by Robin Crumby
****
At the appointed hour, one of Major Donnelly’s orderlies led Zed and the colonel up towards the main bunker entrance, to wait for the armoured convoy. The gigantic reinforced steel and concrete door was ajar, and for the first time in several days, they squinted up towards the night sky from the bottom of the ramp. After two days of hot, sterile recycled air, the cool draught of fresh air from the surface was intoxicating.
They were told to put on their gas masks, checking each other’s straps to make sure they were securely fastened. At their feet lay the cutting equipment the engineers must have used. Zed noticed the exploratory hole drilled into the door had barely made an impression, their energies redirected against the locking mechanism. In the end, they had used hydraulic rams to lever them open.
From the far end of the tunnel entrance, Zed could hear the squeak of brakes from approaching vehicles. Two hooded soldiers jogged towards them. Intermittent cracks from distant gunfire suggested they were still involved in skirmishes with the rebels.
“The chopper is ten minutes out. We need to get moving!” shouted one of the guards, urging the team forward.
The colonel paused next to the major to shake hands.
“Good luck. We’ll send the helicopter back for the others as soon as we can.”
“God’s speed.”
They hurried up the slight incline to the hanger doors that opened out into a courtyard. The rear doors of the APC were already open, and they were manhandled inside. The cabin was cramped and hot. Zed experienced a moment of déjà vu, remembering the last time he had been in one of these tin cans. The ambush, the explosion, being dragged out by unseen hands, not to mention those hours of torture. He was suddenly nauseous and claustrophobic. The colonel noticed his discomfort, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s only for a few minutes. Hold on.”
The guards slammed the rear door shut, and the vehicle lurched forward in a haze of diesel smoke. Doctor Hardy sat opposite, clutching to his chest an oversize storage box with a biohazard symbol on the side, like his life depended on it.
Out the front windscreen, they could see the turret of the Scimitar in front begin to swivel to the left. The barrel of the gun recoiled, and a huge boom echoed around the confined space, deafeningly close. The turret rotated again, searching for another target.
Zed covered his ears, ready for the next explosion. The tank fired again. At first, it wasn’t clear what they were shooting at. As the roadway veered to the left, the view opened up and they could make out a cluster of trucks in the distance. Thick clouds of smoke and flame were belching from the cab of a flat-bed lorry mounted with a machine gun which had been transformed into a tangled wreck of metal.
“Sixty seconds!” shouted one of the crew from the front compartment.
Zed gripped the seat a little tighter, adrenaline surging through his veins. Ahead of them, he caught his first glimpse of the now familiar grey Seahawk skimming the tree line, keeping low, heading straight for the car park, just inside the fence. The cabin door was open, and their .50-calibre machine gun was firing, raining spent bullet-cases onto the tarmac below.
The convoy screeched to a halt, and the passenger door flew open as the soldier ran to the rear of the APC.
“Keep your heads down!” he shouted, herding the group towards a low wall, near the side of a building.
Zed’s heart was beating out of his chest. Above them, the helicopter pirouetted around, kicking up a maelstrom of dust and dirt in its downdraught. As soon as it touched down, the American soldiers took up defensive positions, waving the doctor’s team forward.
The colonel half-stumbled on some loose masonry, bumping into Zed. They supported each other the rest of the way. A hand in his back pushed the pair of them into the cabin. Sergeant Jones jumped in behind, and they lifted off, banking right over the buildings, desperate to put as much distance as they could from the small arms fire.
Through the open sliding door, the machine gun spat a ribbon of fire towards the rebel position. Another group emerged from the wood to their right raking the underbelly of the aircraft with gunfire. There was a shout from the cockpit as they banked hard back to the left again.
They stayed low, hugging the lines of warehouses, passing beyond the fence. Trees and buildings flashed past the open door. The pilot pulled hard on the collective, and the Seahawk responded, soaring higher, as Porton Down passed out of sight beneath them.
Sergeant Jones slammed the cabin door shut, moving between them, checking they were uninjured. He signalled for them to remove their masks. The scientists looked terrified, exchanging anxious glances with the crew. One of them retched on the cabin floor.
Zed slumped back in his seat, closing his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing. He promised himself this was the last time he would put his life on the line. He had Heather to think about now. He needed to put his family first. Not this. Who did he think he was? He was an analyst, not a soldier.
When he looked up, Sergeant Jones was staring at him, concerned. Jones shot him a grin and gave him a playful thumbs up.
Zed could just make out an electronic warning from the cockpit repeating every few seconds over the sound of the engine. An amber light above the pilot’s head was blinking on and off.
“What’s going on?” shouted Zed, struggling to be heard.
“I’ll go check.”
Jones stuck his head between the two pilots and asked them a series of questions Zed couldn’t catch over the noise of the engines. Jones turned and leant close to Zed’s ear.
“Oil pressure’s dropping. Looks like we took a hit.”
From their estimated position, it was less than twenty minutes’ flight time. With any luck, they could limp back home. Just what they needed, thought Zed, cursing his luck.
The engine note changed and there was a loud mechanical vibration that shook the whole airframe. Then it was gone again as the pilot compensated. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound encouraging.
“Here, put these on!” shouted Jones, handing out life jackets. “Just in case.”
They were all told to strap into their harnesses, now fearing the worst. The engine coughed and spluttered before regaining its rhythm. They were steadily losing altitude.
Straining to see out of the window, Zed could see the reflection of a strip of water ahead of them, the outskirts of Southampton and the container port spread out to their left. From memory, it couldn’t be that much further. He couldn’t see why they weren’t making for Southampton Airport as an alternate landing area rather than pushing on to the island.
Their forward momentum slowed as the pilots wrestled with the controls, yawing from side to side. The co-pilot tensed again, pointing in the direction of something in the distance, but Zed couldn’t hear what he was saying. He seemed to be repeating something over and over.
The rattle from the rotor returned, and the airframe began shaking. The pilot fought hard to correct their course and keep them in a straight line, but they dropped again, violently this time.
The helicopter passed low over houses and then a shingle beach, a few hundred feet in the air. There were people on the beach, a fire, and tents and caravans littered the shoreline. Dozens of people emerged below them to point and stare.
“We can’t land here. It’s not safe,” explained Jones. “The Chester is standing by.”
The expanse of water ahead of them stretched out towards the island, the sea calm and softly undulating in the darkness.
Everyone was straining to see out the window. They were much too low. Surely they wouldn’t risk ditching in the sea?
Another set of warning lights came on, and the pilot seemed to react immediately, banking to their right. They weren’t going to make it to the island, that seemed certain now. Zed could see the dark outline of the Chester, perhaps still two miles away to their left.
An enormous container ship loomed large ahead. Anchored back in the main channel, near the Brambles Bank,
the Maersk Charlotte had been half-unloaded but still held a patchwork of several hundred shipping containers stacked high on her decks. The co-pilot pointed towards the ship, and they corrected their course.
They lurched lower. The enormous red hull of the Charlotte seemed to fill the entire cockpit window. Their engine spluttered as if they were almost out of fuel. For a moment, Zed thought they would crash straight into the side of the ship, but at the last minute the pilot yanked back on the collective and, with a last gasp of power, the nose came up, and they just cleared the container stack.
In a scrape of metal and tyre smoke, they careered across the improvised landing area, bouncing laterally until the helicopter’s landing gear caught on a metal ridge, and they veered around to face the ship’s bridge, sliding closer to the edge. Zed closed his eyes, bracing himself against the inevitable drop into the ocean below.
Chapter Forty
The helicopter came to an abrupt stop a few feet from a vertiginous drop into the breaking waves nearly one hundred feet below. For a moment, Zed feared they might still topple over at the slightest gust of wind as it rocked back into equilibrium.
Looking around the Seahawk’s cabin, two of the scientists were severely shaken; a box had come loose on impact and landed on them. There was a collective sigh of relief as they picked themselves up.
Sergeant Jones slid back the cabin door and stepped out onto the metal roof of a container, spitting blood from a cut lip. He helped the others out, peering over the edge down into the murky waters of the Solent, taking in how close they had come to disaster.
As the rotors slowed to a halt, they all turned towards the sound of a familiar voice behind them.
“I was not expecting visitors so late,” said an out-of-breath Captain Anders Bjørklund, climbing hand over hand up the ladder to the very top of the container stack.
“I’m afraid it was either that or splashdown,” Sergeant Jones said apologetically. “Some friendly locals decided to use our helicopter for target practice.”
Anders’ laugh seemed a little forced. “I think the military is not so popular these days.” He glared accusingly at the colonel. “So I should add this to your bill?” he harrumphed, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets.
“Please let’s not go through all this again. We won’t inconvenience you any longer than we have to.”
“The Chester will need to send a maintenance crew to look at the damage,” added Sergeant Jones, inspecting the underside of the helicopter. “Hopefully it’s not too serious.”
“Very well, then. Tonight, you are my guests. We should let bygones be bygones, yes? There is much to discuss.” With that, Anders gestured for them all to follow him back down the steep ladder to the deck below.
****
In the cramped crew quarters, the whole place stank of boiled vegetables and unwashed bodies. The ship’s cook had prepared a bubbling stew that filled the air of the canteen and steamed up all the port-holes. Stepping over the watertight doorway, a dozen or more men looked up from their dinner to stare at the unfamiliar faces.
“Gentlemen, sorry to interrupt your dinner,” said the colonel.
“It smells delicious. What is it, Anders?” drooled Zed, suddenly aware of how hungry he was.
“At home, we call it Lapskaus. Norwegian stew. Meat and potatoes. Very good on a cold winter’s evening. There is plenty for everyone. Please, come, sit.”
Anders’ crew made room on the bench seats for the new arrivals. He whispered something to one of the men who reappeared a few minutes later with two bottles of vodka. To a resounding cheer, he handed round a stack of plastic glasses, splashing a few inches of colourless liquid in each.
When everyone had a glass in their hand, Anders made a toast. “To our surprise dinner guests: welcome!”
Jones raised his glass and drained it in one, baring his teeth at the bitter aftertaste.
“It’s good, yes?” Anders nodded, enjoying everyone’s reaction. “We make our own.”
“It takes some getting used to,” conceded one of the others with a laugh.
“You can say that again.” Zed coughed, to the general amusement of the crew.
Before they could protest, one of Anders’ men hastily refilled their glasses. Jones declined the second round and motioned for the other Americans to follow suit.
“Not when we’re on duty.”
“I think custom dictates you drink as Norwegians do. When in Norway…as they say.” Anders chuckled.
“I thought Maersk Line was Danish?”
“To us, the Charlotte is a little slice of home.” He cheered, dispensing with the glass and raising the half-empty bottle to his lips. “I insist you stay the night. We have plenty of beds for everyone.”
“The RIB from the Chester won’t be here until midnight. If you don’t mind, I’m going to get my head down for a bit.”
“Be my guest. And you, doctor? You will stay a while longer?”
“Thank you, but no. It’s been a long day for all of us.”
“What’s in the box?” asked Anders, noticing the storage box Doctor Hardy had by his side.
“My team’s work. It’s a portable refrigeration unit.”
Anders nodded slowly, his thoughts elsewhere. For a brief moment, Zed thought he saw a mischievous smile appear on Captain Bjørklund’s lips. Then the micro-expression was gone, like a cloud passing in front of the sun.
****
After the third bottle, Zed found himself very much the worse for wear, slurring his words, his thoughts muddled. The home-made vodka seemed to have no effect on Anders. Zed wondered whether they were drinking from the same bottle.
The others had made their excuses, thanking the captain for his hospitality before retiring to their bunks. Zed and Anders were the last men standing.
Anders leaned forward, pulling Zed close, his breath hot and stale. He straightened Zed’s collar absent-mindedly. “I was very sorry to hear what happened with Jack.”
“You two were good friends?”
“He was like a brother to me. We spent many evenings together, like this, drinking or playing cards.”
“He was a good man. The best,” said Zed, raising his glass.
“People like him, they are not well-suited to this new world.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He was old-fashioned, very set in his ways. Inflexible, you might say. Too many principles. Someone you could trust. I enjoyed his friendship. He was someone I could do business with. He would always get me to pay too much for his produce.” He laughed. “It was a game I didn’t mind losing.”
“Trust has been in short supply lately.”
“A man’s word is not what it used to be.”
“What was that with the colonel earlier?”
“Captain Armstrong cannot be trusted. He made promises but left me with virtually nothing. Most of my cargo was claimed by the British Crown.”
“Why?”
“They took all the things they needed for Camp Wight, but they paid pennies on the dollar. I am ruined.”
“What will you do?”
“Me? I don’t know. Maybe go back to Norway. Find out what remains of my country. Find another ship, bring it back here. Or perhaps I will settle down and start a new life.”
“You? I can’t imagine you settling down. You’re like me, too restless by half.”
“Perhaps you’re right. There’s a good chance more Scandinavians survived the outbreak. The doctors tell me a colder climate, fewer people, healthier lifestyle might boost survival rates. And you? What will you do now?”
“I suppose I’m a bit of a nomad too. They relocated us to a hotel in Freshwater. It’s all right, but it’s not a patch on the castle. I’ve been at St Mary’s ever since.”
“So we both have reason to feel hard done by.”
Zed shrugged. He hadn’t thought of it like that.
“And this colonel you work for? What does he want?”
�
�He’s trying to figure out where the virus came from and how we can eradicate it.” He tapped the side of his nose.
“I don’t trust that Doctor Hardy. Shifty eyes. I’ve never trusted doctors.”
“He’s not that kind of doctor. He’s a biochemist. No one knows more about viruses and vaccines than him. He won’t talk to me.”
“When I want someone to talk, I get them drunk. You should try it.”
Zed smiled, feeling his eyelids growing heavy. There was a dull thud beating out a rhythm in his head. “Right, I should turn in.”
“So early?”
“While I can still stagger, yes. I haven’t had a proper drink in a long time.”
“Wait, there is one more thing I wanted to ask you. You remember Victor, my first officer?”
“Of course. How could I forget him? He was one of the men who tortured me,” sneered Zed, holding up the stump of his arm.
“I am sorry for what he did. He wasn’t always like this, you know. He was like a son to me. Now I think I understand why he takes such an interest in Porton.”
“Why did you put up with him for so long?”
“I knew his mother many years ago. She was English. She made me promise to look out for him. I got him the job with Maersk, but he was always ambitious. In this line of work, you meet many people in different ports, all around the world. There are many opportunities to smuggle drugs, exchange counterfeit goods, traffic immigrants. I have seen it many times. Greed corrupts people. I don’t blame Victor. He’s an opportunist with a thirst for power, as weak as the next man. He would do whatever it takes to get what he wants.”
“He’s graduated to become Briggs’s right-hand man.”
“I know. He has become a man without honour, without loyalty. A samurai without a master, like in that De Niro movie. “
“His mother was English?”
“Yes, an English teacher. His father was a sailor too. The family lived on the coast near Ventspils in Latvia. Victor pretends he can’t speak English very well, but believe you me, he understands everything. All this…” He waved his hands above his head. “The Allies, the Americans, Camp Wight, this is all Victor’s doing.”