Most of the two-page scrawl in spidery, shaking hand-writing spoke of Gill’s recovery from exposure to the VX gas during the rebel attack as well as her reminiscences of their time in Salisbury, all those years ago. Places and friends he half-remembered. Either her memory was failing her or several of the names were subtly altered or just plain wrong. Things that had never happened between them. He assumed she remained weak from the accident, wheelchair bound and vulnerable. A sentence within the body of the letter troubled him. “A man of your not inconsiderable talents should have no problem reading between the lines.” It was classic Gill, poking fun at his shortcomings, but the more he read the letter the more convinced he had become that he was missing the point.
He shook his head and placed the note back in the envelope. He imagined he detected a trace of her perfume and placed it back in his breast pocket alongside the other letter he kept there from Hurst Castle.
Over the last few weeks since learning Heather was alive, he practised compartmentalisation, constructing mental walls to allow him to maintain focus on his research. Riley once taught him a counselling trick she used to help her patients keep at bay the trauma that haunted their dreams. Defensive strategies designed to keep some semblance of order. From time to time, memories slipped through. The little green watering can Heather used when she was learning to walk, following her mother round the garden, giving the flowers ‘a drink’. How they both laughed reading Fungus the Bogeyman. Trips to the swimming pool. Then it all got too painful, remembering Connor in his water-wings. Who knew what had happened to Connor? Presumed dead in one of those camps. How could a father live with himself leaving his family to face their fate alone?
Zed stacked his tray with the others and resolved to mention Gill’s note to the colonel. With all the intelligence officer’s years of experience, perhaps he could shed some light on its contents.
Chapter 4
It took Riley several attempts before anyone from the coastguard station above Needles Battery answered her call. Three minutes later, an out of breath Corporal Carter came on the line.
“What seems to be the trouble?” huffed Carter, perhaps underestimating the seriousness of the Nipper’s predicament.
“We’ve lost both engines,” said Riley. “There’s a rope caught around our prop.”
There was an awkward pause as Corporal Carter considered the options. “Where exactly are you?” he asked, finally recognising the underlying stress in her voice.
“Just off Alum Bay. Right below you.”
It took a moment to locate them through his binoculars. “I see you now. I’ll call Yarmouth command. See if they can’t get a RIB out to you. I wouldn’t hold your breath though. At this time of day? They’ll have their hands full running escort duty.”
“I was afraid you might say that.”
“Kirkpatrick here was a rescue swimmer in his day. He might be able to swim out to you with a tow line when the tide slackens off. In the meantime, you best get an anchor down and wait. I’ll have one of the boys keep an eye on you.”
“Thanks. We’ll keep you posted. Nipper out.”
Riley replaced the handset and joined Sam at the rail. He was in the process of tying a diver’s knife to a long-handled boat hook in some ‘Heath Robinson’ attempt to cut them free of the trailing fishing line caught round their propellor and rudder.
“Have you done this before?” she asked.
“Not exactly but I saw Jack do it a couple of years ago.”
“So this happens a lot then?”
“Hardly. Most of the new fishing boats have rope cutters fitted as standard. Serrated teeth would normally chop straight through propylene, but, oh no, not Jack. Always counting the pennies that one.”
“I suppose they’re expensive,” she sympathised, not expecting an answer. Less than a kilometre away, the multicoloured cliffs of Alum Bay towered above them. Riley remembered sailing across on a dayboat from Lymington years ago, anchoring in the bay. Rowing ashore to ride the chairlift up to the cafés and shops on the clifftop above. If she closed her eyes, she could still almost smell the sickly sweet chocolate fudge, sticks of rock and children’s sunburnt faces daubed with ice cream. Sam noticed her vacant expression, staring up at the cliffs.
“I used to think those streaks of colour were a local prank, some joker pouring buckets of dye from the top, but Jack always claimed they were caused by minerals and iron.” Sam ripped some duct tape with his teeth, admiring the improvised tool, testing the sharpness of the blade.
“Why can’t we just put the engines in reverse?” shouted Tommy from the bow.
“And risk doing more damage?” dismissed Sam, shaking his head. “Once that stuff’s wound tight, there’s no freeing it.”
“I thought the Nipper had two engines. Can’t we just use the other one?”
“Not if the rope’s tied to half a dozen pots. We’d drag them all the way home.”
“And?”
“What if they snag on the bottom? Could rip the propellor clean off, risk tearing a hole in the hull. We’d be talking weeks out of the water for repairs. That’s if we could get the spare parts.”
Tommy shrugged and returned to his work gutting fish.
“I thought we were the only ones who fished here,” asked Riley, pointing at the blue buoy. “How did it get here in the first place?”
“Maybe dragged from another site. All ours have sinking line, not that cheap floating stuff.”
“What did Jack do last time this happened?”
“Cut us free with a knife. Exactly what I’m trying now.”
For half an hour, Sam and Tommy took it in turns to lean as far over the rail as they dared, sawing at the rope with the serrated edge of the knife. Without tension on the line it proved near impossible. Sam tied the rope off to a stern cleat. Then, much to Riley’s surprise, he proceeded to strip to his underwear, handing her his oilskin jacket and trousers. On a whim, he darted inside the cabin and rummaged around in several equipment lockers before he found what he was looking for: Jack’s old cycle helmet.
“What’s that for?” laughed Tommy.
“What do you think? To stop the boat crashing down on my head, you idiot.”
He adjusted the straps, secured tight underneath his chin. They all agreed he looked ridiculous. The contrast between hairless white chest, scrawny arms, and ruddy complexion made Riley smile. Sam ignored their laughter, lowering a step ladder over the stern so he could get back onboard when the time came.
“Don’t start the engines until I say so. I don’t want that thing cutting me to ribbons.”
“Be careful, Sam,” cautioned Riley.
She was just about to suggest he wore a lifejacket when, without ceremony, Sam grabbed the boat hook with the knife attached and jumped over the side. He resurfaced, gasping at the water temperature, fighting to control his breathing. A wave swept through pushing Sam away from the stern, but he didn’t seem to notice, eyes fixed on the task in hand, kicking hard for the glinting brass of the propellor just below the surface.
Riley maintained her vigil as Sam worked, the Nipper’s life ring on her lap, ready to throw it overboard if something happened. Every few seconds his head disappeared beneath another cresting wave, the fingers of one hand gripping the cooling water outlet from the engines.
Each time she heard him resurface, cursing and spluttering as he reached under to attack the tangle of rope. After a few minutes trying he shook his head, shivering against the cold.
“It’s not working,” he shouted. “I’m going to have to dive under.”
He disappeared for a few seconds, the soles of his feet visible when he kicked. There was a heavy clank as if the Nipper’s steel hull had grounded. Sam re-emerged gasping for breath, wiping saltwater from his eyes. There was a mark on the cycle helmet where the boat had come crashing down on his head. Undaunted, he dived under one last time. She lost sight of him, standing in alarm, ready to throw the life ring, but he was nowhere to be
seen.
A hand gripped the top rung of the ladder as he hauled himself clear of the water, passing the boathook to Riley. She handed him a towel as he sheltered in the wheelhouse, his shaking hand reached for the starter button.
“You sure you got all of it?” cautioned Tommy.
“Fairly sure. We’ll have to hope the propellor shaft isn’t bent out of shape.”
The starter motor whirred and the engine caught almost immediately. With some trepidation, Sam winced as he pushed one lever ahead slowly and then the other. A gentle churn of water confirmed the shaft was undamaged. No hint of grinding as he had feared. Sam flicked the throttle back into neutral with immense relief.
“Let’s get the last of the nets in and call it a day. Take it easy on the way back. I don’t want to take any chances until we’ve checked it out.”
“Whatever you say, Skip,” acknowledged Tommy.
As they rounded the corner and headed back towards Hurst Spit, Riley realised a welcome party waited for them, figuring they must have listened in on their earlier distress call.
“Are you alright?” shouted Scottie, cupping his hands, noticing Sam still shivering in damp clothes.
“Someone wasn’t looking where they were going,” answered Sam.
“Could have happened to anyone,” corrected Tommy, refusing to accept the blame.
“What’s with the welcoming committee?” asked Sam.
“It’s not for you. It’s for Flynn,” confirmed Tommy pointing over their shoulders back towards Cowes.
Riley and the others had been so preoccupied with their own drama they hadn’t noticed the Royal Navy launch half a kilometre away heading straight for the dock. At first Riley assumed Yarmouth Command must have sent a patrol to assist but the looks on the shore team’s faces told a different story.
“What does he want this time?” sighed Riley. “Sam, put the Nipper on the mooring can you?”
“Sure thing.”
Chapter 5
The Archer class patrol vessel waited patiently in the lee of the castle’s spit. She was considerably larger than the fishing boat, perhaps seventy feet in length, with sleek lines, steel-hued grey, the colour of a battleship. Sergeant Flynn studied Riley and the others through binoculars from the flying bridge with cold detachment, like a general surveying the battlefield. No-one waved in welcome. Two uniformed crew busied themselves with bow and stern lines on its green non-slip deck.
As the Royal Navy launch approached the dock, its white ensign fluttered in the breeze casting shadows across a grey inflatable secured behind the cabin. Scottie caught the bowline, looping it around a post as the ship’s pristine white fenders squeaked gently against the low jetty.
“We weren’t told to expect you.” Riley’s greeting betrayed her irritation at their unscheduled arrival.
“I beg your pardon?” Flynn span round, eyes blazing. “This facility remains under military control.” He brushed past without stopping, followed by two young recruits armed with assault rifles. “We don’t need your permission,” he dismissed haughtily. His eyes seemed fixed on the castle ramparts, as if scanning for threats. Riley felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Flynn tended to have this effect on her.
“Nevertheless, you can’t just show up out of the blue,” began Riley. “This is our home. I assume you have the relevant paperwork, Sergeant?” She held her hand out in expectation.
He stared at the palm of her hand, snorting in disgust. “If you seriously think I’m going all the way back to St Mary’s to get some bloody piece of paper.”
Riley stood her ground. “Oh, I insist.”
“Just let us do our jobs and we’ll leave you in peace.”
“I can’t do that,” she repeated, blocking his path.
Flynn’s eyes narrowed. “I’m authorised to use force…” he threatened, towering over her.
“Not here, you’re not. No one’s forgotten what you did.” Riley sensed Will and Scottie take up positions either side of her, spoiling for a fight. They still blamed the military for what happened to Jack, Riley’s predecessor. Flynn’s cowardly act of non-intervention allowed the rebels to capture Hurst’s leader and inflict their revenge.
“You people should be grateful,” Flynn mocked. “When we got here, this place was a dump. We fixed it up, made it fit for habitation.”
“Grateful? For you slaughtering half our animals, burning our books and furniture? You stripped this place bare, left us with nothing.”
“I don’t have time for this,” sneered Flynn. “If you want to make a complaint, I suggest you take this up with the Captain. Either you lot stand aside or I’ll have you arrested for obstruction.”
Riley pretended to count heads. “I’d like to see you try.” She drew his attention to activity on top of the Gun Tower where Tommy was readying the machine gun, removing the tarpaulin and loading ammunition in a show of force.
Will could contain himself no longer, pressing forward, eye-balling Flynn. “You best leave while you still can, Sergeant.”
Flynn laughed in his face. “Who asked you, tough guy? Typical Bok. Think you’re king of the jungle, do you?”
“Not many jungles where I come from.”
“Where’s that? Bongo bongo land?”
“Bournemouth. Fifteen years. I’m probably more British than you.”
“Sergeant,” shouted a voice from the jetty. Flynn spun round, stiffening at the sight of the doctor from St Mary’s, hands on hips. “May I remind you, your orders are to escort us, not pick fights.”
“Yes, sir,” apologised Flynn, his head bowed, teeth gritted, much to the amusement of Will and Scottie.
“If you can’t conduct yourself in an orderly fashion, I suggest you wait on the jetty with the others.” With that the doctor turned his attention to Riley. “Sorry about that. Why don’t we start over? I’m Doctor Jeffries from St Mary’s Hospital. It would appear there’s been a communication breakdown of sorts. We’re here to conduct some routine tests. Nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you. Here,” he said, thrusting a printed sheet into Riley’s outstretched hand, headed ‘Regeneration programme: mandatory order’. “The leaflet should answer your questions.”
“What’s this all about, Doctor Jeffries?” asked Riley, naturally suspicious of any public health intervention she knew little about.
“We’re surveying all the local groups from Chichester to Christchurch, taking blood from every woman over the age of thirteen and under thirty. I have a list of names here,” he said, rummaging in his bag for his note book.
Riley scanned the list, finding Zed’s daughter, Heather. “You said every woman. Thirteen seems awfully young.”
He smiled. “We’re building up a comprehensive genetic database, but we’re particularly interested in this age group. It’s all explained in the leaflet.”
“I see. May I ask why?”
“We’re testing different vaccine approaches, trying to determine compatibility for the programme.”
“Is this the same regeneration programme the Sisters were advocating?”
“I’m not sure but the Council insisted the Sisters be brought in. Something about safeguarding the interests of the women involved.”
“How many volunteers do you have?”
“Seven hundred, so far.”
“I see. I don’t suppose you work with Zed? Zed Samuels?” she asked hopefully.
“Not that I know of, but there are a few new people brought in from Porton Down. He might be one of them. Doctor Hardy and Doctor Wu are the lead scientists.” Riley nodded, not sure she recognised the second name. “If we’re lucky, one of the girls might prove a match. It’s a great honour to be asked to join the programme.”
“Then they get a choice?”
The doctor deferred to his assistant, seemingly uncertain about protocol.
“I’m not aware anyone ever said ‘no’ before. I suppose there’s always a first time. One of my colleagues was lucky enough to go to Vent
nor. They have the best of everything, so I’m told. Those volunteers are already making a difference, speeding up our search for a vaccine, saving lives.” The doctor scanned the castle walls with reverence. “So this is where Adele Mathews lived?”
“She still does,” Riley puzzled, unsure how he knew the name.
“I’m sorry. I assumed she was...” He didn’t finish the sentence, his cheeks flush with embarrassment. “We named one of the vaccine formulations after Adele. She’s one brave little girl.”
“I had no idea she was so famous.”
“Oh yes. We just hope there’ll be others like her.”
“Because of her leukaemia?”
“We’re still not entirely sure. We’re still running tests. It has something to do with her compromised immune system. Bone marrow replacement. The experimental stem cell transplants caused a minor genetic mutation that prevents the virus from binding properly.”
“I see,” Riley nodded, not fully following the explanation. “Well, we shouldn’t stand in the way of progress.”
Behind them, the crew had unloaded several crates on to a sack truck which they trundled along the path towards the castle. “If your team want to set up in the guardhouse by the main gates, I’ll round up the people on that list.”
“Thank you. We’ll be as quick as we can.” He flicked his head towards Flynn. “Sergeant, try not to cause any more trouble. We’ll whistle if we need you.” The doctor winked at Riley. “Remind me, are your people up to date with vaccinations?”
“No, we’re still waiting for ours. They said it would be end of this week.”
“There were some hold-ups with production. Porton’s been picking up the slack, but the rebels keep intercepting our convoys. We’ve lost ten thousand shots this month alone.”
The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger Page 3