by Frank Tayell
“I would concur,” Locke said. “You said you were pumping diesel for them? Those dirt bikes on which they trailed us, they ran on petrol.”
“Ah,” Bill said. “So this isn’t their lair? Then again, how much petrol does a dirt bike need, even to travel a few hundred miles and back? I told Cavalie about the horde, and I told her about the convoy.”
“And they used that word,” Flora said. “Convoy, in English, among themselves, debating how numerous that word implied it would be. That was this morning, during the executions.”
“It’s too big a coincidence,” Bill said. “Either Cavalie radioed ahead, or she sent some of her people, or they all came here. Regardless, me telling her about the convoy, the horde, the abandonment of Creil, taken with the failure of Dernier’s assault, that’s what triggered the executions. That’s why their plans changed.”
“Actually, no,” Flora said. “No, I think they first changed a few weeks ago. It was when our ships sailed past the harbour. They saw them, you see.”
“What kind of ships?” Locke asked.
Flora frowned, as if realising she’d revealed too much. She shrugged. “Second-Lieutenant Flora Fielding, HMS Courageous,” she said. “Though more recently, I was the captain of the Ocean Queen. We brought both ships north. The Courageous is an Albion-class amphibious assault ship. The Ocean Queen is an eight-thousand-passenger cruise ship that was doing the penguin-tour back in February. We were looking to refuel, and came close enough to the seawall protecting the harbour to see that Calais hadn’t been utterly destroyed. When the mine was spotted, Admiral Popolov ordered we should continue north. We went ashore in Belgium, a small marina-town just south of Ostend. The admiral took everyone else east, hoping to find survivors in Ukraine. I stayed behind with a skeleton crew of three, but came south in the hope that Calais might have fuel we could salvage. We were ambushed by Rhoskovski. My crew were killed.”
“Do they know who you are?” Locke asked. “Do they know where these ships are?”
“No,” Flora said. “Rhoskovski killed all military personnel on sight. He’d have shot me if he knew.”
“And your people went east?” Locke said. “To Ukraine?”
“To where the convoy started out from,” Bill said. “They were chasing a radio-rumour they heard back in March.”
“By now, some might have turned back,” Flora said. “They might have returned, but we were low on oil for the cruise ship, that’s why we went ashore where we did. There were too many of us to fit in the Courageous. The admiral wouldn’t leave anyone behind.”
“I see,” Locke said. She took another biscuit from the packet. “Hunger is suppressing my curiosity, though I have a few more questions. I think they can wait until after we’ve decided what to do next. And whether this information changes what we should do next.”
“None of our options are good,” Bill said. “We have to assume Cavalie is here, or that she will come here once the weather clears, and with an unknown number of reinforcements. We’ve a varied collection of assault rifles, a hunting rifle, and a pistol, but barely more ammunition than guns. The grenades help, but Rhoskovski will have far more. To defeat them, not to just throw our lives away, we need more people and better equipment. Tell me I’m wrong, Captain.”
“Flora, please,” she said. “I never wanted the promotion. Now I’ve lost my crew and abandoned my ship. I need to earn back my rank. I looked for ways to escape, and that was my plan all along. Not to fight, but to return to the ship, to wait on the return of my crew, and then to return to rescue those unfortunates I’d left behind here. If what you say is true, that this convoy abandoned Ukraine, then some of my crew will have returned by now.”
“But have they now left once again?” Locke said. “How were they travelling?”
“With the vehicles from the Courageous, along with every civilian transport we were able to salvage,” Flora said. “We had diesel, just not oil for the cruise ship. If I knew where Rhoskovski was lurking, here in Calais, I would say attack. At the very least, I would attack. If nothing more, the distraction would allow you to escape. Nothing will be served by wandering the port, dying by inches in the frozen snow until they find me. No, I can put revenge aside for now.”
“We have one thing in our favour,” Chester said. “It’s these biscuits. It was the only food in that house, and it was in a bag, not stored with the rest of his stash. I don’t think they have any food left. This might well be the last of it.”
“You mean they might be as hungry and desperate as us?” Locke said. “That isn’t reassuring.”
“It’s not just food they’re low on,” Chester said. “It’s ammunition as well. The man I killed, Paulo, only had the rounds in the magazine, and no spares for the pistol, either. I’m not advocating a fire-fight, but if we find ourselves in the middle of one, it won’t last long.”
“Precisely,” Locke said. “Though I take your point.”
“And that’s that things could be a lot worse,” Chester said. “I take it we’re agreed the Channel Tunnel’s not a goer? Then our best shot is to head overland to Belgium, to these ships. Hope some of your people have returned, Flora. How far away is it?”
“About one hundred kilometres, give or take,” Flora said.
“So four days’ walk,” Chester said. “Or a day’s cycle.”
“But only after the snow melts,” Locke said. “Until then, it’s ten days on foot, and an impossibility on a bicycle. We’ll leave a trail in the snow that anyone can follow. I think we can be certain that Cavalie won’t give up on revenge.”
“They’re running out of food, and they murdered the prisoners,” Flora said. “They must be preparing to leave, and I doubt they plan doing it on foot. There was a purpose in us pumping so much diesel. They must have large vehicles. Trucks, I’d assume.”
“But do they have a snowplough?” Locke asked. “Without one, they are trapped here like us. And as you said, you don’t know where they are.”
“We could wait them out,” Bill said. “If they’re ready to leave, let’s let them go.”
“Again, unless they have a plough, they can’t leave,” Locke said. “We can’t risk a fire, and these biscuits will be gone in ten minutes, and only a vague memory an hour from now.”
“Hang on,” Chester said, peering around as if seeing the bank’s vestibule anew. He crossed to the door, gingerly opened it, then closed it again. “The snow’s slowing. Clouds are thinner. It’s brightening up out there. In another half hour, we’ll lose the cover of the storm. Wherever we go, we’ll leave a trail of footprints.”
“So what are the options?” Bill said. “Let’s call an all-or-nothing assault on wherever they keep their vehicles plan-B. If we can’t find it, then we’ll opt for plan-C, trekking through the snow to Belgium on foot. Plan-D is waiting here in the bank, hoping we don’t freeze or starve before they find us. We’re still missing plan-A.”
“Take the destroyer,” Flora said. “That ship has to be part of the reason why they remained in Calais. There’s a good chance they kept the engines in vaguely working order. A better chance than us surviving ten days hiking through the snow.”
“What about the mines in the harbour?” Chester said.
“Some have been cleared,” Flora said bitterly. “There’s another kind, programmed to listen for the sound-wave pattern of an enemy ship’s engine. Those won’t be a problem in the destroyer since it must have been the vessel which laid the mines. Otherwise, the armour should protect us. More so than on any other ship.”
“But in that case, wouldn’t they have taken the ship out of the harbour themselves?” Chester asked.
Flora shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“How do you prove a null?” Bill said. “They wouldn’t know the mines had all been detonated until a boat made it outside. Maybe they are gone.”
“What are the odds of success?” Chester asked.
“Slim,” Locke said.
“She’s right,
” Flora said.
“However,” Locke continued, “I would estimate we have less than twenty-four hours before we are incapacitated by hunger and cold. I can barely feel my feet, and I know you’re trying to hide your hand, Mr Wright, but the stubs of your missing fingers are looking rather unpleasant. Frostbite can quickly turn to gangrene. If we are to die anyway, I would prefer our futile gesture be as grand as possible.”
“Can you pilot that ship on your own?” Bill asked. “We can follow instructions, but I wouldn’t know what to touch let alone do.”
“I can manage,” Flora said. “At least to get us outside the harbour. Probably. Assuming they’ve kept the vessel operational. I’ll be able to tell before we depart. There’s one more thing, we’ll have to disable the remaining smaller craft. We don’t want them following us.”
“We’ve still got those grenades,” Bill said.
“Pirating a Russian destroyer?” Chester said. “That’s a story to tell the kids. Count me in.”
Bill flexed his hands, rubbing the stumps of his missing fingers. “I don’t think there are any good ways to die. Freezing to death halfway to Belgium, or quickly when we hit a mine? No, I don’t like the sound of either. More than that, I don’t like the idea of leaving that destroyer here for Cavalie. I’m guessing mines weren’t the only munitions aboard, and that makes it the most formidable ship we know of. If we die, we’ve removed it from the board. That’ll keep our people safe.”
“Then we’re agreed,” Locke said. “Shall we dry off, change, eat the rest of those biscuits, and dump everything else?”
“Red and… ah, blue,” Flora said, sorting through the assortment of garments Chester had found and which remained unclaimed. “Can I borrow your knife? Thank you.” She cut strips from the two t-shirts. “Tie them to your arm so we know who not to shoot if things get confused.”
“Flora, you’ll have to show us the way, but let me take the lead,” Bill said. “I’m the worst shot, and the slowest if it comes to a run.”
“Don’t think you’ll hog all the glory,” Chester said. “I’ve my reputation among the kids to think about.”
“I’m sure there’ll be enough… hmmm, glory, to go around,” Locke said. “Shall we?”
Chapter 28 - The Invisible Destroyer
Calais
Outside, the snow lay so thick that neither carpet nor blanket was an adequate description. Cars were half-buried. Windswept drifts had gathered in doorways. Even in the middle of the road, it was already a foot deep. Snow still fell, with the gusting breeze sweeping a fine powder from roofs and frozen awnings, but the clouds above had turned from an inky depth to a dirty grey. The worst of the storm was over. A new one might begin, but not before red blood had spilled over the pristine expanse.
Bill kept close to Flora, peering ahead, but with each frozen sting of a snowflake on his exposed inch of neck, his mind drifted to the future, and to whether he’d ever see Kim again. Flora held up a warning hand. Bill stopped. Then he saw it. Ahead, a shadow moved in the open door of a glass-fronted building. A cafe? The few unbroken signs were covered in too much dirt and ice to be certain. Flora raised the AK-74, but Bill waved the barrel down as the zombie staggered out into the street.
He pulled the hatchet from his belt. The tool was unwieldy in his numb hands, but they couldn’t risk a shot being heard, not yet. Kicking snow before him, he trudged towards the cafe. The zombie, dressed in tattered jeans and shreds that might have been a jacket or a dress, slipped on the ice, falling face first into the snow. It didn’t stop moving, but nor did Bill. As the creature rolled and thrashed, creating a snow-demon in the drift, he raised the hatchet. The zombie squirmed sideways as it realised prey was so close, sending up a plume of fine white powder, obscuring Bill’s aim. He swung down, and the blade bounced off its frozen shoulder. As the clawing hand grasped towards him, he skipped back, slipped, and fell into the snow. Rolling backwards, he spun to his knees in time to see Chester stamp his foot onto the zombie’s neck, then spear the tyre-iron through its skull.
“You all right, mate?” Chester asked, reaching down to help Bill up.
“Thought we shouldn’t risk a bullet,” Bill said, shivering as the damp cloth enveloped his skin, sucking out the last of the remembered warmth. “More fool me.”
“Keep moving,” Locke said. “But zombies are a good sign. Maybe Rhoskovski has already left.”
The prospect that danger might already have subsided galvanised their weary limbs. As quickly as they could, they kicked a path through the snow. Flora’s hesitant directions were replaced with the more certain instructions of bullet-flecked road signs. As the houses gave way to warehouses, they left the road. Skirting loading bays and car parks, moving from one snow-covered wreck to the next, their eyes were alert for footprints in the snow, their noses for the scent of smoke, their ears for an angry shout. What brought them to a halt was a sign at a service entrance to the harbour itself. There was nothing unusual about the sign. In French, German, and English, it advised all commercial traffic to turn around and make their way to an entrance in the north. But on that sign someone had added a spray-painted branch with three leaves.
The gates were sealed tight, three sets of dense wire and concrete that would take hours to cut through. To the right was a guard post with an electric lock that was already broken. Inside, they stopped for a moment, kicking the snow from their boots, brushing it from their clothes.
“I think you might be right, Sorcha,” Chester said. “I think they’ve left. No one’s seen any smoke in the sky, right? If they were still here, they’d surely have lit a fire or three.”
“Not if they were getting their heat from a generator,” Bill said. “Where’s the destroyer?”
“The other side of the harbour,” Flora said. “The north side, at a freighter-berth near the quay. It’s about a hundred metres from the row of small ships. Although… although I don’t know if they have any other operational ships. There are other vessels in the harbour. I only caught a few glimpses of them. Some were half sunk, but the others… I wonder if it’s aboard one of those they’re staying. A lot of ships have a diesel generator for emergency power, and surely sleeping aboard is safer than on land. Sorry, I should have realised earlier.”
“Might work out well if they are still aboard,” Chester said. “It’ll be easier to contain them while we get the destroyer out to sea.”
“Ever the optimist, Mr Carson,” Locke said. “I can spy warehouses, some containers, a few rigs, a few mounds that might be cars. You said they had snipers? Best we get this over with before they return to the high ground.”
Locke took the lead as they left the guard post and security fence behind, navigating a winding path between rusting service vehicles and abandoned containers. She kept them in cover, but no shots came. No shouts were uttered. Finally, they reached the quay, and Bill saw the destroyer.
“I think we made it,” Chester said, as they crouched in the snowdrift behind the cover of an abandoned forklift.
“No lights aboard,” Locke said. “No movement.”
“Can’t see the deck,” Flora said.
Bill tried to catch his freezing breath. His left hand felt entirely numb. “Let’s get this done,” he said. “Sorcha, Chester, keep watch on the shore.”
Flora led the way across the snow-covered tarmac to a set of equally snow-covered steps, and down to the quayside.
The destroyer was berthed at a jetty that was only half the length of the warship. The stern towered over them, while the prow stuck out, into the water, perilously close to a wallowing car ferry. What Bill knew about ships had been learned the hard way over the previous few months, but even he could tell there was no way for the destroyer to leave the harbour without colliding with the ferry.
“One problem at a time,” he murmured. Flora had already reached the gangway. Five-feet-wide metal sheeting covered the side up to a height of five feet. A wire grill extended a further three feet above that. On t
he exterior was a colourful advert for a passenger ferry’s website, suggesting which part of the harbour the gangway had originally come from. On the shore side, the platform was bolted to a small crane. On the ship, it overlapped the side to which it was loosely chained. With no roof, snow had gathered in the walkway, dragged into eldritch mounds by the wind.
Flora took one step onto the gangway, but then paused in a half crouch. Bill scanned the ship, but couldn’t see anyone. He already had his rifle raised, but now he slid his finger around the trigger. He said nothing, but inched sideways, giving himself a clear shot. Flora lowered her assault rifle, then raised it again. She took her left hand from the barrel. Without turning around, she motioned him forward, then took a slow sliding step herself, up the snow-covered walkway.
Bill’s mouth was dry. His heart pounded so loudly he could barely hear the chains clank as a wave dragged the ship up and down. He certainly couldn’t hear any people, but guessed he would hear gunfire first. He slid his feet forward, his eyes on the narrow square of ship visible at the end of the gangway. His finger hovered over the trigger. When Flora stopped, he almost fired. She raised a warning hand, then lowered herself to a half crouch, prodding the rifle at one of the odd mounds. She pushed the snow away with her rifle barrel, revealing a face.
“Liam,” she whispered. Just as abruptly, she straightened, and turned around. “Touch nothing. Turn around. The shore. Go. Move!”
Bill did, nearly slipping twice before he was back on the jetty. “It’s another mine?” he asked.
“Keep moving!” Flora hissed, and didn’t stop until they’d climbed the steps. “We need to change. Change our clothes. Drop that rifle.”
“Why?”
“Trust me, this way.”
She jogged away from the quay, towards the terminal building, and a red door. There she stopped, looking at her hands and the door.