All characters and situations are entirely fictional. © Copyright Mercian Comics, 2016.
The Return of the Lost Siren 03
The Karl Donitz was a sleek motor yacht with seductively sporty lines. Its battleship grey colouring could mistake it for a naval coastal patrol. In fact, this wasn’t too far from the truth, as it was the first nautical vessel attached to the shadowy neo-Nazi terrorist organisation, known as the Fourth Reich, who had ambitions to assemble an army of loyal fighters around the globe.
On deck, a slight man in a black bomber jacket, used binoculars pressed against his spectacles to observe the smoking wreck of ‘Birdie,’ sinking under the lapping waves. He saw the flashing sirens of a fire engine extinguishing the remains, as well as the police cordoning off the near street with barrier tape.
A hefty officer in a navel uniform slapped him on the back, “It’s over, nobody could survive that blast.”
“Not on the surface, at least,” agreed Adamski, “But Serena Rocca is an exceptionally strong swimmer – the blast of water might have blown her clear.”
“Nonetheless, as soon as Semanic returns I’ll report the mission as successful – and then we set sail for Table Bay.”
“Maybe it’s better that way, Captain,” conceded Adamski.
On entering the bridge, Captain Jacob Kruger was met by Radomir Semanic leaning on the navigation console, rhythmically, spewing plumes of cigarette smoke into the air. His black wet hair was combed straight back and wore a white polo neck jersey over the standard navy overalls; he had evidently been aboard long enough to take a shower without detection.
Semanic always spoke in a grouchy-like whisper, “Job done, Captain, time to weigh anchor and go.”
Kruger was no shrinking violet, but there’s was something unconsciously threatening about the meanness of Radomir’s disfigured face, which persuaded the stocky captain to accede to the mercenary’s instructions without question.
“We’ll get under way at once,” he replied, pausing, “Now we know you’re safely aboard.”
The captain turned the ignition key and the vessel shuddered into life. Below deck, the crew strolling through the central passage, heard the whack of a sudden impact beneath their feet, emanating from the stern. It was important enough to report to the captain, yet not so severe to deter Kruger from making the earnest departure. Once in open water of the Mediterranean Sea, the incident was quickly forgotten.
The atmosphere was relaxed at dinner. Most of the thirty strong crew jovially made conversation. Kruger sat at the foot of the table with his large bony head reflecting off the overhead strip lightings, eating faster and laughing louder than anybody else. The navy was in his blood; his paternal grandfather served as a gunner on German a battleship during the War. As a boy he was told spirited stories of his grandfather, who he eventually surpassed, by captaining a German destroyer. However, his career abruptly ended when he was exposed as a Nazi sympathizer by an informer.
Next to the captain sat Adamski. He had eaten a modest meal. The Pole cleaned his large framed glasses while he waited for the opportunity to excuse himself from the merriment; he favoured technology to company; a sickly conflation of voyeurism with remote explosions. His first victims were neighbours in Warsaw. When Adamski’s teenage crush rejected his advances, he broke into her apartment and wired a camera from her bedroom to his own room, next door. He received much gratification from covertly recording her in the sack with her strapping boyfriend. One evening, Adamski overheard his crush and her hunk make the mistake of ridiculing him over his Christian name, which he never used; Adamski was mercilessly teased at school for his first name, and ever since, he demanded people call him only by his surname. Enraged, he worked through the night to complete his first home made explosive. He placed the small device under his neighbour’s bed, and waited for her to make love to her boyfriend one last time, ensuring they went out with a bang! Unable to return home, Adamski lent his skills to opposing criminal gangs, eventually, he fled to Russia, where he became a soldier of fortune.
As darkness descended over the Med, on the deck of the Karl Donitz, Radomir Semanic lit a cigarette under the moonshine beaming through the clouds. That night he was troubled by Fadhila Zuma’s death, but not in a way any normal person would be, the psychopath’s sole remaining interest was in whether she had betrayed him. He concluded the thought was inconsequential as Zuma had served him well in life and death. Since the effects of the bomb blast in London left him with unsightly scarring on two thirds of his face and body, Fadhila was unable to fake her attraction to her once handsome devil, and he figured it fitting she should suffer a similar fate, albeit, a fatal one, by assisting him dispose of Serena Rocca.
A softly sounding thud vibrated the deck at the stern. Radomir’s catlike senses suffered no damage from his London trauma, and his experience was primed to always expect the unexpected.
He rushed to the stern to see an unconscious crewman lying there. He had obviously landed, suddenly, although in the poor light, Radomir could find no sign of injury. If it were light he wanted, he didn’t need to wait long before the whole yacht was encircled by a gulf of white flames rising from the sea. In the middle of it all, on the roof of the bridge, in a white wet suit and red mask, stood whom many would recognise as the Lost Siren.
The boat slowed to a crawl. The crew poured onto the deck. Kruger among them, clutching his captain’s hat, and peering up at the legendary figure in equal amounts of shock and awe.
“DIE ZICKE!” He exclaimed, “Rocca’s still alive – SIE VERMASSELTE, Semanic!”
“Not for long!” Radomir murmured.
Taking out his Grand Power K100 handgun from his gun holster, Semanic shot up at the figure. For someone of his talent and experience, the target was unmissable, but somehow the Siren continued to stand poised, with her hands on hips, surveying the panic below her. He shot a second time, a third, a fourth; yet to his frustration, the Lost Siren remained unharmed.
The ship’s loud speakers suddenly crackled with anger, “I AM THE LOST SIREN – BACK FROM THE DEAD – ONCE MORE TO WREAK HAVOC ON MY TORMENTORS – ONLY THOSE WHO OBEY ME WILL BE ALLOWED PASSAGE.”
“SHE MUST HAVE CONTROL OF THE BRIDGE,” shouted Kruger, “MEN, SHOOT HER DOWN!”
Machine guns fired up at the tower; to no avail.
Some deckhands started to bawl:
“THE BULLETS ARE BOUNCING RIGHT OFF HER – SHE MUST BE A SPECTRE!”
“THE LEGEND OF THE LOST SIREN IS TRUE – SHE’S GOING TO BURN US TO DEATH – JUST THE WAY HER FATE WAS SEALED, ALL THOSE YEARS AGO!”
“You need to take charge of your men, Captain – NOW,” snarled Semanic.
“You’re right,” agreed the flabbergasted captain, “Wiener, Beke – go and get her.”
Two tough looking sailors ascended up a steel ladder attached to the super structure of the yacht. The Lost Siren was awaiting their arrival to the roof. As soon as his head reached the top, Beke received a kick in the teeth off the Siren’s calf-high red boot. He stood no chance of hanging on and plunged into the murkiness of the Med.
Beke’s removal exposed Wiener clinging to the ladder with one hand and clutching a handgun in the other. In the flickering luminosity of the surrounding flames, for a fraction of a second saw the red half-masked Siren looking down upon him, before he pulled the trigger. He stopped cautiously just below the roof, about to mount an assault, over the top, when he suddenly felt weak.
“What the…” he choked, noticing a point of a small metal carved star fixed to the back of his gun hand. Seconds later, the anaesthetic off the tip of the star took hold and Wiener – like Beke before him – was lost to the darkness beneath.
Satisfied that Wiener had fallen, to her surprise, Serena Rocca turned to see Radomir Semanic staring at her on the far end of the roof. He was just standing there, pulling a rare curled grin; a smile distorted by the severe disfigurement to the right side of his face.
“I could have killed you,” he said softly.
“Why didn’t you?” asked Serena.
“I wanted to know how you escaped the bomb.”
“It was easy,” she replied, secretly administering her right gloved hand with another throwing star, “I dive like a bird.”
The star lodged into the scar tissue of Semanic’s neck, so quietly, in the glimmer of the blaze, he responded as if nothing had happened at all. He then began to laugh-a-loud.
“Such meagre weapons won’t work on me, Siren. An advantage of having severe scarring is it hardens the tissues – your presumably poisonous dart never even penetrated.”
The hitman plucked the throwing star from his grey knotted neck, “Now I shall execute you.”
He fired his K100, just as the Lost Siren body flipped towards him. Exceptional prowess, or simply good fortune, saw the shot pass underneath her midriff and crack a transparent protective shield; a defence she had erected to dupe the crew into believing she was immortal. Semanic claimed not to have felt the throwing star in his neck, but there was no disguising the pain he endured when the stud of the Lost Siren’s high heeled boot punctured the underbelly of his jaw.
“AAAHHH!” cried Radomir, spurting blood, as he toppled backwards, the way he came, sliding down the front outward curve of the boat and then tumbling off on to the bow deck.
From the top of the ladders, Adamski appeared to have been watching the fight. He was holding out a cell phone and captured the confrontation on video.
“You haven’t lost your edge, Serena,” he said, hoping he wasn’t her next target, “You’ve passed the test.”
“What test?” she sternly inquired.
Adamski passed her the phone, “Find out for yourself?”
“This better not be a trick, Adamski,” she warned, taking the phone off him, “Who is this?”
“Good to talk to you again, Miss Rocca, this is Marat Osinov. When you deserted the Fourth Reich, we needed to know whether it was worth persuading you to stay, so my brother and I arranged a duel between our two most lethal operatives – congratulations, you’ve won.”
Serena scoffed, “You try to kill me and then think I will come back?”
“I have no doubt you will come back,” Osinov confidently predicted, “A true warrior can’t resist a second chance.”
“What are you saying, Osinov? I dislike cheap talk.”
“At this moment in time, I’m awaiting a very special shipment. We have captured a mutual adversary – none other than Wonder Woman. She’s on her way to us, here in South Africa, from the far reaches of the Antarctic Peninsula. She’s been put into stasis for the transportation but, no doubt, I shall need my best operatives to take care of her when the super heroine awakens. I want you to personally take charge of her security on arrival.”
The offer was too good to refuse, “On extra one condition, the demise of Wonder Woman will be my final mission?”
“Ahh, once we know her secrets, she is useless to us and shall be sentenced to death – how that is done will be your last act …” the line went dead.
“It looks as if I’m to stay for this voyage, after all, Adamski,” Serena informed.
“The fight is over?”
“That is so – now let’s get underway,” she said, “The flames are caused by leaking fuel and will soon extinguish.”
Adamski removed his oversized spectacles and began to clean them, in a smug display of prior knowledge, “How about your submarine pod that is currently magnetically attached to the stern of this vessel?”
Rocca was unmoved by his intelligence, “Have the captain raise it by crane when I surface.”
Adamski mused, “Osinov must have been as persuasive as the devil to halt your counter-attack?”
“The right revenge is the best revenge,” asserted the Lost Siren, before diving off the roof of the Karl Donitz into the dark depths of the sea.
THANKS FOR READING!
STORY BY DECEIVER