Hurst - Robin Crumby (bookreader TXT) 📗

can you take these gentlemen to the bridge and find the CO?”

It was a long walk through countless corridors, upstairs and along a maze of passageways that twisted and turned past rooms full of sleeping men, of loud machinery, panels with flashing lights, knobs and dials, mess halls and store rooms, looking left and right. It was a busy hive of activity. All the crewmen they passed were polite and stepped out of their way into recesses or doorways, staring after them. Jack could sense they were being watched.

It was possible they were the first civilians they had seen in quite some time, being insulated and cut off from the outside world. The look on their faces masked a thousand questions, but at the same time, they were wary of the newcomers. They stepped back; some of them shielded their faces or even held their breath. Jack imagined that they had seen the virus at close quarters on board and remained cautious of outsiders, giving them a wide berth.

They approached a grey security door with the letters “Bridge” stencilled across its centre. An armed guard stepped into their path and asked them their names. Jack noticed a sidearm in his holster. He eyed the two civilians suspiciously, glancing from one to the other and back at Flannigan, before pressing the intercom to announce their arrival. The door was buzzed open and the group stepped inside.

The bridge reminded Jack of stepping into the cockpit of an airliner, just much bigger. Every wall and panel was a sea of lights, computer monitors and flashing buttons. Uniformed men with binoculars scanned the horizon for other vessels. Looking out over the ship’s bow cresting through the waves, Jack realised it was just before dawn. The sky was brighter in the east towards the island, just visible in the distance. To their north-west, towards Bournemouth and Christchurch, a patch of black clouds hurried through, rainsqualls falling beneath. Sunrise was around twenty minutes away, but it was growing brighter by the minute. Once the rain cleared it looked set to be a clear, crisp morning. Peterson was speaking into what looked like an old-fashioned grey-green telephone, relaying commands, talking animatedly but with calm authority. He looked up and saw Sam and Jack waiting patiently and hung up.

“How are you feeling, Jack?” He inclined his head with some concern. “Doc tells me you’ll need time to recover your strength. Recommended you stay put for a couple of days until you’re better.” Jack’s eyebrows narrowed and he was just on the point of saying something he might regret, when Peterson raised his hand. “Please, Jack, let me finish. I told him in no uncertain terms that while I respect his medical opinion, if it was me, I would probably jump over board and swim the rest of the way to be with my team.”

Jack smiled. He admired Peterson. He had an easy manner around other people, a sense of irony uncommon in the few Americans he’d met, and a very “British”, or at least transatlantic, outlook. Altogether it made him a good leader in the circumstances. He was capable of uniting all the disparate groups. Peterson maintained eye contact with Jack, watching his expressions change, studying him carefully before continuing. Jack was normally so good at reading people, so why did he find Peterson so intriguing, so full of small contradictions? He suspected there was more to him than met the eye.

“So here’s what I’m going to do,” continued Peterson. “We have a UAV prepped for launch once there’s enough daylight to see anything. What do you say we make a sweep over Hurst? Find out what’s going on there and then push on to Osborne and see if we can’t track down Briggs. Sound like a plan?”

Jack looked from Peterson to Sam and back again, wondering what the hell he was talking about.

Peterson noticed Jack’s confusion and apologised. “Sorry, navy jargon, Jack. Unmanned Aerial Vehicle. I’m sure you’re familiar with the Predator or Reaper drones used by the Air Force for hunting down terrorists.”

Jack nodded. He knew exactly what Peterson was talking about now. He remembered the grainy footage from Syria, Iraq and Afghanistan live-streamed for TV news audiences of vehicles exploding, remote piloted from a darkened room thousands of miles away. He had no idea they had drones on ships too.

“Of course, the drones we use are a little bit different. Shorter range, smaller payloads, but very effective at getting eyes on a target for missile strikes. We use them for reconnaissance before we put boots on the ground. We like to know what we’re up against. If it’s okay with you, why don’t we grab a cup of coffee and go watch on the big monitors in the stateroom? We’ll be more comfortable there. Acting XO, you have the conn. Jansen, can you pipe the feed through? Follow me, gentlemen.”

Sam and Jack followed Peterson through the ship to a stateroom that was luxuriously appointed, beyond their expectations. Leather chairs, Lavazza coffee machine, highly polished mahogany table, walls lined with trophies. There were colour photos of the ship and its crew, of the president, of their home port in San Diego, of their former captain and XO, buried at sea with full military honours. He invited them to take a seat, served them hot drinks and waited for the screen to power up. In the corner, a technician busied himself at a control panel. Checking connections and settings, he looked up expectantly before the screen sprung into life.

It took a few seconds for the feed from the drone to stabilise. They could make out markings and numbers along the bottom of the screen, giving flight data back to the operator. Peterson put on a headset and, when he spoke, his voice was broadcast to the room so they could all hear the exchange. The feed now showed the drone flying at around one hundred metres above sea level, heading north-east towards Hurst. After a few minutes of flight time, they could see the Needles rocks in the distance looming large before the nose of the drone seemed to come up as its speed slowed and the welcome sight of the castle came into view.

Jack leaned forward, trying to make out the detail. Two separate plumes of smoke were rising hundreds of feet into the air; one from around the centre of the flank wall facing the Needles and the other seemed to originate from the Tudor castle itself. The drone came into a hover descending slowly above the southern wall, panning around to left and right. The original gun battery was now beneath them, where cannon would have faced outward guarding the entrance to the Solent. To Jack’s and Sam’s surprise, a figure they both recognised stood on the ramparts, waving a weapon above his head, beckoning towards the drone, his lips moving. He seemed to be shouting something.

Jack turned excitedly to Peterson: “Do we have audio?”

“I’m afraid not. Not on this UAV model. Do you know this guy?”

“Know him? You could say that.” He slapped Sam on the back, relieved to see Will returned safe. “Looks like he made it back just in the nick of time.”

Chapter Fifty-one

Will and Scottie had fought their way on to the western ramparts of the castle complex and were exchanging fire with two of Copper’s men. They took turns to provide covering fire. Copper’s men were looking nervously over their shoulders, perhaps worried about being cut off in case of a retreat. The main attacking force was still locked in skirmishes with Tommy and the rest of the riflemen on the roof of the gun tower who, by all accounts, were putting up a robust defence.

The fire in the canteen was dying down. There was nothing left to burn. The cardboard boxes and flammable contents of the storeroom had burned themselves out. The heat of the inferno had been considerable. Most likely fuelled by the industrial-size drum of cooking oil that Will assumed must have exploded, sending a massive smoke cloud billowing into the pre-dawn sky. The canteen was now a shell. The kitchen and serving counter were barely recognisable in the charred and blackened wreck.

On Scottie’s belt, the walkie-talkie crackled with static on its clip. He fumbled with the volume dial, straining to hear over the exchange of gunfire. It was Nathan again, checking on their progress.

“We’re making our way to your position,” responded Scottie breathlessly. “ETA five minutes, if we can just get past these two guys firing on us. Any chance you can help?”

Nathan regretfully informed him that they had their own battle to fight. There was nothing for it. Will and Scottie were on their own.

Copper’s men finally made their move. Firing wildly over Will’s position, they scrambled towards the rest of their group sheltering just outside the Tudor gate. Will saw them leave cover and took careful aim, squeezing off a short burst that scythed down the two figures. They landed in a tangle of limbs on the grass. One clawed his way to safety behind a pillar, his weapon abandoned a few yards behind in the open. Scottie patted Will on the back and covered him as he moved up to the next doorway, scanning for targets. Their rapid advance attacking Copper’s exposed flank induced panic as several faces pointing apprehensively in their direction. A strange humming noise to their right made Will reach out and haul Scottie back. It sounded like a large insect trapped inside a greenhouse on a summer’s day. He craned his head round, scanning the skies trying to place what had to be man-made. Its pitch altered as the drone changed position, moving closer towards them. Keeping close to the wall, staying out of sight, Will backtracked to the stairs and climbed back up on to the ramparts.

Standing on the top with a panoramic view of the Needles passage, he was shielded from view by an old concrete machine gun nest, dating from the Second World War. To his surprise, he came face to face with what looked like a child’s toy on steroids. Six rotors supported the drone’s weight, like a large bumblebee. Will guessed it was military, and sincerely hoped it was friendly. It seemed to be paying particular attention to him, so he started waving and shouting in case they could hear his voice. Perhaps they were trying to communicate.