more of the British Isles and beyond. He pointed to the fault line in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean stretching north to Iceland and said,
    “It’s obviously not a natural disaster Saul. I mean, there’s no history of natural seismic activity in the Outer Hebrides. There is a fault line running the mid-Atlantic ridge but no plate boundary subduction zones. It’s likely to be related to shale extraction on an existing stressed fault line, or possibly a