by Frank Tayell
“You think there could be repercussions?”
“Not immediately. We also have the news of the tank in Calais to share with the people. The initial emotional response will be fear.”
“And an end to the residual seasonal good cheer,” I said. “Which isn’t high to begin with.”
“Agreed. The weather, the darkness, the lack of food. People are increasingly spending their time inside, alone. The sense of community built on Anglesey was fractured by Belfast, bandaged by the electricity here, but it is beginning to unravel. Hence Commander Crawley’s decision to leave.”
“We need radio,” I said. “I spent the day reading police reports. A pro-forma template would improve the efficiency and accuracy of those reports, but to create one first required deciphering their notes. Dean, Kallie, and Lena have noticed it. I think Siobhan has, too, but she doesn’t say as much. We need a radio station, or something else that would turn the individual experiences into shared ones. I don’t suppose we can risk it?”
“Because of the cartel, no.”
“Are there any more images of Calais?” I asked.
“Yes. And no. We have a single image of thinning cloud beneath which there might be the shape of a destroyer. I am assuming it is still at anchor, or was, around two p.m. this afternoon.”
“Have you decided what you’ll do?” I asked.
“What I’d do? What would you do?”
“Me? I’m not a general.”
“Nor am I,” she said. “I might carry the rank of admiral, but I am a doctor who spent a large part of her time as an inspector, a diplomat, and a tin-shaking fundraiser.”
“Sounds more like a politician.”
“Oh, it was,” she said. “Did you know I was in the line of succession? That was a relic from two terms ago. The surgeon general of the Navy was a senate-confirmable presidential appointment that, due to restrictions on the candidate’s qualifications, would be reasonably politically neutral. It preyed on my mind while we were on the Harper’s Ferry off the coast of Africa. Not, I hasten to add, because I wished to call myself president. It was the position’s other title, commander-in-chief. It is a rank that is also a job description. Here, it comes with a far greater responsibility than ever it had in the old world. We never formalised your position, but you are the de facto chief of staff, my chief advisor, so what would you advise we do about Calais?”
I stared at the raindrops battering the windows, refracting the lights ashore. “My instinct says run,” I said finally. “If the French and Ukrainians aren’t in the Pyrenees, we don’t need to head down to the Bay of Biscay. Finding the people of Creil somewhere among the mountainous slopes was going to be hard enough. If they’ve gone to the Alps, it’ll be next to impossible, and certainly not swift. We don’t have a warship of our own, so we should flee. It’s easy to say, and not much more difficult to do, except we have nowhere to go. Without anywhere better than this, we can’t run, which means we can’t hide, and that only leaves attacking them before they attack us. I don’t have the first clue how to go about it. Sinking a destroyer in a harbour, protected by one tank, shouldn’t be difficult seeing as they’re gangsters and we’ve got French Special Forces to deploy. But they do have a tank, and we’ve barely any ammunition.”
“The cost would be high, but is there an alternative?”
“You’ve come to the same conclusion?” I asked. “We have to sink the destroyer?”
“It’s not only me who’s reached that conclusion. So have the colonel, Mister Mills, and Captain Fielding. They are prepared for the risk.”
“And the sacrifice?” I asked. “I assume they’re whom we’d send.”
“We…” She stopped. “We shall discuss it shortly. I see lights on the shore. Our hour has arrived.”
We sat in silence as the lights reached the ship, and stayed silent until we heard footsteps on the ladder outside, stopping on the other side of the bridge’s closed door.
“Come in, Commander,” the admiral called.
The door opened. There was a crowd outside, numbering at least ten. Commander Crawley entered first. Lieutenant John Whitley came second, an officer from the Harper’s Ferry. Solid, reliable, dependable, loyal to family, friend, and crew. That’s what I’d thought of him, up until now. Michael Jollif came third. I knew his face, but not his name, not until I’d asked Colm to point the man out to me. Jollif was gangly, with a broken nose and low forehead, sporting a precisely trimmed beard whose strict lines only made his angular face seem even more pointed. He wore a fur-lined jacket and matching waterproof trousers that had to be recent acquisitions. A hat was in one gloved hand, the other had gone to his coat pocket when he saw the ship’s bridge was occupied, but that hand hadn’t strayed inside. Not yet.
Crawley turned, and held out a hand. “The rest of you, wait outside.”
“Oh, they can come in,” the admiral said. “There is no point in subterfuge or secrets, not now. Good evening, John. Now I understand why Boston was chosen as your destination. Your wife’s people hail from there, don’t they? It’s not where you lived before our war began. But your mother-in-law lives there, yes? You think that’s where your family would have sought shelter after the outbreak?”
“Admiral,” Crawley cut in. “I assume you know why we’re here.”
“Oh, indeed, Commander. Before you say anything, any of you, let me say this. You have reached a decision based on incomplete intelligence.” She reached for her pocket. Jollif did the same. “I am reaching for a tablet,” the admiral said. “There is a satellite photograph you must see.” She withdrew the tablet and handed it to Crawley.
“What am I looking at?” Crawley asked. “A tank?”
“A Leclerc Main Battle Tank on the dockside at Calais,” the admiral said.
“And you’re only just telling us now?” Jollif asked, his tone gruff and angry, but there was a hint of Manchester behind it. Colm believed the man had come from Salford originally, but that was about as much as our brief investigation had so far uncovered.
“It’s one tank, so what?” John Whitley asked.
“John, you know exactly what,” the admiral said. “Some of the cartel survived Haderslev. They went south to the only place left with fuel. They have diesel and a warship. The cloud cover over Calais is now complete. We are waiting for it to clear to learn if there are more tanks, and if the destroyer has left the harbour. There is another image. Scroll ahead.”
“A yellow van, isn’t it?” Crawley said,
“A yellow minibus belonging to Adrianna. I don’t know her surname. She was one of the people Mr Wright rescued from a watchtower west of Creil. That photograph was taken the day after. The minibus is not travelling alone but with a coach. You can see that more clearly in the next photograph. The next image shows other vehicles. Military, we believe, and we believe they belonged to the people of Creil. They went east, not south. They went to the Alps. That was the original destination of the Ukrainians. It seems that they decided against the French plans to go south, and the French decided to go with them. The cartel are back in Calais. They have tanks. They have diesel. They have a Russian destroyer. The people we hoped to rescue from the Pyrenees are not there.”
“If you know what we’ve planned, why didn’t you tell us any of this?” Crawley demanded.
“I was hoping the clouds would clear and there would be more to say,” she said. “And I thought you’d wait until The New World had completed its mission. You must know that the ship failed to find landfall in Iceland. The reports of Greenland were no better. You wish to go to Boston? Well, why not? Why shouldn’t we all go? It is as good a destination as any other we could pick from the air. Two days ago, I would have let you take this ship. Now, with this news of Calais, I can’t. I’m ordering you to do your duty, to protect the civilians in our care.”
“I didn’t vote for you,” Jollif said. “And you can’t stop us.”
“This isn’t about votes or elections,” the admiral sa
id. “It is about service. Those of us who swore an oath did so in full knowledge of what we promised. We have not been relieved of that responsibility. No matter what flag we once followed, our oath stands and we must all stand together.”
“And I swore no oath,” Jollif said.
“But you take advantage of those that did, of the work that others do, of the collective benefits of being part of our community. The food, the electricity, the safety, the companionship. These are the by-products of living within our society. With that comes responsibility. In this case, the responsibility to wait.”
“We’ll go to Boston?” Whitley asked.
“Yes,” the admiral said.
“And the cartel?” Crawley asked.
“Our choices are few, Commander,” the admiral said. “At sunset, the clouds were clearing. By dawn, we hope they will have scattered sufficiently for us to have a more complete image of Calais. When we do, a decision will be made. For now, though, I would ask you keep this news to yourself.”
“We’ll wait a little longer,” Whitley said.
Crawley, a little more reluctantly, nodded.
“We won’t,” Jollif said. But Whitley grabbed his arm, and pushed him outside.
“We’ll wait,” Crawley said. “But not forever.”
The admiral crossed to the bridge’s windows, watching as the mutineers left the ship. Only then did she collapse into a chair.
“That was interesting,” I said, taking out the small gun and handing it back to her.
“And didn’t go as I expected at all,” the admiral said. “But the outcome was what I hoped for.”
“We’ll have to tell people about the Ukrainians and Calais.”
“Not yet. They will ask what solution we propose, so we will wait until we have an answer to that question, and perhaps until after we have resolved the entire situation. But that must wait until we have more satellite images, and that won’t be until tomorrow. The crisis isn’t over, but it has been paused, and your family will be growing anxious. Please inform George and Mary of tonight’s events, and I will tell Colm and Siobhan, but we will keep a tight circle on this news for now.”
She headed back to the hotel, and I headed back to our home, alone. The rain didn’t bother me. Nor did the rising wind. I had somewhere warm to go, but our home no longer seemed like a castle.
The movie was nearly finished when I got in, and not wanting to worry Annette, I brushed aside the questions, sat, and almost immediately had to stand up as there was another knock at the door. Again, it was the admiral.
“We have images from Calais,” she said. “There are lights in the harbour. The destroyer is still there, but it is illuminated. There must be people aboard.”
Day 278 - 16th December
Chapter 9 - The Illusion of Normality
The Faroe Islands
The new day began with a mirror-deep illusion of normality. Breakfast, showers, getting Daisy dressed, taking the girls to school. Yes, we could almost fool ourselves into thinking all was normal. Almost. Until we arrived at the hotel.
“The Courageous is on its way to Calais,” the admiral said, having made sure the corridor outside her office was deserted except for the Marine on duty by the staircase. “The French Special Forces are aboard, as are Mister Mills and most of his crew.”
“At least that’s the problem of the Vehement solved,” I said.
“Not exactly,” the admiral said. “The lights… you haven’t seen the photograph, let me find it for you.” She picked up her tablet. “The lights suggest the ship is readying to depart, but not ready yet.”
“How can you tell?” Kim asked, peering at the screen. “To me, it’s just a lot of bright pinpricks.”
“Arranged on deck, rather than spilling from portholes,” the admiral said. “These are temporary lights while they repair the ship. We’ll need more imagery before we can tell if the engines are operational, or if power is coming from a generator. In turn, that would provide a timeframe as to its earliest possible departure. In addition, we don’t know what surveillance and monitoring equipment aboard is functional, or whether they know how to use it. The colonel knows his craft, as does the captain. Both captains. But it is possible the cartel will identify the Courageous while it is still in the Channel. In which case, the Courageous will lead the destroyer back to Kenmare Bay. The bosun has remained aboard the submarine with what amounts to a dead-man’s switch. If the destroyer enters the harbour, a warhead will detonate.”
“They’ll… they’ll all die?” Kim asked.
“Yes. Provision has been made for some to flee by boat, and I am readying the Amundsen for a rescue mission, but it will arrive too late to save any of them.”
“If the destroyer is still in Calais when the Courageous reaches France, what do they do?” I asked.
“Attack,” the admiral said. “The colonel, and the captains, will determine a plan when they are closer. It will depend on what other images we take, what the Courageous can gather as it approaches, on the weather, the tides, but not much else. Essentially, if possible, they will lead people ashore, launch an assault, and sink the ship in harbour. If they arrive as the ship is about to depart, or if the assault fails, they will sink the Courageous in the harbour mouth. If that is made impossible due to incoming fire, they will resort to leading the destroyer to Kenmare Bay.”
“I was hoping for a few more specifics,” I said.
“I have none,” the admiral said. “If you were to call the colonel, I doubt he would have many more.”
“Is it going to work?” Kim asked. “Of course, you can’t be certain, but is this… I mean, isn’t there something we could do that would be more… more organised, more structured, less… less vague.”
“It will work, yes,” the admiral said. “But no, there is no more detailed plan we can devise. We have very little equipment. Very little ammunition. Very little time, if we wish to catch them in the harbour. But we do have a ship full of French Special Forces and British submariners, all of whom were trained for wet-work, and this will surely get bloody. But, ultimately, the cartel don’t have a chance.”
“There will be casualties, won’t there?” Kim asked.
“In war, there always are.”
After that, it was hard to lose myself in my daily chores. While Kim went to check on the freezers, I headed up towards the sports centre, mostly because the walk would give me time to think. About halfway there, I saw Colm.
“Out for a stroll?” I asked.
“Keeping tabs on my patrols,” he said, detouring around a puddle as he crossed the empty road. “Not that there’s much to see, and less to report.”
I lowered my voice, looked around, and realised I was acting far too suspiciously. “Anything to report by the harbour?”
“Nothing but gulls,” he said. “We’ve been keeping our distance, but keeping an eye on that ship. No one’s gone near.”
“Gulls?” I asked. “As in birds?”
“As in a lot,” Colm said. “Hundreds, at least. I don’t know why they came, but they’re staying for the fish guts. We’ll have meat to add to the pot.”
“That’s some good news to share around,” I said. “And we need it. Oh, and before I forget, how are those household supplies?”
“Let me guess, you need soap?”
“Dishwasher salt, actually,” I said.
“You should have asked me yesterday. We’re out. Not that we gathered much, so you might still find some in one of the unoccupied houses.”
“I’ll make do without,” I said. “I take it you’re getting a lot of requests for non-perishables?”
“Making me the most popular peeler in history,” he said. “I’m giving out a little to anyone who asks. First come, first served, but only if they actually need it. I’d like a shop, and it would be the first cop-shop people willingly entered, but we need that currency cracked first. And you want to act quick there, or you’ll find someone else beats you to it.”
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br /> “You mean there’s bartering going on?” I asked.
“There’s always some,” Colm said. “A bit of sewing for a bit of babysitting for an IOU against the day someone needs either or both. But something new has cropped up. You know that seaweed growing on the southern edge of the headland?”
“I’ve tried the soup Madame Dupont made. Can’t say I’m a fan.”
“If you wash the seaweed, dry it, shred it, fry it in fish oil, then leave it to cool, it tastes like… like fish, really, but it doesn’t taste like seaweed anymore. Takes a lot of time, but it’s crispy, crunchy, and not too bad. Guess who’s selling it.”
“Markus?”
“Aye.”
“What’s he charging?” I asked.
“Anything people want to give him.”
“Sounds a bit like what he was doing on Anglesey. Tell me, should I be worried?”
“Yes,” Colm said, “but not for the obvious reason. He’s also telling people how to do it. He’s destroying his own market. I can’t figure out why.”
“But someone like him, there’ll be a reason,” I said.
“That’s what I was thinking. Maybe he’s just buying good will. Or maybe— Hey, that’s Dean and Lena.”
The two teenagers were sprinting along the road, bows in hand.
“Zom… Zombie!” Dean said breathlessly.
“Where?” Colm asked.
“West of Marknagili,” Lena said tersely.
“The road with the supermarket?” Colm asked.
“The… the colours,” Dean said, struggling to get his breath.
“It wore a red jacket with bright orange stripes,” Lena said. “Not much mud. Must be recently turned.”
“And you saw it yourself?”
“Siobhan got the report,” Dean said. “Not us. She and Kallie are hunting it. It was in those terraced houses we thought were apartments.”
“Not in,” Lena said. “Outside. Behind. Seen by someone out looting.”
“Tell Colm the rest as you take him there,” I said. “I’ll raise the alarm, send people to that supermarket. You can organise them from there.”
