TimeStorm

by Steve Harrison

  Watkins fell back to the platform and Hand toppled with him. The surgeon let go as he landed and gripped the metal. Hand landed on his head and rolled into the water. And did not come up.

  “Oh, my God!” wailed Watkins. What have I done?

  KAREN

  “Stop it!” screamed Karen. The last few moments had seemed unreal, as though she was watching a movie. It must have been shock. Now the reality dawned on her and she found her voice. It was unbelievable that Redmond would shoot Cross in cold blood. Yet not long ago she had watched him kill the man downstairs.

  Karen had never experienced fear like this before. Everything had been an adventure so far. Even at the Police Station she had not felt in danger of anything other than the legal ramifications of her actions. This fear was for her life. Redmond was a killer, just as Blaney had told her, and she was a witness. She had actually seen him kill a man! He would have shot her in the knee earlier and he could easily kill her now. Terror gripped her insides like a vice, yet to the men around her the scene appeared normal. Even Blaney, who had been horribly bashed, showed only defiance in the face of death. The entire scene was bizarre.

  But now her head was clearing as she accepted what was going on and the paralysis of fear, but not the fear itself, receded. A glance above had shown Harry Decker’s television helicopters were out in force and the reason for his cooperation had finally dawned on her. She felt stupid, but what else could she have done? It also explained why the radios and TV sets aboard did not work. Crowley must have disabled them. The Newshound was no longer a cruiser, it was a stage.

  “Stop!” she repeated.

  Redmond glanced at her, briefly, but then turned back to Cross. The huge man lingered, his finger tight on the trigger. Was he gloating? Having second thoughts? His face gave nothing away and Karen braced herself for the sound of a shot, powerless to do anything but pray. Even having Blaney beside her did not lessen her feeling of being alone.

  The sound, when it came, was not a shot, but a shout from below. With a quick glance she saw the older convict fall off the back of the cruiser. Redmond was immobile, but as she turned back, Karen saw his dark eyes, criss-crossed by jagged red lines like bloody lightning bolts, steal a glance below.

  It was enough for Cross to make his move. With agility that defied his appearance, he launched himself at the convict, David against Goliath. Yet surprise was on his side and when Redmond attempted, too late, to sidestep the Captain, he lost his footing and the two men went down in a tangled heap. Karen was swept aside as Blaney leapt into the fray, his injuries forgotten.

  “Take the wheel!” Kite yelled at her as he, too, went to the aid of his fellow officers who were thrashing about on the deck. Karen turned the wheel to keep the Newshound in mid-channel. Hope flooded her body and freed her limbs. Stealing a glance at the fighting men, she saw it was not over yet. Redmond was too big for the three of them to subdue. On the deck below there was uproar and she saw the other, younger convict, who must have been overpowered in the confusion, being hoisted on the shoulders of several men and dumped overboard. His face was bloody and she wondered if he was dead before they disposed of the body. The scene was no longer enough to shock her.

  To Karen’s relief, sailors were racing up the stairs to help the officers subdue Redmond, but at that instant his gun went off. The bullet passed close by and shattered the wheelhouse window, making her start. But much worse, she saw, were the flecks of blood that peppered the control panel and her clothes. With dread and her teeth clenched, she twisted her head to see what had happened.

  EVANS

  Ensign George Evans knew something was up. It had been fairly quiet on Garden Island since all the bodies had been picked up from the water, but now men were running between buildings, people were shouting and, finally, the alert bell sounded. From his vantage point on the deck of Patrol Boat 68, Evans recognised members of the crew spilling from one building and the Skipper racing from another, a piece of paper crumpled in his hand. Evans plopped the mop back in its bucket before walking to the gangplank.

  “Prepare to cast off!” called the Skipper, approaching the vessel at the gallop.

  The measured urgency in his voice prompted Evans to run to the mooring cable at the bow as the other crewmen rattled aboard and took up their duties. “Am I still on punishment, sir?” called Evans.

  “Punishment temporarily suspended,” came the answer.

  Only temporarily! moaned Evans to himself. Scrubbing the decks was a bit harsh for being only an hour and a half late from shore leave. But Nancy wouldn’t let him out of bed and...

  The Skipper had not finished. “Join me on the bridge as soon as we cast off,” he said, grinning. “We’re going hunting!”

  The boat got underway and Evans followed him, curious. Though by no means an unpleasant man, the Skipper had never struck Evans as the excitable type. He was a tall, handsome man, with thick, black hair and a rugged face which women found attractive. The lines about his mouth and eyes suggested a happy, expressive individual, yet Evans had never seen him betray any emotion when on duty. Yet here he was grinning like the Cheshire Cat and bristling with anticipation.

  “What’s up, sir,” asked Evans when he reached the bridge of the Patrol Boat.

  “Have you heard the news?”

  “Yes, I had the radio on. Is it to do with the escaped prisoners?”

  The Skipper nodded. “They’ve hijacked Harry Decker’s cruiser, Newshound, and taken off down the harbour. We are going to stop them.”

  Fantastic! though Evans. Action at last. After three years in the navy he’d seen a few target buoys blown out of the water and one man overboard. This sounded like an opportunity for some serious destruction.

  Traffic on the harbour was unusually dense, so it took a few moments to clear a path from the berth and reach the open channel. “Looks like they’ve heard the news, too,” said Evans, noting the flotilla of vessels passing Garden Island.

  The Skipper did not answer as he stared ahead, his knuckles white where he gripped the door frame. His eyes were wide open and almost manic. Evans wondered what was going on in the man’s mind and felt suddenly uneasy.

  BLANEY

  Christopher Blaney breathed a sigh of relief when his crew reached the wheel house of the Newshound. He and Kite had been fighting a losing battle against Redmond’s desperate and superior strength. They could do little but hang on grimly as the convict writhed like a madman.

  After the gunshot, Captain Cross had rolled away limply and Blaney feared the worst. Fortunately, Redmond dropped the gun soon afterwards and the fight became one of containment for the two officers.

  Crewmen dived into the action, winding Blaney, though as more arrived, he and Kite managed to drag themselves away while the sailors pummelled Redmond into submission. However, it was only when crewman Morris pressed a gun against the convict’s temple and threatened to blow his head off that Redmond became still.

  Karen was still at the wheel, her face white. Blaney nodded to her and went to the Captain. Cross was still breathing, but he was losing a lot of blood. The wound appeared to be low on his right side and the ball had passed through his body, leaving a gaping exit wound. Blaney ripped a sleeve from the shirt of one of the sailors and used it to plug both holes. It would have to do for the moment.

  He looked at Redmond, noting the convict’s face was battered and bloody, and felt his anger rise. “Take him to the lower deck and tie him up. We are taking him back.” The swine could swing from the Fortune’s yardarm.

  It took eight men to take Redmond down the stairs and he was subjected to more abuse by the men waiting at the bottom. “Try not to kill him, lads,” Blaney called, with little conviction. He saw the vessel was moving safely at speed. The Heads were in view now and the passage became rougher as the ship heaved over the rolling breakers entering the harbour.

  “Are you well, Henry?”

  “Aye, sir.” Kite was rubbing his ribs carefully.


  “Relieve Karen at the wheel and keep a look out for the Fortune.” Blaney took Karen by the shoulders and made her sit down on the deck next to Cross. Colour was slowly filtering back to her face, but she still needed a little time to recover. “Hold those bandages in place.”

  “Redmond’s gun, sur,” said Morris, handing over the weapon.

  Blaney took it. “Are there any injuries below, Morris?”

  “Bosun Briggs is dead, sur, but no one else is hurt. Managed t’ stitch up them convicts ’fore they got off a shot. Thanks be to Doctor Watkins.”

  “What!”

  “‘E come over t’ side, sur. Drags one convict int’ water and we takes t’other. ’E’s a bloomin’ ’ero, sur.”

  Watkins! How the devil... “For God’s sake man,” shouted Blaney, “why didn’t you say he was aboard? Get him up here now to treat the Captain!”

  “Aye aye, sur.” Morris ran down the stairs.

  Blaney turned back to where Cross lay. “Is he still alive?”

  “Yes,” said Karen. “But God knows how long he’ll last. We have to get him to a hospital.”

  Watkins arrived before Blaney could answer. He looked contemptuously around the wheelhouse, his eyebrows rising slightly when he saw Karen. The surgeon appeared thinner than the last time Blaney saw him, and there were deep lines under his eyes. God only knew what he had been up to. “Give me some room,” Watkins demanded harshly.

  Blaney took Karen aside. “We can’t stop now. Those things in the air...”

  “Helicopters.”

  “They must have seen the men kill those two convicts. If we stop we will be caught and punished. I cannot allow that!”

  “Jesus, Chris!” cursed Karen. “Cross will die unless we get him some urgent medical attention.”

  “No! He comes with us. Watkins will look after him.”

  Karen snorted. “He looks as though he wouldn’t know a gunshot wound from a boil on the arse. Look, there’s a small boat at the back of the cruiser. I’ll take Cross off on that. Then there is no need for you to stop.”

  She did not understand that Blaney had to take everyone back. “The Captain stays here with us, dead or alive. And that is the end of the matter. I will hear no more about it.” He turned to check what was going on about the vessel, but Karen stepped in front of him.

  “Don’t you dare turn your back on me!” she roared, causing him to take a step back. “A man’s life is at stake. Your Captain’s, for Christ’s sake! What kind of man are you?”

  She did not know the effort Blaney went to in order to suppress his sorrow at the Captain’s condition. How it hurt him to see Cross fade away before his eyes. Perhaps he could be saved in this city. Perhaps this decision would kill him. Yet Blaney knew the Captain would do the same were their roles reversed. He could not leave him in this place. “I am a man of duty,” he answered.

  “I will not leave this vessel, Karen,” said Cross weakly from the deck. His face was drained white, though Watkins had managed to stem the flow of blood. Blaney was terribly grateful for his intervention, but Karen was not pacified. She threw her hands in the air.

  “Fucking well die, then!” she said, “see if I care!” She stormed off down the stairs.

  Blaney had a terrible urge to go after her and try to explain, but this was not the time. The thought of her hating him was almost unbearable. He cursed the helicopters above. It was hard enough to think without those...

  “Sir!” exclaimed Kite as he gazed through the hole in the window. “Look, ahead!”

  Blaney joined him and looked through the heads. At first all he could see was the bank of storm clouds, much closer now to shore. Then he saw it, a tiny speck at the base of the clouds, way out to sea. A sailing ship. Familiar, even at this distance. His heart filled with joy. “Fortune!” The Fortune and the storm. Incredibly, Blaney believed they were going to succeed.

  “Sur, sur!” Seaman Morris came clattering up the stairs.

  “What is it?”

  “A great big ship, sur, followin’ us. With cannons, sur.”

  Blaney brushed Morris aside and looked desperately astern, past the men on the lower deck who were busy threading ropes between Redmond’s limbs. Sure enough, a great grey ship of war was ploughing through the water less than a mile away and gaining rapidly. “More speed, Henry,” he bellowed, “like Alec showed us.” But he instinctively knew it would not be enough.

  Why now? They were so close to safety. Damnation! Blaney crashed his fist against the bulkhead in frustration.

  EVANS

  George Evans jumped when the Skipper snatched the binoculars from his hands. He had become increasingly agitated, Evans noticed, as the chase progressed and restlessly paced the enclosed bridge. Now he flicked the intercom switch. “Can’t you give me more speed, Charlie?”

  “Sorry, sir, she’s flat out,” came the reply.

  “Shit!”

  Evans saw they were closing on the Newshound, but the cruiser was no slouch and was well ahead, presumably heading for a rendezvous with the sailing ship off the coast. The Patrol Boat would eventually run them both down, however. “Should we fire a warning shot, sir?” asked Evans.

  The skipper turned to face him. “No. We’re going in close. I want to see them first.”

  Puzzled by the answer, Evans continued to steer the ship in pursuit of the cruiser. Some of the skipper’s restlessness was rubbing off on him. There was an intense atmosphere in the bridge, yet there was no threat to the Patrol Boat. The job appeared straightforward, so what was bugging the skipper?

  The water was choppy now, as Evans steered the boat between the heads and into the ocean. Ahead, the two television helicopters shadowing the Newshound were joined by several army and police choppers. They came in low over the Patrol Boat, the down draft blowing off a sailor’s hat on deck.

  Evans became even more uneasy. The storm was advancing, the base of the clouds bruised and purple. At least it was easy to see their white prey against the backdrop, he thought. It was a weird storm, defying normal conditions and clinging to the New South Wales coast for almost twenty-four hours. Evans felt as though it must have been resting and was now ready to continue on, sending out trails of mist like ghostly arms to gather them in. The hypnotised expression on the skipper’s face did not reassure the young sailor. The thought of imminent action no longer held the same excitement.

  TRAVIS

  “Here, Mr Travis,” said Captain Forrest, handing his telescope to the young midshipman, “tell me if that man is who I believe him to be.”

  Tommy Travis could hardly contain his excitement as he looked across the water from the Fortune. The crew were crowded around the officers, all of them gathered at the bow and fascinated by the majestic white ship bearing down on them. On top of the vessel, Travis could see Henry Kite. He stood, legs apart for balance, on top of the ship waving a bright red strip of cloth above his head. “It is Mr Kite, sir!” exclaimed Travis. “It appears he is trying to warn us of something.”

  “I do recognise the signal,” said Forrest, irritably, looking sharply at young Travis. “Perhaps it is because they are being followed.”

  Travis turned the glass to the stern of the white vessel and gasped. Less than half a mile beyond her a compact grey ship cut through the water at great speed, gaining steadily as he watched. The fore deck was dominated by a long, deadly cannon.

  Forrest retrieved his telescope. “I do hope your Mr Blaney knows what he is doing, Mr Travis. Otherwise, we may all suffer.” He turned his head. “Mr Piper!”

  “Sir?”

  The voice came from a great height and caused Travis to start. There was something quite unnerving about the tall Lieutenant.

  “Bring the ship about,” ordered Forrest, “we are going back into the storm.” He stood up straight and looked Piper in the eye, daring him to disobey.

  But Piper did not hesitate, turning on his heel to spray commands, scattering crewmen across the deck. Travis was impressed, but the L
ieutenant’s efficiency cut no ice with the Captain.

  “Mr Brett!” Forrest barked.

  The second Lieutenant hurried to the Captain’s side. Only slightly taller than Forrest, Brett was on much friendlier terms with him, Travis noticed.

  “Hang some netting over the stern after we come about. And prepare to receive boarders.” Forrest grinned, enjoying the activity.

  “Aye aye, sir,” said Brett. He bustled away, thumping two idle sailors into action.

  “Come along, Mr Travis,” said Forrest, taking the boy by the shoulder, “we shall watch the conclusion of this drama from the stern.”

  Travis was led down the deck, drinking in the atmosphere. It seemed an age since the Marlin and it felt so good to be back at sea. Salt water was in his veins and this was where he belonged. And soon his shipmates would join him. A glance at the white ship and its nemesis did not fill him with confidence. Please God, he prayed, save them and save us all.

  KITE

  Lieutenant Henry Kite dropped down to the Newshound wheelhouse well pleased with himself. He had watched the Fortune begin to turn to face the storm, the first traces of mist reaching the ship and changing the men in its rigging into ghostly figures. “They have seen me!” he announced.

  Crewman Morris was at the wheel, puffed up with the importance of his task. Captain Cross had insisted he remain in the wheel house and was still lying, seemingly asleep, on the deck, his head supported by a fluffy pillow fetched from below. Karen and surgeon Watkins sat close by. “How is he?” asked Kite, bracing himself for the answer.

  Watkins did not bother to look up. “Still alive, though I do not know for how much longer.”

  Kite winced, and saw Karen look sharply at the surgeon. Had the man no compassion? Karen had withdrawn since her fight with Blaney and Kite did not think they had spoken since, both of them too stubborn. “Where is Mr Blaney?”