"And now the shipping forecast, issued by the Met Office on behalf of the Maritime Coastguard Agency at 05:05. Thames, Dover..." said a radio broadcast as the small fishing boat sailed across the ocean.
A young man, Ben, wearing a yellow oilskin coat and matching hat opened the door to the wheelhouse and stumbled inside, wiping the side of his mouth and breathing heavily. An older man, Vince, looked around at him as he stumbled in.
"Go on, son, get it up. Better out than in," Vince called to Ben with a cheerful smile.
"Is it always like this?" Ben questioned.
"Nah," Vince replied.
"Thank God."
"Usually it's much worse!"
"Might go and work in a bank!" Ben remarked as the broadcast continued.
"...Lundy, Fastnet, Irish Sea, Shannon, Malin, Sherrinford. Sherrinford. Sherrinford."
"You hear that? I've never 'eard that one before,'' Ben commented. Vince turned to face Ben.
"Forget you ever 'eard it."
"What?" Ben asked Vince, puzzled.
"Sometimes, when we're out in these waters, we get that message. Just forget it," Vince explained.
"Yeah, but we've never-" Ben started to say but Vince raised a warning finger to him.
"Just-" Ben tried again but Vince raised his hand and mimed zipping his lips shut, then pointed warningly at the young man.
He started to turn back to the wheel when there was a loud thump on the roof of the wheelhouse, followed by three less loud thumps. The two men looked up, then Vince went to the door and opened it, stepping a few paces away from the wheelhouse then turning to look up. Standing on the roof holding the ship's antenna with one hand was Sherlock, his coat whipping dramatically around him.
"Who the 'ell are you?" Vince questioned.
"My name's Sherlock Holmes," he replied.
"The detective!" Ben exclaimed.
"The pirate," Sherlock corrected as Anita and John stepped into view at the other side of the antenna, pointing their guns at the men below.
Sherrinford Island
"Golf Whiskey X-ray, this is a restricted area, repeated, restricted area. You are off course," a technician said into the radio. He didn't receive a response so he tried again.
"Are you receiving? Golf Whiskey, you are off course. Are you receiving?"
"Yeah, receiving you. This is a distress call, repeat, distress call. We're in trouble here," said a man's voice, John's, over the radio.
"Golf Whiskey X-ray, whis is your situation?" the technician asked, but got no response.
"Golf Whiskey X-ray, where are you now?" he questioned.
"We're heading for the rocks. We're going to hit," John said over the radio and the technician sat back in his chair, then typed rapidly on his keypad on his desk.
"Lockdown in progress. Lockdown in progress. Please proceed to designated Red stations," a automated voice said as external guards ran along the corridors. Two of them ran around a headland and saw Vince and Ben sitting on the sand back to back, rope lashed around them and their wrists bound together. Vince looked over at the approaching men and rolled his eyes, sinking his head back. On a metal bridge above them, more guards ran into position and aimed their rifles down at the two men.
