The Hurst Chronicles (Book 2): Sentinel

by Robin Crumby

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  Disclaimer

  Sentinel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  © Robin Crumby 2017

  Sentinel

  by Robin Crumby

  “For when I bring them into the land flowing with milk and honey, which I swore to their fathers, and they have eaten and are satisfied and become prosperous, then they will turn to other gods and serve them, and spurn Me and break My covenant.”

  Deuteronomy 31:20

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER ONE

  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 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,” laughed Jack. “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,” shrugged Scottie. “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 fondly back 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 sc
rambled 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 out and intercept.”

  “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 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 eastward 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. He had both arms wrapped around the receptacle, 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 pitch and roll 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 crew members, 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.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jack navigated the Nipper around to the port side and remained on standby at a safe distance. Coming out of the wind shadow, they again faced the full force of the wind and waves and he wrestled with the wheel to keep the boat’s bow nose on to the weather.

  “Chester, this is the Nipper again. We’ve located the tanker the Santana. She’s listing approximately ten degrees and has taken on a lot of water in the bow. The stern is still riding high but she appears deserted. No lights or any sign of power at the current time. They’re unresponsive to all attempts to contact. What a
re your instructions?”

  “Copy that, Nipper. Standby.”

  There was static on the airwaves as the message was relayed to command and a discussion ensued off-air before the radio operator came back on.

  “Our logs show that the Santana is listed as a coastal tanker, registered out of Panama, last known to be operating from Kuwait to France and Belgium. She’s 515 feet in length and normally has a crew of fourteen. Can you confirm whether she is laden or unladen?”

  Jack glanced at Sam and Flynn. Judging by how low she was in the water, their best guess was that she was carrying a cargo.

  “We’re not one hundred per cent sure, but we think she’s fully laden. But it could just be that she’s waterlogged.”

  There was static again as they waited for a decision. The Nipper was too small to tow her to safety and attempting to board her in this weather would be lunacy. Their best option would be to wait out the storm and get a tug boat out the next morning in calmer weather.

  “Your orders are to board her, mount a salvage operation. Restart her engines. As soon as the weather clears we can get a tug out to you to tow her into port.”

  Jack grimaced at Flynn. He didn’t like it, but they didn’t have a choice. A cargo of oil was priceless and certainly worth the risk, but boarding a ship in weather like this was no small feat. It would require all his skills to even get them close. The rest was up to the marines. He just hoped they had trained for this. The last thing he wanted was to lose someone overboard. It would be a death sentence. There would be little chance of rescue.

  He knew Lieutenant Peterson would have considered the risks carefully. For such a prize, the marines’ lives were expendable. Unfortunately, that also meant Sam and Jack were in danger too. He looked across at Sam as he was preparing the safety lines, helping the marines organise themselves. He could tell from the deep breaths and frozen expression that he was terrified, but was hiding it well from the others.