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

by Robin Crumby

  “You need to be careful Jack,” cautioned Anders. “Pick your battles.”

  “But they ask too much. The Americans don’t seem to care whose toes they trample on to get what they want.”

  “Listen Jack. We’ve been friends a long time. I’ve always stood up for you, supported you. You know that. But the mood on the Council is hardening. There is little scope for compromise here. The Allies are under a huge amount of pressure. The security situation in Portsmouth is deteriorating.”

  “I heard. They’ve been forced to deploy more resources to shore up each of the embarkation points and deal with the sheer volume of people surging towards the island. They simply don’t have enough men trained to deal with a situation like this,” said Jack accusingly.

  “You can’t fault their ambition though,” said Anders. “But it seems that the pace of change has left them exposed.”

  “How so?”

  “For starters, the first of the new recruits they’ve drawn from civilian ranks are still weeks away from operational effectiveness. The burden will fall hardest on the Royal Navy. The Americans have no more men to spare, they have their hands full already.”

  Jack nodded, stroking his beard, pondering the situation.

  “Ironically,” continued Anders, “they can ill afford to spread their resources even thinner by sending more men to Hurst, but they simply have no choice. In the end, the two squads they’ve sent here are a token gesture only to placate Peterson. He’s been vociferous in his demands.”

  Badly under-strength, the two squads that had arrived from Portsmouth were made up of a rag-tag bunch of part-time soldiers and support staff who were being slowly whipped into shape by Corporal Ballard. They made up for their inexperience with an impressive collection of weaponry from the burgeoning armoury at Portsmouth naval base.

  The two old friends stood on the rooftop of the Gun Tower, watching the soldiers struggle ashore, cradling a series of awkward loads between them. Two crates, labelled with a cryptic string of letters and numbers down one side, were hauled up to the roof top and unpacked. A few minutes later, an impressive looking M134 mini-gun was bolted into place by two engineers to admiring glances from those gathered to inspect it.

  From this high vantage point, Ballard said it would have a sweeping field of fire covering both the Needles passage and the surrounding beach and mudflats. At the far end of the compound they also mounted a GPMG 7.62mm machine gun to cover the spit, alongside boxes of what looked like belted ammunition. Next to be unloaded came a mortar which Jack recognised from his navy days and a multi-purpose Javelin missile system which Anders said could be used against all manner of armoured vehicles, not to mention ships, helicopters, even tanks.

  As the men brought more equipment and stores ashore from the jetty, the whole place seemed to bustle with military activity.

  “With all the additional fire power, they’re turning this place into a fortress again.”

  “That’s the general idea. If they can secure the Western entrance, then they lock down the whole Solent into one big controlled exclusion zone. No one enters or leaves without explicit authorisation from command.”

  “I hear they’re fortifying the beaches on the southern side of the island. It’s all beginning to sound like something out of a World War II movie, with tank traps, machine gun nests, the works.”

  “That’s the price of freedom, eh? Do you think, in time, you will miss this place, Jack?”

  “Of course, Anders, this is our home. It would be like someone taking over the Charlotte and telling your people to leave.”

  “Perhaps. But, I think, like moving house, once your people are set up on the island, they will look back with fond memories. Trust me, in time, life will be better over there.”

  “Time heals most things, my friend. I hope you’re right,” he conceded with a sigh. “Armstrong tells me we will be well looked after. He says there are villages set aside for key workers far away from the refugee camps. Down in Ventnor or Shanklin, where there are beautiful views and farmland. He says it would be our own little slice of paradise. Still, it will never be quite the same as Hurst.”

  “Who knows, maybe this move will be for the best?”

  Anders paused, chewing his lip, as if remembering something.

  “And what will happen to your prisoner when you move? Surely, you can’t take him with you?”

  The relaxed smile on Jack’s face seemed to evaporate at the question, like a cloud passing in front of the sun.

  “I promised that man he would rot in his cell for the rest of his life. For what he did to my people, it’s no less than he deserves.”

  “I hear Peterson has made repeated requests that you hand him over to their custody, but you have always refused. I don’t get it, why keep him here? Surely it keeps the wound open, prevents it from healing? It seems a reasonable request.”

  “Because I don’t trust Peterson. I would worry that there’s an agenda. That he would be traded as part of some prisoner exchange. I know the Lymington hospital group have made enquiries but it’s never going to happen. I’d rather see him executed than handed over.”

  “What about if he was exchanged for Terra? Would that persuade you?”

  “Perhaps. For Terra, I might make an exception.”

  “I should like to meet this Damian King. I have heard so much about him. He is one of those figures that almost seems larger than life. I know he’s repeatedly refused to talk about his part in the rebellion. Refused to take responsibility for what his men did here. But why?”

  “Oh it’s not such a mystery. He likes playing with people. That’s why. He knows that it’s important to me, important to all of us, that he shows remorse, that he repents in some way. He calls this place “The Tower” and likens himself to Sir Thomas Moore refusing to accept the Reformation. Calls me Cromwell to bate me. It’s all a game to him, like it’s one big joke. It’s weird, like he’s channeling the Tudor history of this place to give himself strength. I had to read up on my history just to follow some of his references. Did you know that Charles the First was kept prisoner here during the English Civil War? I only found that out because he kept asking to be called Charles.”

  “I like that. A man who knows his history is to be feared. Some say Damian King was a lawyer before all this, which might explain why he runs rings round his inquisitors.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. He gives as good as he gets. He delights in probing for weaknesses. It’s like a sport. To him, all emotion is weakness. Something to manipulate. He likes to twist the facts, play games. I’ve learned over the weeks since I’ve been meeting with him to give nothing away, to react to nothing he says. It riles him. If truth be told, I have no idea what he really thinks or believes, he’s too cunning to give much away.”

  “Sounds like you’ve met your match. That you admire this guy perhaps?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. To me, he’s still the butcher of Hurst. Plain and simple, he’s a murderer with sociopathic tendencies. But I’ll say this, he’s stimulating company, that’s for sure. He has a brilliant mind. Reminds me of a commanding officer I once had. He was ex-military, steely-eyed. Great politician, always knew the right thing to say. Always seemed to be one step ahead of everyone else, as if he knew what was about to happen. Winterbottom was his name.”

  “It seems such a waste to have a man with his skills locked up in a dungeon. Doesn’t the new world need men like him?”

  “Not like him. He’s twisted. So much bile, so much hatred bottled up inside. Believe you me, he’s much better locked up. If he ever got loose again, he would turn this new world upside down. Even now, I’m convinced his influence extends beyond these walls, as if he’s still pulling the strings.”

  “But how’s that even possible? He has no contact with the outside world. Unless there’s someone working with him, perhaps one of the soldiers. Is there anyone you don’t trust?”

  “I’ve had my suspicions. Changed the guard severa
l times, stuck with people I know are loyal. And yet, despite my precautions, he still knows more than he should.”

  “Intuition? Maybe he’s just bluffing, trying to trick you into telling you what he needs to know.”

  “If he is bluffing, then he’s very good at it.”

  “From everything you’ve told me, I wouldn’t put it past him. If you would allow it, I would like to meet him.”

  Jack hesitated, but dared not refuse the request of his good friend.

  “On one condition,” insisted Jack. “That you tell him nothing about the outside world or what’s been going on. I have carefully controlled what he learns from us about the Allied plans for Camp Wight. Agreed?”

  Anders nodded his consent and the two men took one last look around the sweeping panoramic views of the island and Solent before bending double and climbing through the access hatch that led down the spiral staircase to the first floor. They descended the stone steps to the courtyard below and weaved through narrow passageways and sharp turns to reach the dry cellar where they were now keeping the prisoner.

  Outside the makeshift cell was a guard sat engrossed in a paperback book. His page was lit by a shaft of sunlight from above that penetrated the darkness, casting a dull square on the stone paved floor. From inside they could hear a man whistling brightly. It was the tune to “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary”. Jack smirked and shook his head.

  “He’s in good humour today,” said the guard, getting to his feet. “He was telling jokes earlier. Trying to get a reaction. I did as you asked Jack and ignored him.”

  “Well done. Don’t engage with the prisoner. Follow the rules and you’ll be fine.”

  “Yes Jack.”

  The whistling stopped abruptly and the prisoner called out in welcome.

  “Ah Jack. My old friend’s come to visit me and he’s brought someone new. I don’t recognise those footsteps. Come on, don’t be shy.”

  The guard lit the Tilley lantern, passed it to Jack and unlocked the door to let them both inside, closing up behind them.

  Jack held the lantern high above his head and located the prisoner in the far corner, sitting on his mattress wrapped in a grey blanket, a privilege he had granted him in return for good behaviour and his co-operation. The hours here were long and interminable, books and playing cards made all the difference. It had been weeks since he had seen daylight.

  “If I’m not mistaken, you must be Captain Anders from the Charlotte.”

  Anders looked taken aback. “How did you know my name? Have we met before?”

  “Just a wild guess. There’s not much goes on round here that I don’t know about. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Anders flicked a glance at Jack who had not reacted in any way. Jack had seen it all before with the prisoner. Nothing surprised him anymore. Jack raised the lantern, noticing something different about the prisoner. He moved the light closer to illuminate his face and features.

  There was heavy bruising around his left eye and his mouth was crusted in dried blood. Jack leaned closer, studying the prisoner’s injuries through the glasses perched on his nose.

  “Who did this to you?” asked Jack tersely, flicking his head back towards the door as if considering hauling the guard in here to give account of himself.

  “It’s hardly the first time,” sneered the prisoner. “A couple of your boys paid me a visit earlier today. Mistook me for a punch bag. South African guy with a chip on his shoulder. Still getting his own back from his time in the hospital. Can’t blame him really, Copper gave him a pretty good going over. He’s got an understudy now, some young guy. A few bricks short of a full load that one. Very expressive with his fists.”

  “I’ll have their heads for this. I’m sorry. I can assure you they acted on their own, they weren’t here on my orders.”

  “Oh I believe you Jack. Not your style. You never were the violent type,” he said with particular emphasis. He turned towards the new arrival. “So Captain Anders, how’s my old friend Victor? I gather you two don’t see eye to eye anymore.”

  Jack cautioned Anders with a glare.

  “That’s right. Jack doesn’t like me talking to his friends. He’s worried I might extract information. Learn what’s really going on out there. Jack likes to think he’s in control. Keeping me in the dark. Doesn’t like me manipulating people. Isn’t that right Jack? That’s why he keeps me locked up in here.”

  “I keep you locked up in here because you killed twelve of my people.”

  “Hardly. It wasn’t me who pulled the trigger, was it?”

  “Make no mistake, you gave the order. Your people executed them in cold blood. They were unarmed, women and children.”

  “Let’s not go over this again Jack. I told you, Copper was acting of his own volition. That guy is out of control. A ticking time bomb. He’s the one to blame, not me. Anyway, this is all ancient history. Time to move on. Let’s talk about something more interesting. How are things at Camp Wight, Captain?”

  “I wouldn’t know, I’m hardly a regular visitor,” volunteered Anders before checking himself.

  “I thought you and Jack were on the Council. You meet monthly with Armstrong, Peterson and the others. Isn’t that what you told me Jack?”

  “I told you nothing of the sort,” said Jack, turning to Anders again. “He’s fishing for information as usual. Don’t fall for it.”

  “You’re very uncooperative today Jack. Not your usual talkative self. Taking your forthcoming move to the island a little hard are we? Can’t have been easy to hear. Still, it was only a matter of time before you had to move out, make way for people who can do the job properly. Amateur hour is over.”

  “Quite.”

  “And you Captain, what did you get in return for your cargo of humanitarian aid? Will you get a castle to live in?”

  He waited expectantly for Anders to respond, shrugging his shoulders at his silence.

  “Hmm. No, not your style. I don’t detect much of an ego in you. Airs and graces not your thing? By the smell of you,” he said, turning his nose up as he sniffed the air, “you like a drink. Your waistline suggests a healthy appetite. Still wearing a ring on your finger, but I’d warrant she died years ago. All those years away at sea were hard on her, no? She wanted children but you didn’t. You were never around.”

  There was a flicker of anger in Anders’ eyes.

  “Those long dark winter nights on her own must have been hard. How did she die Captain? Was it suicide? No, more likely a long-term illness. Cancer? It was cancer wasn’t it? Still, I suppose you made it back in time for the funeral. She would have appreciated that. It was the least you could do. Diverting to port and flying home when you heard the news. Her family never forgave you though, did they Captain?”

  Anders kept silent throughout, trying to avoid betraying his thoughts or emotions, listening to the prisoner drive a ten-ton truck through his personal life.

  “Just ignore him Anders. He’s got a fertile imagination. Doesn’t care what he tramples over to get a rise out of someone.”

  “I can’t help it. You see, I see things. I can read you like a book. It’s all there,” he said waving his hand down Anders’s clothes, studying him assiduously. “Even after all this time, the tells are as visible today as they ever were. Jack tries so hard to dissemble. He thinks that he can mislead me. Trick me into believing things that aren’t true. Even now, you think I’ll come round. Roll over and betray my own people. It isn’t going to happen Jack.”

  “You’re not half as clever as you think you are. Your arrogance is your weakness.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s not like I have a choice you know. Talking to you is slightly better than silence, but not much. I’ve grown to enjoy our conversations, Jack. I think of you as a friend. What would I do without you?”

  “Your life means nothing to me. You’re only alive because we cling to an outdated sense of justice.”

  “Justice?” laughed the prisoner. “T
hat’s rich coming from you. Whatever happened to guilty until proven innocent? Where was my fair trial? What you have here at the castle is medieval justice. Confess and we’ll grant you mercy. Ha! That’s more like a kangaroo court. Don’t talk to me about justice, you don’t know the meaning of the word.”

  Jack realised he was tensing again, feeling his chest tighten as his hackles rose.

  “Come on,” he motioned to Anders. “I think visiting hours are over. We’ve all had quite enough excitement for one day.”

  Jack noticed that Anders’s bottom lip was quivering almost imperceptibly. As he turned his head towards the door, Anders’ eyes were glinting, full of tears. Jack had seen it before. The prisoner knew how to push people’s buttons. He had a knack for winding people up at will.

  Before he left, Jack reached down and snatched the blanket from around the prisoner’s shoulders, shaking his head.

  “I’ll take that, thank you. I warned you, didn’t I? Behave yourself or your privileges will be revoked.”

  “Take it,” he sneered. “Good luck with the expedition up north Jack. Hope they find what they’re looking for.”

  As the door slammed behind him, Jack had to wonder where on earth he was getting his information from. It was too good to be guesswork.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  That afternoon, the storm had completely blown itself out to be replaced by a dull grey sky. Zed and Riley had said their goodbyes to the team and waited for the chopper that would be taking them north towards Salisbury and the military research facility at Porton Down.

  They had been told to keep quiet about the reasons for the mission but the Hurst grapevine had circulated rumours of Zed’s past. People seemed to look at him with new-found respect, as if his former role distinguished him somehow, elevating him beyond his more humble status as a secondary school science teacher.

  Riley still had a hundred questions and Zed’s good humour was wearing thin.