Ross didn’t smile at the joke.
‘What's the timescale, and what's my part in all this?’
‘The timing all depends on the weather. What's the bloody date today – yes, it's Tuesday the 14th. It's due to stop raining on Thursday – the 16th, but we’ll have to allow some of the floodwater to settle and complete training before we go in. We've been conducting recce on the area, attempting to identify landing sites for the choppers. The biggest problem will be transporting the gold bars up to the Chinooks for onward transfer to a ship lying offshore near the Isle of Wight. Although there is nearly five thousand tonnes of gold bars in the vault – only three hundred and ten tonnes of it is ours – after Gordon bloody Brown sold half of it off. But even so, at today’s prices it's worth about US$25 billion. It's a splash in the financial ocean – but it's a start and if we can pull this off, we can charge a hefty premium to bring out the rest!
A gold bar weighs twenty eight pounds – so there are approximately eighty bars to the metric tonne – which is about 24,000 bars in total. A Chinook can take around 40,000lbs of cargo – so if my sums are correct it should take sixteen to twenty sorties to transfer the gold offshore.’
‘Jesus. Twenty-four thousand bars. Even at one hundred bars a day – that will take …..Ross made a quick mental calculation ….eight months – surely that will be too long for your various and persistent debtors!’
‘We’ve got that in hand Ross. The plan is to transfer the bars from the underwater vault to palletised loads, which will be pulleyed electrically – using generators - up to the Chinooks and loaded in clear air. We estimate that we can transfer one thousand bars per day using this method.’
Ross was unconvinced.
‘Even if your figures are correct, it’ll still take over three weeks to complete the job. The men will be mentally and physically exhausted working under water for that period of time. It can't be done!’
‘Oh yes it can – and it must! We are sweeping the transit camps for divers – civilian or military – and anyone who has a relevant qualification will be trained at Gutersloh and will then rotate with the two main teams. We’ll do it – whatever the cost!’
Ross was still to be fully convinced.
‘I take it then, that this Op has top priority. The human cost is negligible I suppose? What about onward shipping?’
Richard Castle glanced at his watch.
‘Let us worry about that, Ross. Your job is to oversee the entire extraction operation. Make sure that the correct amount of gold – three hundred and ten tonnes – gets onto the aircraft and onto the ship. Once there it will be cleaned, re-boxed and transported to Guernsey, where a secure depository has been arranged, prior to its final transfer – probably to Switzerland. The whole operation should take less than a month. The freighter has been leased from Amsterdam and a Royal Navy Frigate will escort it throughout the loading exercise. The flight time for a fully loaded Chinook is about an hour to Guernsey, so that presents no re-fuelling problem. Your job is to supervise the entire job from excavation in London, to deposit in the Channel Islands. When you slam that security compound gate shut for the final time, you can come home.
The greatest threat to the gold is hijack. We are adopting a shroud of secrecy – but if someone discovers the depository or somehow gets at the ship, then we are in trouble. Your job is also to trouble-shoot. Nothing should go wrong – it can't realistically – but if it does – you should be on hand to meet it with deadly force. If the shit hits the fan or someone intervenes – use your ‘authority’ or your gun to stop them.’
It's almost three now. When you leave here I want you, in turn, to go to RAF Gutersloh, then visit the Bank of England, board the ship, speak to the Navy and visit Guernsey. I want a fool proof security plan in place well before G-Day.’
‘When is that, sir?’ queried Ross.
‘As things stand – Saturday the twenty-fifth of January.’
‘Eleven days,’ thought Ross, ‘this bastard is in an unholy rush. What the fuck is he up too?’
Day 31
Tuesday 14th January – 1800
UKRA Hospital Ship off Eastbourne
As Patric and Joanie Silver lifted away from the surface in the small helicopter, which had just rescued them from the snow in Sussex and imminent disaster at the hands of their fellow countrymen, they felt nothing but release and utter exhaustion.
They wept with the all-consuming relief of finally escaping the traumas of the past three weeks. The incident on the surface just seconds before being snatched to safety had almost been the last straw. A few more seconds and the chasing mob would have caught them – and Patric was certain that they would have met a nasty and untimely end.
However, the helicopter crew were alert to the potential conflict and acted swiftly to save the day. In fact, the crewmen were talking tiredly about the incident to one another.
‘Dave, did you see what that last lot were up to. They were definitely weird. They just kept on coming. Even the shots you fired didn’t seem to deter them much.’
‘And they had no kit, Pete – no bags, no rucksacks – no survival gear. It seemed as if they were more interested in catching these two than actually getting rescued,’ responded Dave.
‘Yeah, double spooky,’ responded Pete, ‘I think we should mention the incident in our report. Hang on a moment, I’ll check with the skipper.’
Pete keyed his throat mic and spoke to the pilot.
‘Lieutenant, did you get any photography of that pick-up?’ queried the crewman.
‘As it happens, yes, I did. We used the port-facing oblique camera. Should have got some useful shots,’ he responded.
‘Great,’ replied Pete, ‘we’ll take a look on the ship. Dave and I were concerned by that mob. They seemed a bit strange to us. Anyway, we’ll talk about it when we land.’
Patric and a shivering and coughing Joanie sat in the corner of the chopper wrapped in survival blankets listening to the exchange. Patric hadn’t had time to notice any abnormal behaviour from the chasing pack – he had been far too concerned with getting Joanie into the helicopter. This he had achieved – just – and now looked forward to civilisation.
He was in for a shock!
The flight to the hospital ship lasted only fifteen minutes and as soon as they touched down, a medic sprang aboard the aircraft and gave both Patric and Joanie a cursory examination.
‘Can you walk?’ he asked.
Patric nodded, so the medic assisted first Joanie and then Patric onto the deck. A waiting nurse assisted Joanie, whilst the original male medic took Patric’s arm and led them below.
It was the beginning of a harrowing day. That was the ninth of January and the British rescue operation was in full swing. The ship was heaving with survivors undergoing processing and treatment. It was organised bedlam.
They were both shocked by the condition of some of their fellow survivors, but Patric was also becoming concerned by a hacking and persistent dry cough which Joanie had developed, and seemed to be worsening. She also complained of a searing headache and aching limbs.
They were examined, questioned, weighed, re-questioned, put through a shower, re-examined and finally sent to the dining deck for some welcome nourishment. Joanie continued to cough and by the time they had eaten, Patric decided that they should return for re-re-examination.
A proper doctor was summoned by a grumpy and officious nurse, and grudgingly listened to Joanie’s chest. He looked alarmed and turned to ‘grumpy’, issuing concise instructions.
‘This woman needs to be admitted, x-rays taken, plus a full set of blood tests – and get her onto a drip PDQ, Sister.’
Patric was now really alarmed.
‘What's the problem, doctor,’ he pled.
‘I'm not absolutely certain, but it looks like pneumonia – possibly double. We need to begin treatment immediately. You’ll both have to remain on board for a few days at least. Your wife is badly dehydrated and malnourished whi
ch makes her vulnerable. If it's what I suspect, we can treat her with antibiotics. A few days bed rest should do the trick. Try not to worry.’
But Patric was worried. After all they had been through it would be heart-breaking if Joanie succumbed, now that they were safe. He watched as a wheelchair carted Joanie off to the ward and followed meekly, watching as his wife was attached to a drip and settled down to rest. In fact, they also gave her a sedative and advised Patric to return in three or four hours, when all the tests were complete, and a more succinct diagnosis could be made.
Patric nodded sadly and made his way back to the dining hall where he ate another full meal. He realised just how ravenous he was as he gorged himself.
It was here that he met more fellow survivors and came to realise the full horror that the snow had brought.
Most people had shaved heads as a result of lice, and wore tee-shirts and track suits supplied by the ship. There were more men than women, and he saw only two children and no-one aged over fifty. Everyone seemed to be on their own – hardly any couples had survived. Without exception people were emaciated, pale, generally covered in sores and clearly in shock.
Patric was in good shape compared to most – perhaps the ‘committee’ in the Tesco supermarket had been right to act in the way they did - in some sort of perverse way!
He tried to engage his companions in conversation, but many were just too distressed to talk about their experiences. Many had relatives on board who were in the wards – like Joanie – and were awaiting prognoses – or treatment for minor personal ailments before being transferred ashore.
Ashore!
Where might that be?
Patric left the dining room and obtained a copy of the GB News, an early edition, which highlighted the situation. He learned about the UKRA and the new Prime Minister and the HQ in Brussels. He also read that they were looking for police officers to assist with the recovery. Perhaps there might be work for him to do? But first of all, Joanie must recover her health and, if he recalled correctly, when his mother was struck down with pneumonia, it took six weeks before she was able to conduct anything like a normal life.
Six weeks.
Patric couldn’t wait here for that long. He'd go crazy!
Then he remembered the questionnaire he was given to complete and pulled it from the inside pocket of his tracksuit. It was fairly comprehensive, so he found a table and chair in one of the lounges, and set about completing one for himself and another for Joanie.
He recounted their story and experiences, setting out names, dates and places where he could remember them. He paid special attention to the massacre at the Brighton campsite in the hope that the authorities would extract appropriate retribution for the terrible crimes committed there. He played down his part in wounding the two gate guards.
He also described the Tesco commune, and hoped that his fellow inmates had also been rescued by now. Perhaps some were on board this ship? He'd have to keep an eye out.
When he'd completed both forms, Patric handed them into the administrative reception and decided to visit Joanie. She was still asleep and a drip was plugged into her right arm, and he was deeply shocked to see a ventilator assisting with her breathing. A doctor was in deep discussion with the grumpy Sister, making notes on Joanie’s file.
As the doctor turned his head to acknowledge Patric’s presence – their eyes met and both let out a simultaneous gasp.
‘Patric?’
‘John!’
The doctor stepped forward, Patric grasped him by the shoulders and they embraced warmly and without embarrassment.
‘John Stubbins – what the hell are you doing here? My God, I'm glad you’re safe. How are Eve and the kids? Jesus, it's good to see you!’
‘Whoa, Patric, whoa! I'm fine and so are the family – but there’ll be plenty of time for all that. We've got Joanie to deal with. When I saw her name, I made a point of making a beeline for her bedside. They told me you were on the boat somewhere.’
‘How is she, John? I'm frantic with worry. If I lost her now – after all we've been through ….I don’t know what I'd do.’
John Stubbins gave Patric a long hard look. He'd only been on the boat less than twelve hours, and was in a state of semi-shock himself.
‘I won't try to kid you, Patric. She’s a very sick woman. It's lucky you were picked up today. She wouldn't have made it otherwise. It's double pneumonia and we've got her on some very powerful intra-venous antibiotics. The good news is that she’ll probably make it – but it's going to take several weeks of rest and recuperation.’
Patric looked both disconsolate and elated.
He’d known John back in Staines. They had all been members at the same golf club, and had become acquaintances rather than close friends. He knew that John was a top surgeon who worked in one of the leading London teaching hospitals and Eve had her own dental practice. The children were at public school, and over the years, they had seen a fair bit of each other at the golf club socials and had grown to enjoy mutual interests.
Patric was relieved that Joanie would recover, but was more concerned that she may be ship-bound for several weeks, if not months. He desperately wanted to research the fate of his family in Lancashire, and he couldn’t do that marooned on a ship in the English Channel. He asked John for a more detailed prognosis.
‘How long before we can both get off this tub? Will they be able to move Joanie as she improves?’
John was circumspect.
‘It all depends on her recovery. I would say it would be at least a week before they could safely ‘casevac’ her to a hospital in Belgium or Holland. Things are pretty choked up with British casualties already. Tell you what. I'm off duty in an hour, why don’t we meet up in the medical lounge at 8pm for a longer chat – I've got my rounds to complete. Unfortunately, it's all hands to the pump on board – I'm more of a GP here than a surgeon. Apart from the odd minor amputation due to frostbite, it's chronic fatigue and malnutrition that poses the greatest challenge. And acute depression! We've had three attempted suicides today and two successful. It's not a happy place at all, and I for one will be glad to get away. Anyway, enough of my problems, I’ll see you in an hour. Cheers Patric.’
They shook hands and John moved away to the next bed as Patric walked over to Joanie and kissed her forehead. She was breathing more easily and sleeping restfully. She was in safe hands, and he was grateful that John Stubbins was watching her progress. It meant that Patric could get a good nights’ rest.
He strolled out of the ward looking casually at the other patients, who all had the look of doom in their eyes. There was not a smiling face to be seen.
He grabbed a coffee, whilst he contemplated the future. He was very pleased to read that Her Majesty was safe and that his old colleague Bob Williams had been knighted. It appeared that he'd saved the entire family single-handed. Just like Bob!
He desperately wanted to get ashore. As an ex-Superintendent with masses of experience, he was sure he could be of use. He must try to make contact with the proper authorities – maybe Bob Williams could help.
Patric was a doer, a dynamo who preferred to be pro-active. Britain needed people like him and he was determined to get heavily involved - dependent, of course, on Joanie’s health. But now that John Stubbins was directing her care, he might be able to slip ashore without worry and without too much guilt. After all, there was little that he could do on board except watch and wait.
He sauntered through to the medic’s lounge at 8pm and waited for John whilst reading a magazine. The medical staff looked weary and irritable. Then he remembered. Of course, their families were also probably trapped on the UK mainland.
John was fifteen minutes late. He apologised whilst explaining.
‘Sorry for the delay. Just after we parted, an emergency came in. A chap was flown in from the Bristol area. Apparently, they knew I was here and could probably deal with a nasty knife wound to the chest. The chap was lucky though. The
blade missed everything and had, in fact, snapped off as it hit the breastbone. There was a lot of blood but no permanent damage. I think the junior doctor on the local hospital ship panicked and sent him straight here. There's an all-round shortage of surgeons. Apparently, this chap lay in the snow outside his flat for two hours before a chopper picked him up. It was only the freezing cold that slowed down his metabolism, which in turn, prevented him from bleeding out. Fortunately, some kind soul had placed a coat over his chest which acted as a dressing. A lucky chap, this Mr Wester.’
Patric sat impassively listening to John’s tale.
‘I’ve seen a fair bit of violence over the past three weeks myself, John. I could write a book. In fact, I think I will. I’ll call it SNOW! and make a mint.’
John laughed.
‘Yep, you’ve got to keep a sense of humour.’
He related the story of his family holiday in Cyprus, and the subsequent frustrating and exhausting return to Europe. He'd been Shanghaied into doing this job, and Eve was in Holland performing dental duties. However, he imagined, correctly, that he was far better off than most. When he heard some of Patric’s account he gasped.
‘My God, Patric – they were actually going to hang you? And they murdered all of those innocents in Brighton? Dear God! What has happened to our countrymen? In so short a time that it should come to this. It's not surprising that these people all resemble zombies.’
‘I agree John, some terrible things have happened, but there must be some fantastic survival stories. People who made it out of the country like us. I suppose the authorities – this UKRA – are collating all of the information gleaned from survivor’s accounts and attempting to make some sense of it all.’
John was less confident.
‘I'm not so sure. It's very early days – only a week since it stopped bloody snowing and now it's raining. I've heard rumours of terrible flooding. I think that the UKRA is up against it. By the way, did you know, the new PM elected in December topped himself. Couldn’t hack it after his family went. I suppose the weight of responsibility and guilt got to him as well.’
Snow! The Series [Books 1-4] Page 81
