Skip nodded. “Aye, that it has.”
In the last week, people had reached their tipping points. Men and woman threw themselves over the railings with alarming regularity, and the Hatchet had lost more than a dozen souls—including three sailors. There had also been a spate of violence, no doubt stemming from the cramped confines and strict rations. The ship had bordered on anarchy.
But today was a new day.
Guy turned to Tosco. “Lieutenant, spread word that no one is to disembark until arrangements are made. I do not want an unruly stampede onto allied soil.”
“Yes sir. Will I be coming ashore with the landing party?”
Guy nodded. “I shall take you and Skip.” Then he turned to his petty officer, Bentley, sitting at the Hatchet's main console. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Bentley, let British Command know we’re requesting a berth.”
Bentley did as commanded, and Guy left the bridge to oversee the rest of his people. The passengers and crew would be excited. That was dangerous. Excited people struggled to contain themselves, and the glorious sight of land might push some of them into a frenzy. So Guy spent the next hour moving between the Hatchet’s decks and speaking with civilians, assuring them they would be taken care of. He also reminded his crew of their duty. By the time he finished his rounds, Guy was only slightly more confident that order would remain.
He stood stiffly on the foredeck as the Hatchet drifted into an allocated berth. Off the Portside bow, HMS Ocean towered over their smaller Coast Guard cutter and reminded Guy how few resources he actually wielded. The massive Royal Navy vessel was a helicopter carrier, and Guy spotted half-a-dozen Apache attack choppers lined up on its main deck. It gave him a warm glow to imagine a downpour of Hellfire missiles streaking down on the enemy from the clouds—like the wrath of God himself.
Were things truly as good as they looked here? Compared to what Guy had witnessed at Norfolk base all those weeks ago, Portsmouth was a well-oiled machine. The drizzly sky buzzed with small recon choppers, and masses of riflemen patrolled the docks. It would take a whole lot of demons to overrun this place.
That didn’t mean they couldn’t though.
Tosco and Skip joined Guy at the railings. Tosco handed him a radio. “Lieutenant-Colonel Spencer on the wire for you, sir.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Guy took the radio and put it to his lips. “Lieutenant-Colonel Spencer, this is Captain Guy Granger of the United States Coast Guard. Thank you for allowing us to dock, Portsmouth. Over.”
“You’re more than welcome, Captain,” came a voice from a mouth that sounded like it was sucking plums. “We’re having ourselves quite the tea party here, as you can see. Can’t let our enemy have all the fun, can we? Over.”
“Never a truer word spoken, Lieutenant-Colonel. Are you in command of operations here?”
“Oh no, old boy. That privilege falls to General Wickstaff, but the good general is otherwise engaged. You’ll have to settle for a lowly lieutenant-colonel for now.”
Guy chuckled. Maybe it was just being so long at sea, but he liked the stuffy old lieutenant-colonel (pronounced ‘left-tenant’ in these foreign lands). “Meeting any superior officer is a welcomed comfort,” he admitted.
“Had it tough out there on the big blue, old boy?”
“You might say that. You’re not a sea dog yourself?”
“British Army, man and boy. Spent most my stretch with 202 Signal Squadron, but spent the last few years as head of recruitment. Some fine young lads I’ve seen come and go. Pains me to think about them now. Anyway, enough jawing, I suspect you would like to come ashore?”
Guy shivered at the thought of being on solid ground. “That would be most welcome, sir. The sea is my mother, but no man wants to spend every day with his old lady.”
A bark of chesty laughter on the other end, then: “I can’t argue with that, old boy. You and your people are free to disembark, but I’m afraid they can't pass through the main checkpoint until they've had the once over.”
“Understandable. Where should I direct my landing party? I would very much like to lend aid where needed, but I have injured civilians on board that need attending to first.”
“Head to the Customs building, Captain Granger, and someone will be with you shortly. It’s been a pleasure meeting you. Ta-ta, for now. Over”
“Likewise, Lieutenant-Colonel. Over and out.” Guy handed the radio back to Tosco and took a deep breath. The stuffy old officer had seemed as laid back as can be, a good sign. No hint of being under threat here.
“What the Hell does ‘ta-ta’ mean?” asked Tosco.
“Think it means goodbye,” explained Skip.
Guy wasn't listening. The Hatchet clunked into place beside the cement pier, and the catwalk lowered. Guy had all his remaining officers beside Tosco lined up to block the walkway and prevent people spilling out in a mad rush. Already the civilians on board were bunching together and shoving one another. Some of them waved excitedly at the crewman working high up on the decks of the massive HMS Ocean.
Guy climbed the railing and turned to address his people. “Men and women of the Hatchet, settle down, please. We have permission to disembark, but I will remind you we are visitors here. The United Kingdom has long been our ally, and today it welcomes us with open arms, but behave yourselves or face my consequences. My officers will disembark you in groups, and if anyone tries to jump the queue or disobey instructions, they will spend the rest of the day in a holding cell. You want to stretch your legs, I understand, so don’t sabotage yourselves. Act like civilised human beings. Our enemy cannot take that away from us.”
With that, Guy slipped behind his officers and trotted down the ramp. That same ramp had seen him flee Norfolk only weeks before. It felt surreal to still be alive after so much death, but here he was.
Skip and Tosco followed him in silence, glancing around with awe. The double-impact of stepping onto terra firma, twinned with the sight of the largest modern naval force—possibly ever—assembled was unsettling. For weeks, they had lived an isolated existence aboard the Hatchet, and now they were ants stepping into a colossal nest not their own. Guy felt insignificant, which was liberating. Maybe he could stop being responsible for the lives of so many. Someone else could give the orders. He could hang up his hat and go find his children at last. Kyle and Alice, that’s all he cared about.
He needed to see them.
A small party of British naval officials met Guy on the pier. The fact they sported clipboards made him grin. Such a thing was absurd, yet endearingly representative of man’s fastidious nature and love of creating order from chaos. The British officials directed Guy to the customs building that Lieutenant-Colonel Spencer had told him about. There they were left alone to settle in. Tosco was quick to spot a tea urn filled with hot water, alongside UHT milk, tea bags, and—
“Coffee,” he shouted. "Oh my sweet Lord, they have coffee. Who wants a cup?”
“I’ll take two,” said Skip. “I’ve been having shameful dreams about coffee, son.”
Guy chuckled. “I’ll take a tea, please, Lieutenant. My nerves are enough on edge as it is.”
“You know,” said Tosco. “I’ve gone my whole life and never tasted tea. I think I’ll join you, sir. When in Rome, right?”
“Good point,” said Skip. “Maybe we should do as the natives do.”
Guy shook his head, still smiling. “That they have coffee leads me to believe that the English don’t turn murderous when someone refuses tea.”
“Still,” muttered Skip. “Why risk it? I’ll have a mug of tea, please, Tosco.”
Tosco chewed his lip and looked sheepish. “Great, um, who knows how to make it?”
Guy sighed and had to tell him. Tosco had many talents, but making hot beverages was apparently beyond him. Eventually he got it though, and a few moments later they were all sipping gloriously hot liquid. A petite woman stomped into the customs building, cursing under her breath and wiping her hands against
herself. Late thirties, fit and attractive, she wore stained khaki trousers over a plain white t-shirt. Oil streaked her hands and arms. She spotted them and smiled.
“Greetings, men!”
“Hi,” said Tosco. “We’re waiting to speak with someone in charge. General Wickstaff ideally. Do you know where he is? We’ve been waiting here a while.”
The woman raised a black eyebrow. “And you might be?”
“Lieutenant Tosco, ma’am, United States Coast Guard. We’re here to parlay, so we'd appreciate you getting your superior.”
“Ah, so you’re not the Captain of the Hatchet, despite acting like it?”
Tosco frowned. “Well, no, th—”
“And to my reckoning you’ve been waiting here, safely in the warmth, with fresh tea, for all of twenty minutes, so let’s not be dramatic, ay? You chaps are aware we have coffee, right?”
“We wanted to try the tea,” explained Skip sheepishly.
The woman smirked and chuckled to herself. “We’re not simple tribesman, you know? You don’t have to savour our local delicacies lest you offend us. Now, which one of you two remaining gentlemen is Captain Granger?”
Guy had already stood, although he didn’t remember when. Despite the woman’s dishevelled appearance, she possessed a commanding aura that had brought him to attention. “I’m Captain Granger, ma'am. Pleased to meet you…?”
The woman offered her hand to shake. “General Wickstaff. Pleased to have you in my home, Captain.”
Guy almost choked and shook the woman’s hand vigorously. Afterwards, he wiped oily residue off on his trousers.
Wickstaff examined her soiled palms and wiped them off on her shirt. “Ah, sorry about that. You must forgive my appearance; I’ve been tinkering with a Challenger 2 we have on base. Poor thing got scuppered in Afghanistan and was brought here as a display piece. Could use the bugger right now, so I’ve been trying to get it working.”
“You know how to fix tanks?” said Skip, bushy eyebrows dancing.
The woman shrugged as if it was no big deal. “I spent my career with the Royal Armoured Corp, you pick up a few things.”
Guy cleared his throat. “Thank you for receiving us, General. We feared there’d be nothing here when we set off, but it appears you have quite the operation.”
“I inherited command from Field Marshal Mackay. The blighter dropped dead of a heart attack two weeks ago now. He was eighty-two, so I suppose I can't begrudge the fellow. Field Marshal duties typically fall to the head of the Armed Forces, currently Prince Charles, but who needs a soddin’ blue blood coming and messing things up? I hear there’s a bunker under Buckingham Palace, so I suspect he’s down there now, growing plants under a UV light—mad sod.”
Guy was a little lost by all this, so he just smiled and nodded. “We’re happy to add our forces to your own, General.”
“Temporarily,” added Tosco. “In all likelihood, we will resupply and return home.”
“Ah, at my expense, I presume?” Wickstaff made herself a cup of coffee from the urn. “Never could stand tea,” she explained, sipping at the hot drink.
“If you don’t wish to resupply us,” said Tosco, “then I am sure we can move further down the coast and find someone else willing to.”
“Oh, do be quiet, lad. You're giving my arse quite the headache. Lieutenant,” she eyeballed him coolly, “anyone not here in Portsmouth is, I assure you, on their way here to Portsmouth. We are the only scrap of unsoiled paper left on the roll. We have patrols bringing survivors in almost daily, and none of them report anything being out there but demons and filth. This is humanity’s last beachhead, at least in this neck of the woods. By all means, move on if you want to discover that for yourselves.”
“There are other last stands going on,” argued Tosco. “I’ve spoken to resistance in France, Belgium—”
“Not for us,” she interrupted. “This is Alpha and Omega for us. The radio lines are almost silent, and no other military force exists that could be of any use to us in the battles ahead. We are on our own, and so I’m rather uninterested in resupplying you folks just to send you on your merry way. Stay and help, or don’t, but don’t make demands of me, gentlemen. Your cocks aren't big enough. Why are you even here in the first place?”
“My children are here,” said Guy. “My… my kids are somewhere here.”
Wickstaff raised an eyebrow. “And you appropriated a vessel and crew from your homeland to come get them? How very treasonous of you.”
Guy swallowed. “It wasn’t that simple.”
“I suspect not. Look, I don’t have kids, so I can’t say I understand why people love the grubby little blighters so much, but I realise it would take quite the leader to gain the loyalty of a crew enough to make them desert their homes. I also see many civilians aboard your ship. Rescued?”
“Every one of them,” said Skip. “Captain Granger is the reason any of us are alive.”
“Part of the reason,” amended Tosco with a sniff.
Wickstaff looked at Guy and nodded her head sideways at Tosco. “He always like this?”
“Pretty much. He’s good in a fight though.”
Tosco grunted.
Wickstaff smiled. “What do you chaps think of the tea?”
Tosco glanced down at the steaming mug in his hands. “It, um, lacks something.”
“Sugar, lad. You can’t make a good cuppa without plenty of sugar. Anyway, you’ll have plenty of time to learn how to make a proper brew. You chaps are welcome to stay as long as you like—if you help out and pull your weight. I may opt to resupply you and send you home, but I won’t do it for free. That’s not how things work.”
“My children…” started Guy.
“Are most likely gone, Captain, but I shall make enquires. If fate has kept them alive, they’re as likely here as any place else. I’ll have a clerk come take details from you. For now, I’d like to get the Hatchet and its personnel vetted and your wounded seen to. The civilians may come aboard and stay in the barracks, but the crew must bed down on the ship, I’m afraid.”
“They’ll be dying to come on land,” said Guy.
“And they are most welcome to come and go as they please, Captain. They only need lay their heads aboard your ship. Last thing I want is a bunch of ships dead in the water because everyone is asleep on land. The Hatchet needs to be battle-ready, so keep your shift patterns in place, chaps.”
Guy nodded. It was something he would’ve done anyway. If the shit hit the fan, he wanted to make a quick getaway. “I will do as you ask, General.”
“Good’o! We’re in an enviable position here, chaps. Things have gone poorly for us all so far, but that’s only because the bastards got the drop on us. Now it’s our turn. We’re getting our shit together, and I plan on taking the fight to the enemy very soon. See how they like it up 'em. You gentlemen can be part of it. I would like you to be a part of it.”
“We’ll consider it,” Guy allowed, “but…”
Wickstaff nodded. “Your children, I know. Give me the day and I’ll see what I can do for you. In the meantime, make sure your people behave and tell them they're safe. I’m about to give the afternoon briefing if you'd like to attend. There’ll be more tea—if you chaps are getting a taste for it.”
Skip cleared his throat and put his mug down on a side table. “Any coffee?”
There they stood ten minutes later, gathered around a large mahogany table in a polished conference room. Most of the assembly was male, but they all paid close attention to Wickstaff’s every word. Guy didn’t know the history of this group, but the female general had clearly earned their greatest respect. Lieutenant-Colonel Spencer introduced himself briefly, showing himself to be the ageing, well-cut career officer Guy had imagined him to be. The man looked to be pushing seventy, but was square-shouldered and stiff-backed. After seeing them, he left before the meeting began.
Skip and Tosco were both standing to one side, drinking hot coffee and sighing after e
ach sip. There had been coffee on the Hatchet during the early days, but after picking up so many refugees, it had dried up in a week. Guy had gone without its heady scent for too long. Skip and Tosco too, apparently.
Now well into the meeting, Wickstaff turned to a young Navy officer at the back of the room and asked for an ammunition report. The barrel-chested sailor put a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat.
“Yes, we’re doing well—all things considered. We’re limiting the choppers to small arms fire for their patrols, and we have a decent supply of the belt-fed 30mils. I counted twenty-four CRV7 rockets and sixty-six Hellfire missiles, but they are not hugely effective against the enemy infantry. They may come in handier against the big game, if we find a way to hurt them, but for the small fry, we are better off using other tactics.”
“Our liaison in Istanbul,” began a black officer with pockmarked cheeks, “Sergeant Cross, says the UN forces operating in Turkey have had luck with napalm. The Turks shouldn’t have been stockpiling the stuff, of course, but it turns out that burning the enemy to a crisp works rather well. Surprising, seeing as half of them are already oven-baked. No success fighting the angels yet though.”
“I’ve received a report that an angel around London was injured,” someone else said in the room.
Wickstaff nodded as if she already knew. Guy suspected she knew everything and that this entire meeting was really to ensure everyone else was up to speed. “The Slough Echo gathered the Intel?”
The speaker nodded. “They said the explosion was a gate on Oxford Street. There have been sporadic reports that a nearby angel was hurt. A witness hiding out in a nearby department store sent out a last-gasp email before the grid went down saying they saw the giant bleeding. The Slough Echo has lost power too now, but we have a line open via sat phone with Corporal Martin, a survivor from the Hyde Park engagement.”
Hell On Earth Box Set | Books 1-6 Page 61
