Hurst - Robin Crumby (bookreader TXT) 📗

patted her on the back reassuringly as if to say “It’s going to be fine.”

On the top lawn, a rusted old Sikorsky helicopter perched proudly, its rotor blades drooping languidly towards the grass. It barely looked airworthy, and Jack doubted whether it had made it very far. Its pilot was leaning lazily against the cockpit door watching them both climb the steps towards him.

A guard at the side entrance waved them over and patted them down for weapons or anything else secreted about their person. He was thorough, thrusting his gloved hand deep into the furthest recesses of the rucksack. When he was satisfied, he thanked them both and pointed towards another guard by the doorway to a stone-paved corridor that echoed with their footsteps. The walls were lined with empty picture hooks and outlines of the framed portraits and artwork that had once hung there. Jack wondered whether they had been looted or simply removed for storage.

A magnificent reception room took Terra’s breath away. It was like walking into an Indian palace, complete with ivory carvings, shields and swords mounted on the wall. Many were engraved silver and ornate copper works. Several of these trophies were missing, leaving dusty outlines. Terra stood and stared at the ceiling, beautifully sculpted in white plaster. She had never seen anything like it.

Jack tugged at Terra’s sleeve and guided her towards the assembled group at the far end of the room. The local men were well dressed, beards trimmed and hair combed or brushed back. They were talking animatedly, cut-glass champagne flutes in their hands. At the centre of the group holding court was Lieutenant Peterson, wearing full dinner dress. His military whites and medals were resplendent, his cap tucked under his left arm.

Peterson broke off his conversation to welcome them both. “Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to Jack and Terra from Hurst Castle. Jack, I suspect you already know most of these guys. This is our host, John Simpson.”

Jack nodded and shook hands, a little awkward with all this formality. Peterson handed Terra and Jack glasses of champagne from a silver tray and led them round the rest of the group.

“I told you I should have put on a frock,” whispered Terra, self-conscious in her tired woollen jumper and blue jeans.

“You look beautiful,” he replied, squeezing her hand.

“Why didn’t you tell me we were coming to a party?”

She wore no make-up other than the lipstick she had the foresight to apply before leaving the Nipper. As the only woman here, Jack had no doubt she would light up the room. Terra had spent most of her life surrounded by men. She thrived in a man’s world. She always got what she wanted. There was something self-contained about her, a bold confidence. She knew just when to turn on the charm, to have powerful men hang on her every word, but also when to stand firm. Jack had never met anyone quite like her before. He watched as she flirted conspicuously with their host, touching his arm and laughing at his laboured attempts at humour.

More people were arriving all the time and the room reverberated with conversation and the sound of popping champagne corks. Jack stood by the window, observing the group. He had to pinch himself to believe what he was seeing. People were acting like the outbreak had never happened, getting swept up in the moment. The champagne was going straight to his head. The bubbles, the fizz, the whole thing made him feel nauseous.

Terra spotted him standing alone and made her excuses, breaking off from conversation to join Jack. “What’s up, Jack? You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

His eyes darted around the room, checking to see if anyone else felt this whole evening was a little surreal. “This all feels contrived, Terra. The champagne, the cheer. It’s like none of them know what’s going on in the real world, over there on the mainland.”

Terra smiled, but recognised Jack's discomfort. “Oh, they know all right. They’ve had it just as bad as us. They’re just putting on a little show for our VIP American friend. A taste of British razzmatazz. That’s all. Why not enjoy yourself, let your hair down? Drink their fine wine, enjoy their canapés, hear what they have to say. Come on, where’s the old Jack I've heard so much about? The one who could drink the pub dry and still ride a bicycle home to bed? Come on.”

She playfully nudged him in the ribs and reluctantly he responded to her encouragement. They rejoined the others, recharged their glasses and forgot themselves, at least for a little while.

There was a small commotion in the corridor as a late arrival protested loudly about being searched. With a loud greeting that silenced the whole room, Captain Anders Bjørklund from the Maersk Charlotte strode in, his arms raised high, First Officer Victor by his side. Anders walked straight up to Jack and slapped him on the back before hugging his friend. He ignored the trickle of champagne that dribbled down his back from Jack’s glass. Victor’s greeting was a little cooler. He appeared bored and aloof.

Last to arrive was Captain Armstrong, accompanied by two other Royal naval officers. They were formally attired in navy mess dress, dark blue dinner jackets, bow ties, all brass buttons and gold braid. The captain stiffly saluted Lieutenant Peterson and then warmly shook hands with the assembled guests, introducing himself and his officers. Jack watched this incongruous exchange over Anders’ shoulder and despite the obvious charade, he couldn’t help but feel a renewed sense of hope. He wondered whether the combination of these two military organisations would be sufficient to restore some semblance of order to this blighted region. His eyes narrowed as he studied their body language that oozed bravado and confidence. He’d been around the block enough to know that appearances were deceptive. Most military men he knew couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery.

One of the officers did a double take when he spotted Terra, excused himself from his group and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around and looked surprised. He seemed delighted to see her. “Good heavens. I’m sure we know each other? You’re a friend of Allan’s, aren’t you?”

Terra looked back at him blankly, regaining her composure. “I’m sorry, you’ve got me there. I’m not sure…”

“Yes, I know,” he continued confidently. “We met at a party a few years back. Deborah, no, Debbie, isn’t it?” he said, searching, trying to make the connection.

Terra blushed and glanced towards Jack. “I think you have me confused with someone else. Excuse me.” She drained her glass with a shaking hand before rejoining Jack. She feigned a smile, but looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Silly fool. Thought I was someone else. Could you get me another champagne, please?”

“Sure, coming right up,” said Jack, patting her on the wrist. On his way to the bar, he noticed the officer still staring in Terra's direction. He seemed positively bemused by her failure to recognise him.

Chapter Thirty-two

The dinner had been delicious. Grilled trout followed by spit-roasted chicken, complete with all the trimmings. Each course was washed down with a succession of fine wines, the like of which Jack had never tasted before, each requiring a different glass. Even the cutlery had been overwhelming. Three separate forks, knives and spoons, all of different shapes and sizes in polished silver, fit for a royal banquet. He had watched his partner carefully to ensure he chose correctly. He quickly figured out that if he started from the outside and worked his way in, he wouldn’t go too far wrong.

When the plates had been cleared, their host, John Simpson, stood and formally welcomed everyone before inviting Lieutenant Peterson to say a few words.

The American officer wiped the sides of his mouth with a napkin, touched John on the shoulder and shook his hand before slowly rising. He looked around the room at the forty-plus guests, making eye contact with several of them before starting to speak.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you honour me with your hospitality this evening. It is some time since I have enjoyed an evening quite this much, in surroundings anything like as grand as the former residence of a King and Queen of England. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Lieutenant Peterson. I am the commanding officer of the United States warship, the Chester, an Arleigh-Burke class guided missile destroyer currently at anchor just off Portland Bill. I’ve spent the best part of the last twenty years serving my country, sailing the seven seas. My daddy was a navy man. You could say I have salt water in my veins. During that time, I’ve seen action no less than seven times in Iraq, Afghanistan and Syria. I had the honour of serving alongside Her Majesty’s Royal Navy on countless missions and exercises, including a six-month secondment to the destroyer HMS Daring. I have visited the White House, met the president, visited some of the finest embassies in the world. I guess I never thought I’d see anything like that again, so this evening has been nothing short of spectacular, and for that I thank each and every one of you, but particularly our host, John Simpson.”

Peterson invited the rest of the room to join him in another round of applause. He checked the scribbled notes he had in front of him on a small jotter pad and flipped to the next page.

“But let’s get down to business. We didn’t come here for a party. I invited you here to discuss the future. I know a lot of you have a million questions, and I thank you for your patience and for coming here today.”

He took another sip of water and then drained the glass, his hand shaking almost imperceptibly. He proceeded to recount their story since the USS Chester left her homeport of San Diego for the last time nearly three years ago. Their tour of duty took them to the Middle East, patrolling the shores of Yemen and Ethiopia, protecting commercial shipping against pirates. They had made stops in Egypt, Sudan, Qatar and Kuwait. When the first outbreak occurred, the Chester was ordered to head with all available speed to Karachi in Pakistan to provide humanitarian aid and to airlift US service personnel from trouble zones.

“When the evacuation order came, it came too late for my crew. Many had already been in contact with the locals in the performance of their mandated duties. Much of the local population was already infected. By the time the scale of the outbreak became clear, it was too late. Despite our best efforts to enforce quarantine and instigate security protocols, the virus wreaked havoc on board the Chester and there were one hundred and fifty-two fatalities, including our commanding officer, XO and chief engineer. The rest of the crew barely made it out of Karachi alive.”

He bowed his head and paused to gather himself before proceeding.

“I know we’ve all had it bad. We’ve all suffered. We’ve all lost friends and family. I have a wife and two kids back in California. I haven’t heard from them in more than two years since the US went dark and all civilian communication ceased.”

There were a few whispers at this disclosure. Many amongst them still clung to the belief that the global outbreak had been contained and the US had been better prepared and able to immunise and stop the spread, at least better than in the UK. Peterson appealed for quiet.

“The reason we are here, as I told each of you personally when I visited you in your camps and homes, is to make a stand against the virus, right here on the Isle of Wight. This island is one of the biggest in the UK and was, until recently, the second most populous. It means the island is uniquely qualified for our purposes.”

He paused to let his audience digest his words. “Camp Wight, as it will