Sentinel: A post-apocalyptic thriller (The Hurst Chronicles Book 2)

by Robin Crumby

  He corrected himself. “Sorry Terra. You know what I mean. I had to put her out of her misery.”

  “I’m really, really sorry,” said Harry, the guilty party, “Believe me, I feel terrible.”

  “I’ll find you another one,” said Victor. “There’s a fresh litter at the farm just up the road. Someone was telling me yesterday. I’ll get you one of the puppies. It’s the least we can do.”

  Harry was one of the more sympathetic men that Terra had warmed to during her time at Carisbrooke Castle. If she was to forgive any of them, it would be him. He was different from the others. He was an ex-con, same as most of Briggs’ men, but an educated man, someone she could have a proper conversation with. About music, culture, history. About the way things were. His fall from grace had been the result of a nasty drug habit during his years working in the city, which had spiralled out of control and taken him down a dangerous path. A comfortable middle-class existence destroyed in short order. To feed his addiction, he had systematically embezzled money over nearly five years before getting greedy and pushing his luck one too many times.

  Stealing from the banks and big business was one thing, but when you stole from dealers and career criminals, you had to expect repercussions. Briggs’ protection was a small price to pay for being able to sleep at night. No one dared touch him after that. Harry had promised Briggs a generous share of the fortune he had squirrelled away. The authorities had never found the money. At least he had the foresight to convert his paper fortune into portable wealth - gems and stones - not trusting the financial system. It was said that his stash was buried in a location near Guildford known only to Harry. Fat lot of good that would do anybody now, thought Terra.

  Briggs wandered over to Harry and put an arm round his shoulder. “If I was you my friend, I would give Victor a hand getting one of those puppies. Make it up to Terra, yeah? There’s a good chap.”

  Harry avoided Briggs’ stare and nodded. His shoulders tensed as Briggs massaged his neck with his enormous leathery hand. He released him and patted him on the back, straightening his collar and smiling.

  “Right, I’m off to get changed out of these wet clothes. Terra, when I’m down, I have some stuff I need your help with. A few letters to write going to the mainland this morning.”

  “Sure. Whenever you’re ready,” she smiled.

  As soon as Briggs was gone and the others were engaged in conversation over a late breakfast, Victor sidled over to Terra and motioned for her to follow him to the drawing room.

  Once the door was closed, they stood by the mantle piece as Victor tried to coax new life from a fire that had been lit first thing but left unattended. The three logs had already burned through to ashes.

  Keeping his voice low, he glanced up at Terra who was waiting expectantly. “I have news for you.” She opened her eyes wide in anticipation.

  “I just got back from the Maersk Charlotte. The Allies are accelerating their plans. Things are happening much quicker than they expected. There are many more refugees arriving at the embarkation points than they can reasonably manage.”

  “What difference does that make to us?” spat Terra dismissively.

  Victor looked at her puzzled. “Isn’t it obvious? It means they need more equipment, more machinery, more manpower. It’s a seller’s market and the middle man stands to make a small fortune.”

  “And that just happens to be you, right?”

  Victor shrugged his shoulders and looked suitably smug. He wandered over and stood by the window, drinking his coffee. She didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him. He made an unlikely ally, yet they shared a common goal. Terra waited for him to continue but he remained silent as she grew increasingly impatient.

  “I don’t understand. What does that have to do with me?”

  “You and me are partners Terra. This is good for us. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our little pact already?”

  “Of course not. But it hardly seems an equal partnership. I’m stuck here like his personal pet, while you drift around touring his empire, building alliances. I don’t see how what I’m doing helps the cause.”

  “Patience Terra. Your time will come. He is beginning to trust you. That’s what’s important. And not without a lot of reassurance from me, I would have you know. Don’t think he doesn’t question whether he’s doing the right thing. You may not recognise it, but the plan he’s executing is yours. He trusts your judgement. He took your advice, he’s playing a waiting game. Slowly infiltrating the Allies’ set up ready to subvert their plans. That was smart Terra. Very smart.”

  He turned around and fixed her with his cold expressionless grey eyes. “You should be proud. This is your doing. When we’re ready and all our pieces are in place, they won’t know what hit them. They will fall like dominos.”

  “And you really think that’s what I want? To see the Allies fail? More death and destruction?”

  “Isn’t it? Think carefully. Look into your heart, Terra. What is it you really want? There is a price to pay, yes. There is always a price to pay. One person’s gain is another person’s loss. That is life. After we do this, you and I will be sitting pretty. We can take what’s ours, what we deserve. People like us Terra have always been second in line. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, is that the right expression?”

  She nodded. “I don’t know why I ever listened to you Victor. What if you’re wrong? You really think that this rebellion has any chance of succeeding?”

  “Sure. Every day, we win more and more support. More people arrive from all over the South coast. You think people want the Americans here? They are like a cuckoo. They take what does not belong to them. Squatting at Osborne House, bossing the locals around, while they sit in state sipping champagne and eating smoked salmon? We need to drive them out, send them back where they came from. This island belongs to the locals. It belongs to us, Terra. It’s there for the taking. Trust me.”

  “So you keep saying, Victor. I get it. How much longer do I have to keep up this charade?”

  “Not much longer. We’re close now. Your time is coming Terra. Your moment to shine. It will be spectacular. Trust me, it’ll all be worth the wait.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  On board the Santana, much to the relief of an exhausted Jack and Sergeant Flynn, the helm nursed the stricken ship towards the narrow western entrance to the Solent. Alert to the danger, the team at Hurst had run power lines to the light house to guide the ship through the treacherous narrow passage. Passing the Needles in the fading light, Jack watched the beam from the light reach out across the water, illuminating the headland and rocks to their right. They were close enough to hear huge breakers surging through the gap between the jagged rocks, rolling towards the shingle spit beyond.

  For the last two hours, Jack had been watching the control panel for the bilge pumps like their lives depended on it. If one more of the pumps had failed, the Santana would have been in desperate trouble, facing huge seas, taking on water from who knows where. Yet, through good judgement and a large helping of luck, they had made it. The remaining pumps had held. The ship was almost back on an even keel, barely listing more than five degrees. She was still heavy in the bow but seaworthy again. Jack felt a surge of pride. Adrenaline had kept him going these last few hours. Entering the home straight, he gave in to an all-consuming fatigue.

  Ahead of them, HMS Marker was holding position just off Fort Albert in the lee of the island, sheltering from the wind. Her navigation and steaming lights were visible against the darkening shape of the headland. The voice hailing them on the radio was Captain Armstrong’s.

  “Santana, this is HMS Marker. We’re on standby to escort you on to Southampton docks. We’ll send a pilot and his team across to relieve you.”

  Flynn acknowledged the instructions, his voice thin and brittle.

  “Congratulations, Sergeant Flynn. You had us worried for a while there. Your team has done an outstanding job.”

  “Thank yo
u, sir. We have Jack and Sam to thank for getting us on board in the first place. We couldn’t have done it without them.”

  “Quite right. Thank you Jack. Let’s hope it was all worthwhile. With any luck, the Santana is carrying enough refined petroleum to keep Camp Wight’s equipment and vehicles running for several more precious months. According to her logs, her standard cargo was something close to one hundred thousand gallons. Judging by her waterline, that looks about right. All thanks to you.”

  “Just doing our job, sir,” croaked Flynn, clearing his throat and patting Jack on the shoulder.

  “Standby, maintain current course and speed. We’re coming alongside you on your port bow.”

  HMS Marker closed the gap between the two ships, until her boarding party waiting amidships were in line with the rope ladder swinging invitingly above them at head height. Four men hurried up the ladder and Jack was surprised to see Lieutenant Peterson was among them. What could possibly be important enough to get the American out here at this hour and in this weather?

  “Welcome on board Lieutenant, quite a welcoming committee. We weren’t expecting the royal treatment.”

  “Hello Jack,” said Peterson, taking his hand as he straddled the guard rail. “We’ve been following your progress from the Chester. We had your back. Our guys were on standby just in case things got too hairy. Sounded like you had things under control. Sorry about your man, Hughes was it? There was nothing we could do. We talked about scrambling the Seahawk, but in weather like that, chances were slim we’d ever find him. We’d only put more lives in danger. My condolences.”

  “Let’s hope it was worth the risk. So, what brings you out here in person?”

  “I wanted to be the first to speak with the Santana’s crew.”

  “Why?”

  “Think about it Jack. How long’s it been since we were in contact with anyone from outside this area? They might be able to tell us something, about what’s going on in other countries they’ve visited.”

  “What makes you think they’ve come from overseas? For all we know they could have been drifting like that in the English Channel for weeks. They may know no more than we do.”

  “Just a hunch. Who knows, they may have made it across the Atlantic.”

  “What I want to know is why they were locked up in the first place?”

  “Yeah, I can’t say I’d given that much thought. But now you mention it, how about you tag along and find out what their story is?”

  “Must say, I’m curious. It’s certainly piqued my interest.”

  “Be my guest. It won’t take long. Then we’ll get you back to dry land. Can you get Flynn and his men to provide some back-up? You can’t be too careful, right?”

  Jack waved Flynn over. The Sergeant snapped his fingers and his men grabbed their weapons and followed Peterson and Jack back down towards the crew quarters and the sealed door, which was still lashed shut with some webbing.

  Peterson leaned in close, putting his ear to the door, his eyes flicking around, concentrating hard, listening for any sounds. He shook his head and then used the gold ring on his right hand to hammer on the metalwork and called out in a language Jack didn’t speak but recognised as Spanish. From inside, there came voices and the sound of men getting to their feet. Peterson banged again, louder this time and gestured to Flynn to untie the webbing securing the door. He levered it open a crack, peering inside, cautioning the men to stay back as he pointed his weapon into the space beyond.

  The stench from within made them step back, covering their mouths with their sleeves. It was a heady mix of sweat, urine and faeces that flooded the corridor. Inside was a dark hellhole that had been the crew’s prison for who knew how long. Those still alive squinted towards the light, their arms raised with pained smiles on their gaunt faces.

  One by one, Flynn waved them forward, stepping over the sill of the doorway, until they stood with their backs to the wall in the corridor, facing their rescuers. Flynn’s man kept a gun on them at all times, but by the looks of them, they didn’t have the energy left for heroics. They looked broken and beaten. Each of them had dark hair, heavy beards, and tanned skin. Jack’s best guess was that they were South American, possibly Mexican.

  When they were in an orderly line, heads bowed, Flynn stepped aside and let Peterson pass.

  Peterson spoke quickly in fluent Spanish. There was an edge to his questions, repeated until one of the men shook his head and muttered a single word response. It was clearly not what Peterson was looking for. He renewed his inquisition with added fervour, anger spilling over into his body language as he towered over them. He slammed his hand in to the wall just above one of their heads, frustrated by the lack of cooperation. They cowered, shrinking against the officer’s aggression.

  The crew member who had spoken looked up for the first time and Jack noticed a flicker of recognition and alarm spread across his face. He put his hands in front of his body in a defensive posture, shaking his head and whispering something as he kissed the cross hanging from his neck.

  “Lock them back in until we get to port. I’ll deal with them later. No one speaks to them without my permission. Got it?” spat Peterson as he glared at Flynn before striding away.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jack looked on, puzzled, and whispered to Flynn.

  “Did you catch any of that? Speak any Spanish Sergeant?”

  “I did Spanish at school years ago. Something about ‘El Diablo’. He kept asking him where it was. He kept repeating the same phrase over and over.”

  “I got the distinct impression those two had met before.”

  “Not sure how that’s possible, Jack. You really think the Santana followed the Chester here?”

  Jack shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t explain it rationally, but his intuition told him there was more to this than met the eye.

  Once the crew quarters were sealed again, Jack and Flynn returned to the bridge, where Private Lucas was walking the pilot through the status of the Santana’s primary systems. Peterson gave the order for Lucas and the rest of the salvage team to be relieved and escorted them to the rail where, one by one, they climbed down to the deck of HMS Marker keeping pace beside them.

  Armstrong was waiting below them on the foredeck of the Royal Navy patrol ship to personally congratulate them. He shook hands with Jack and Flynn. Jack stood unsteadily, holding on to the rail, exhausted. It was some twelve hours after the original call had been made by the Chester.

  “Good job, gentlemen. Outstanding work. There’s a brew and biscuits inside. Go and get cleaned up and we’ll drop you back at Hurst.”

  “What’s going to happen to the crew?” asked Jack.

  “Oh, they’ll be put in quarantine, interrogated when we get back into port. Why, what’s on your mind Jack?”

  “Just curious, that’s all. Something doesn’t add up, them being locked up like that and the ship disabled.”

  “Not really, it was probably pirates. If you ask me, they were boarded, imprisoned as they searched the ship. Then, for whatever reason, they lost power and the pirates panicked and high-tailed it out of there. It was a standard tactic in the Gulf of Aden to kill power if you were boarded by Somali pirates, knowing sooner or later they would give up and go home.”

  Jack wasn’t so convinced, but agreed it seemed like the most plausible explanation. He was still trying to make sense of the exchange between the South American crew and Peterson. Who or what was this ‘Diablo’ they had argued about?

  “Right you lot, off you go.”

  The men nodded wearily and headed through the hatchway. Armstrong caught Jack’s arm. “Hold up Jack. Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure. What’s on your mind?”

  “Listen, I wanted you to be the first to hear.” He paused as a crewman handed each of them a steaming cup of milky tea and left again.

  Armstrong seemed hesitant, nervous about something.

  Jack noticed for the first time the pepper grey ha
ir at Armstrong’s temples. He reckoned Armstrong was in his early forties. He had met the sort so many times before. A career naval officer who looked down his nose at non-commissioned types. Fleet Auxiliary servicemen like Jack were something of a joke to people like Armstrong. A lifetime of privilege had bestowed upon the naval officer certain airs and graces that got right up Jack’s nose. Despite all the hardships they had both been through, Armstrong had lost none of that inbred haughtiness and sense of entitlement he’d seen so often in naval officers. It was almost laughable.

  Jack wracked his brain trying to think what possible news Armstrong could be about to share.

  “Is it Terra?” pre-empted Jack hopefully.

  “No, Jack, I’m sorry, no news there,” he frowned. “No, it’s about Hurst.”

  “What about Hurst?” he batted back to the younger man.

  Armstrong looked over Jack’s shoulder, following the contours of the island to the faint outline of the Needles rocks growing smaller in their wake.

  “If it’s all right with you, I’m just going to cut to the chase. We’ve known each other long enough. I owe you that.”

  There was a pregnant pause while Armstrong fiddled with his wedding band.

  “As you know, the security situation is deteriorating. We’ve all seen the same increase in attempts to reach the island. We think this is just the start of what’s to come.”

  “Captain, we spoke about this at length at the last council meeting only two weeks ago. We planned for this. There were contingencies made. This mass migration was always expected. As word spreads, we knew more and more people will be drawn here. So what’s changed?”

  “Well, here’s the thing. We’re successfully channelling the bulk of the refugees through our clearing zones in Lymington, Southampton, and Portsmouth. So far, that’s working, we’re just about coping. The island remains virus-free. The quarantine controls are working, even allowing for numbers far exceeding our models.”