Lost Souls

by Michael Knaggs

  Mags shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s what I thought on Thursday when John told us where they’d found his car. I nearly told him then. But I thought, if he is planning to get Jason, why don’t we let him go ahead and try? If we tell the police, they’ll make it impossible for him to succeed. They’ll swamp the area with boats and helicopters – they’ll have the jets back again. No-one will get anywhere near the place.”

  Katey was wide-eyed again.

  “Succeed! Mum, this ‘place’ you’re talking about is Platform Alpha. There is no way off it – Dad made sure of that. There is no way he can… succeed! We don’t need the police to make it impossible for him.”

  “You don’t know your father when he sets his mind to something.”

  “I do know my father. Not as well as you, but enough to know he can’t work miracles – well, not the impossible, anyway.”

  “Okay, so if that is what he’s trying to do, he’ll fail and then he’ll come back, won’t he? But it’s best that he comes to terms with that himself rather than someone stopping him trying.”

  They sat in silence for a while before Katey spoke. “And what if something happens to him? What if he doesn’t come back?”

  “Then that’s something else we’ll have to live with. But let’s not forget that right now he’s being sought by the police as a prime suspect for eight murders. Whether he’s guilty of them or not, don’t you think that helping them find him would be an act of betrayal?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Monday; 2 November

  Tom opened his eyes to complete silence, quickly realising that it was the absence of sound that had woken him up. He pushed aside the down duvet, rolled over and swung his legs off the top bunk, dropping lightly onto the wooden floor. He pulled on his jeans and grabbed the heavy fleece from its hook by the door. After wriggling his feet into his still-laced-up trainers, he slipped out of the bunk-room into the open plan area and out through the door into the cool morning.

  In the clear sky above, the stars sparkled in their millions with no artificial lights to dampen their brilliance. He checked his watch – 6.25 am. Five minutes before the mechanical timer kicked in to start the generator. But it wasn’t the absence of the engine noise that made the difference. There was no sound at all – no wind blowing, waves lapping, birds calling.

  He decided to walk to the top of Carnan rather than run. It wouldn’t look very sensible if he sprained an ankle – or worse – jogging along the rocky path in the near-darkness just a couple of hours before they were due to set off. As he descended, he noticed that the lights were now on in the building and the concrete yard outside was illuminated by the circle of arc lamps. The hum of the generator permeated the silence. Against the background glow, he noticed a figure climbing up the path towards him.

  “Good morning, Colonel.”

  “Good morning, Doctor. Are you a search party?”

  “Well, we did wonder if you’d left without us, which worried us a little – until we counted the boats, of course.”

  Tom gave a little laugh. “No, just woke early to the deafening silence and came out to check if it was the end of the world.”

  “It just about qualifies, I think, this island.”

  Lydia turned as Tom drew level with her and they walked back side by side in silence until they reached the flat ground in front of the dunes.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  Tom looked at her. “Is this a psychotherapy session, or just small talk?”

  “Just interested. Must be strange going into action to save a family member – well, nearly a family member.”

  Tom sighed and shook his head.

  “To be honest, Lydia, I’m not sure what counts as strange any more. Six months ago… Well, let’s just say everything is different, so I’ve no normality to measure anything new against.”

  She gave him a nudge in the ribs with her elbow. “Hey, that’s what I should be saying to you. Do we have a demarcation issue here?”

  He gave a little laugh, grateful for the humour, but Lydia continued.

  “Have you decided what your preferred normality would be?”

  He looked at her with a puzzled frown. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Just watching you over the last six days, you seem to fit in so easily with the rest of the group. It makes me think perhaps this is what you like best.” They had reached the door of the building and turned to face each other. “Not that it’s any of my business,” she added.

  Tom smiled. “And here’s me thinking you were offering me a job. But you’re right; the stakes, for me, are higher than any other mission I’ve been on, but there’s nowhere I’d rather be right now; nothing I’d rather be doing.” He shook his head. “Don’t you ever get tired of being right?”

  *

  The boats picked up speed heading out of the bay before swinging south and then west through the Straits of Berneray between the two southern-most members of the Long Island group. Once into the open Atlantic, the mirror-flat water became white-flecked with small wave-tops and they could feel the boats swing in a low swell.

  Clear of the Straits, they turned north towards their initial destination eighty miles away, from where the boats would go their separate ways. The Archer Class patrol boat, at just under seventy feet long, was the smallest commissioned vessel in the Royal Navy, used extensively to patrol the British coastline and inland waterways. Its design top speed was twenty-five knots, but with a moulded glass-reinforced plastic hull capable of taking up to nearly twice that, the 2000 bhp replacement engines in Kade’s small flotilla would get them to the archipelago in less than two hours.

  Kade, standing at the bow of the leading boat, checked his watch – 9.07 am – and calculated the timescale. Arrive St Kilda, say, 11.00; thirty minutes for collecting samples – 11.30; eighteen miles – around twenty-five minutes – from there to Cassie’s drop-off point – 11.55; minimum ten minutes for the off-load – 12.05 pm; then forty minutes in Cassie to the door at the base of east column. Even with a little slack in the system, they should arrive around 1.00 pm, when – based on their observed activity over the past few days – virtually all Exiles should be up and active.

  He unclipped the radio from his belt.

  “Survey vessel Archer-Two, radio check.”

  “Archer-Two receiving.”

  “Stay on channel eight; one-five-six point four hundred megahertz. Confirm.”

  “Copy and confirm. Out.”

  “Out.”

  An unnecessary exchange, he knew, but his way of managing his impatience and… yes… nerves. The natural fear of the unknown. He looked ahead at the empty sea with its abnormally clear horizon, then turned to go aft just as a figure appeared beside him.

  “Colonel. Sea-legs okay?”

  “Fine,” Tom said, “but I’m grateful for the calm conditions.”

  “I’m sure that goes for all of us – Lydia in particular. Can’t have her falling overboard halfway through her routine.”

  They laughed.

  “How long before we see Alpha, do you think?” Tom asked.

  “I’d say about an hour. I guess we’ll see the turbines first, then the platform a few minutes later. Now – I’d best go say ‘Hi’ to Cassie.”

  He left Tom at the bow and made his way to the stern where Shirley-Ann was already seated at the controls with the dome of the submersible open and clamped safely against the winch.

  “Everything okay, Major?”

  “All systems a-okay, sir. Radio-checked with Archer-Two; de-floatation controls tested and passed this morning; magnets fully charged. No probs, can’t wait to get going.”

  Kade smiled and nodded. “Great stuff, Major.”

  *

  Seventy minutes into their journey, their final destination mad
e its appearance on their port bow. First, as Kade had predicted, the turbines closest to them – but still nearly fifty miles away – came into view, as the tip of each huge blade cleared the horizon at the top of its arc and dropped back out of sight again. Then the gigantic bulk of Hotel St Kilda appeared behind the circling blades, and seemed to rise out of the sea, like the Kraken suddenly aware of an approaching threat.

  All eight people were on deck, the boats fifty yards apart and guided by the onboard satnav system. They stared in wonder at the monstrous structure.

  “Times like this I feel a bit like Professor Frankenstein,” Mike said, “wondering what I’ve unleashed on the world.”

  It was said without humour and received with sombre silence.

  With the top half of the accommodation block showing, it stopped rising from behind the horizon as it slipped behind to their left and they turned their attention to the massive cliffs of the island group racing towards them.

  Jules turned to Kade. “A shame we can’t just go west from here directly to Alpha; instead we go to St Kilda.”

  “We have to go through the motions of taking water samples from close to the islands to compare with samples collected near Alpha. The BOS need to know the platform’s impact on sea-life at the bottom of the food chain. That’s the story that gave us clearance in these waters and gets us inside the ring. Confirmed by the Society itself, in fact – at least that’s what Lochshore believes. So they’re expecting us on Hirta. We don’t want to disappoint them.”

  *

  By the time the police helicopter was crossing the border on its way north, Harry Waters’ initial nervousness had passed beyond severe anxiety and had reached a silent state of white-knuckle panic. If he was honest with himself, he’d put off making the trip as long as possible in the hope it wouldn’t be necessary, but he’d run out of reasons for delaying it further. Air travel – of any kind – was his most hated form of transport and he swore to himself he would never again complain about gridlock in central London.

  He recalled one of his favourite quotes – attributed to a Jewish philosopher – ‘If God had intended us to fly, he would have given us tickets.’ It never failed to make him laugh – except at times like this when he was putting the underlying message to the test. Had he been heading for a holiday destination on a 737, by now he would be on his third or fourth whisky and ready to take over in the cockpit should the need arise.

  Beside him was DC Natalie Crusoe, relaxed and pointing things out as she looked out of the window with the enthusiasm of an excited child, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort.

  The approach and landing were smooth and uneventful and by the time the door was opened, most of the colour had returned to Harry’s face. They climbed down the steps from the chopper, ducking instinctively underneath the slowing rotor blades as they made their way, with their overnight bags, to the person waving to them from the edge of the field. The tall, well-built man with a craggy, weather-beaten face and short-cropped red hair stepped forward and reached out his hand.

  “Detective Inspector Stuart, Highlands and Islands Police. Very pleased to meet you, DI Waters.”

  Harry shook his hand. “You too, Inspector. Please, call me Harry. This is Detective Constable Crusoe, part of my major incident team.”

  She smiled and reached forward to shake his hand. “It’s Natalie – Nat,” she said.

  “I’m Charlie. They call me BP behind my back, short for Bonnie Prince.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “I think it’s what they call irony – or sarcasm, perhaps.”

  They laughed.

  “Let’s get away from these rotors and meet the rest of the team,” Charlie said.

  In the relative quiet of the small receiving lounge with all-round windows, Charlie introduced Detective Sergeant Isabel Macken and Rob Cameron, the senior officer from the area Crime Scene Investigation Unit whose team had been responsible for examining the car.

  “This is some patch you have here,” Harry said, turning a full circle to take in the spectacular mountains and the gleaming water of Loch Broom behind the town, whose white buildings dazzled in the bright sunlight. “A bit different to Guildford. I don’t suppose you have any vacancies?”

  Charlie snorted a laugh. “You’re right; it’s a beautiful part of the world. But Isabel’s the lucky one.” He nodded to his colleague. “She’s based here in Ullapool, and covers Wester Ross down to Lochalsh. Rob and I work from Inverness – more like Guildford, I imagine.”

  “Not a whole lot more,” Natalie said. “I’ll take Inverness any day.”

  *

  The Archers completed nearly a full circuit of Hirta, the main island of the archipelago, periodically lowering containers into the water for effect, to avoid raising any suspicion in the observation tower on the site of the old radar station, before laying off the island on the western side under the mighty escarpment of Mullach Bi. Kade looked across at the spectacular cliffs and sea stacs, host to thousands of perching and circling sea-birds.

  “What an amazing place. And this is part of Scotland?”

  “The farthest outpost of the UK,” Tom said, “forty miles west of anything else. And one of only twenty-four places on the planet designated as a Dual World Heritage Site.”

  “And people actually lived here and managed to survive on their own?” Kade asked.

  “For about four millennia until less than a hundred years ago, then so many people had left as to make it unsustainable. The military set up a missile tracking station in the fifties, and we now use it as a base for servicing Alpha – and for any further platforms. But it’s pretty much like it’s always been; all our facilities have been installed underground to preserve it as it should be.”

  They edged the boats close together to avoid having to use the radios as they ran through their final checklist, and at 11.35 am, Archer-One pulled away south, retracing its route to align itself due east of Alpha and begin its approach.

  A couple of minutes before noon it stopped again, directly facing the platform just five miles away. Tom stood at the bow, trying to take in the vastness of the structure and its ring of wind turbines. He’d never seen it before from sea level. Approaching it from the air, as he had done on a number of occasions, it had taken his breath away. Right now, it was threatening to stop his heart.

  For the first time, he wondered if what they were attempting was even remotely possible.

  “Colonel. Wetsuit.”

  Kade’s voice interrupted his thoughts. He turned to see the submersible already off the deck and hanging over the stern. Kade, Jules and Rico were half into their suits as Mike operated the winch to lower Cassie, with Shirley-Ann on board, into the gently rocking sea.

  Tom removed his black combat trousers and jacket, stuffing them into his waterproof bag along with his weapon, head-torch and tactical radio set. He pulled on the wetsuit, stretching the hood over his head, then picked up the full facemask, testing it in position before taking it off again. With Cassie now stable in the water, the four-man assault team climbed down the short ladder fixed to the stern of the boat and stepped into it, taking their seats, two-abreast behind Shirley-Ann. The craft was designed for a maximum of seven people – one driver and six passengers.

  Once aboard, the men placed their bags in the watertight compartments next to their seats, Jules’s along with the small rucksack containing the lockable wedges. They all put on their face masks, each attaching a tube to the mouthpiece from an air tank under their seat. After they had tested the supply and nodded to Shirley-Ann, she activated the reinforced Perspex dome which closed slowly over them and sealed itself into position with a hiss of compressed air. After giving the thumbs-up sign to Mike, who was leaning over the stern of the Archer, she pulled a lever to her right, flooding the passenger compartment with cold Atlantic water. Powerful heaters beneath their feet kicked in
to compensate for the drop in temperature.

  The image of Archer-One began to twist and shimmer as they sank below the surface to their cruising depth of thirty feet. Shirley-Ann held it suspended there for a few moments until she was satisfied each member’s breathing had stabilised.

  “Okay to go, Mike.”

  They could hear her voice as she gave the signal and Mike’s muffled reply sounded in the submersible.

  “Okay, Cassie. Good luck.”

  The water above began to churn as the twin shafts of the Archer started up and the boat receded from sight ahead of them. Cassie set off, due west, building up to her top speed of eight knots.

  *

  Fifteen minutes after her sister craft’s departure from Hirta, Archer-Two set off heading west, passing south of the lofty heights of Soay, to prepare for her own approach from the north.

  At 12.15 pm, half a mile from the platform, it entered the ring of fifty-five massive wind turbines circling the platform at 100-yard intervals, each 350 feet high from the surface of the sea to the top of their towers and 500 feet to the tip of a vertical blade. Along with the solar panels and wave energy converters, they supplied more than enough power for the platform and the support facility on Hirta.

  At that same moment, Archer-One, already inside the ring, was passing south of the platform, heading for their pre-arranged rendezvous point due west of Alpha. At 12.23 pm the two boats came to a stop, twenty yards apart, facing each other and beam-on to the platform.

  On Archer-Two, Lydia appeared from below in her flesh-coloured, insulated body suit and small bikini, and climbed the short ladder onto the top of the cabin.

  On Archer-One, Mike went below, entered the co-ordinates into the onboard computer and activated the automatic stabilising mode to hold the boat’s position. He turned to the monitoring system and watched the pin-pricks of light on the screen swarming over to the west side of the platform.