The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger

by Crumby, Robin

  “I honestly believed they’d forgotten about us.”

  “You wish.”

  “Go on, say it,” demanded Carter. “You’ll miss having me here.”

  Riley laughed coquettishly, putting a hand through her hair. Carter was many years her junior, but she revelled in his boyish attentions. Her hesitation spoke volumes.

  “You’re only up the road. It’s not like you’re being sent abroad. Maybe one day, if things get back to normal you can come visit.” Her voice trailed off.

  “When things get back to normal, you mean.”

  “I suppose they wouldn’t recall you if they didn’t need you at Fawley. Once you settle into a routine there, you’ll be fine.”

  “Where would we be without routine?”

  “It’s what keeps you all focused and fit.”

  “I know. Patrolling the beaches, cleaning the guns, ready to go into action at a moment’s notice, even when our orders make no sense whatsoever.”

  “The devil finds work for idle hands, Carter. Routine stops the mind wandering back to unhappier times.”

  “I suppose. I still remember a time when blindly following orders got you a long way in the Navy. Seems now like people feel empowered to challenge every order I give them. Little by little, discipline gets eroded.”

  “You should see the nonsense I put up with.”

  “The armed forces these days are full of brainwashed men and women systematically institutionalised, incapable of change. It’s simpler just to follow orders than challenge them.”

  “You know what they say? Survival of the fittest. Those best able to change and adapt to circumstances will inherit the earth. Men like Flynn.”

  “He thinks he’s a cut above the rest of us. Above the law.”

  “Well, he backed down pretty quick yesterday.”

  “He’s old fashioned. Not used to a woman telling him what to do,” said Carter. “Is it true you blocked him from entering the castle?”

  “Too right. He tried to barge his way in without any paperwork.”

  “Good for you.” Carter’s radio went silent for a few seconds as if he was moving to a more private area, his voice lower. “I had this weird dream last night. You were in it.”

  “Woah. Keep it clean, Corporal. I suppose I should be flattered?” she mocked.

  “Hey,” he protested, “it’s lonely up here. We don’t get much female company.”

  “That’s not what I heard. Young men in uniform? What about those local girls they bus up to the Battery?”

  “Hazchem suits aren’t exactly conducive to romance. Why do you think we exercise so much?” Riley stared at the walkie talkie, not wanting to encourage him. “Not to mention the cold showers.” Carter sighed. “Are you still in bed?” His voice was softer, almost flirtatious.

  “Carter, I’m hanging up.”

  “Wait, Riley, indulge me. You wearing those pyjamas?”

  “Maybe,” cooed Riley, playing along.

  “I bet you washed your hair last night. It smells of,” he paused, “honeysuckle and rosemary.”

  Riley sniffed at her pony tail and chuckled. She smelled outdoorsy. Bonfires and seaweed.

  “Enough already. I don’t have time for this. Hurst Castle out.”

  “Wait…” implored Carter before she cut him off, silencing the radio with a smile.

  Riley checked the rota for the day on her way down to breakfast. Her conversation with Carter had made her late. She was leading a work party to Aubrey Farm, leaving in less than five minutes. She grabbed an apple and half a flat bread and hurried down to join the others for the fifteen-minute walk along the spit and out to the fields where they would be working today. Eight of them, working in two four-person teams. The rota paired her with Heather, Will and Joe.

  They spent the morning repairing several holes in the fence surrounding farmland intended for their small herd of cows once the weather improved. Riley helped Will chainsaw and trim suitable branches from nearby woodland and fashion them into posts. They wouldn’t win any awards for craftsmanship, but they were at least functional.

  When they were done, Riley, Heather and Joe climbed into the trailer, sitting astride sacks of stinking compost for the ride to the next door field planted with spinach, broccoli, chard, squash, peppers, and cabbage. Joe shovelled half the horse manure into a pile closest to the vegetable patch, while Will unloaded several of the heavy bags of fertiliser. They unhitched the trailer and left Heather and Riley to it, while they continued on to the furthest field.

  For the next hour the two women tended to the newly-turned earth. It was back-breaking work but Riley enjoyed her time away from the castle, particularly when it wasn’t raining like today. In the distance, she could just make out the tractor ploughing up and down.

  An unfamiliar voice from behind made her heart skip a beat.

  “Hands where I can see them. Up against the trailer. Slowly.”

  Riley glanced over her shoulder and noticed a thin hooded figure in an anorak. At first sight, he appeared a vagrant, rough-sleeping, his face filthy, hollow cheeks, perhaps on his way east towards Lymington. She saw no weapon, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one. Beneath his canvas rucksack was hung a foam bedroll.

  Her eyes flicked to the loaded shotgun hidden in the trailer behind the sacks. The man’s relaxed demeanour suggested he was not alone.

  “You’re hurting me,” shouted Heather to the sounds of a scuffle. A youth chewing gum marched the girl into view, twisting her arm.

  “Let her go,” warned Riley. “Or you’ll regret it.”

  The hooded youth laughed. “You mean those two guys over there? We walked right past them. They didn’t even look up.”

  “It’s called hard work. Not that you two would know anything about that.”

  Riley thought fast. Chances were Will and Joe did hear them. People passed through this area all the time. Not many were stupid enough to make a detour into an empty ploughed field. The youths might have doubled back. The black plastic sheeting wrapped around their boots and ankles, thick with viscous mud, would make them slow and cumbersome if they gave chase. They both stank like slurry. It reminded Riley of Devon summers staying with her aunt on a farm in the middle of Dartmoor. Even a bath at the end of the day couldn’t shift the stench. She ended up burning those clothes when she got home.

  “What’s in the bag?” demanded the hooded youth.

  The other lad shepherded Heather forward, loosening his grip on her arm, reaching out to shove her in the back whenever she slowed her pace. Riley was worried Heather might try something foolish. Despite her size, she was quick and impulsive. Heather half stumbled, prompting the youth to over-reach and drag her upright. For just a micro-second, he was off balance. It was all Heather needed. She twisted round, slipping a blade from her sleeve, pressing the point into his jugular. He raised his arms in resignation.

  “Impressive.”

  Heather glared back in triumph. People regularly underestimated her. It gave her an edge.

  Riley took advantage of the other man’s distraction and span round, punching him hard in the solar plexus. He shrank back, winded, clutching at his throat, gasping for breath.

  “Watch them,” shouted Riley as she rounded the back of the trailer to retrieve the shotgun. The hooded lad raised his hands, staring at the double-barrelled weapon. “Talk. Who are you?”

  “We heard the tractor, thought you might have some food.”

  “We could have killed you. You don’t go sneaking up on people like that.”

  “We’re just hungry, that’s all. We can pay.”

  “With what? Who’s going to trust a pair of skanks like you?” Heather spat some blood on the ground, nursing a bruised jaw.

  “With this,” he said, gesturing to his trouser pocket.

  “It’s a trick, Riley.” Heather pressed the tip of her pocket knife against his throat.

  “Slowly,” cautioned Riley. His right hand snaked towards his left pocket
, emerging with what appeared to be a silver pendant with a diamond broach. Riley took them from his outstretched hand and turned them over in her muddy fingers. They certainly looked real. Stolen. Not that it mattered any more. The necklace would make a lovely gift for Liz’s birthday.

  “Go on. Help yourself. There’s carrots and potatoes in the rucksack in the trailer.”

  The two youths didn’t wait for a second invitation and grabbed an armful of produce covered in earth.

  “Now be on your way before we change our minds.”

  They hesitated as if there was something he wanted to say. “You’ll come with us, if you’ve got any sense.”

  “Why would we want to do that?”

  “Because people are dying. The outbreak’s coming this way, from Weymouth and Bournemouth. I swear.”

  “We’re as safe here as anywhere. Where are you heading?”

  “The island.”

  “You know, the stories they tell about the place, they’re not true.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Because we’ve been there.”

  “Well, it can’t be worse than where we’ve come from.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “You should check out the camp along the cliff-tops. The one next to the golf course. They were clearing out.”

  “Near Barton? Call themselves the Bunnies. Why would they leave now? They’ve been there as long as we have.”

  “I told you. Because people are getting sick. Everyone is heading east. Except you. If I were you, I’d get as far away from here as possible. They’re telling people to head to Southampton. That’s where the vaccine is.”

  “I wouldn’t believe everything they tell you.”

  “Please yourself. Thanks for this,” said the youth, gesturing at the armful of vegetables he carried. They watched them leave, trudging across the ploughed field until the lads disappeared behind some trees in the direction of Lower Pennington.

  “I hope you’re right about this, Riley,” challenged Heather. “Sounds like we’re going to be the only people left.”

  Chapter 12

  Zed’s tiny office was even more cluttered than usual. Document stacks, reference books and folders covered every flat surface, including the carpet. Leaning back on his chair, he stared absentmindedly at the printout pinned to the corkboard next to his desk, letting the words and letters contained within the giant crossword puzzle merge and morph. The painkillers had taken the edge off the throbbing pain in his temple and ribs. Frustrated by his inability to make any sense of the GCHQ software analysis of Gill’s letter, he decided to take a break.

  He crouched down on all fours, level with the combination safe fashioned in wrought iron that sat behind his desk. Twisting the dial to the left, then right, then left again, with a satisfying mechanical click, the lever turned and the heavy door swung open.

  Inside were bundles of research documents, hand-written papers, each covered in a dozen post-it notes. It was too late to start on another batch tonight. He returned the notebook to its rightful place. His thoughts were so jumbled. Even now, hours after the attack, adrenaline coursed through his veins. He would only have to reread them in the morning.

  Two orderlies delivered the safe the previous day on a sack truck, said to have belonged to the former governor of Parkhurst Prison, across the road. Richly decorated and studded with hobnails, fashioned in gun metal, perhaps it was an antique or treasured heirloom left behind when they released the inmates and fled the island during the pandemic.

  On a whim, Zed retrieved the Project Wildfire note book, rereading the summary of his own research from the last two weeks. How many self-imposed deadlines had come and gone? Broken promises, shifting priorities. Steeling himself to confront the colonel, to demand firmer action, but each time he bit his tongue. The attempted mugging suggested they were close. He would regret giving up now, with the end in sight. A return to the castle, to his friends and family must wait once more.

  At the same time, the attempt on his life, here, within the supposedly secure confines of St Mary’s, had brought back bitter memories of his last days at the MoD. The witch hunt, the recriminations, the eventual fall out following the publication of the government’s intelligence briefing, setting out the risks posed by Saddam’s weapons programme, the so-called ‘Dirty Dossier’. What happened to Doctor Kelly. Those same dark agents who hid in the shadows, coming face to face with the enemy within. He now knew that his search for the truth would force him to confront the past, however unpalatable. Somehow the origins of the virus and his departure from the MoD were inextricably linked in ways he could only guess at.

  From the private office next door came the baseline from a song he half recognised. He tapped his foot to the beat, a disco hit from the seventies, reminded him of something the colonel had suggested. Work through a list of mutual friends he and Gill shared, their birthdays, nights out. Zed landed on live music as a possible link. The pub with the stage where local bands played every Friday. The Boathouse. In a flash of inspiration, he reread the letter. What was the throwaway question she asked? There it was. ‘Do you remember Suzy’s party? That album we all loved? It was such a happy time. I would do the same again, wouldn’t you?’

  He listed out a dozen Brit bands from the Nineties; Radiohead, Blur, Oasis. Album names, song titles, but none of them struck the right chord. He groaned at his own pun. A memory of a group photo popped into his head, dressed in spandex and sequins with blonde wigs at an Abba tribute night. Typical Gill. So corny, it made him cringe. The perfect choice.

  Tripping down the stairs in his excitement, he found an Abba Gold compact disk in the common room and spent a few frantic minutes trying to find the song title combinations that contained all the letters of the alphabet. Nothing seemed to work. Perhaps there was another dimension to this.

  Despite the early hour, and against the duty officer’s advice, he set off into the darkness with a torch. It was past midnight. All the streetlights were off. The officers’ accommodation block was locked down after dark. He waited a full five minutes for the guard to answer the door and summon the colonel from his private quarters. The intelligence officer appeared bleary-eyed in a dressing gown.

  “I think I figured out the cypher,” he blurted, thrusting the printout covered in scribbles together with the Abba CD, impatient to explain his theory. The colonel bundled Zed inside before he could say anything else.

  It seemed to take an eternity to power up the desktop computer and load the GCHQ software. They tried a combination of song titles and lyrics, encouraged by Zed’s suggestion that Gill would choose something tongue-in-cheek as a cypher. They drew a blank with Take a chance on me, Voulez-vous, and Lay all your love on me. Then the AI took over and extrapolated potential solutions based on other songs. To Zed’s delight the software began highlighting likely sections of the scanned text, substituting letters. The screen cleared, leaving three short sentences that read: ‘K was right. E found proof.’ The last line was in Latin: Homo homini lupus.

  “Clever girl,” acknowledged the colonel with a smile. “E is Ephesus, K must mean Doctor David Kelly?”

  “But what about the last bit?”

  “Literally it means: man is wolf to man,” he explained with a wry smile. “In intelligence circles, it’s more commonly written as Nemini credendum.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Trust no-one.”

  The colonel studied Zed’s reaction with interest. Gill’s warning sent a chill down Zed’s spine. He just hoped it didn’t also apply to the colonel.

  Later that morning, Mister Fox was summoned to the colonel’s office, listening thoughtfully as the commanding officer outlined his ongoing concerns about base security.

  “What makes you think this wasn’t just a random attack?” asked Fox.

  “They were after the briefcase. If Doctor Hardy hadn’t happened along when he did, I’d be another statistic by now,” claimed Zed.

  “I doubt that
. Someone was trying to scare you. It’s the only explanation. If someone wanted to really kill you, they’d have done it properly,” insisted Fox.

  “If we can’t protect our own team inside the compound, what hope do we have elsewhere on the island?”

  “From now on, I want you to assign Zed a personal protection officer. We can’t have classified documents falling into the wrong hands.”

  “I have someone good I can recommend.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I work better on my own,” began Zed.

  “That’s an order,” insisted the colonel. “Who do you have in mind?”

  “Daniels. He’s very good at,” Fox paused, searching for the right word, “blending in. I promise. After a day or two, no-one will notice him. They’ll assume he’s part of your team.”

  “But everyone knows I work alone,” muttered Zed, though he could see that he had no choice. He might not be so lucky next time. The colonel seemed to hesitate, unsure whether to say what was on his mind in front of the Head of Security.

  “The other reason I want Samuels protected at all times is…I’m not going to be around for a few days. I have an important meeting in Folkestone.”

  “Folkestone. In Kent?”

  “You remember the radio chatter we picked up in French. The United Nations are planning to send an expeditionary force there later this week.”

  “Why not Portsmouth or Southampton?”

  “Good question. Shorter distance to Calais? Dover or Folkestone are logical landing points. Both deep water ports. They could handle large ships just as well as here.”

  “My God. Do you think this is the start of their relief operation?”

  “What else could it be?”

  “I should come with you.”

  “No, I need you here.”

  “But Colonel, there are still so many questions. Everything we know about the outbreak could still be wrong. What if they have a vaccine? Think of all the lives we could save. We could get deliveries in a matter of days.”