The Hurst Chronicles (Book 1): Hurst

by Robin Crumby

  “I can understand your concern. And you’re right. What I’m asking you to give up is substantial. But the opportunity it presents is also significant. You would each play leading roles in the reconstruction. I’m sure I don’t have to spell it out to you all. Whatever your private and personal reasons, this is a huge chance to be part of a fresh start for your country. To establish this island as a beacon to the rest of the UK, even the rest of Europe. Ladies and gentlemen, together we can relight the fires, kick start the engine and broadcast an invitation on every radio signal to come join us here on the island. This is our chance to build a new world, standing on the shoulders of what’s gone before.”

  There were several nods and murmurs of approval, one old-timer mumbling: “Hear, hear.”

  “You don’t need me to tell you that the world that we know and took for granted has been sent back to the dark ages. We have no functioning government, no police, no infrastructure, no cell phones, no computers, no electricity, no nothing. Your whole country lies in ruin, waiting. Waiting for a catalyst. I’m here to tell you that that catalyst is you. It’s up to all of us to lean in and help get this island and this country back online. It’s up to all of us to spread the word, to learn new skills and to train others to do what’s needed. That effort starts right here tonight.”

  Anders stood and cheered, raising his half-empty glass of vodka to the Lieutenant, inviting others around him to join him in the toast. An officious looking man glared at Anders and his fellow table guests remained seated, frowning at his drunken interruption until he sat down again.

  “My good friend Captain Bjorklund here has agreed to provide whatever support he can offer. Through God’s grace, the Maersk Charlotte is anchored not five miles from here, and fully loaded with humanitarian aid en route to Sierra Leone. The ship’s manifest lists temporary shelters, tents, medical supplies, rice, dried food, bottled water, vehicles and more. Of course, many of the containers are currently inaccessible until we can find a way to unload them from the Charlotte, but nevertheless in the fullness of time, the Charlotte offers us the building blocks to house and support a large population of refugees from the mainland.”

  The Lieutenant led a round of applause for Anders who acknowledged their appreciation with a wobbly bow and his best attempt at a salute.

  Peterson turned his attention to Captain Armstrong. “In addition to the Charlotte we also have the full support of our good friends in the Royal Navy over here. I’d like to invite Captain Armstrong to say a few words. Captain, over to you.”

  Armstrong rose slowly and adjusted his starched collar and straightened his bow tie. “Ladies and gentlemen. I know we’d all like to express our appreciation for Lieutenant Peterson of the USS Chester. I am confident that the arrival of the US Navy will tip the balance back in our favour. At Portsmouth naval base, we have no shortage of hardware: ships, helicopters, trucks, equipment. But we have no trained personnel left to operate them. With your help we can train civilians and give them the knowledge and skills to make use of the vast resources that lie mothballed in our dockyards and stores.”

  There was a small movement to Jack’s right that caught his eye. A shadow passing an open doorway, a face darting from view. Jack thought nothing of it and turned his head back towards Peterson.

  “With the help of our American allies, we can establish Camp Wight as a refugee centre capable of supporting many thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of survivors when we’re good and ready.”

  He walked over to a large detailed poster of the Isle of Wight which had been crudely stuck on richly textured wallpaper next to a portrait of an 18th century nobleman on horseback. He grabbed a billiards cue that was leaning next to the wall and pointed towards the Eastern end of the island.

  “Here at Ryde, the British will take control of the Eastern corridor and will be responsible for ferrying survivors from Portsmouth and Gosport to our Processing Centre Charlie. Charlie will have the capacity to process around five hundred people at a time in quarantine zones here and here,” he said tapping the map firmly with the cue.

  He turned and gestured towards Peterson. “Here at Cowes, the Americans will have full control of the Central Corridor and be responsible for the route from Southampton to processing centre Bravo. And last but not least, here at Yarmouth, the islanders, with the support of both the British and Americans, will themselves establish camp Alpha. Here in the center of the island around Newport, we will create a clean zone with accommodation for five thousand people. They will be assessed based on their experience and skills before being assigned to special units tasked with reconstruction, logistics, food production and security, to name but a few. The whole operation will of course remain under military control until a functioning government can be formed following democratic elections in the fullness of time.”

  Peterson joined Captain Armstrong on the right side of the map and with a nod towards his British counterpart took over the talk. “We should be under no illusions that we will need to defend Camp Wight. We will mount twenty-four hour patrols of the Solent waterway to ensure no craft approaches the island without authorization. This is critical if we are going to keep the island virus free. At the Western approaches to the Solent, we have our friends at Hurst who will set up a blockade to prevent unauthorised vessels from entering the protected zone, whilst the Eastern approaches will be controlled by the Royal Navy.”

  “And should any foreign powers take an unwanted interest in Camp Wight, with the protection of the USS Chester and whatever the Royal Navy can muster in due course, we are well able to defend ourselves against attack.”

  Their host sitting at the head of the table led another round of applause as the guests nodded and murmured their approval of the outline plans.

  Captain Armstrong continued: “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight is for celebration. Tomorrow is when the planning proper starts in earnest. So I invite you to raise your glasses and let us toast our new friends Captain Bjorklund and Lieutenant Peterson. I give you Camp Wight.”

  As chairs scraped back and everyone stood, the dinner guests repeated in unison “Camp Wight” before draining their glasses and sitting down again.

  Terra caught Jack’s eye, sitting a few places down opposite from him and raised an eyebrow and inclined her head in admiration of what she’d just heard, mouthing “Wow”. Jack smiled and raised his empty glass in a silent toast.

  Peterson introduced a scientist from the University of Southampton’s Centre for Biological Science. Professor Nichols opened by talking about his life-long passion for the Isle of Wight. When he wasn’t lecturing at the University he had spent most of his adult life painting and reading and walking its coastal paths, based in a small holiday cottage in Ventnor in the south of the island where he had the good grace to be staying when the outbreak occurred. In a calm methodical monotone, he explained that virology was not his field of science but that from what he understood of the virus from his limited study, it shared many similarities with the Spanish flu pandemic which had proven so devastating at the end of the First World War.

  The professor explained that Spanish flu had infected one third of the world’s population at the time and been responsible for as many as fifty million deaths. Like Spanish flu, the ‘Millennial Virus’, as he called it, is airborne and passes quickly from person to person. The flu had been so successful in spreading because different strains made prevention and immunization programs difficult. The virus was capable of adapting and bypassing the body’s immune system. It was resistant to all antibiotics and had proven a most effective killer. Without the facilities or staff to undertake a proper medical study, their best chance was to avoid all contact with the virus and to maintain strict quarantine for new arrivals until the all clear could be given. He wholeheartedly endorsed the military plan to establish a survivor colony here and volunteered to set up a medical team at St Mary’s Hospital just up the road in Cowes. Providing the military could provide him with the necessary r
esources there was no reason why they couldn’t commence trials and start testing a vaccine. Although he cautioned that he could make no guarantees and that this research effort could take several years.

  There was a small commotion at the back of the room. A scuffle near the door. Raised voices heard above the dinner table chatter. A muffled cry from one of the guards who had been listening to the talks, chewing gum, with an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder. He was unceremoniously dumped on the floor, clutching his throat and spluttering for breath, blood pouring from between his fingers. A heavy set man stepped from the shadows and stood by the entrance a knife glinting in his right hand.

  Jack stood and shouted at the guards at the other doorway but it was already too late. Two armed men had appeared behind them and grabbed them round their necks and dragged them outside into the corridor before falling silent.

  A tall figure advanced menacingly towards Peterson and Armstrong. Two henchmen followed just behind, brandishing shotguns towards the rest of the room to deter any wannabe heroes from rushing them. “Everybody shut up and sit down. Jamie, you’re on crowd control.” One of the henchmen, the smaller one, broke off and stood to the side breathing heavily and keeping watch on the seated dinner guests.

  The two navy officers were unarmed and stood perfectly still. The tall man joined them at the front of the room and waved a pistol lazily between their heads. He was mid-thirties, muscular and athletic looking, wearing only a grey t-shirt, his arms and neck richly tattooed with intricate patterns, passages of text and colourful scenes of snakes, swords and full-breasted women. The British officer studied his adversary, his chin raised, undaunted. “Who are you?” he challenged.

  “Never you mind navy boy.” He looked around the room at a sea of frightened faces. “Sorry to break up your party, only I never received my invitation.” He sneered and raised his hands to silence the room again. “But I decided to come anyway.”

  A few of the guests recognized the tall heavily tattooed man, whispering his name under their breath. His reputation preceded him. Career criminal from the East End of London, barrow boy turned gangster. Had been serving eighteen years for armed robbery before some well-meaning genius determined to release the remaining inmates of Parkhurst Prison now that the guards were no longer able to look after them. Briggs nodded, pointing the gun towards the whispers, wagging a finger in disapproval.

  “No one thought to invite Briggs eh?” He tutted and continued wagging his finger at the guests. “Shame on you.”

  “So you’re Briggs. I’ve heard of you,” interrupted Peterson quietly, puffing out his chest and squaring up to Briggs, his expression hard to read, an eyebrow raised. Peterson had met his fair share of bullies in his time.

  “And you’re the septic.” Peterson looked puzzled, pretending to be unfamiliar with this provocation. “Septic tank, yank? Rhyming slang? I forgot you’re not from around here are you. Bit far from home, eh septic? This ain’t your turf. You’ve got no place ordering people around here. You’re poorly informed if you think you can do anything on this island without my say so. Haven’t you heard, I run things round here.”

  There was a murmur from the guests that he silenced with a raised finger. “Shut it. I’ve had enough of you lot.”

  “Now look here,” interrupted the Captain, attempting to reassert his authority. “This whole island is being placed under military control, which means you have no right to be here. Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but this is a private meeting and you were not invited. Go back to whatever hole you just crawled from and leave us grown-ups to sort this mess out.”

  Briggs laughed, turning his head away, shaking his head before looking back with a deadpan expression. “Who put you in charge, eh? I couldn’t give a toss what you think mate. Nothing’s going to happen on my island without my say so. And you, septic. You’re new here, so perhaps you haven’t heard. I’m in charge and I say who comes and goes. Grab a ticket and get in line.”

  Briggs sneered and wandered between the tables, eyeballing the other dinner guests in their dusty mothballed finery. He stopped behind one of the island leaders, a portly man with a red face, and reached for a half-eaten roast potato, mopping the gravy from the plate. He chewed noisily with his mouth open, licking his fingers while looking round the room. When he’d finished his mouthful, he placed a hand on each of the man’s shoulders and began massaging lightly, kneading the back of his neck with his thumbs. The islander was perspiring heavily, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He looked increasingly uncomfortable, glancing from side to side at his fellow guests, appealing for their support.

  Briggs grabbed a fork and in one fluid movement jammed it down into the man’s hand, breaking a bone and embedding itself in the plump soft flesh. Briggs ignored the man’s high-pitched scream and put a thick tattooed arm around his neck, dragging him backwards off his chair. His legs kicked helplessly, ruffling an ornate rug with his neatly polished brogues. Briggs dumped him on the ground and raised his pistol. “Want to know what happens to people who double cross me? You lied, Bairstow. You think because we’re convicts, we’re all stupid, do you?” The fat man on the ground was shaking his head, his hands raised in defence. “When you do a deal with Briggs, you pay up, or bad stuff tends to happen. Ain’t that right boys? Well you’re going to get what’s coming to you.”

  He fired a single shot into his abdomen and the man bent double clutching at the entry wound. A sad, almost disappointed expression settled in his eyes as a red stain formed around his mid-riff and his body went limp. There were gasps of disbelief and shock from the dinner guests, who recoiled in horror, pushing their chairs away from the blood that had begun to pool around his body.

  Captain Armstrong stepped forward pointing angrily at Briggs, spitting with indignation: “That’s brave. Shooting an unarmed man. You coward.”

  Briggs parried his intrusion and pistol-whipped the naval officer across the face, leaving a bloody streak and small cut on his cheek. Armstrong fished a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and pressed it to his face to staunch the flow of blood.

  “You and who’s army? Oh sorry, I forgot, all your men are dead Captain. And you really think a bunch of navy nancy boys is any match for an army of street fighters and career criminals? I don’t think so. I’ll take one of my boys for ten of yours. Don’t make me laugh. I’ve spent eight long years on this island at her Majesty’s pleasure. I think I’ve earned some time off for good behaviour, don’t you? Tell you what. How about you get off my island tonight, and I let you live?”

  Peterson inserted himself in between Briggs and Captain Armstrong. “You really think your little gang is any match for the military? I’ve dealt with Somali warlords, drug barons in Columbia, guerrilla fighters in Syria, Afghanistan, and Iraq. A bunch of convicts with shotguns is no match for the United States finest, a Navy Seal team expert in weapons, tactics, counter-terrorism and explosives. I can summon them at a moment’s notice.” He clicked his fingers. “I have drones that can hunt you down when you least expect it. Precision weapons that can take out a vehicle travelling at 50mph. Trust me, mate,” he said the word ‘mate’ in as good a cockney-accent as he could manage, “you don’t have a hope in hell.”

  “I’ll take my chances. You really want a war? My lot sabotaging your relief effort at every opportunity? Smuggling sick people across from the mainland and letting them loose in your precious Camp Wight? Do you? Because that’s what you’ll have: a war you can’t win.”

  “Listen Briggs, this situation is too important for petty squabbles to interfere. We’re facing an extinction event for humanity. Total annihilation. This virus is bigger than any local feud. Lay down your weapons and join us. You can’t win, you know that. And there will be plenty of other battles to fight. Men with your talents could be useful. I’m sure we can find them jobs that would keep them, how shall we say, entertained.”

  Briggs came and stood with his nose almost touching the American’s, a snarl on h
is lips. “You really think we want anything to do with your lot. Don’t waste your breath. Why doesn’t everyone sit down and make themselves comfortable, shall we? We’re going to work out a different kind of deal.”

  Out of sight within Lieutenant Peterson trouser pocket, a micro-transmitter was flashing red, broadcasting a distress signal. Every sixty seconds it buzzed lightly against his trouser leg to confirm its activation. Even now a Navy Seal rescue team on a high state of readiness would be scrambling, ready to be on site in less than ten minutes.

  Chapter thirty-three

  Sam’s curiosity had completely got the better of him and he’d ignored Jack’s instruction to stay with the boat. He was crouched behind a large hydrangea bush peering through the grand window of the stateroom where Jack and the others were being held. There was nothing he could do except watch. He caught some of the conversation whenever Briggs approached the window or when the wind dropped and the trees had grown suddenly still.

  He noticed a guard bound and gagged by the main entrance with a swarthy looking guy standing over him, keeping an eye out for any late arrivals to the Osborne gathering.

  He racked his brains to think what he could do. Light a fire and cause a distraction? Set off the fire alarm and then try and steal into the room unseen? He was armed with a Swiss Army penknife and Jack’s old service revolver that looked like it might explode if he actually pulled the trigger. As long as no one got too close a look, it served an important purpose as a deterrent more than anything. Jack said the revolver deserved to be in a museum, which was exactly where they had found the weapon in the Hurst historical collection along with muskets, suits of armour, swords and other weapons salvaged from nearly five hundred years of Hurst history.