Hurst - Robin Crumby (bookreader TXT) 📗

Deuteronomy 31:20

The early winter storms had been raging for days. The noise was deafening. It wasn’t just the howling wind; it was also the giant rollers sweeping in from the English Channel from the South West. Surging past the Needles and the western tip of the island, the waves were sent crashing against the weathered groynes and battered sea defences at the base of the castle walls. Spray flew high into the air before being carried away by powerful gusts.

Hurst Castle had seen storms worse than this. Every winter for nearly five hundred years, Mother Nature threw her worst at the man-made structure. The castle squatted resolutely on this most remote and desolate location, at the far end of a shingle spit that connected the fortress to the mainland and, like an unwanted guest, nature made her resentment known on a regular basis. Little by little the raised causeway that ran along the top of the shingle defences was being slowly washed away. It was only a matter of time before the castle would be completely cut off from the mainland, reachable by boat across narrow tidal channels that ran between the salt marshes around Keyhaven.

Jack slammed shut the wooden door to the lighthouse that he had made his home over the long months since arriving here. It needed another lick of paint, its surface blistered and peeling. Buffeted by another gust, he wrapped his coat tighter around his trunk, shielding his face against the sheeting rain. He hurried towards the shelter of the castle wall, relaxing a little as the wind dropped and he could hear himself think again. The drawbridge was already down and the two guards who were taking shelter in the covered entrance straightened a little upon seeing Hurst’s leader striding towards them.

“Morning, lads. Anything to report?”

“Not really,” said Tommy, rubbing his cheek, trying to remember anything of note from his shift. He glanced jealously at Scottie who had just appeared, cupping a hot brew. “Other than a couple of false alarms around midnight, we’ve mostly been chasing shadows as usual.”

“Did you manage to get some sleep, Jack?” asked Scottie, blowing the steam off his coffee. “Stormy night, eh?”

“Me? Oh, I slept like a log, thank you.” Jack laughed. “But I’m used to it. Remember, I spent half of my life at sea. Bit of wind and rain never hurt anyone. Did the patrols find anything?”

“Oh, nothing out of the ordinary.” Scottie shrugged. “We got the call from the Chester that there were a couple of radar blips heading out of Lymington harbour, but by the time we got a team out there, they were either turned round or had vanished into the night.”

“Sergeant Flynn said they were probably in a dinghy or rowing boat. Virtually impossible to pick up on radar,” added Tommy.

“Same pattern we’ve seen for weeks. People trying to make the crossing to the island in the dead of night. Not much we can do about it,” lamented Scottie.

Jack nodded, scratching his beard. It needed a trim. He normally relied on Terra for haircuts, but she still hadn’t returned from the island. He hadn’t given up hope she was still alive. It was common knowledge that she was being held captive by the former inmates of Parkhurst Prison and their leader, Briggs. He thought back fondly to the times she had grabbed hold of his head and started chopping away at his locks with a blunt pair of scissors, despite his protestations. Like shearing a sheep, she had said. He smiled at the memory.

“Makes you wonder how many are getting through the net,” reflected Tommy.

Jack sniffed at the wind. There was something foul in the air this morning. He turned his back against a forceful gust as the three of them moved back within the shelter of the entrance.

The Solent was now under the watchful protection of the allies. For the first time since the outbreak of the Millennial Virus, order was slowly returning to this coastal region. Its many waterways, creeks and harbours were scrutinised day and night by a radar operator sat in near permanent darkness, staring at a screen on board the USS Chester. Anchored in the Solent, the American missile destroyer worked hand in hand with the Royal Navy’s growing fleet of patrol boats and fast launches, co-ordinating the defence of the island. Hurst Castle was again a critical outpost defending the western approaches. Built by Henry VIII as part of a chain of forts and castles along England’s southern coast to guard against attacks by the French and Spanish navies, today Hurst had resumed its military role. Like a passive sentinel, Hurst remained alert, day and night, ready to do its duty.

Thus far, there had been little to do. Chasing shadows in the night, seeing ghosts and echoes. Urgent radio calls from command would request they check out an unauthorised vessel attempting to make the crossing under cover of darkness. They had a powerful searchlight set up on top of the lighthouse, but with limited fuel for the generator, they rarely had it running. They relied on handheld lanterns and high-powered Maglites to scan the darkness from the shoreline or from a R.I.B scrambled to intercept.

“We need more men,” said Scottie. “It’s a huge stretch of coast to monitor with such a small force. We need more boats on patrol, 24/7. It’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack. As things stand, we’ve got no chance.”

“Well, it’s not like we’re the only line of defence,” corrected Jack. “Even if they run the gauntlet and make it to the island, all the beaches are defended with barbed wire, obstacles and armed guards.”

“They’re turning that place into a fortress. Next thing they’ll build a wall. Then what?” asked Tommy.

“If that’s what it takes to keep the island virus-free and control the population flow through the quarantine zones, then so be it.”

The attacks had started several weeks ago. Most came in the dead of night. At first, they were disorganised, sporadic incursions, initially dismissed as desperate people trying to reach the sanctuary offered by the newly formed Camp Wight on the island. More recent attempts suggested a systematic probing of the allies’ defences. To what end, Jack had no idea. Forces unknown were orchestrating events, keeping the defenders chasing shadows, scrambling interceptors only to find the small vessels they were sent to find had disappeared or were returning to safe harbour.

There came the sound of footsteps echoing around the battlements as someone raced across the courtyard towards the guardhouse. The three men turned to see Sam trying to catch his breath, one hand on the stone wall nearest him.

“What’s up, Sam?”

“It’s the Chester on the radio, Jack. Command wants us to take the Nipper and check something out.”

“Surely not in this weather?”

“Probably another false alarm,” suggested Tommy.

“They wouldn’t ask unless it was urgent, Jack. Apparently there’s a ship about five and a half miles south-east of Portland Bill heading this way. Command said that, from the size of it, it’s probably a coastal steamer or small tanker. They need us to intercept, make contact and find out their intentions. We’re to take Sergeant Flynn and a squad of marines, just in case.”

“Can’t they send the helicopter?” asked Tommy. “It would be much quicker.”

“Not in this.” Sam gestured skywards. “The winds are gusting storm force.”

Jack looked back outside and squinted at the rain clouds. The storm was strengthening. It would be lunacy to take the Nipper out. She was a thirty-five-foot coastal fishing boat, broad in the beam and more than capable of operating in all conditions. Nevertheless, Jack was experienced enough to know that a good skipper never underestimated a storm.

“I’m assuming they don’t have any other patrols in the area that could check this out?”

“Apparently everything is returned to port on account of the weather. We’re the nearest.”

“Okay, Sam. Can you let Sergeant Flynn know, grab the oilskins and safety gear and get her ready? We’ll call the Chester for an update when we’re on the way. I don’t want to go out in this unless we have to.”

Jack grabbed two