by Robin Crumby
“Right, laddie. Time to get our own back.”
Chapter fifty
The helicopter carrying Sam and Jack lined up astern of the Chester making final course and speed corrections to compensate for the fourteen knot crosswind. The Chester’s landing area was fully flood lit with a large ‘H’ in the middle. The rest of the ship was still shrouded in darkness, its superstructure and slow turning radar just visible. A forest of radio masts and antennas were silhouetted against a grey skyline, brighter in the distance. Below them on the deck, an air marshal was standing in the shelter of the aft superstructure, holding high two illuminated hand beacons to guide the pilot in. There was a light sea swell running that required precision timing from the pilot to adjust for the rise and fall of the ship on each wave. They touched down safely just off center of the H in the landing area at the stern of the destroyer.
The pilot powered down the engines as the ground crew hurried out to slide open the side door, ready to transfer the injured on to two trolleys that were brought out to meet the aircraft. Sam wiped the tears from his eyes, sniffed loudly and unclipped his harness. He stepped down on to the deck of the ship and helped lift the second gurney. On a count of three, they levered Jack's unconscious frame up and over the trolley’s metal rail, which was promptly raised and clamped into position. Two crewmembers from the Chester took over care of the two men and wheeled them inside into the warmth and dim red light of the ship’s interior.
Sam followed silently behind the trolleys. His mind was still racing with thoughts of Hurst and the confused scenes, the men firing, the inferno burning in the canteen and stores. What could have happened? He could only assume they were under attack, but by whom and why? Peterson caught up with him: “Wait up Sam.”
Sam paused in the cramped confines of the passage, just wide enough for two men to pass with pipes and overhead cabling stretching as far as he could see. He put his arm around his shoulder.
“It’s been a rough night, for all of us. I’ll ask the master of the watch to set you up with somewhere to sleep and something to eat. You hungry?”
“Honestly,” he said sniffing. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep or eat much after all that excitement. If it’s ok with you, I’d like to stay with Jack, keep him company.”
“I understand Sam, you should be there when he wakes up. And I promise you that at first light, we’ll take a squad and head back to Hurst, find out what happened. Does that sound like a deal? Petty Officer Flannigan will take care of you. Just tell him what you need and he’ll fix you up.”
Flannigan was standing ready, his hands behind his back, wearing a blue t-shirt with the ship’s insignia on it. He acknowledged the order and invited Sam to follow him down towards the medical center where Jack was being cleaned up. The surgeon was with Jack, dressed in green overalls and a surgical mask obscuring half his face. He looked up at Sam with smiling eyes, noting his distress. “You must be Sam, nice to meet you. I’m the senior medical officer on this ship. People call me Doc. Looks like your friend here has been in the wars. Nothing to worry about, just needs a few stitches to his shoulder and some rest and he’ll be right as rain.”
Sam thanked the surgeon and lingered shell-shocked to watch a female nurse swabbing a nasty looking wound, before being escorted outside to a waiting room next door. As soon as he sat down on the plastic chair, he was overwhelmed with tiredness. Flannigan went to get him something to eat from the mess. By the time he brought back a tray with a mug of coffee, carton of milk, some pasta with tomato sauce, together with some tinned fruit in syrup, Sam had his head back against the whitewashed wall, already fast asleep.
***
He was shaken awake by Flannigan a few hours later, the tray still beside his chair, untouched. He looked up, his eyes still red and swollen, to see the welcome sight of Jack standing there. He was wearing a US navy grey sweatshirt. Jack’s face was pale, his arm in a sling, but with a purposeful look about him. His voice was croaky and rasped a little when he spoke.
“They told me what happened Sam. About Terra. About Hurst.” He swallowed hard, before continuing in a low voice, his teeth gritted together. “We’ve got to get back there and help them. We should never have come back to the ship and left our people.”
The surgeon appeared behind him, eavesdropping on their conversation. “Now hold up Jack. You were brought here so that we could get you fixed up. When my men found you, you were in a bad way, losing a lot of blood, you were in shock. What you need, my friend, is a couple of days’ bed rest.” He paused noticing the wild look in Jack’s eyes. “But I can see from the half-crazed look in your eyes that I’m talking to myself here.”
He paused, looking at his shoes. “Best thing I can suggest is that I take you straight to the bridge and you talk to the commanding officer, Lieutenant Peterson. I think you’all have already met.”
“Thank you Doc. I appreciate your concern and everything you’ve done for me. But my place is with my people. I need to get off this ship. I need to find out what happened. We have to help them.”
“OK, OK, easy there, don’t go making yourself sick again. Flannigan, can you take these two fine gentlemen to the bridge and find the CO?”
It was a long walk through countless corridors, upstairs and along passageways that twisted and turned past rooms full of sleeping men, of loud machinery, panels with flashing lights, nobs and dials, mess halls and store rooms, looking left and right. It was a busy hive of activity. All the crewmen they passed were polite and stepped out of their way into recesses or doorways, staring after them. They could sense they were being watched. It was clear that they were the first civilians they had seen in quite some time, insulated and cut off from the outside world. The look on their faces masked a thousand questions, but at the same time, they were wary of the newcomers. They stepped back, some of them shielding their faces or even holding their breath. Sam imagined that they had seen the virus at close quarters on board and remained cautious of outsiders, giving them a wide berth.
They arrived at a grey security door with the letters ‘Bridge’ stencilled across it. An armed guard posted outside with sidearm in a holster challenged them and asked them their names. He eyed the two civilians suspiciously, glancing from one to the other and back at Flannigan, before pressing the intercom to announce their arrival on the bridge. The door was buzzed open and the group stepped inside. The bridge reminded Sam of stepping into the cockpit of an airliner, just much bigger. Every wall and every panel was a sea of lights, computer monitors, flashing buttons and organized bustle. Uniformed men with binoculars scanned the horizon for other vessels. Looking out the panoramic view of the sea, it was just before dawn and the sky was lighter in the east towards the island, barely visible in the distance. To their northwest, towards Bournemouth and Christchurch, a patch of black clouds was hurrying through, rainsqualls falling beneath them. Sunrise was around twenty minutes away, but it was growing brighter by the minute. Once the rainstorm cleared it looked set to be a clear, crisp morning. Peterson was speaking into what looked like an old-fashioned grey green telephone, relaying commands, talking animatedly but with calm authority. He looked up and saw Sam and Jack waiting patiently and hung up.
“How are you feeling Jack?” He inclined his head with some concern. “Doc tells me you’ll make a full recovery but that you’ll need some time to recover. Says you shouldn’t leave the ship any time soon.”
Jack’s eyebrows narrowed and he was just on the point of saying something he might regret, when Peterson raised his hand.
“Please Jack, let me finish. But I told him in no uncertain terms that whilst I respect his medical opinion, that if it was me, I would probably jump over board and swim the rest of the way to be with my team.”
Jack smiled. From what Sam could tell, he clearly admired Peterson. He had an easy manner around other people, a sense of irony uncommon in the few Americans he’d met, and a very ‘British’ or at least transatlantic outlook. Altogether it
made him a good leader in the circumstances. He was capable of uniting everyone. Peterson maintained eye contact with Jack, watching his expressions change, studying him carefully before continuing. Jack was normally so good at reading people, so why did he find Peterson so intriguing, so full of small contradictions? Still waters run deep. Or something like that.
“So here’s what I’m going to do,” continued Peterson. “We have a UAV prepped and ready to launch now there’s enough daylight to see anything. We’re just waiting for this rain shower to pass through and then we’ll be ready. What do you say we make a sweep over Hurst? Find out what’s going on there and then push on to Osborne and see if we can’t track down Briggs and where he’s hiding. Sound like a plan?”
Sam looked from Peterson to Jack and back again, wondering what the hell he was talking about. Peterson noticed Sam’s confusion and apologized.
“Sorry, navy jargon Sam. UAV stands for Unmanned Aerial Vehicle. You’re probably familiar with the Predator or Reaper drones used by the Air force for hunting down terrorists. You know, blowing up vehicles, live streamed on TV?”
Sam nodded. He knew exactly what he was talking about now. He had watched more than his fair share of drone footage on news broadcasts, movies and TV dramas, but had no idea they had drones on ships.
“Of course, the drones we use are a little bit different. Shorter range, smaller payloads, less firepower, but very effective at getting eyes on a target for missile strikes. We use them for reconnaissance before we put boots on the ground. We like to know what we’re up against. If it’s ok with you, let’s grab a cup of coffee and go watch on the big monitors in the stateroom. We’ll be more comfortable there. Acting XO, you have the conn. Jansen, can you pipe the feed through? Follow me, gentlemen.”
Sam and Jack followed Peterson through the ship to a room that was luxuriously appointed, beyond their expectations. Leather chairs, Lavazza coffee machine, highly polished mahogany table, walls lined with trophies. There were colour photos of the ship and its crew, of the President, of their home port in San Diego, of their Captain and XO, long since dead and buried at sea with full military honours. He invited them to take a seat, served them hot drinks and waited for the screen to power up. In the corner, a technician busied himself at a control panel. Checking connections and settings, he looked up expectantly before the screen sprung into life.
It took a few seconds for the feed from the drone to stabilize. They could make out markings and numbers along the bottom of the screen, giving flight data back to the operator sat in a control room. Peterson put on a headset and his voice when he spoke was broadcast to the room so they could all hear the exchange. The feed now showed the drone flying at around one hundred meters above sea level, heading northeast towards Hurst. After a few minutes of flight time, they could see the Needles rocks in the distance looming large before the nose of the drone seemed to come up as its speed slowed and the welcome sight of the castle came into view.
Jack leaned forward trying to make out the detail. Two separate plumes of smoke were rising hundreds of feet into the air. One from around the centre of the flank wall facing the Needles and the other seemed to originate from the Tudor castle itself. The drone came into a hover descending slowly above the southern wall, panning around to left and right. The original gun battery was now beneath them, where cannon would have faced outward guarding the entrance to the Solent. To Jack and Sam’s surprise, a figure they both recognized stood on the ramparts, waving a weapon above his head, beckoning towards the drone, his lips moving. He seemed to be shouting something.
Jack turned excitedly to Peterson: “Do we have audio?”
“I’m afraid not, or not on this UAV model. Do you know this guy?”
“Know him? You could say that.” He slapped Sam on the back, relieved to see Will returned safe. “He’s been gone a few days. Looks like he made it back just in the nick of time.”
Chapter fifty-one
Will and Scottie had fought their way on to the western ramparts of the castle complex and were exchanging fire with two of Copper’s men. They advanced towards them, taking it in turns to provide covering fire for each other. The two men ahead were looking nervously over their shoulders, worried about being cut off in case of a retreat. The main attacking force was still at the Tudor gate involved in skirmishes with Tommy and the rest of the riflemen on the roof.
The fire in the canteen was dying down. There was nothing left to burn. The cardboard boxes and flammable contents of the storeroom had burned themselves out. The heat of the inferno had been considerable. Most likely fuelled by the industrial size drum of cooking oil that must have exploded, sending a massive smoke cloud billowing into the night sky. The canteen was now a shell. The kitchen and serving counter were barely recognizable in the charred and blackened wreck.
On Scottie’s belt, the walkie-talkie crackled with static on its clip. He reached for it, fumbled with the volume and put it to his ear. It was Nathan again, checking on their progress.
“We’re making our way to your position,” responded Scottie breathlessly. “ETA five minutes, if we can just get past these two guys firing on us. Any help you can offer would be appreciated.”
Nathan regretfully informed him that they had their hands a little full already. They had their own battles to fight. There was nothing for it. They were on their own for now.
***
Copper’s two men finally made their move. Firing wildly over Will and Scottie’s heads they retreated towards the rest of their group, who were sheltering just outside the Tudor gate. Will saw them leave cover and took careful aim, squeezing off a short burst that scythed down the two figures. They tripped mid stride and landed in a tangle of limbs on the grass. One of them clawed his way to safety behind a pillar, his weapon abandoned a few yards behind in the open.
Scottie patted Will on the back and covered him as he moved up to the next doorway, scanning for targets ahead of them. The gunfire had alerted the others and several faces in the distance were now looking nervously in their direction as the pair advanced towards the intruders’ position, attacking their rear.
It was Will who first became aware of the strange humming sound. Like a large insect trapped inside a greenhouse on a summer’s day. He craned his head round, scanning the skies trying to place its source. Its pitch altered as it changed position, moving closer towards them. Keeping close to the wall, staying out of sight, he backtracked to the stairs and climbed back up on to the ramparts. Standing on the top with a panoramic view of the Needles passage, he was shielded from view by an old concrete machine gun nest, dating from the Second World War. To his surprise, the drone was hovering at head height, looking straight at him. It looked like a child’s toy on steroids, six rotors supporting its weight, like a large bumblebee. Will guessed it was military, and hopefully friendly. It seemed to be paying particular attention to him, so he started waving and shouting in case they could hear his voice. Perhaps they were trying to communicate.
…
Copper was already wary of being cut off from their prearranged exit route towards the waiting ferry if things did not go to plan. He wanted to avoid having to get back to the R.I.B on the beach over the southern wall, the way they’d come in. It was too exposed, too dangerous. A back up plan only.
There was no sign of the boy they’d left to guard the main gate and secure their exit. Chances were he was already back on the boat or dead. He knew it was a mistake to bring a kid. It had been the man in black’s idea to ‘blood’ a teenager.
Where had these other two come from? Did his men fail to find them hiding in the outbuildings during their sweep, rounding up prisoners in the western wing, perhaps? There was a chance there were more of them hiding. There could even be a network of tunnels beneath their feet, running the length and breadth of the castle. Copper was already getting cold feet. This whole attack had been a grand folly. The girls were probably never brought here. They had already lost too many men. His men. Lo
yal to him. He was responsible for them. He counted seven dead and five or six wounded. They could now barely muster an effective fighting force.
He looked around him at the contours of the grey walls and up into the sky. It was getting light. Dawn was only a few minutes away. Their plan had depended on darkness, the advantage of surprise, not to mention superior weaponry and tactics. They were running out of time. The man in black’s plan to smoke the defenders out had failed. It was an old building, made of stone, and none of the fires they had lit had really taken hold, bar one. What’s more, it had begun to rain, a fine drizzle falling, dampening down what few flames they had managed.
Copper strode up to the man in black who was growing increasingly frustrated by their inability to make any headway against the Hurst defenders who were well dug in.
The man in black cared little for their losses. He had told Copper before that there would always be more men like them, wanting to be armed, to vent their fury at the world, to play at being a soldier. He seemed strangely amused by how even the most rational, sane, law-abiding person could be transformed by freedom of operation. He called it a license of impunity. Acting without consequences was intoxicating, for anyone. It was like a game to the man in black. An experiment to see who could be corrupted. He considered winning over Copper and his squad of former policemen his finest achievement. It was clearly a game he liked to play, manipulating others, to see whom he could corrupt through power. Copper understood the game and played by its rules.