The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger

by Crumby, Robin

“Look, it’s probably nothing,” she hesitated, already regretting her impulsiveness. “Only, the commander there, Corporal Carter, told me a construction crew had been working up at The Battery for several weeks. Diggers and tunnelling equipment.”

  “What makes you think Donnelly would go there?”

  “Carter said the orders came direct from Major Donnelly. Don’t you think that’s suspicious?”

  “We’re wasting time here,” complained LaSalle. “He’ll head north to Porton.”

  “What if Donnelly set up a lab there? Stuff he didn’t want us to find? The Battery has dozens of old tunnels and bunkers.”

  “Seems an odd move. He’d be trapped there,” said the colonel, puzzled.

  “What if there’s another reason he needs men at the Battery?” suggested Zed. “Maybe he’s covering his options? Needles Battery lies directly in the path of the convoy.”

  “Who did you say was in command?” asked the colonel.

  “Corporal Carter. He’s a good man. I can vouch for him,” reassured Riley.

  “Very well,” said the colonel. “Go with Sergeant Jones’s team. Liaise with Carter, secure the Battery. Let’s find out what the Major’s been up to. We can’t risk anyone getting trigger happy when they see the convoy.”

  “What about Doctor Hardy? He’s a key witness now.”

  “He’s working in Ventnor with Doctor Wu.”

  “Then I suggest we summon him here, as soon as possible.”

  Chapter 55

  Sergeant Jones’s eight-man team was ready to leave in less than twenty minutes. A camouflaged Land Rover Defender waited for them by the main gate. Jones directed Riley to the boxy armoured personnel carrier he referred to as the ‘Foxhound’. On the step at its rear door she experienced a powerful sense of déjà vu, remembering the last time she was inside one of these tin cans.

  The driver took a long draw on his cigarette, head tilted at Riley’s hesitation. “You been in one of these before, love?”

  “One like it.”

  “Probably the Mastiff,” suggested the British driver. “She might not look much, but she’ll get you where you’re going.” He patted the steel armour of the Foxhound’s protective pod with affection and pride. Inside there were few creature comforts, room enough for six passengers and boxes of equipment.

  Riley lingered by the back door, unconvinced. “Last time we hit a roadside IED.”

  “I remember. South of Salisbury?” he responded bitterly, stubbing out the cigarette with an army boot. “Two of my squad died in that ambush. Still. No chance of rebel activity today. Not on this side of the Solent.”

  “You seem very sure?” said Riley, unconvinced by his overconfidence.

  “Not since we rounded them up and shot ‘em.” She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “Anyway, all the roads between here and Yarmouth are patrolled day and night. Jump in, there’s coffee and biscuits in the back.” He winked.

  They took the most direct route, passing Parkhurst Forest, field after field ploughed ready for planting, an army of filthy labourers hard at work in the mud. After several days of rain, the countryside never looked greener, Mother Nature in full bloom. Waterlogged fields, ditches full to overflowing, giant puddles submerging pavements and car parks.

  The waterside checkpoint in Yarmouth was cursory, the sentries disinterested, glancing at their paperwork before allowing the convoy through. The town seemed much changed since Riley’s last visit. A lawless uprising had left the roofs of a dozen buildings burned-out, their rotting timbers exposed to the elements, awaiting demolition. The company of soldiers sent to deal with the rebels were said to have rounded up those responsible and shot them, though that was likely just another rumour. Captain Armstrong had a reputation for dealing very severely with any civil disobedience, setting an example to deter others on the island who protested against the night time curfews, the relentless influx of refugees from the mainland and the forced labour programmes.

  Crawling through Norton Green, Colwell Bay and Totland, Riley strained against her seatbelt to glimpse Hurst Castle through the trees. It was only when they reached the clifftop road that ran alongside Alum Bay out towards the western tip of the island that she was allowed an uninterrupted view north over the Needles Passage towards Keyhaven and Milford-on-Sea less than a couple of miles away. Wind against tide had turned this narrow stretch of water into a confused patchwork of breaking waves and swirling currents.

  In some respects, the Old Battery reminded her of Hurst Castle. Isolated, windswept, a relic of another time. Built into the cliff face to defend the Solent against invasion by the French, the Victorian fort was certainly nothing much to look at, expanded and modernised in response to each successive threat of war. Her concrete bunkers and gun emplacements, capable of withstanding aerial and naval bombardment, fared little better than the many other fortified positions throughout the island, left to rust and decay. The High Down rocket station remained a Cold War curiosity from the Fifties, where Scottie said they secretly tested ballistic missiles away from the prying eyes of civilians on the mainland. The concrete bunkers, gantries and storage further extended the Battery to cover several acres above and below ground.

  Riley smiled at the memory of lengthy winter walks along the clifftop path from Freshwater out towards Tennyson Down and the Needles to visit Corporal Carter. On a clear day, the views across Christchurch Bay to Hengistbury Head and Studland were always worth the walk.

  The convoy pulled up beside the deserted barricaded entrance to the first of the gun positions covering the Needles Passage. Huge mounds of freshly dug earth, strewn with rubble, a JCB digger perched on top, surrounded by assorted earthmoving equipment. There was no welcoming committee. Carter and the others were nowhere to be seen.

  Sergeant Jones’s men fanned out to search the area, returning a few minutes later to report what they found. The security gate to the Old Battery was unlocked. No lookout in the coastguard observation point. Lengths of rope, steel cables and rusting machinery sat ready for disposal. Boxes of surplus electrical items caught Jones’s eye, stacked inside the entrance to the bunker. He inspected a broken light fitting, turning it over before showing it to his colleague.

  “What are they?” asked Riley.

  “They use these as temporary tunnel lights.” He picked up some other items lying discarded. “This is a winch spare. And this,” he said, poking inside a cardboard box with a gloved hand at smashed glassware, “looks like clinical waste. How extensive did you say these tunnels are?”

  “Carter showed me around one time. Most of the complex is disused, some tunnels are derelict, impassable. No-one’s been down there much since the war.” She picked up the winch spare. “There’s a lift shaft that runs all the way down to the beach.”

  They all turned at the sound of echoing laughter from the tunnel entrance. Jones’s men took cover, ushering Riley back against the wall, out of sight. Two British soldiers stumbled out of the darkness, oblivious to their presence. The taller of the two chewed on a hunk of bread, unshaven, shirt open to the waist. The pair stopped in their tracks, smiles evaporating as the Americans encircled them.

  “Search them,” ordered Jones. One of the Chester’s marines patted the British men down, confirming neither was armed. Riley didn’t recognise either man. New additions, perhaps, to Carter’s squad. “Names?” demanded Jones.

  Their eyes flicked from the Foxhound to the stripes on the sergeant’s arm, confused by the American uniforms.

  “Lance Corporal Smythe and Private Wallace.”

  “Where’s your commanding officer?”

  “Sergeant Flynn?”

  Riley felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. “Where’s Carter?”

  “He rotated out about a week ago.” There was something odd about the way his eyes kept flicking over her shoulder as if searching for something. Propped against the wall, just inside the entrance she spotted a rifle.

  “He’s lying,” whispered R
iley, leaning in close to Jones. “Carter would have told me. He wasn’t due to leave until next week.”

  “These things happen. Maybe it was all last minute,” suggested Jones.

  Smythe anticipated her question. “They were sent to the refinery at Fawley, I think. It’s where we were before all this.” Smythe reached for the walkie talkie on his belt, but Jones stayed his hand, snatching the radio from his grasp. “If it’s alright with you, we’ll have a look around ourselves. How many of you are there?”

  “Two squads plus a dozen scientists,” blurted the lance corporal without thinking. Jones nodded, giving nothing away.

  “Has Major Donnelly been here?”

  “I’m not sure. There were a couple of high-ups. People come and go all the time.”

  One of Jones’s men whistled through his teeth, pointing to some dried blood by the bunker entrance. Sergeant Jones grabbed the lance corporal by the lapels and forced him back against the wall. “What’s that then? Last night’s dinner?” demanded Jones.

  “Sarge,” shouted Jones’s number two, Corporal Pavletich. “We should call this in. For all we know, there could be hundreds of them.”

  “Why here, Riley?” asked Jones. “There’s no way out, right? Except back along this road?”

  “No, Carter said that the lower tunnels take you onto the beach,” explained Riley. “If you go back up this road there’s a path that takes you down,” she said, pointing back along the clifftop towards Alum Bay.

  “Pavletich, take Miller. Call us when you get there.”

  “Sarge,” interrupted Private Rodriguez, jogging back, breathing heavily. Blonde haired, blue-eyed, a corn-fed linebacker, always chewing. “It’s like Fort Knox down there. They knew we were coming. Locked down tight.”

  “Grab the C4 in the back of the APC,” instructed Jones. Rodriguez’s face brightened.

  “You’re going to blast your way in?” asked Riley, incredulous at the thought of destroying a historic National Trust site.

  “Unless you have a better idea.”

  “Try knocking?”

  “Very funny. Go on, Rodriguez. Tell the lady your claim to fame.”

  Rodriguez puffed out his chest, “I was part of the special forces team that searched the cave fortress at Tora Bora looking for bin Laden. We missed him by a few days. I was this close to being famous.” Rodriguez shrugged his shoulders and went to find the explosive charges in the back of the Foxhound.

  “I thought you boys were Navy? Tora Bora sounds a long way from the ocean.”

  “Rodriguez did a little spelunking in his spare time.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, exploring caves. That’s why he got the call. Once upon a time, Steve was one of the best, or so they say.”

  “We call it potholing in this country,” corrected Riley. “It’s my idea of hell. I get claustrophobic at the best of times.”

  “What makes you think you’re coming?” countered Jones with a straight face.

  “Because I’m the only one who’s been down there. You need me.”

  Jones shrugged. “I guess. You got us into this. What’s your take? What are they up to?”

  “Like the Colonel said. They knew the UN would demand access to Porton Down. Maybe this is where they hid the stuff they didn’t want anyone to find.”

  “Peterson said the priority is securing the Battery before the convoy arrives.” He adjusted the bezel on his diver’s watch. “That doesn’t give us too much time. Did Carter ever talk about weapons? Just curious what kind of firepower they have here.”

  “I remember a couple of tripod-mounted machine guns and one of those shoulder-launched missile things. Shouldn’t we wait for back up before trying to blast our way in?”

  Jones raised a quizzical eyebrow. “There’s no time, but we’ll try knocking first if it makes you happy.” He winked.

  Sergeant Jones set up two-man teams to search the rest of the Battery, trying to find a way in. Riley stayed with Jones, following him up the path towards the coastguard cottages set on the highest point overlooking Alum Bay. Outside the first house, Jones unholstered his Glock pistol and offered it to Riley.

  “Used one of these before?”

  Riley took the weapon, her head cocked to one side. “Please.” She checked whether a round was chambered, safety on and tucked it into her belt. “After you, Sergeant.”

  The door to the first cottage was open. “Stay tight behind me.” She nodded, as he swept each room. Signs of recent occupation. A full ash tray. Empty coffee cup. Book left open on the kitchen table. Half-finished paperwork. Upstairs two bedrooms, beds unmade, recently slept in. The grey pillows stained. The windows of the next two properties were boarded-up, front doors padlocked, but through the slats Riley could make out equipment and dry food stores piled high against the wall.

  “Let’s try those bunkers,” said Jones, pointing towards the cliff top gun emplacements. There was a burst of static on the walkie talkie and McIntyre’s whispered voice. “Sarge, we’re at the Signal Station at the Old Battery. Two men, maybe more, inside.”

  “Hold your position. We’ll be right there.”

  They double-timed it over to the covered entrance to the Battery across the parade ground past a pair of enormous nine-inch ship’s cannons to find McIntyre and another marine crouched underneath the window to the brick-built building overlooking the Needles Rocks and red and white lighthouse.

  On the count of three, Jones’s team surged inside, forcing the stunned men onto their knees, securing their hands with plastic ties before hauling them back to their feet. At the sound of footsteps, there came a muffled cry from upstairs. McIntrye took the stairs two at a time, weapon drawn.

  “Sarge,” shouted McIntyre, an urgency to his voice.

  Riley followed Jones up the dusty steps. Slumped against the wall they discovered a hooded figure, bound and gagged. Under the hood, a relieved Corporal Carter squinted back at them, his face bruised and swollen. Riley removed the gag and fed him a drink from the flask she carried. McIntyre produced a pocket knife and cut the ties securing his hands.

  “Carter. Who did this to you?”

  “It was Flynn,” he gasped, his voice cracking, waiting for another sip of water.

  “Where are the others?”

  “Sent to Ventnor last week. A construction team showed up here out of the blue a couple of weeks ago with orders to clean up the place. They said it was to be used for secure storage. Kept me here to orient them around the site.”

  “But why?”

  “They wouldn’t say. Just started digging, blasting rock, truckloads of stuff being delivered. When I asked too many questions, Flynn had me arrested. I’ve been locked up in here ever since.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Disobeying a direct order.” He shook his head, furious at the ignominy. “It’s ridiculous.” He stared at the American uniforms. “Why are you lot here?”

  “It’s a long story. Our orders are to secure this site. There’s a UN convoy arriving here in a little while.”

  “How many of you?”

  “Only squad, but some of them are ex-special forces. They’re good. I need to know what we’re dealing with.”

  Carter raised his eyebrows, letting out a deep sigh. “I’m warning you, it’s a fortress down there. They’ve been pouring concrete for days.”

  “Weapons?”

  “I can’t vouch for Flynn but my team had a Javelin and one of the new Martlets. Shoulder-launched. Three kilogramme warhead, five mile range.”

  The colour seemed to drain from Sergeant Jones’s face. “Great. Anything else?”

  “Yeah, M2 Browning - fifty calibre, and a couple of GPMGs.”

  He looked across the bay, estimating range and distance. “We need to get word to the Chester, right now. The convoy will be sitting ducks.”

  “There’s one more thing. Flynn brought a truckload of communication equipment.”

  “I noticed, sir,” conf
irmed McIntyre. “They’re jamming us. There’s no way of getting a signal out from here.”

  “Take the Land Rover. Keep driving until you get a signal. We need to get word to the convoy. Before it’s too late. Carter, me and you need to find that jammer, right now.”

  Chapter 56

  Later that afternoon Doctor Hardy returned from Ventnor by helicopter. One of Armstrong’s staff ushered him into the packed conference suite at St. Mary’s to answer the list of questions prepared by the United Nations investigators keen to understand more about the focus of his research in Ventnor. Hardy glanced at Zed, curious to learn how much had already been shared, obviously puzzled by Zed’s attendance after the stories of his arrest. The Porton Down senior scientist appeared nerveless in the initial exchanges. If he had doubts about the morality or medical ethics of the human genetics he was undertaking, they were well hidden.

  “I suggest you spare us the hype and stick to the facts,” cautioned LaSalle, frustrated by Hardy’s insistence on referring to genetic engineering as synthetic biology.

  “The ability to modify not just individual genes but the behaviours of entire organisms. Theoretically at least,” explained Hardy. “Doctor Wu’s team is designing vaccines from scratch to harness the body’s own natural defences that recognise and defeat disease. Mister Samuels here has seen for himself how far we’ve come. Early indications suggest our latest newborns, twins I might add, have innate immunity to MV-27.”

  “But for how long, Doctor?” challenged the professor. “You have no idea how the children will cope with new strains of the virus.”

  “You’re suggesting immunity may be temporary?” asked the colonel.

  “Gentlemen, and Ladies,” he added, acknowledging Miss Stephens’s presence, “viruses are constantly evolving, exchanging genetic material with other viruses, probing our defences, trying to find a weak spot. A vaccine alone won’t be enough to protect us. Why should humans be the only species to avoid extinction? If we fail to adapt, to take tough decisions, our species will die out.”