The Paraíba do Sul River was a cesspool of industrial waste, sewage, and agricultural run-off, reeking of rotting fish—still, Otter fishing trawlers fished there. Above the river, Rio de Janeiro’s favelas glowed, like a city of light on the hillsides. The people who inhabited the slums made the most of what they had. They decorated their corrugated, sheeted houses with colorful murals and flags, creating a vibrant community. Unbeknownst to them, their situation was about to drastically deteriorate. A silent phantom glided unnoticed through the 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. Above the docks Royal Chief of Staff Robinson and his engineers watched infrared maps unfold on screens in the control room. 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 impressive video wall came alive in glitchy static, 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’s 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.”
Audible beeps from the red hotspots reverberated through the engineering console as heat signatures from submarines started reaching their final destinations, etching themselves onto infrared maps. The camera’s sensors picked up new footage of different underground complexes, ranging from the Indian Ocean to the South Pacific and beyond. A virus was about to be unleashed like a symphony of destruction. One of the engineers observed a vast labyrinth of pumps and aquifers latticing across his screen.
“Targets in Japan and Germany have been acquired!”
“We have the Middle East. Full fleet is locked in!” a third shouted.
Officer Branston. The dock’s Chief Communications officer was stationed at his console when Robinson walked over. “Do we have a direct communication line setup for Balmoral?”
“Affirmative. We’re good to go!”
“Spin it up.”
When Branston worked his magic, a screen de-scrambled; latching on to a zoom call, where Roland Blackwell, the Prime Minister, and the king were all sitting around a snug log fire on tartan sofas. The king had his corgi on his lap.
“Mmm! Good evening, Robinson. Are we ready for launch?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. The payloads are ready for deployment.”
“Excellent,” said the king. “Then let us watch history in the making.”
“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 perimeters—a glowing haze penetrating the depths. Screens had water treatment plants ready to be honed in on like laser-targeted bulls-eyes. Robinson wrapped a pen on the console.
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“Ok, let’s do it. Authenticate the order.”
The engineers worked it; fingers flying over 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.”
“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 tipping point,” said Branston.
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 the 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? What an anticlimax!” 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. Aurelia, 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's 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 Balmoral enveloped the airwaves.
“Sorry, Robinson, forgive my manners; I forgot you were there. I will send you a nice chilled bottle of something special to drown your sorrows.”
“Thank you, your Majesty; that is so kind of you.”
Robinson checked in with the coordinates at Branston’s 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, enlarge it, just for now,” Robinson instructed.
Branston ended the sub-feed, the operation was voyaging back to the UK as a success. The screen flickered to life with a secure video conference. The King, a picture of regal satisfaction, raised a glass of champagne in a victorious salute.
“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. It's Britain at its best. That’s 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!”
Robinson, simply nodded, his expression unchanged. The engineers had to deal with their thoughts when the screens elapsed. They had just contributed to the spread of a new virus; realizing there was no turning back now. Robinson took his coat, proceeding 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 attached to microplastics and other particulate matter. The damage was done. The only question now was, how would humanity respond?
