by Robin Crumby
“How? How did they get in? What about the guards?” Riley had a dozen questions queuing up in her head.
“They used climbing gear to get over the walls and got inside while the whole camp was sleeping. There was another group waiting outside. There were too many of them. We mounted a last stand at the Gun Tower. It was bad Riley. We have many dead and wounded. It was a bloodbath for the guys out here in the west wing.”
Liz took over, explaining in detail what had happened and helped Zed through to the guardhouse to sit down. He was still a little unsteady on his feet.
Tommy bent down on one knee and shook Adele’s hand, welcoming her to Hurst. She looked back at him a little bashfully and cringed as he ruffled her hair. She shot a grumpy glance towards Riley as if to say ‘Who is this guy, I’m not a kid you know?’
***
Inside the main building, Scottie was tending to one of the injured, a tall man wearing a dark Barbour jacket, who had taken a blow to his head. Liz had bandaged his scalp and forehead so that only his eyes and lower half of his face were visible.
It was a man he didn’t recognize. He seemed to be suffering from concussion. They had him propped up against the wall and had given him a hot cup of tea to hold. He was non-responsive, almost dejected. There was an air of melancholy about him. In truth, no one was quite sure how he’d got there at all. He was unarmed and had nothing identifiable in his pockets. And yet, there was something familiar about him, but Scottie couldn’t quite place it. Something about his voice when he had asked for something to drink.
Scottie helped him up and took him through to the makeshift triage area where more than a dozen injured were in beds and on mattresses on the floor. One of Copper’s men was tied to a bed, a bullet still lodged in his abdomen, oozing blood when he breathed. They didn’t hold much hope for him but Greta had insisted that whatever he had or hadn’t done, it didn’t make any difference. The people of Hurst were not barbarians. They would administer what medical care they could offer and make the wounded comfortable.
As they led through the injured man with the bandaged head, Copper’s man rolled his head, his gaze followed Scottie and the new arrival walk through the door. He looked puzzled and tried to mouth something, but no words came out. Unnoticed, he extended a single finger pointing towards the man, his eyes flickering as he lost consciousness again.
Scottie sat the wounded man down and gently cradled his head back on to a grey pillow, unlacing his boots and heaving his legs up on to the bed. Scottie noticed the man’s pupils were dilated, his vision cloudy. He was struggling to maintain focus as Scottie moved his finger back and forward in front of his eyes.
“What’s your name?” said Scottie softly, leaning over.
There was no response, so he tried again. “Can you tell me your name?”
The man blinked back at Scottie and whispered: “Damian. My name’s Damian King.”
“Can you tell me what happened? I haven’t seen you before, where did you come from?”
There was another pause as the wounded man tried to make sense of the question. “I’m not sure. I don’t remember. I don’t know how I got here. Where am I?”
“You’re at Hurst,” said Scottie. “You’re safe. But you’ve had a blow to your head. You need to rest up, ok?”
Nathan bustled through, an air of tired urgency about him. He called Scottie and Liz over, inquiring after the injured, how many there were, their various injuries and chances of survival. He looked nervously back over their shoulders at some of the worst of them, who were unlikely to make it. Tommy spotted the man Scottie had brought through and did a double take.
Looking closer at the man with the bandaged head, there was a flicker of intelligence in his eyes, something he recognized. The more he looked, the more he thought he knew the man. Of course, he had never seen his face in the light, only glimpses in torchlight and shadows in the courtyard. It seemed implausible, but impossible to deny. Wasn’t this the person who had led the attack against Hurst? Why on earth was he still here, why would his men leave him behind?
“Scottie, do you have any idea who that man is?” asked Tommy.
“No idea, never seen him before. Do you know him?”
“You could say that. Look again. That’s the guy. The guy who led the attack on Hurst. This is their leader. What the hell is he doing here?”
“You’re joking? This piece of work? The scumbag,” said Scottie, all traces of empathy towards the wounded man gone.
“Take him to the dungeon will you? Get him out of here. We’ll deal with him later,” spat Nathan, gritting his teeth.
As Scottie and Tommy dragged the man with the bandaged head out of the room, Will stood in the doorway blocking their path. He grabbed the wounded man by the scruff of the neck and physically lifted him off his feet, smashing him back against the wall. “I told you we’d meet again. I’m going to enjoy wiping that grin off your face,” spat Will.
The man in black’s face was a picture of puzzlement, unfazed by Will’s anger, he stared back at him with cold lifeless eyes.
Nathan inserted himself between the two men, prising them apart.
“Whoa there, Will. Leave him alone. He’s all messed up, took a nasty bump on the head.”
“Do you even know who this guy is?” snarled Will, incredulous. “The two of us have some unfinished business. Isn’t that right?”
Will grabbed the man in black by the hair and hauled him in close. He hawked up some phlegm and spat in his face, tilting his head to watch the saliva dribble down a cheek before dumping him back down on the ground. “I’m going to make you regret what you did to me. What you did to all of us. Got it?” He slapped the man across the cheek and watched as Tommy and Nathan frogmarched the prisoner away to the dungeon, one on either side.
Chapter fifty-four
The USS Chester passed the Needles rocks and iconic red and white lighthouse on its northerly tip. The ship stayed within the main shipping channel, towering over the castle at Hurst and the corresponding fortifications on the island side, Fort Albert and Fort Victoria. The Chester’s progress slowed momentarily as she entered the tidal race flowing westwards. On board the Chester the crew were barely aware of the change in sea state.
Peterson was taking no chances. The ship was at battle stations. As they came closer, the deck-mounted heavy machine guns were fully loaded and now trained on the battlements of Hurst. Spotters on the ship’s superstructure scanned the shoreline on both sides with high-powered binoculars, in constant communication with sniper teams posted on the upper decks.
On the bridge, Jack and Lieutenant Peterson were trying to establish contact with the Royal Navy at Portsmouth. They were still getting no response. Why weren’t they answering? The panel of lights and screens in the communication centre were showing green. Weather conditions were moderate. They should have easily been in range. Peterson ordered one last system check but once again the communications officer reported “Systems green, sir.”
Sergeant Jones from the Seal team reported in. They had commandeered a vehicle and headed out to inspect the blast site and were gathering forensic evidence and intelligence from the missile crater and vehicle. They had confirmed that Briggs was not one of the five bodies they had recovered. Nor for that matter was Terra. The Humvee was barely recognizable. A tangled wreck of twisted metal lay upside down on its roof. They had videoed everything, collecting what physical evidence they found in the two vehicles. They were heading back to Osborne to meet the onward leg of the helicopter once it was released from its duties at Hurst.
Sam waited on the lower deck as the crew lowered one of the Chester’s fast R.I.Bs to take them back to Hurst. They were ready to launch as soon as they were through the race and into calmer sheltered waters. Sam was watching a crewmember prep the machine gun mounted at the front of the R.I.B, loading ammunition and checking the firing mechanism. He couldn’t wait to tell Tommy all about it. He would be so jealous. They had helped Jack over to sit
on a large grey container loaded with medical kit and other equipment. He was still struggling and couldn’t stand for long, but had insisted on coming ashore to inspect the damage at Hurst.
When the bags and boxes were safely stowed and the rest of the team assembled, the command was given and a hydraulic winch whirred into life. It slowly lowered the R.I.B and its crew until it splashed down in the wash of the ship. The pilot started the outboard engines and steered away from the USS Chester’s towering hull, heading into the Keyhaven estuary, behind the spit. It was exhilarating for Sam being in a high speed launch. After the ocean-going Nipper, the RIB felt like a seagull, skimming the waves, barely feeling each wave as they sped towards their destination. They passed the end of the Hurst battery, dark grey rectangles where heavy artillery would have been mounted facing the Needles channel, the white lighthouse and out buildings that Jack called his home. Stretching ahead of them were the narrow-gauge railway tracks that led to the castle gate from the original docks where munitions and stores were unloaded. Jack pointed out the Land Rover with its doors still wide open, as if it had been abandoned. Rounding the eastern tip of the spit, they headed into the small dock, avoiding a half-submerged yacht. Only its mast and foredeck were visible above the surface at high tide, seawater swilled over its guardrail, tangled with seaweed and grey foam. A large gull hopped across the rail as they approached, before rising gracefully on the breeze. The seagull glided a few metres away on to the crosstrees of another yacht, nodding at anchor.
Tommy came running down to meet them at the dock. He stopped as the machine gun swung round and came to bear on him. He raised his hands in alarm until with immense relief, the gunner got a tap on the shoulder and he lowered the barrel, adjusting his aim away from his chest.
The four marines who had escorted them, fanned out left and right taking up defensive positions on the dock scanning for anything suspicious. Tommy and Sam helped Jack off the R.I.B and led him through the castle, supporting his weight, one on each side. It was good to see his old friend again. They shared a smile and a joke, eager to share their stories, sure they had each had the more exciting of adventures.
Jack interrupted their excitement. He was impatient for every detail about the attack. He wanted to know everything about the fire and in particular the number of casualties. When Tommy mentioned that they had taken prisoners, even captured their leader, Jack straighten up, setting aside the pain and discomfort, emboldened by this unexpected consolation prize. He rolled the name Damian King around his mouth, as if trying it for size, searching his memory for any mention of this man. He was certain he wasn’t local. And yet, he was intrigued by the revelation that Will seemed to know the man from before. Where could he have met him?
Back within the protected confines of the austere stone of the Tudor castle, Jack seemed to relax a little, his pain killers kicking in. Arm in sling, he stopped to shake hands with several on their route. They descended the steep stairs that led to the cellar. It was damp and musty down here. The whole place still reeked of smoke with noticeable fire damage and scoring in several places along their route. In the very corner of the main block, in the bowels of the castle, they arrived at a small dry storeroom where they would have kept munitions and explosives in centuries past.
Outside was a guard who looked exhausted. He was leaning heavily against the wall, his head slumped in the half-light thrown from the low flame of a small lantern hanging on a hook by the door. He’d been up all night and stood yawning and leaning on his rifle, waiting to be relieved. He roused himself as they approached. There was a flicker of recognition as he noticed Jack and awkwardly raised his hand in a half-hearted welcome, before swiftly lowering it again, suddenly self-conscious. They waited for the youth to fumble in the pocket of his green Parka coat to find the key and unlock the heavy old wooden door, swinging open to reveal total darkness within, a small rectangle of light from the doorway at their feet.
Nathan powered up a small penlight and they stepped inside.
It was not immediately obvious that there was anything or anyone in the shadows. Then the torch beam located the soles of a pair of boots and followed the legs up to find a recumbent figure, his head bandaged, slumped in the corner, back to the brick wall. The room was inhospitable to say the least. It was freezing cold so close to the water line. A silver rivulet of seawater ran past the prisoner’s boot towards a drain in the floor. Cobwebs hung from the low ceiling and oak beams that forced the standing men to bend double as they advanced further into the cramped confines of the cell. Mould had found a home in every brick and every stone here. There was a musty smell on every breath.
Jack hobbled in, bracing himself against the doorway, staring towards the crumpled figure of a man, shielding his eyes with his hand. For a few seconds they all stood in silence as the others shuffled in behind, bringing a hurricane lantern to throw some more light on the pitiful conditions of the prisoner’s captivity. The room stank of sweat and urine from the blue plastic bucket in the corner serving as a makeshift toilet. The door slammed closed behind them and Jack sat down on the floor across from the man in black. The captive was studying him assiduously, his arms folded, staring back with no shortage of contempt. He seemed to have recovered his wits since their last encounter.
Chapter fifty-five
Nearly an hour later, the three men shuffled out, their shoulders slumped, their body language dejected. The youth relocked the door behind them and resumed his lethargy outside the cell. It was as if being in the same room, in the presence of this man, this monster, had drained all of them of every ounce of energy. Jack and Nathan walked a discrete distance away from both the cell and the guard before discussing what they had learned.
“How do we know he’s not lying? He could have invented this whole story?” suggested Nathan.
“No, I’d say he’s telling the truth alright,” nodded Jack. The question is why he’s telling this to us in the first place?” stroking his chin with his free hand. “Zed and Riley said they saw for themselves that they were experimenting on people at the hospital. It stands to reason that a small percentage of the population would have natural immunity to the virus. It’s also theoretically possible that, with sufficient time and resources, they could eventually find a way to synthesise that natural immunity and inoculate others. Now, let’s say, for the sake of argument that Adele is one of those lucky few. Why would he tell us that? What could he hope to gain by telling us the truth?”
Tommy shook his head, frustrated by Jack’s response. “You don’t know him like we know him. You weren’t here. Didn’t you hear what he did, Jack?” he leaned forward imploring Jack to listen. “You’re acting like that didn’t mean anything. He executed our people. Innocent, unarmed men and women. He ordered his thugs to shoot them in cold blood. He deserves to die for what he did here. If he’s telling us this about Adele, then he’s telling us for a reason. Don’t be taken in by his lies. He’d say and do anything to get himself out of here and that’s why we can’t trust him. He’s telling us what we want to hear. Don’t you see that?”
Jack stroked his wiry beard, flecked with grey hairs that caught the light. He closed his eyes, collecting his thoughts. Was he being naïve in taking his words at face value? He thought he detected conflict in their prisoner, almost as if he wanted them to know the truth. But why?
“Listen,” added Scottie. “Let’s agree that he’s trying to manipulate us. To what end, we don’t yet know. But we should take nothing he says at face value.”
Jack patted Tommy on the back to reassure him. “Don’t worry, the truth will reveal itself in the fullness of time. It always does.”
Tommy and Scottie nodded silently, still puzzling over their earlier interrogation of the prisoner. Jack was replaying the conversation in his head, trying to read between the lines. Something about what the man in black had said didn’t stack up, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Somewhere within that stream of disinformation were hidden truths, loaded sta
tements and cryptic messages he needed to decode. He must have known full well they would share any intelligence with the Americans. Something was missing that tied this all together, of that he was sure.
Tommy had known Jack long enough to trust that he would figure it out in the end. If you were prepared to wait that long. Patience, it had to be said, was not one of Tommy’s strong points.
“Nathan, you go talk to the girl and see what you can find out about these tests they were running. Ask her about this other girl he talked about, Stella. Even if there’s a chance they’re immune, we need to tell the Americans and get them to a secure location. This could accelerate the search for a cure. The Americans are setting up a center for research on the island, near Newport, led by Professor Nichols. The girls could be very important to his work.”
“You need to tell me more about the Americans and their plans. Right now, I have fragments only. I need to know the full picture,” implored Nathan.
“Yes of course. But first, I want another conversation with this Damian King. One on one. I think he’ll open up more, maybe let his guard down, if it’s just the two of us.”