The Hurst Chronicles (Book 1): Hurst

by Robin Crumby

  They both looked back up at Sam, holding the painter ready to cast off. Jack nodded and smiled at him: “Keep your eyes peeled, Sam. First sign of trouble, cast off and head for deeper water. Don’t wait for us. We’ll signal you if we need you. Wish us luck.”

  “You’ll be fine Jack. Terra will keep you on the straight and narrow. I’ll be waiting for you right here. If you need me just shout. See you tomorrow morning.”

  Sam passed down the wooden oars and Jack inserted them one at a time into the hard rubber rowlocks. Jack lowered himself slowly onto the tubular inflatable seat, making sure he was as central as possible to avoid rocking the boat. He anchored his feet against the sides, took a quick look over his shoulder to get his bearings and started pulling for shore. The blades of the oars dived gently beneath the surface and drove them forward. It was no more than fifty meters to row and, sheltered from the south-westerly, they surfed the shallow waves, gliding gracefully inwards. When they were three meters out, he stowed the oars and they coasted the rest of the way in, bumping lightly on to the sandy beach. He stepped ashore in his dark-blue leather lined boots, standing ankle deep to help Terra off before reaching back to grab the bags.

  They dragged the dinghy above the tide line, littered by seaweed, flotsam and jetsam, frayed rope, and plastic bottles. He tied the painter to a large iron ring hanging from a concrete post. The lower branches of an ancient oak tree caressed the surface of the water as each wave came to a gentle end, swirling amongst its foliage.

  They started the climb up to the main building, passing an old-fashioned bathing carriage where Queen Victoria and her ladies would change and enter the water, their modesty preserved, unseen by other bathers. A Punch and Judy booth was over-turned on its side in the winter storms, paint peeling from its red and yellow stripes. Its bright red wooden roof was holed in several places, revealing where an entertainer would have operated multiple hand puppets for the delight of small children and grown-ups alike. They walked on up the dusty brown path, climbing slowly past thickly wooded slopes, arboretums and meadows filled with wild flowers, fields of poppies and daisies.

  They caught their first glimpse of the grand Italian-style palazzo house with its twin towers and sweeping steps leading up to the terraces, courtyard and entrance above them. The Victorian gardens had been the pride of the island, boasting flowers from all over Europe, surrounded by shrubs beautifully clipped and shaped. Today the flowerbeds were overgrown with weeds, the shrubs yellow and bushy. The ornamental ponds and fountains were dry or clogged with algae and weed. A koi carp lay belly up twitching on the surface, bloated and rigid. Jack wondered why no bird had helped themselves to a ready meal and then noticed how silent it was here. There were no birds.

  They walked past magnificent statues, many of which were bullet-ridden, handy targets for bored guards with nothing better to do. Some statues were missing arms or legs, others were more or less destroyed. Terra looked nervously at Jack but he patted her on the back reassuringly as if to say “It’s going to be fine.”

  On the top lawn, a rusted old Sikorsky helicopter perched proudly, its rotor blades drooping down languidly towards the grass. It barely looked airworthy and Jack doubted whether it had made it very far. Its pilot was leaning lazily against the cockpit door watching them both climb the steps towards him.

  A guard at the side entrance waved them over and then patted them down to check for weapons or explosives. They had neither, but he was thorough, thrusting his gloved hands deep into the furthest recesses of the rucksack before asking them to raise their hands and patting them down for concealed knives or anything else secreted about their person. When he was satisfied, he thanked them both and pointed through the doorway towards another guard who was standing waiting at the end of a stone-paved corridor. The corridor was bare and echoed with their footsteps. Its walls were lined with empty picture hooks and outlines of the framed portraits and artwork that had hung there, long since looted or removed for storage.

  They were shown through into a magnificent reception room that took Terra’s breath away. It was like walking into an Indian palace, complete with ivory carvings, shields and swords mounted on the wall. Many were engraved silver and ornate copper works. Several of these trophies were missing, dusty outlines on the walls were all that remained. Terra stood and stared at the ceiling which was beautifully sculpted white plaster. She had never seen anything like it.

  Jack tugged at her sleeve and guided her towards the assembled group of men at the far end, who were talking animatedly, cut glass champagne flutes in their hands. They were all well dressed, beards trimmed and hair combed or brushed back. At the centre of the group holding court was Lieutenant Peterson wearing full dinner dress. His military whites and medals were resplendent, his cap tucked under his left arm.

  Peterson spotted Terra and Jack approaching and broke off his conversation to welcome them both. “Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to Jack and Terra from Hurst Castle. Jack, I suspect you know most of these esteemed islanders a little better than I. This gentleman here is our host here at Osborne House, John Simpson.”

  Jack nodded at John and shook his hand, a little awkward with all this formality. Peterson handed Terra and Jack a glass of champagne from a silver tray and led them round the rest of the group shaking hands and exchanging small talk. Terra felt distinctly under-dressed, wearing a tired old woollen jumper and jeans. She wore no make-up other than some lipstick which she had the foresight to apply before leaving the Nipper. As the only woman there, she felt self-conscious but by no means intimidated. Terra had spent most of her life surrounded by men. She was adaptable and thrived in a man’s world, whether it was playing office politics or chipping away at the proverbial glass ceiling, she heard so much about from her peers. It never seemed to get in her way. From an early age, her mother had often said that she could twist her father round her little finger. She always got what she wanted. She was forever figuring people out, assessing their motivations, their needs, their weaknesses. There was something self-contained about her, a bold confidence that made others stop and admire her. She knew just when to turn on the charm, to have powerful men hang on her every word, but also when to stand firm and dig her heels in. She adopted the former approach and flirted conspicuously with John, touching his arm and laughing at his laboured attempts at humour.

  More people were arriving all the time and the room reverberated with conversation and the sound of popping champagne corks.

  Jack stood by the window observing the group. He had to pinch himself to believe what he was seeing. People were acting like the outbreak had never happened, getting swept up in the moment. The champagne was going straight to his head. The bubbles, the fizz, the whole thing made him feel nauseous.

  Terra spotted him standing alone and made her excuses, breaking off from conversation to join Jack. “What’s up Jack? You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

  Jack’s eyes darted around the room, checking to see if anyone else felt this whole evening was a little contrived and surreal. “This all feels wrong Terra. The champagne, the cheer. It’s like none of them know what’s going on in the real world, over there on the mainland.”

  “Oh they know alright. They’ve had it just as bad as us. They’re just putting on a little show for our VIP American friend. A taste of British razzmatazz. That’s all Jack. Enjoy yourself, let your hair down. Drink their fine wine, enjoy their canapés, hear what they have to say. Come on, where’s the old Jack I knew? The one who could drink the pub dry and still ride a bicycle home? Come on.”

  She playfully nudged him in the ribs and reluctantly he responded to her encouragement. They re-joined the others, recharged their glasses and forgot themselves, at least for a little while.

  Just then, with a loud greeting that silenced the whole room, Captain Anders Bjorklund from the Maersk Charlotte strode in, his arms raised high, first officer Victor by his side. Anders walked straight up to Jack and slapped him on the
back before hugging his friend. He ignored the trickle of champagne that dribbled down his back from Jack’s glass. Victor’s greeting was a little cooler. He appeared bored and aloof.

  Last to arrive came Captain Armstrong, accompanied by two other Royal naval officers. They were formally attired in navy mess dress, dark blue dinner jackets, bow ties, all brass buttons and gold braid. The Captain stiffly saluted Lieutenant Peterson and then warmly shook hands with the assembled guests, introducing himself and his officers. Jack watched this incongruous exchange over Anders’s shoulder and despite the contrived charade, he couldn’t help but feel a renewed sense of hope. He wondered whether the combination of these two military organisations would be sufficient to restore some semblance of order to this blighted region. His eyes narrowed as he studied their body language that oozed bravado and confidence. He’d been around the block enough to know that appearances were deceptive. Most military men he knew couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery.

  One of the officers did a double take when he spotted Terra, excused himself from his group and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned round and looked surprised. He seemed delighted to see her. “Good heavens. I’m sure we know each other? You’re a friend of Allan’s aren’t you?”

  Terra looked back at him blankly, regaining her composure. “I’m sorry, you’ve got me there, I’m not sure…”

  “Yes, I know,” he continued confidently. “We meet at a party a few years back. Deborah, no Debbie, isn’t it?” he said searching, trying to make the connection.

  Terra blushed and looked at Jack. “I think you have me confused with someone else. Excuse me.” She turned and walked over to Jack, keeping her back to the man. Draining her glass, she turned to Jack, feigned a smile, but looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Silly fool. Thought I was someone else. Could you get me another of those please.”

  “Sure, coming right up,” said Jack, patting her on the wrist. On his way to the bar, he noticed the officer still staring in their direction. He seemed positively bemused by her failure to recognise him.

  Chapter thirty-two

  The dinner had been delicious. Grilled trout followed by spit-roasted chicken, complete with all the trimmings. Each course was washed down with a succession of fine wines, the like of which Jack had never tasted before, each requiring a different glass. Even the cutlery had been overwhelming. Three separate forks, knives and spoons all of different shapes and sizes in polished silver, fit for a royal banquet. He had watched his partner carefully to ensure he chose correctly. He quickly figured out that if he started from the outside and worked his way in, he wouldn’t go too far wrong.

  When the plates had been cleared, their host John Simpson stood and formally welcomed everyone before inviting Lieutenant Peterson to say a few words.

  Peterson, wiped the sides of his mouth with a napkin, touched John on the shoulder and shook his hand before slowly rising. He looked around the room at the forty plus assembled guests, making eye contact with several of them before starting to speak.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you honour me with your generosity and hospitality this evening. It is some time since I have enjoyed an evening quite this much, in surroundings anything like as grand as the former residence of a King and Queen of England. I have already had the pleasure of meeting many of you. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Lieutenant Peterson, I am the commanding officer of the United States warship USS Chester. She is an Arleigh-Burke class guided missile destroyer currently at anchor just off Portland Bill. You should know that I am a simple man from Omaha, Nebraska. I never saw the ocean till I was fourteen and I fell in love there and then. My daddy was a navy man and despite trying to persuade me otherwise, I choose to follow him into the military. I enlisted when I was 18 and have spent the best part of the last 20 years serving my country sailing the seven seas. I have seen action no less than seven times in Iraq, Afghanistan and Syria. I have served alongside Her Majesty’s Royal Navy on countless missions and exercises including a six-month secondment to the destroyer HMS Daring. I have visited the White House, met the President, visited some of the finest embassies in the world. I never thought I’d see anything like that again, so this evening has been nothing short of spectacular, and for that I thank each and every one of you, but particularly our host, John Simpson.”

  Peterson clapped his hands and invited the rest of the room to join him in applause. He checked the scribbled notes he had in front of him on a small jotter pad and flipped to the next page.

  “But let’s get down to business. We didn’t come here for a party. I invited you here to discuss the future. I know a lot of you have a million questions and I thank you for your patience and for coming here today.”

  He took another sip of water and then drained the glass, his hand shaking imperceptibly, noticeable only to those who sat closest. He proceeded to recount their story since the USS Chester left her homeport for the last time in San Diego nearly three years ago. Their tour of duty took them to the Middle East patrolling the shores of Yemen and Ethiopia protecting commercial shipping against pirates. They had made stops in Egypt, Sudan, Qatar and Kuwait. When the first outbreak occurred, the Chester was ordered to head with all available speed to Karachi in Pakistan to provide humanitarian aid and to air lift US service personnel out of trouble zones.

  “When the evacuation order came, it came too late for many of the crew who had already been in contact with the locals in the performance of their mandated duties. Much of the local population was already infected. By the time the scale of the outbreak became clear, it was too late. Despite our best efforts to enforce quarantine and instigate security protocols, the virus wreaked havoc on board and there were one hundred and fifty-two fatalities, including our Commanding Officer, XO and Chief Engineer. The rest of the crew barely made it out of Karachi alive.”

  He bowed his head and paused to gather himself before proceeding.

  “I know we’ve all had it bad. We’ve all suffered. We’ve all lost friends, family, children. I have a family too, back out in California. I haven’t heard from them in more than two years since the US went dark and all civilian communication ceased.”

  There were a few gasps and whispers at this disclosure. Many survivors in Britain still clung to the belief that the global outbreak had been contained and the US had been better prepared and able to immunize and stop the spread, at least better than in the UK. Peterson appealed for quiet again.

  “The reason we are here, as I told each of you personally when I visited you in your camps and homes, is to make a stand against the virus, right here on the Isle of Wight. This island is the biggest in the UK and was, until recently, the second most populous. It means the island is uniquely qualified for our purposes.” He paused while his audience digested what he was telling them.

  “Camp Wight, as it will henceforth be called, will be the first of many such bases we will need to build as we clear the UK mainland. But first things first. We will need to create a virus-free safe zone here on the island in order to launch a wider clean up operation of the mainland. None of us should be under any illusion of the scale of that challenge. It will take months, maybe years, but if we work together we will succeed.”

  “Our first job is to secure the Isle of Wight. To ensure the island itself is virus free. Then we can set up quarantine zones to process newcomers and in due course we need to be ready to welcome thousands of survivors to the island. That means building accommodation, providing humanitarian aid, ensuring security and safety, health and hygiene. Camp Wight will be a fresh start for the UK.”

  “Beyond these shores, we expect Camp Wight to become the model we follow for the next Allied bases, likely also located on islands such as this through out Europe. Gibraltar, Cyprus, Majorca, Iceland, Sicily. We have already drafted detailed plans which we will share with you in the fullness of time, so each of you can play a part.”

  “To be successful, we will need to train civilians to perform the roles w
e need, to equip them with the right skills. We need to get the generators back online to provide power. We need to secure running water, restart food production, plant crops, nurture livestock, build towards self-sufficiency on the island. And when we’re good and ready, we will need to provide for tens of thousands of refugees at a time.”

  A dissenting voice from the back shouted out: “What if we don’t want the island to change? What if we choose to keep things as they are? Why give up everything we’ve worked so hard to create so that we can share it with thousands of others from the mainland.”

  Peterson could not quite make out the person’s face shielding his eyes from a spotlight behind the questioner’s head, but listened and nodded thoughtfully.