ATLANTIS STORY MAP & OPERATION HOMEPAGE

NORTH SEA OIL PROTESTORS - CH.1

The mythical lost kingdom of Atlantis has been the subject of countless stories and films, focusing on the dozens of coastal civilizations that have been subsumed by the oceans, typically, the result of earthquakes and subsequent tsunamis. The number of coastal cities pulled into the ocean, especially in the Mediterranean basin, number a dozen or more.

Aiming for a screenplay 90-110 pages max.

NORTH SEA OIL PROTESTORS, LONDON, ENGLAND, HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT

Redan Simdo is a peace loving law graduate who meets up with Max Mohune, Bartram Fox, Zera Masken and Zinzi Diana, and dozens more in old London town, to peacefully protest.

Unknown to them, Nick Johnson (who is known is Whitehall as The Devil), is working with Chief Constable Harry Holland who is known as Dirty Harry in the force, because of the number of times he has been involved in forceful arrests and beatings, and for taking bribes for such abuses of his office. As Chief Constable, Harry Holland is in position of trust and wields considerable power, where the nation might reasonably expect the appointment of a person of impeccable character. Despite such expectations, Dirty Harry has used his knowledge of sleaze on certain Members of Parliament, and several members of the House of Lords, to in effect, blackmail his way to the top.

Those he has the dirt on, simply could not afford to sack this policeman, frightened that he would spill the beans. An all to frequent threat. Thus, as with many a council employee, holding markers in relation to malfeasance - all too prevalent in the civil service - ensures that promotion follows cover ups. Setting a pretty poor example to rookies, that they should compile a compendium of dirt, as a career booster.

Indeed, being honest, would spell the termination of many a newcomer, unless they figured out how to be a team player. Team, as in covering each others backs. As an organization, the police in the United Kingdom, became just as corrupt as their counterparts in developing countries, only, far more professional about their law breaking. Giving the impression to the casual onlooker, of a decent law enforcement body.

Max Mohune, Zera Masken, Zinzi Diana and Bartram Fox, gather to bolster the crowd numbers, carrying banners telling about the oil leaks in the North Sea that are being covered up. They had organized this gathering, and so became targets, easily identified by facial recognition software and data theft from emails, ebay and amazon online purchase AI. They felt safe, because the social networking behind this protest, made it clear it was to be a peaceful assembly, drawing attention to the pollution caused by oil drilling operations in the North Sea by Repsol Sinopec, Amoco, BP, Shell, Total and others. Apparently with no genuine redress for oil spillages, manifesting as ludicrously low fines, that did and do not reflect the damage to the marine environment and fisheries. Let alone, make reparations for the damage caused. Hence, would continue unabated unless brought to the attention of the public.

Police in riot gear, with face protectors on their helmets, clear shields and batons, disgorged from police vans, to face up to the marchers. They formed a row on either side of the group. 

The air filled with the crackle of distant megaphones, the rhythmic thump of booted feet hitting pavement. Riot vans disgorged their cargo—lines of officers spilling out like an advancing tide. Shields raised, visors reflecting the overcast sky, they formed a phalanx. Batons tapped against riot shields, a deliberate intimidation, the dull plastic-on-metal clack echoing through the crowd. Chants wavered—some turning into panicked cries as protesters scrambled to regroup.

Now chanting for transparency in the North Sea oil industry as they brandished inoffensive placards. Calling for an inquiry. BBC and ITV news van turned up to cover the story, but their reporters and camera crew were denied access to the protestors, and forcefully turned away. They smelled a rat.

Another police truck arrived, parking close to the hub of the action, with special hi definition cameras on a mast, tasked with identifying the ring leaders. They were looking to make an example to deter future protests, and protect the investment of their backers, in those oil rights. Plain clothes officers came out of the back door, and began to mingle with protestors entering the group from the sides. These plants began punching and kicking protestors as they moved closer to the identified five: Simdo, Fox, Mohune, Diana and Masken.

The Rent-A-Mob officers were stirring up the crowd, safe in the knowledge that the media had been barred from the area. There would be no witnesses or video evidence for their targets, to prove they had been attacked by plain clothes police officers.

Inspector Shaun Flanagan and Sergeant Gordon Scotford lead the Scotland Yard goon squad ....

"Sergeant Scotford, targets acquired in the front row of the crowd, confirm. Over."

"Got them Inspector, moving in with armed officers. Waiting for plants to strike. No media in evidence. Over."

Gordon Scotford led fifteen specialist arresting officers through the regular shields. They knew their targets from pictures on their phones. Redan Simdo was the first target. 

Rent-A-Mob moved in from behind, punching Red in the back. A blow landed between his shoulder blades—sharp, sudden. He turned, instinctively raising an arm, but the real strike came from the front. A baton whipped across his stomach, forcing him backward. The blue-clad swarm closed in, seizing him by the throat and twisting his arms behind his back. A boot connected with his shin, knocking him to his knees. Handcuffs snapped shut, the metal biting into his wrists.

Distracted, by the attack from the rear. He spun instinctively—too late.

A wall of riot gear surged forward, batons raised. Pain exploded in his ribs, forcing the air from his lungs. He gasped, but a knee drove into his gut, folding him like paper. Hands grabbed at his arms, twisting them behind his back, cold steel locking in tight. He was lifted, feet dragging, before being hurled into the van like a sack of rubbish.

The officers quickly rejoined their mates for the next target. 

"Scotford. Over"

"Inspector, one down, going for Masken."

"Roger that Sergeant."

Max’s voice was tight, urgent. "Fox—this is a takedown. They’re picking us off one by one. They've got Red, and we are next. Protect the girls. We need a diversion—get Zinzi out."

Mohune and Fox moved towards Zinzi, the most vulnerable. They shouted to Zera, "run for it Zera, we've been targeted."

Zera had seen Red being bundled off, not quite believing what she saw. She turned to head into the crowd, but was punched in the head by a Rent-A-Mob hard man position directly behind her. That did not stop her. As a reflex action, she hit her assailant hard. A punch to the throat and kick in the groin - in self defence. He went down, but four arresting officers rushed her, from the front, the other eleven officers piling into Max and Fox, who were desperate to protect Zinzi.

Zera was overwhelmed and cuffed. Max and Fox did not want to assault their assailants, unless hit first. They allowed themselves to be cuffed without a fight, believing they'd be warned and let go. They watched helplessly as Lady Penelope was cuffed and carried off. The shock of it all showing on her face.

They were all bundled into the police riot truck with Zera. They all laughed at first.

Red opened up. "Well let's hope the press got some of that police brutality"

"We were targets. They knew who we were." Zera was dumbfounded. "How is that possible?"

"Don't worry," said Max. "We were protesting peacefully. We'll get a caution and be released."

INTERIOR - A PRIVATE WESTMINSTER OFFICE

Nick Johnson, The Devil, stands before a mahogany desk, arms crossed as Chief Constable Dirty Harry pours a glass of whiskey. Across from them sits Lord Everington, an oil magnate with enough offshore accounts to bury his trail.

Lord Everington: (leaning in) "The protests gained traction. BBC journalists sniffing too close to the spill zones. We need them silenced."

Johnson: (smirks) "That’s where Harry comes in. He’s got riot squads primed to make it look like an uprising."

Dirty Harry: (swirling his drink) "Mass arrests. Framed charges. I'll have them convicted before the ink dries on the press blackout."

Lord Everington: (nodding) "Ensure the leaders disappear. No appeals. We cannot afford a scandal—not with drilling contracts at stake."

Johnson steps forward, setting a file on the desk: classified photos of oil spills the public was never meant to see. He taps the folder.

Johnson: "This? Buried. Just like them."

LONDON: THE OLD BAILEY COURTROOM DAYTIME

The vaulted grandeur of Court No. 1 at the Old Bailey rang hollow with tension as the foreboding figure of Judge Josephine Staker Cedricks swept into the chamber, her crimson robes grazing the oaken bench like a bloodstain across the pages of justice.

At the bar stood Sergeant Gordon Scotford and Inspector Shaun Flanagan, polished like mannequins, their uniforms starched, their expressions rehearsed. Across the courtroom, the gallery pulsed with journalists, NGOs, and the families of the framed protesters—faces pale with disbelief, their hope worn thin.

The Crown Prosecutor, Padgett Francis KC, unfolded the final witness statement, voice razor-flat. "The CCTV footage submitted from Westminster Abbey and Houses of Parliament, clearly shows the defendants pursuing the protestors, consistent with their report."

Except—it didn’t. Not entirely.

On screen, the footage flickered to life again, grainy and stuttered. Flanagan and Scotford were visible, sure—but not where they had sworn they were. And not doing what they'd claimed. Timing discrepancies, shadow mismatches, even a splice that cut mid-movement. It was an amateur hack job. But no one was calling it out—at least, not in that courtroom.

Defense counsel rose. "My Lady, the evidence is tampered. We have expert forensic video analysts from the BBC prepared to testify. The footage contains visual discontinuities. Frame jumps. Gaps inconsistent with chain-of-custody logs."

Judge Cedricks didn’t blink. "The BBC’s opinions, however fashionable, are not admissible in this Court as technical authority."

Ripples of outrage stirred through the gallery, stifled quickly by the ushers.

The Judge cleared her throat—a theatrical gesture—before addressing the Jury. "You must consider the bravery of the officers under scrutiny. To question their actions amid a climate of violent protest and environmental sabotage is to risk the integrity of law enforcement itself."

A single juror flinched.

"Whatever inconsistencies may appear, they do not override the sworn testimony of serving officers, and therefore, I direct you to find the defendants guilty beyond a reasonable doubt."

In the journalists’ corner, an editor from the BBC whispered to her colleague, "This is a show trial. They’re whitewashing a crime with the filth of another."

The courtroom buzz dims as Defense Counsel AMY RAINE stands, flanked by skeptical jurors and the silent specter of Lady Justice overhead.

DEFENSE COUNSEL DALE HENRIETTA JULIANUS (holding up a still from the CCTV) “This frame, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury—was timestamped 14:03. The original police statement? 13:52. Twelve missing minutes... Where were the defendants? What happened off-camera—off-the-record?” (pause) “And why is this edit stitched together like propaganda from a failed state?”

Judge JOSEPHINE CEDRICKS narrows her gaze over her glasses. AMY doesn’t flinch.

Judge Cedrics barks. “Sustained. Counsel, this isn’t a cinema. Stick to the facts.”

DALE JULIANUS (gritting her teeth) “The fact, My Lady, is that we have officers of the law caught tampering with the very tools of truth. The only thing missing is popcorn.”

Gasps ripple from the public gallery. JUDGE CEDRICKS slams her gavel once.

JUDGE CEDRICKS "Order! I remind you, Counsel, sarcasm will not sway this jury—" The Judge is furious at having her authority challenged. "I'm directing the Jury to return a GUILTY verdict."

DALE JULIANUS "No, but maybe the truth will. If these innocent protestors are convicted on doctored evidence and bloody knuckles—then let’s drop the façade and call this what it is: a conviction commission. Preordained. Sanitized. State-approved vengeance for speaking out."

At hearing the truth, Sergeant Scotford shifts uncomfortably. Inspector Flanagan avoids eye contact. A murmur from the press bench as BBC reporters scribble furiously. Chief Constable (Dirty) Harry Holland of Scotland Yard, smiles inwardly. Another successful frame up.

CROWN PROSECUTOR (sternly) “The Defense rests its case on the evidence of these fine officers. The footage was authenticated by our technicians—”

BBC CORRESPONDENT (from the gallery) “Whose technicians, exactly? Independent or internal? We’ve got metadata that doesn’t match chain logs.”

JUDGE CEDRICKS (glaring) “This is a court, not a marketplace. One more outburst and I’ll clear the gallery.”

The jury exchanges uncertain glances. A single tear trails down one of the protestor’s faces as hope begins to slip.

The gavel struck. The verdict: Guilty—not of brutality and perjury, but of "procedural missteps in high-stress conditions." A rebuke, not justice. For Scotford and Flanagan there was no whisper of accountability for the environmental destruction their lies helped obscure. The State was supporting those making oil spills and not cleaning them up.

And across London, the air hung heavier. For behind the 'Guilty' verdict for innocents, protesting as to North Sea oil spills, lay the quiet ticking of a warhead beneath the waves—armed not with uranium, but with truth long submerged.

OLD BAILEY – JUDGE’S CHAMBERS – EARLIER THAT DAY

The mahogany-paneled chamber is cloaked in dusk despite the morning sun. JUDGE CEDRICKS sits behind her desk, a crystal decanter of whisky untouched beside a leather-bound volume of Blackstone’s. She doesn’t look up as a familiar presence enters.

SIR MALCOLM CROWTHER – greying, composed, Chairman of a Parliamentary Oversight Committee with eyes sharper than his polished Oxfords.

CROWTHER (soft, deliberate) “Josephine. We can’t afford martyrs right now. The press are sniffing around like foxes at the coop door.”

JUDGE CEDRICKS “The evidence is barely scaffolded, Malcolm. Even this lot can see it’s crumbling.”

CROWTHER “That’s why we need you to mortar the gaps. Keep the lid on. The MOD audit’s weeks away—buy us time.”

He slides a sealed file across the desk. She doesn’t touch it.

CROWTHER “If you sink these protesters, we’ll endorse your appointment to the Privy Council. Dame Josephine has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

CEDRICKS (smoothly) “And if I refuse?”

CROWTHER “You won’t.”

A long silence. The kind that silences careers.

THE COURTROOM – LATER THAT AFTERNOON

The room is on edge. DALE JULIANUS leans toward her client, whispering reassurance she no longer believes. A single bead of sweat clings to Sergeant Scotford’s brow. The jury files in. Foreman rises.

FOREMAN “In the case of the Crown versus the Terramentals, we find the defendants—”

The BBC camera crews lean in. Flashbulbs crackle.

“—GUILTY.”

Stunned silence. Then murmurs. Then fury.

DALE JULIANUS (loudly) “How—how is that possible? The footage was doctored. The timeline—"

JUDGE CEDRICKS, cutting her off. “This court has reached its decision. Take any grievances to the appropriate appellate body.”

The BBC CORRESPONDENT interjected, almost gleeful, “There is no appellate body, Judge. You saw to that last year.”

Reporters swarm. Raine slams her files shut. The protestors’ families cry out, security rushing in to stifle dissent. In the hallway, Crowther walks calmly to his car, shielded by shadows and a waiting driver.

THE CHAMBERS OF DALE JULIANUS – LATE NIGHT

A thin pool of light washes across a cluttered desk strewn with transcripts and case files. DALE JULIANUS sits hunched over, eyes sunken, nursing her third black coffee. She scrolls through her inbox, mechanically—until something catches her eye.

SUBJECT: Judicial Privilege – Off-Record Meeting Minutes (Confidential) FROM: Anonymous@MoDleaks.uk

Her breath catches.

She opens the attachment: a blurry scan of a redacted memo—parchment header bearing the seal of the Ministry of Defence.

"Arrangements in place to ensure court proceedings conclude with minimal reputational damage to active service partnerships. J.S.C. to receive consideration for fast-track elevation pending compliance with directive."

“J.S.C.” Dale mutters under her breath, eyes sharpening.

Amy notes: “Josephine Staker Cedricks.”

She stands abruptly, heart pounding. A whisper of rage. “You stitched up my clients for a handshake and a seat in the Lords.”

HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT – NEXT MORNING – BBC LIVE BROADCAST

A BBC reporter, JILL BIRD, stands before the gothic spires, wind tugging at her overcoat. Crowds murmur behind the cordon as a rolling headline flashes on the screen:

“RAW VIDEO FOOTAGE EXPOSES POLICE FABRICATION IN PROTESTOR TRIAL”

JILL BIRD (BBC) “This morning, a bombshell. The BBC has obtained and independently authenticated raw, unedited footage from the day of the North Sea protest arrest—footage that directly contradicts the testimony of Sergeant Flanaghan and Shaun Scotford, who claimed the protestors acted violently.”

Cut to: side-by-side video. One frame shows the edited courtroom footage; the other, raw and timecoded, shows Redan Simdo being shoved to the ground without provocation.

MERCER (V.O.) “The unedited clips show peaceful demonstrators being assaulted, not resisting arrest. At least two camera angles were deliberately omitted from the evidence presented at trial.”

Back to JILL on the steps.

JILL BIRD “The Ministry of Defence and Judicial Office have declined immediate comment, but sources close to the case indicate that Judge Cedricks may have been under political pressure to secure a conviction. Whistleblowers allege a sealed memo promising her a place on the Privy Council in exchange for a guilty verdict.”

A pause for effect as sirens wail faintly in the distance.

JILL BIRD “This is not just about corrupted evidence. This is about the corrosion of the very institutions sworn to uphold justice. And somewhere out there, five innocent protestors are locked up—for telling the truth.”

She looks directly into the lens.

JILL BIRD “Parliament must answer. The courts must be held accountable. And the public—will not forget.”

SOMEWHERE IN THE ATLANTIC IN THE ELIZABETH SWANN JOHN STORM IS FOLLOWING THE DEVELOPING STORY

The Elizabeth Swann sliced through the steel-blue Atlantic, her hydrogen fueled propellers thrumming like the pulse of a sleeping leviathan. Inside her sleek operations bay, the air was still but charged—illuminated by soft cyan light panels and the gentle holographic glow of her onboard AI system, HAL.

John Storm stood at the helm in his all weather jacket, a mug of black coffee cooling in his grip. On the central display, the BBC logo dissolved into a live transmission. A calm, authoritative voice—Jill Bird’s—filtered through the speakers.

“...raw footage obtained by the BBC clearly shows the accused protestors—Redan Simdo, Bartram Fox, Bobby Dallas, Zera Masken and Zinzi Diana—offering no resistance to arrest. Yet Inspector Flanaghan and Sergeant Shaun Scotford swore under oath their officers were assaulted by these individuals. Parliament has issued no statement.”

The clip cut to the side-by-side feed: raw and edited. John’s jaw tensed.

“Hal,” he muttered, gesturing toward the screen, “run a comparison scan between those two timelines. Frame-by-frame. Log any inconsistencies.”

HAL's voice replied, calm and meticulous, with a slight Oxford lilt that mirrored Storm’s own.

HAL: “Already in process, Captain. Temporal misalignment detected: 14 instances of non-linear sequencing. Color-correction masking physical bruising on detained individuals. Timestamp metadata stripped. File origin shows signs of Departmental overwrite.”

John let out a low whistle. “They cleaned it like a crime scene.”

HAL, continued, “Captain, this manipulation exceeds standard disinformation protocols. The data inconsistencies alone would qualify as grounds for a mistrial in any impartial jurisdiction.”

Storm folded his arms, watching the footage loop silently.

“That’s not a mistrial, Hal. That’s a rigged deck. And if they’re willing to bury peaceful protestors to cover up a spill, you can bet what’s lurking beneath that oil is a whole lot worse.”

He paused, eyes narrowing as the BBC feed continued:

“...furthermore, whistleblowers suggest MOD contractors may have falsified containment logs. There are growing concerns about environmental fallout if North Sea rigs are compromised…”

John turned to the console.

“Hal, archive this broadcast and the forensic breakdown you just ran. Secure file. Label it: ‘Precursor Events – Case Polaris.’”

HAL confirmed the order. “File encrypted and stored. Shall I inform the Oceanic Preservation Alliance?”

John gave a slight nod.

“Not yet. But... I've a hunch they’ll come calling.”

Outside, the waves broke rhythmically against the hull, indifferent and infinite. But Storm knew the sea kept its own secrets—and he’d just found the lock.

INSIDE NORTHEYE OPEN PRISON: THE REVENGE PACT

The cell is dimly lit. Redan Simdo, Zera Masken, Max Mohune, Zinzi Diana, and Bartram Fox sit on the edge of their bunks, beaten, bruised—but eyes burning with fury.

They are joined by Jorges Dicaprio, a grizzled Cuban submarine expert whose time in solitary confinement has sharpened his resolve. Imprisoned for exposing government corruption in Havana, he knows a frame job when he sees one.

Jorges opened up slow, deliberate: "I’ve seen men locked away for less. You’re enemies of the state now. They won’t let you out."

Redan gritted his teeth, "then we break out. Expose every dirty deal they made to send us here."

Zera rubs her wrists, where handcuff marks are still visible.

"We need more than protests now. We need leverage," pleaded Zera.

Jorges leaned forward, whispering, "you want revenge? I’ve built submarines for half the governments on this planet. If you can get me the materials, I can build something small, fast—something these idiots won’t see coming."

The group exchange glances—hope flickering in their eyes.

Bartram, enjoined, leaning in. "A sub? Just us? Against the North Sea oil giants?"

Jorges responded chuckling darkly. "Not just against them. Against their protectors. Oil spills were just the surface. You think these ministers don’t have nukes ready to cover their tracks?"

Silence. Then Max stood. "We take their money. Their power. Their rigs."

Zinzi, nodding. "And we don’t stop until the world knows."

"Then we sink their future—before they sink ours," said a determined Redan.

A group of environmentalists meet in London, aiming to demonstrate peacefully about the oil leaks in the North Sea. The Terramentals are framed and imprisoned, during which time they vow to expose the corrupt officials who stitched them up. They meet a Jorges Dicaprio, a Cuban submarine expert, in the clink, due for deportation having been refused asylum in the UK.

Disillusioned eco activists are imprisoned by the British, for peacefully protesting in London about unrealistically low fines for oil spills in the , demonstrating strictly in accordance with their Article 9 and 10 Human Rights. They are targeted by fossil fuel industry fraudsters, who bribe police officials and court judges to secure a conviction, with the backing of corrupt ministers of state who have undeclared personal investments in oil drilling companies: Amoco, BP, Shell, Total. That sets in motion a train of events, where, having been framed, the ever more determined environmentalists build a mini-sub, fast enough and especially equipped, to sink or capture Astute, Aukus and US Seawolf class submarines. Having captured SSN Neptune, the Terramentals torpedo a BP owned rig, also destroying two others (Shell), with the looming threat to target all 150 plus, operating in the North Sea. The oil producers are temporarily forced to shut down production, as a result of the significant media coverage and public outrage on realization of the pollution. The UN asks John Storm to provide a geodata survey on the environmental damage. 

PROPOSED STORY MAP BY CHAPTER (90-110 pages) - ORDER CAN BE CHANGED: DRAFT SCREENPLAY

ACT 1.

CHAPTER 1.   PROTESTS - Peaceful North Sea oil pollution protestors are framed and imprisoned, by a corrupt judicial system. 

CHAPTER 2.   PREDATOR - On release the Terramentals & smuggler Jorges Dicaprio, complete a mini-sub capable of sinking submarines.

CHAPTER 3.   PHOENIX - Terramentals locate & hijack HMS Neptune in Irish Sea, Cumbria, using the Predator mini-sub - knocking out the crew.

CHAPTER 4.   BRITISH PETROLEUM - Terramentals warn North Sea rig operators to stop. Claymore rig is torpedoed, Royal Navy respond.

CHAPTER 5.   BBC WORLD SERVICE - Jill Bird reports Terramentals rig attacks, world shocked at pollution cover up. Charley Temple investigates.

CHAPTER 6.   UNEP SOS - The UNEP ask John Storm to survey North Sea for oil pollution. Elizabeth Swann detects HMS Neptune radiation leaks.

CHAPTER 7.   RADIATION ALERT - John & Dan twig radiation from HMS Neptune possible serious reactor damage. Must warn Terramentals.

ACT 2.

CHAPTER 8.   STEALTH MODE - Storm spots Astute sub, Swann in stealth mode, detected as John warns extremists of sub radiation leakage.

CHAPTER 9.   CHANGE OF COURSE - Terramentals change course, heading for the Straits of Gibraltar. Not believing radiation warning.

CHAPTER 10. U-BOAT 986 - Evading Swann, HMS Neptune navigates off transport lanes. Swann picks up magnetic signature of U-Boat 986.

CHAPTER 11. SENATE, UK & EU DEBATE - Sub hijacking & rig destruction, alarm bells around world. Deepwater Horizon shivers down spines.

CHAPTER 12. REACTOR LEAK - Terramentals realise John telling truth, as radiation rector damage detection system HMS Neptune triggers.

CHAPTER 13. RESCUE TOW - John rescues Terramentals. MI6 order Neptune sinking. MOD knew reactor dangerous, want evidence gone.

CHAPTER 14. LISBON PORT - Terramentals & Storm, shut Neptune's reactor. Tow, stricken submarine to Lisbon, prevent MI6 sinking evidence.

ACT 3.

CHAPTER 15. ROV ATLANTIS - Swann returns U-Boat stealth mode at night, to avoid tracking. Surveys site, discovers Atlantis & Nazi gold.

CHAPTER 16. TREASURE TROVE - John reveals gold find & threatened. US Linc Truman support. PM, Ed Thomas, & Sealord, royal support.

CHAPTER 17. BLUE SHIELD - Cleopatra alerts Blue Shield, Newcastle University, potential Atlantis find, suggests UNESCO world heritage site.

CHAPTER 18. GOLDEN OFFER - Claimants reward John U-Boat gold find. Agrees 1% cover costs 9% to Blue Shield surveys. UNESCO grateful.

CHAPTER 19. GREEN MOBILITY - Galvanized to action UK hit green H2 button, John gets grants low income families, Jill Bird, news item.

CHAPTER 20. IMO IS GO - The International Maritime Org green H2 & methanol, certification. USA in. China India stay with coal, gas & oil.

CHAPTER 21. AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL - John & George amnesty, pirate caselaw & video proof set up. Harry & Johnson charged treason.

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In this fictional story, the characters and events are the product of the author's imagination.