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

by Robin Crumby

  “Riley,” she whispered, blinking for her attention. “You were right.”

  “Don’t try and talk Jen. Save your energy.”

  “You were right, about everything. We should never have helped Briggs,” she gasped, gritting her teeth against a wave of pain. “As soon as you left, he took it out on us. He blamed us. It was a massacre. I barely got away with my life.”

  Her body was racked by coughing, her back arching as her mouth filled with blood. The medic rotated her head to the side, fighting to clear her airway.

  “I’m so sorry Jen. They had no idea it was you. I should have guessed, I should have known you would come.”

  The Doctor nodded, trying to smile, her teeth stained with blood. “I brought you something,” she gulped, reaching for the holdall. “They left it, left it behind. You were right.”

  She gripped Riley’s hand and seemed to lapse out of consciousness, her eyes beginning to close.

  “Isn’t there something we can do for her?”

  The medic grimaced, shaking his head. She was too far gone. With one final heave, the Doctor’s chest rose and then slowly fell, her eyes fixed on Riley.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Jones. “There’s nothing we could have done.”

  “Sergeant, if we don’t get going, we’re going to get stuck here too.”

  Riley was still holding the Doctor’s hand as the colour began to drain from her face. Jones helped Riley up and she reluctantly released her grasp before jogging back to the boats, where everyone else was now loaded and ready to leave. The helm was lying flat on the quay, looking underneath the boat, where they were grounding with the added weight.

  The Staff Sergeant positioned two armed soldiers at the stern of the small passenger ferry to ride shotgun, just in case any of the locals wanted a final potshot at their party. Riley could hear the pilot ram the engine full ahead trying to get off the mudflat, watching over the side as they inched forward, leaving a trail of mud and seaweed in their wake. He was mumbling something about shallows ahead of them, worried about getting stuck again on the falling tide. He shouted towards Riley’s R.I.B to stay close just in case they needed towing off again.

  They stayed tight with the channel, watching the water visibly draining around them, as submerged objects, shopping carts and tyres, started appearing further out into the river. Sure enough, a few hundred meters further on, the bow of the vessel rode up suddenly, as the keel grounded abruptly on soft mud.

  They could see from the R.I.B that the larger boat was well and truly aground, tipping to starboard in the shallow water. The pilot threw his hands in the air, cursing under his breath. He rammed the inboard engine in reverse and a torrent of bubbles and dirt churned out behind them. They were wedged in place.

  The two R.I.Bs had shallow V-shaped hulls for planing and speed, but were heavily laden with men and equipment. They coasted back towards the stricken ferry, raised their outboard engines so that they were at a forty-five degree angle, careful not to damage their propellors. Coming alongside, they each threw towing lines that were made fast to two cleats at the stern. On the count of three, slowly and then with more urgency, the helmsmen pushed their throttles forward and the lines went taut as they attempted to tow the ferry clear.

  At first, she stubbornly refused to budge, but then slowly, little by little, the boat slid backwards until they were back on an even keel, sending a small bow wave towards the river bank.

  Away to their right Riley saw a flurry of activity as three locals broke cover, firing wildly in their direction. They ran towards them over open ground, heading for the quayside nearest them. Two were hurriedly reloading. They were still too far away to do any damage but closing the gap quickly.

  As soon as the flotilla was back in the main channel, they threw caution to the wind and put their engines ahead full, surging towards deeper water. The R.I.Bs overtook the ferry, powering away down river. Riley watched nervously over her shoulder as the locals ran to intercept around the next bend. This time they would be in range.

  The soldiers shouted for everyone to keep their heads down as the two men knelt down and took aim at the approaching boats, failing to notice that by exposing themselves, they would provide a target for the sniper. Riley saw Jones’s man take careful aim, adjusting for the movement of the boat, but his head came up again. He didn’t have a clear shot, gesturing for the helm to veer right.

  The first shotgun volley splattered in the water all around the stern of the boat, but the second found its mark, shattering one of the cabin windows and leaving pellets embedded in the woodwork and fibreglass. Riley stayed low, conscious that the inflatable seat of the R.I.B would offer poor protection if they targeted their boat. The sniper fired but the combination of distance and bouncing on the water ensured his aim was wide. Before they rounded the corner out of sight, she saw one of the men shaking his fist at them.

  She turned round, laughing in relief at the good fortune of their escape.

  “That was close.”

  She noticed one of the Seal team to her left clutching his forehead, where a deep graze in his scalp was oozing blood down his face. He smiled back at her and the expression of relief froze, regretting her words.

  “Just a flesh wound. I’ve had worse, believe you me,” he grimaced. Riley turned away before he launched into another story about some tour of duty in Afghanistan or Iraq.

  “Yes, I’m sure you have, Corporal,” she sighed. She had heard her fair share already on this trip.

  At the mouth of the river, the other R.I.B accelerated away towards Cowes on the island, trailed at a growing distance by the larger vessel. Their own R.I.B turned to port, passing the entrance to the Hamble River and set course for the Chester a couple of miles away. They radioed ahead to prep the medical team for the arrival of the casualties. One of them had lost a lot of blood and there were concerned looks exchanged between those caring for him. The heavily overloaded R.I.B started to roll uncomfortably with each wave and the helm eased back the throttle so that they rode the swell a little better.

  Little by little, the American destroyer grew larger until she towered over them. The Chester was much longer than Riley had imagined. Over one hundred and fifty meters end to end with two funnel stacks split into two, where wisps of smoke or steam were just visible. Her bow rose up at the front where her anchor chain plunged towards the sea bed in an eastward flowing tide.

  Running alongside, approaching amidships, Riley noticed torpedo tubes, deck-mounted machine guns and her main armament of a five-inch gun that the Americans boasted could hit any target up to thirty miles away. Her mast and double cross-trees were a thicket of sensors and aerials.

  By way of welcome, Riley could see the walkway being lowered and a team hurried down the ramp to a small landing platform ready with stretchers to help the wounded to the medical bay. They threw their lines and Riley helped to fend off against the high-sided hull of the Chester, preventing the R.I.B from riding up and scraping against the lowered walkway. Finally, when her turn came, Jones grabbed her hand and hauled her up. Between them they supported Zed to a seat in the medical centre where one of the kitchen staff handed them each a steaming hot cup of cocoa.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The arrival of the wounded from Porton Down had prompted a flurry of activity on the Chester. The ship’s doctor and his team were already dressed in green surgical gowns, scrubbing for surgery outside the operating theatre. Riley deposited Zed on a bench seat outside the medical centre, resting his head back against the wall. He was cradling his arm where the field dressing had come loose with itching. She noticed a whiteboard with four names written in block capitals, letters and numbers alongside each denoting their injury and blood type. Zed’s name was at the bottom of the priority list.

  “This here’s our Chief Medical Officer, but you can call him Doc,” said Jones disarmingly. “He doesn’t stand on ceremony. He’ll take care of Zed.”

  “We’ve met before actually,” co
rrected Riley. “He’s been to see us a few times. Things we couldn’t deal with ourselves - blood poisoning, multiple fractures, gunshot wounds, that sort of thing.”

  “How is Toby by the way?” added Doc, listening in to their conversation. His mouth was covered by a surgical mask, so she couldn’t read his expression.

  “Oh he’s fine, thanks to you. The cast came off last week and he’s already running around with his mates again.”

  “Well, you tell him from me to take it easy. We don’t want him falling off walls again. I apologise. I’ve got my hands full here, perhaps we can grab a coffee when we’re done.”

  “I’d like that. I appreciate you seeing Zed like this. Second time in six months he’s darkened your doors.”

  “Between him and Jack, we’re beginning to think you Hurst folks are a little accident prone. Can’t stay out of trouble eh, Zed?”

  One of the female members of his team added: “Now the hospital on the island is back up and running, they’re picking up most of the slack. We’re getting fewer non-military emergencies now. This is rare excitement for us.”

  The Doctor finished prepping, holding both his gloved hands in the air, waiting for his team to wheel through the first heavily-sedated patient into the operating theatre through some double swing doors. A male nurse in scrubs poked his head out, holding the door open.

  “Colonel, if you wouldn’t mind coming back in a couple of hours, I’d like to talk some more in private,” requested the Doctor to a silent nod. “And Riley, it would be good to fill you in about Adele. She’s quite the talk of the town right now.”

  “Sure,” she replied a little hesitantly. “I’d be happy to. We’ll pop back later.”

  Riley wondered what the Doctor could possibly want with Adele this time. It was common knowledge that Adele had immunity to the virus. The blood tests had suggested high levels of an antibody consistent with the Porton Down team’s findings. The child had been hooked up to more medical apparatus than she could remember. She had given more blood than Riley thought was possible for a girl of her age.

  Riley had taken her for overnight trips to see the Professor’s labs twice in the last few weeks alone. Perhaps they had made a breakthrough in the meantime, though why had the Professor not mentioned it to the Porton Down team. She wondered whether the Professor had kept anything else back and whether the reciprocity had been genuinely embraced on both sides.

  Sergeant Jones escorted Riley and the Colonel through a maze of walkways and corridors up to the Combat Information Centre where they found Peterson and his team in a state of high anxiety. It took Riley a moment to adjust to the dim lighting in the room. Rows of screens displayed radar, tactical information systems and live aerial feeds from what looked like a drone. Each of their operator’s faces was lit by a ghostly pale glow, accentuated by the soft red lighting from above. There was something almost demonic and disturbing about the place.

  “Is now a bad time or is it always like this?” whispered Riley to Jones, trying to stay out of the way, keeping a low profile.

  “No, it’s normally like this. This is where it all happens. Operation Overwatch for Camp Wight. Twenty-four hour surveillance of every waterway and approach in the Solent. They average something like thirty separate incidents every day. Everything from intercept missions for small craft trying to make unauthorised trips to the island, then there’s escort duty for the ferry crossings and finally transporting personnel back and forth. The guys in here are the eyes and ears. This is mission control for the whole of central south of England.”

  “So I see,” she said, looking over the shoulder of the operator nearest her, whose digital map showed the Isle of Wight and mainland coastline stretching from Bournemouth in the West to Brighton in the East.

  Any larger ships or vessels were marked with an identifier showing course and speed, like an air traffic controller’s screen. There was minimal activity for what used to be a busy waterway. The operator tapped on one of the vessels and zoomed in on a boat that was leaving Hythe.

  “Sir,” his voice was raised, trying to attract the attention of the officer of the watch who looked up from a screen opposite. “We have two tangos heading south out of Hythe at approx fifteen knots.”

  “Do we have any assets that can intercept?”

  “Affirmative, retasking Alpha Seven now.

  “I had no idea it was such a sophisticated operation,” whispered Riley. “Been a while since I saw a computer and all this tech you have here.”

  “Yes, I imagine it’s a bit different from Hurst.”

  “We still do things the old-fashioned way. Pair of binoculars, sextant, compass, searchlights. That’s about as high-tech as we get over there. Vigilance is our watch word.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. The old ways are still the best. You start relying on technology, sometime soon it’s going to let you down. That’s why we learn to navigate by the stars and the sun. Live off the land. Keep fit and healthy. That’s how we stay alive.”

  “Your team is an inspiration to the rest of us,” flattered the Colonel, listening to their conversation with a strange detachment, surveying the war room as if he was at home in this environment, surrounded by intelligence feeds. “I wish we had more like you.”

  “Thank you sir, that’s certainly our plan. We are working hand in hand with our counterparts in the Royal Marines as part of the new corps command training centre just outside Cowes. We have our first intake of new recruits being trained up.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen it. Very impressive. I hear there’s been an arm-wrestle of sorts between British and American training methods.”

  “Guess we all think we’re the best. We’ve found a happy medium. Taken the best of both programmes and condensed it down to six weeks. Basic military training, weapons, fitness, survival skills.”

  “Sounds like you’re building an army?” suggested Riley.

  “No, it’s strictly small scale,” replied the Colonel. “First intake is fifty men and women. Second intake is slightly larger. Look, it’s a start. But with the security situation deteriorating, we’re still just scratching the surface. We’ll need hundreds more recruits if we’re to keep the Portsmouth, Southampton and Lymington corridors open for refugees.”

  “So what happens to all the people you catch illegally trying to make the crossing?”

  “Well,” sighed the Sergeant. “In the beginning, our orders were to intercept them, explain the error of their ways. Sometimes it was just some harsh language. Others more determined got a shot across their bows. But over time, we found the same people trying again and again. Any other time we’d arrest them, lock them up. Unfortunately, we have no way to incarcerate them. So if they refuse to comply, we sink their boats. Make sure they can’t try again.”

  “What do you do with the passengers. Please tell me you take them back to the mainland?” said Riley opening her eyes wider waiting for a response. “You don’t just let them swim home?”

  The Sergeant grimaced but didn’t duck the question.

  “We can’t risk infection. Many of these guys trying to make the crossing have been turned away before. They failed the test, Riley. Picking them up and taking them back would be an unacceptable risk for the coastguard teams.”

  “That would explain why we see so many bodies washed up on the beaches. Surely there’s another way? It’s barbaric to let men, women and children drown.”

  “If there is, I don’t know what it is. They know the risks they’re taking. They know what will happen to them if they get caught.”

  “Why is it always so black and white with you people?” lambasted Riley, her frustration boiling over. “These guys are desperate. They’re not evil, they’re just trying to survive. Colonel, you do realise this heavy handedness gives the Allies a bad name? You’re turning a humanitarian crisis into a disaster.”

  “There you go getting all high and mighty on me again, Riley.”

  “Don’t tell me Sergeant, you’re just
doing your job. Following orders?”

  Jones shrugged, looking for support from the Colonel, who seemed amused by Riley’s bravado. She glared at them both before remembering Zed’s cautionary words about keeping the Americans on side. She never knew when she might need them again. She feigned a smile and Jones frowned back at her, visibly surprised to see her backing down, as if he was relishing the prospect of another fight. He reminded her of Zed.

  From across the room, Peterson had been watching the group, interpreting their body language, curious about the topic of conversation. Riley had heard it said that Peterson was proficient at lip-reading and always seemed to know what people were thinking, adept at following conversations from a distance. Their group was standing awkwardly by the door and he wandered over to greet them.

  “Good to have you back, Colonel, Riley.” he nodded, his hands behind his back. “I hear you got the Porton scientists back safely. Sergeant, what’s this I hear about the Professor being MIA?”

  “Yes, sir. Our convoy was attacked on the way back. An IED took out the APV with the Professor inside. We were ambushed by a superior force, caught in a crossfire. Nine of the Porton team, including the Professor and Zed and Riley, were captured and taken to a forest camp a couple of miles away. The rest of us were cut-off, in danger of being surrounded. We were forced to retreat, barely got everyone else out alive. We waited until nightfall and mounted a rescue operation. Unfortunately, we were unable to locate the Professor or the laptops and drives.”

  “I look forward to reading the debriefing report.”

  “Yessir, I’ll have that to you by 1700 hours.”

  “What about Briggs? I heard he was involved?”

  “That’s correct. Briggs and some of the team from Lymington hospital were there. A man they called Copper. They were working together by all accounts.”