Hurst - Robin Crumby (bookreader TXT) 📗

now be known, will be the first of many such bases we will need to build, but first we’ll need to create a virus-free safe zone here on the island as a launch pad for a wider clean-up of the UK mainland. None of us should be under any illusion of the scale of that challenge. It will take months, maybe years, but if we work together we will succeed.

“Our first job is to secure the Isle of Wight. Then we can set up quarantine zones to process newcomers. That means building accommodation, providing humanitarian aid, ensuring security and safety, health and hygiene. Camp Wight will be a fresh start for the UK and one we’ll look to replicate throughout Europe. Gibraltar, Cyprus, Majorca, Iceland, Sicily. To be successful, we will need to train civilians to perform the roles needed to get the generators back online, to secure running water, to restart food production, to plant crops, to nurture livestock, to build towards self-sufficiency on the island.”

A dissenting voice from the back shouted out, “What if we don’t want the island to change? Why give up everything we’ve worked so hard for? Why share it with thousands of others from the mainland?”

Peterson could not quite make out the person’s face but listened and nodded. “I can understand your concern. And you’re right. What I’m asking you to give up is substantial. But the opportunity it presents is also significant. Whatever your private and personal reasons, this is a huge chance to be part of a fresh start for your country. You would each play leading roles in the reconstruction. I’m sure I don’t have to spell it out to you all. Ladies and gentlemen, together we can relight the fires, kick-start the engine and broadcast an invitation on every radio signal to come and join us here on the island. This is our chance to build a new world.”

There were several nods and murmurs of approval, one old-timer mumbling, “Hear hear.”

“You don’t need me to tell you that this country has been sent back to the dark ages. We have no functioning government, no police, no infrastructure, no cell phones, no computers, no electricity. Your whole country lies in ruin. Waiting for a catalyst. I’m here to tell you that that catalyst is you. It’s up to all of us to lean in and help get this island and this country back online, to learn new skills and to train others to do what’s needed. That effort starts right here tonight.”

Anders stood and cheered, raising his half-empty glass of vodka to the lieutenant, inviting others around him to join in the toast. His fellow table guests remained seated, frowning at his drunken interruption.

“My good friend Captain Bjørklund has agreed to provide whatever support he can offer. Through God’s grace, the Maersk Charlotte is anchored not five miles from here, fully loaded with humanitarian aid that was en route to Sierra Leone. I’m told the ship’s manifest lists temporary shelters, tents, medical supplies, rice, dried food, bottled water, vehicles and more. Of course, we still need to find a way to unload the containers.”

The lieutenant led a round of applause for Anders, who acknowledged their appreciation with a wobbly bow and his best attempt at a salute. Peterson turned his attention to Captain Armstrong. “In addition to the Charlotte we are working hand in hand with our friends in the Royal Navy. Captain Armstrong, over to you.”

The British officer rose slowly and adjusted his starched collar and straightened his bow tie. “Ladies and gentlemen, I know we’d all like to express our appreciation to Lieutenant Peterson. I am confident that the arrival of the US Navy will tip the balance back in our favour. At Portsmouth naval base, we have no shortage of hardware but we have very few trained personnel. With your help we can make use of the vast resources that lie mothballed in our dockyards and stores.”

A small movement to Jack’s right caught his eye. A shadow passing an open doorway, a face darting from view. Jack thought nothing of it and turned his attention back to Captain Armstrong.

“Our first priority is to establish Camp Wight as a refugee centre capable of accommodating many thousands, if not tens of thousands, of survivors.”

He walked over to a detailed map of the Isle of Wight which had been crudely pinned next to a portrait of a nineteenth-century nobleman on horseback. He grabbed a billiards cue that was leaning next to the wall and pointed towards the eastern end of the island.

“Here at Ryde, the British will be responsible for ferrying survivors from Portsmouth and Gosport to our Processing Centre Charlie, which will be capable of processing up to five hundred people at a time in quarantine zones here and here,” he said, tapping the map firmly with the cue.

He turned and gestured towards Peterson. “In the middle of the island at Cowes, the Americans will take over the route from Southampton to Processing Centre Bravo. And last but not least, the islanders themselves will handle Camp Alpha at Yarmouth. We intend to set up HQ at St Mary’s Hospital with a clean zone to the immediate south, with accommodation for up to five thousand people. New arrivals will be assessed based on their experience and skills then assigned to special units tasked with reconstruction, logistics, food production and security, to name but a few. The whole operation will remain under military control until a functioning civilian government can be formed.”

With a nod towards his British counterpart, Lieutenant Peterson took over. “None of us should be under any illusions that this will be easy. We’ll need to defend Camp Wight, day and night, to ensure no craft approaches the island without authorisation. Our friends at Hurst will set up a blockade to prevent unauthorised vessels from entering the protected zone, while the eastern approaches will be patrolled by the Royal Navy.

“And should any other group take an unwanted interest in Camp Wight, we are well able to defend ourselves.”

Their host sitting at the head of the table led another round of applause as the guests nodded and murmured their approval of the outline plans.

Captain Armstrong continued, “Ladies and gentlemen, we start work in the morning, meaning tonight is for celebration. So please charge your glasses. I give you Camp Wight.”

As chairs scraped back and everyone stood, the dinner guests repeated in unison, “Camp Wight” before finishing their drinks.

Terra caught Jack’s eye, mouthing “Wow”. Jack smiled and raised his empty glass in a silent toast.

Peterson introduced a scientist with wiry grey hair from the University of Southampton’s Centre for Biological Science. Professor Nichols pushed his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose and addressed the room in a faltering voice.

“From what I have observed, the Millennial Virus shares many similarities with the Spanish flu pandemic at the end of the First World War. Spanish flu infected close to one billion people and was responsible for somewhere between fifty million to one hundred million deaths.”

He paused while his audience nodded and waited for him to continue.

“This latest strain of the flu virus is an even more effective killer. It passes quickly from person to person. Different strains make prevention and immunisation programmes difficult. The virus is capable of adapting and bypassing the body’s immune system and, so far, has proven resistant to all known treatments. Without the facilities or staff to undertake a proper medical study, our best chance is to avoid all contact with the virus and to maintain strict quarantine for new arrivals. I’ve volunteered to lead a newly formed research team at St Mary’s Hospital just up the road in Cowes. Providing the military can provide us with the necessary resources there is no reason why we can't commence trials for a vaccine. Although I would caution that this could take several years.”

Suddenly, there was a scuffle at the back of the room. Raised voices heard above the dinner table chatter. A muffled cry from one of the guards as he was unceremoniously dumped on the floor. He clutched at his throat, spluttering for breath, blood pouring from between his fingers. A figure wearing a balaclava stepped from the shadows and took up position by the entrance, a knife glinting in his right hand.

Jack stood and shouted at the guards by the other doorway but it was already too late. They were wrestled to the ground and dragged from sight.

Chapter Thirty-three

A tall heavy-set figure in a grey T-shirt advanced menacingly towards Peterson and Armstrong. Two henchmen kept pace just behind, brandishing shotguns to deter any wannabe heroes. The two navy officers were unarmed and stood perfectly still.

“Everybody shut up and sit down. Jamie, you’re on crowd control.”

The British officer seemed undaunted, studying his adversary as he waved a matt black pistol lazily between their heads. The man’s arms and neck were richly tattooed with intricate patterns, passages of text and colourful scenes of snakes, swords and full-breasted women.

“I don’t remember seeing your name on the guest list. Who are you?” challenged Armstrong.

“Never you mind, navy boy.” He looked around the room at a sea of frightened faces, Jack’s included. A few of the guests recognised the heavily tattooed man, whispering his name under their breath as if his reputation preceded him. Briggs nodded, pointing the gun towards the whispers, wagging a finger in disapproval.

“No one thought to invite Briggs, eh?” He tutted. “Shame on you.”

“So you’re Briggs,” interrupted Peterson quietly, puffing out his chest.

Jack found the American’s expression hard to read. Peterson had clearly met his fair share of bullies.

“Career criminal, barrow boy turned gangster. Your file said you were serving eighteen years for armed robbery before some well-meaning genius cut you loose, together with all the other inmates of Park Hurst prison who survived,” said Peterson without blinking.

“Call it time off for good behaviour. So you’re the septic.”

Peterson looked puzzled, pretending to be unfamiliar with this provocation.

“I forgot you’re not from around here. Septic tank? Rhymes with Yank,” he sneered. “Bit far from home, aren't you? This ain’t your turf, mate. You’ve got no place ordering people around. Haven’t you heard? I run things round here. You want something, then you talk to me.”

There was a murmur from the guests that he silenced with a raised finger. “Shut it. I’ve had enough of you lot.”

“Then may I suggest you go back to whatever hole you just crawled from?” interrupted the captain, attempting to reassert his authority. “This whole island is under military control. You have no right to be here.”

Briggs laughed, turning away and shaking his head before looking back with a deadpan expression. “Who put you jokers in charge, eh? I couldn’t give a toss what you think. Nothing’s going to happen on this island without my say-so.”

Briggs wandered between the tables, eyeballing the other dinner guests in their dusty mothballed finery. He stopped behind one of the island leaders, a portly man with a red face, and reached for a half-eaten roast potato, mopping the gravy from the plate. He chewed noisily with his mouth open, licking his fingers. He placed a hand on each of the man’s shoulders and began kneading the back of his neck. The islander was perspiring heavily, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He glanced from side to side at his fellow guests, appealing for their support.

Briggs grabbed a fork and in one fluid movement jammed it down into the man’s hand, embedding it in the plump flesh. Briggs ignored the man’s high-pitched wail and snaked a thick tattooed arm around his neck, dragging him backwards off his chair. The man kicked helplessly, ruffling an ornate rug with his neatly polished brogues. Briggs dumped him on the ground and raised his pistol.

“Want to know what happens to people who double-cross me? You lied, Bairstow. You think because we’re convicts, we’re all stupid, do you?”

The fat man on the ground was shaking his head, his hands raised in defence.

“When you