Hurst - Robin Crumby (bookreader TXT) 📗

sets of oilskins from the coat rack in the guardhouse and hurried down to the lighthouse to find his rucksack. He hastily repacked the bag with binoculars and a revolver before joining Sam at the jetty a few minutes later, where the Nipper was sheltering from the storm. The engines were already spluttering noisily and the mooring lines were being held on a slip. As soon as Flynn and the three other men and their packs and weapons were on board, they cast off.

It was approaching high tide and together with a storm surge, they had plenty of water to get out through the mudflats and shallows to reach the main channel. As they rounded the spit and turned west into the teeth of the gale, they met the full force of the wind and waves sweeping towards them. The Needles channel was narrow where water funnelled over rocks creating an overfall. Coupled with an eastwards flowing tide and a westerly wind, it made the half-mile out to the deeper water of Christchurch Bay bumpier than usual. In front of them, further out to sea, lay a maelstrom of wild, heaving water.

Sam came back inside the small cabin and braced himself against the next set of rollers surging towards them. The waves were building in size and power, towering over the small fishing boat. The four marines were below decks looking decidedly green around the gills. One man was retching into a bucket he was clinging on to, both arms wrapped around it like his life depended on it. Up the steps to the wheelhouse, the wiper blades on the windscreen were fighting a losing battle to clear the spray as it swept in on the wind. Looking behind them towards Hurst Castle, the sea had become a roiling mass of white horses.

Jack kept both hands on the wheel, working hard to keep the Nipper’s bow in to the wind and waves. Their engine was straining to make headway and he estimated their forward progress no better than two or three knots. He picked up the radio again and tried to contact the Chester. The first attempt had proven unsuccessful, their transmission lost between waves more than twenty feet high.

They had been told to steam south-west and meet what was likely to be a steamer or small tanker making for the Solent, now some three miles beyond Portland Bill. The vessel was unresponsive to all attempts to contact it and moving very slowly. Jack reckoned that they should be no more than a mile or two away from it. Right now, visibility was so poor they could pass within one hundred yards and not see anything.

The radio crackled into life and they heard an American voice, faint but intelligible. Jack snatched the receiver from its cradle.

“Nipper here, Chester. Receiving you loud and clear. We’re entering the sector. No contact to report. Can you confirm bearing to intercept?”

“You’re right on top of it. Should be dead ahead of you now. Less than a mile. Just off your port bow,” said the radar operator.

“Copy that,” said Jack. “Right, stay alert, keep your eyes peeled.”

Sam grabbed the binoculars and started scanning the horizon, adjusting his stance to compensate for the yaw and pitch of the boat. Each time the bow of the Nipper collided with a wave, the forward momentum seemed to slow as the propeller fought hard to drive them forward again. Jack was worried the engine would overheat and they would be left without power to drift onto the rocks. He’d seen it happen before. A powerboat washed up on the shingle beach at Milford, holed and broken. He sincerely hoped that this wasn’t another wild goose chase.

Sam nudged him in the ribs and pointed to an enormous shape that had appeared from nowhere off the port bow. It took Jack a few seconds to make sense of what he was looking at.

The ship was a tanker in some distress. It sat broadside to the waves, heavy in the bow and listing a little to starboard. It had taken on a lot of water and seemed to be without power, drifting along the coast towards the island.

Jack circled to the ship’s stern and scanned the bridge, walkways and railings trying to spot any crewmembers, any signs of life. Across the ship’s stern was written Santana and its registered home port of Panama underneath. Sergeant Flynn joined them in the wheelhouse. As they nudged closer, Jack handed over his binoculars for Flynn to take a closer look. A huge wave swept over the bow of the Santana and the whole ship seemed to lurch towards them. Jack rammed the engines in reverse and withdrew another fifty yards, suddenly concerned that the whole ship could roll on its side if it was hit again with similar force.

“Better call it in,” said Flynn. “Let’s find out what they want us to do.”