The Seahawk assumed a hover around five hundred feet north of the Needles, watching the slow progress of the container ships as they corrected their course and speed, adopting the required angle of attack to clear the rocks and enter the shipping lane. The light was just beginning to fade. It was a beautiful evening full of hope and expectation. Force four or five winds, waves breaking against the rocks below, scattered white horses as far as the eye could see. Zed half expected the colonel to produce a hip flask to toast the moment. The sun was well and truly ‘over the yard arm’, as he might say.
The convoy slowed to perhaps twelve knots. The Mimosa kept her distance, rounding the Needles on her starboard bow, sweeping around the Cardinal buoy that marked the deep water channel.
Out of nowhere, a missile streaked across the bay from High Down, slamming into the side of the first container ship, sending a tremendous explosion echoing around the bay. The Seahawk banked hard left propelling Zed against the bulkhead. By the time he gathered himself and peered out the sliding door, a dense column of smoke and flame rose hundreds of feet into the air. Peterson stared in disbelief at a twenty-feet wide hole just above the waterline where tangled metalwork and blackened cladding were exposed. A torrent of seawater now cascaded inside. The co-pilot was pointing at something in the rock face just below the old rocket testing station, the suspected origin of the missile.
The crewman yanked the cover off the Seahawk’s multi-barrelled Gatling gun, swung into a fixed firing position in the middle of the doorway. Peterson directed the gunner towards the target half-way up the cliff face. Zed could see several figures inside hurrying to reload and fire again.
The helicopter was still a good quarter mile away as the machine gun opened up, raking the fortified position, sending splintered rock raining down on to the beach below. Temporarily, at least, their target disappeared in a shroud of white dust as the rotating barrel span noisily, spitting fire.
Behind them, came the boom of the Chester’s five-inch cannon firing, sending two smoke rounds into the buildings above them, perhaps hoping to restrict the gunners’ field of fire, but the wind buffeting the headland blew much of it away. The Chester had no angle of fire, manoeuvring clear of the second container ship. The five-hundred-foot warship achieved full power, her huge twin-screws churning up the water, her angled bow slicing through the waves as it raced to put itself between danger and the convoy. Another fortified position below them revealed itself as a heavy machine gun began raking the second container ship.
“Missile lock,” shouted the Seahawk’s co-pilot as an alarm sounded in the cockpit, moments before a missile launched from a man-made fissure in the rock arrowed towards them at point blank range. The pilot reacted instinctively, banking steeply, diving down towards the waves, as chaff spat from its underbelly. Zed held his breath wide-eyed as they squeezed between the Needles Rocks at incredible speed. The projectile slammed into the chalk, detonating in their wake, reverberating through the fuselage. Undeterred, the pilot swept round back, passing low and fast over the convoy.
The second container ship continued its approach, waiting its turn to enter the narrow channel, while the warships laid down fire on the Battery, attempting to neutralise the threat. Another missile found its mark, piercing the hull of the UN flagged vessel amidships. Her superstructure was peppered by sustained fire from the heavy machine gun, shattering the glass in her bridge, sending the crew diving for cover.
“They’re sitting ducks,” shouted Peterson, directing the pilot’s attention towards what looked to Zed like the long barrel of a howitzer on wheels now protruding from the cliff-face, behind reinforced concrete, seemingly impervious to the Chester’s five inch cannon from below. “Lay down fire on the heavy weapon,” he ordered. The howitzer recoiled again as a high explosive round found its mark on the Chester’s foredeck temporarily silencing its cannon. They had moments before Flynn’s men fired again.
The Seahawk’s Gatling gun joined the barrage, raining hundreds of casings into the sea below, targeting the howitzer, impacting against the concrete and stone. Around Zed’s feet, dozens of the red-hot casings fell inwards, careering across the gunmetal floor of the helicopter.
The Mimosa cleared the Needles. Her front-mounted cannon came within range of the north-facing cliff, indiscriminately pounding the positions beneath the Battery, targeting the first ship which was beginning to list. She appeared to be taking on water, her forward momentum slowing as she limped through the channel past Alum Bay, her propellors thrashing in her wake, struggling to safety beyond the range of Flynn’s men firing at her stern. The Mimosa’s machine gun located amidships joined in the noisy exchange. A massive rockfall tumbled hundreds of feet on to the beach below, splashing in the water. The Chester’s cannon resumed firing, pounding Highdown and the Needles Battery in a lethal crossfire with the Mimosa.
Zed surveyed the damage through the sliding door as the helicopter banked around. Several of the firing positions had fallen silent. Their collective fire more sporadic now. The Seahawk’s radio crackled into life, receiving reports from each ship. The huge container vessel’s condition critical, her list deteriorating, pumps and hoses sprayed hundreds of gallons of water over the side, fighting to keep her afloat long enough to make port and avoid joining the Maersk Charlotte as another casualty of war. A dull shadow in the deeper water of the channel drew Zed’s attention, a metallic reflection catching the sunlight, like a huge shoal of fish and then it was gone again. He wondered whether his eyes were playing tricks on him or whether he had just glimpsed the Triomphe, the submarine that had delivered LaSalle to the ill-fated meeting on the Charlotte and the colonel to Gosport before that.
Zed heard the sergeant’s voice over the radio. The firefight at the Battery was over. Flynn’s men were in full retreat. Yet there was still no sign of Donnelly.
Chapter 58
When the bombardment began, Riley and Sergeant Jones were already deep within the tunnel complex, their progress hindered by an armour-plated iron door sealed from the inside. Rodriguez ran back to retrieve the remaining C4 charges. He fashioned a crude U-shape of plastic explosive around the lock and hinges top and bottom.
“Did you get any response from Miller and Pavletich? On the beach?” asked Sergeant Jones, watching Rodriguez work.
“Not yet, sir,” he replied, “but I got a great view of the convoy.”
“Carter, you know the Battery like the back of your hand. Where would you position jamming equipment?” asked Jones.
“Either on the coastguard hut, or maybe the cottages. I could go check.”
Sustained fire from a heavy machine gun reverberated throughout the passageways and chambers underneath the Battery, deafening in these enclosed spaces. The whole complex was shaken by the impact of what they assumed was the Chester’s five-inch cannon blasting the cliff face. The impacts shook the rock beneath their feet. Jones ushered Riley back behind the buttress and gestured for her to cover her ears.
“Fire in the hole,” shouted Rodriguez as he remotely detonated the charges.
Riley felt momentarily disoriented, nauseous from the blast wave, her ears endlessly ringing. Charred particles of timber and cardboard filled the air like confetti, together with the acrid stench of cordite. As the dust cleared, Jones’s men charged into the darkness, their torches dancing along the tunnel walls as they advanced towards a T-junction. Rodriguez scouted ahead, checking for hidden tripwires and booby traps.
Jones, Riley and Carter took the left fork, while Rodriguez and Barnes went right, heading deeper underground. She heard an American voice shout a warning. Flashes lit up the tunnel, the explosion of a stun grenade, staccato gunfire, then silence. Riley stayed tight behind Carter, listening to the scuffed footsteps heading away from them, the heart-wrenching sound of a wounded soldier left behind, calling for a medic.
At first, what appeared as a dead end, turned out to be a sharp turn right. Two wooden-framed doorways were carved into grooves in the rock. Ca
rter caught his breath, directing Jones left towards a narrow chamber, bright light streaming through a tiny rectangular slit, just large enough for a defender to cover the beach below. Shell casings littered the floor. Jones kicked open an ammunition box, storage crates piled high, filled with ration packs, spare clothes and a sleeping bag.
Further down the tunnel, they discovered part of the wall had collapsed, loose rocks and debris strewn on the ground. Riley could hear voices again, drowned out by intermittent machine gun fire. A huge explosion showered them in dust. Riley closed her eyes, blinking away gritty tears, dirt in her mouth.
The three of them retraced their steps, drawn by the hum of a generator. Jones killed the torch as they stumbled into a brick-lined chamber lit by electric light. He pressed a finger to his lips, shepherding Riley behind some boxes. Approaching voices, hurried footsteps. Carter took up a kneeling position in the recess on the other side of the chamber, side arm raised, ready to fire, mirroring Jones.
In that pregnant pause waiting for Flynn’s men, Riley appreciated the two men’s shared professionalism, honed by thousands of hours on rifle ranges and assault courses, classrooms and gyms, achieving a level of mastery of which they were both fiercely proud.
“Lay down your weapon,” Carter called out from cover. His challenge was answered by a semi-automatic weapon firing wildly at the wall above his head. Jones raised his M27 assault rifle and calmly put two rounds into the man’s chest. Carter nodded in gratitude, emerging from cover, stepping over the assailant’s body towards the next chamber where they could see another squad member, mufflers over ears, braced against the stock of a GPMG, firing at targets in the distance, seemingly oblivious to their presence.
Carter crept up behind the gunner, tapped him on the shoulder. He spun round in irritation before meekly surrendering. Jones used cable ties to secure hands and feet. Riley peered through the rectangular viewing window down at the beach, some ten metres below. A French-flagged warship was pounding the cliff above them, rock fragments raining down. To the right, beyond Alum Bay, she stared wide-eyed at the smoke pouring from a damaged container ship, two gaping holes in its starboard side.
Jones nudged her aside and saw for himself the impact Flynn’s men were having on the convoy. With renewed urgency, the three of them raced back up the passageway, searching out the source of the gunfire they could still hear. Electrical cables and pipework ran the length of the ceiling in this section, growing lighter ahead. Riley could hear running water and the hum of a second generator. They arrived unexpectedly at a central chamber complete with overhead lighting and white-washed walls. A lift shaft above their heads disappeared into the darkness, equipped with a winch system, pulleys and hoists. Dozens of crates lowered down from the surface were stacked against a wall. Carter checked inside two open containers, packed with laboratory equipment and glassware protected by bubble-wrap.
They retraced their steps, climbing the steep gradient towards the surface, stopping regularly to listen for movement. Jones raised his fist and the three of them sank to their knees. Riley pressed herself against the wall, copying Carter.
“Dolphin,” shouted Jones seeing torchlight coming towards them. ‘Shark’ came the response from Rodriguez. The three Americans greeted each other with a mixture of relief and adrenaline fuelled excitement, exchanging details of their respective skirmishes with Flynn’s inexperienced recruits. Riley noticed McIntyre cradling his arm, bicep pulsing with blood. Despite his attempted protest, she made him rest against the wall as she applied pressure to the wound, securing a gauze pad handed to her from Rodriguez’s webbing. The injured marine boasted through gritted teeth how he disabled two guys equipped with a Javelin shoulder-launched missile.
“We’re not done yet,” warned Rodriguez. “The soldier we interrogated said there are two more squads up at High Down.”
“The old rocket testing station,” explained Carter. McIntyre stared at him as if he was speaking a foreign language. “Flynn ordered them to sink any ship attempting to enter the Solent. Claims they’re loaded with infected refugees.”
“Did he say anything about Major Donnelly?” asked Jones.
“No, but he said something about an officer from St Mary’s delivering a crate earlier today,” continued Rodriguez.
Sergeant Jones exchanged a knowing glance with Riley. “Why would he come here? It’s a dead end. There’s nowhere to go. The only way out is back down this road.”
“Then he must still be here,” agreed Riley. “We’ve got to find him.”
“First we need to silence that damn howitzer,” insisted Jones, angling his head towards the sound of it firing again. “How do we get there?”
“There’s an old searchlight room, it must be there. There’s a tunnel that runs under the parade ground. I’ll show you.”
They jogged back up the incline, stepping over the twisted metal of the iron door, blown from its hinges. Thick blue smoke drifted down the tunnel, obscuring their view. At first Riley wasn’t sure where it was coming from, until Jones explained it was a smoke round from the Chester. Before they could get their bearings automatic fire raked the tunnel entrance. Rodriguez went down, clutching his thigh.
The remaining group took cover behind a low brick wall, pinned down by a shooter high above them in a sandbagged position on the headland, covering the parade ground and roadway. Jones stayed low, moving left, trying to flank the position. Riley tended to Rodriguez’s leg, cutting open his trousers to reveal a pulsing wound where the bullet had lodged. She applied a tourniquet to staunch the bleeding, ignoring Rodriguez’s pain, tearing open a waterproof pouch to wrap a dressing tight around his thigh. She sat back, pleased with her handiwork, before plunging a phial of morphine into his leg.
The automatic fire from above them stopped abruptly. A few seconds later, Jones called the group forward. The Chester’s Seahawk helicopter roared overhead, its minigun raining fire on the positions below. A deafening boom made them all duck as a corresponding impact and plume of smoke rose from the cliff face. The howitzer fired again in response.
“We need to get word to the Chester. Get them to stop firing so we can tackle that heavy weapon,” warned Jones. Carter set off towards the coastguard hut, mumbling something about disabling the jamming equipment. He emerged a few minutes later with his thumb raised. “Try now.”
“Chester, this is Bravo Team. Requesting laying down fire on grid reference Alpha-Delta-75. We are at the Old Battery, above the Needles Rocks, ready to advance on enemy position firing on you. Repeat: redirect fire to grid reference Alpha-Delta-75.”
“Copy that, Bravo Team. You are clear to proceed.”
Rounds from the Chester’s five-inch began falling two hundred metres to their left on the old rocket testing gantries at High Down.
“Okay. Let’s go, Carter. Lead the way,” shouted Jones, encouraging his remaining squad forward.
They located the tunnel entrance leading to the old searchlight gallery overlooking the Needles, reloading weapons and readying themselves for the final push. Carter paused at the turn, glancing round the corner. Three of Flynn’s men were reloading the artillery piece, shells stacked against the wall. Carter silently counted to three and the three of them advanced shouting warnings at the crew to lay down their weapons. Riley covered them as Jones searched and disarmed Flynn’s men, making them kneel on the ground.
“Chester, Bravo Team. Heavy weapon neutralised. I repeat, heavy weapon neutralised.”
With some trepidation, Riley peered over the low reinforced concrete and brick wall protecting the howitzer from incoming fire, well designed so that only the barrel of the weapon protruded.
“Would have taken a direct hit to knock this out,” explained Carter, scratching his head. He leaned out over the wall, squinting up at the cliff, as if running mental calculations, gauging the thickness of the brick and reinforced concrete. “They must have lowered it down and rebuilt this entire section.”
By the time they retu
rned to the parade ground, Flynn’s men were in full retreat, holed up in High Down or escaping across the headland towards Freshwater. A gaggle of white-coated scientists stumbled out of their bunker, squinting at the convoy in the distance, bemused by what was going on. On learning the truth that they were firing on UN ships carrying vaccine, half a dozen soldiers had given themselves up, facing the wall on their knees, hands behind their heads. Perhaps for the first time, Riley realised how young most of the defenders appeared. Barely old enough to shave: rosy cheeks and crew cuts.
“No sign of Donnelly,” admitted Carter, running back from High Down.
“Rodriguez, see if you can’t get hold of Pavletich.”
Riley absent-mindedly listened in to their conversation, tending to the wounded. Pavletich had disabled one of the firing positions overlooking Alum Bay but had been unable to gain access to the tunnel complex, forced to take shelter from the incoming fire from the convoy.
“Sir,” interrupted Rodriguez, “We have a possible sighting. Two men have escaped in a boat further down the beach. There they are,” he shouted excitedly, pointing at an area behind the cliff to their right, where a tiny rowing boat was making for the lighthouse, staying close to the rocks. Peterson looked back towards the Chester, following the container ships, passing Lymington and Yarmouth as they limped towards port. The Seahawk patrolled the bay in their wake, scanning for further danger.
“Chester, this is Bravo team. We’re going to need the RIB to get us out to the lighthouse.”
“Copy that. They’ll meet you on the beach at Alum Bay as soon as you can get there.”
“Wait, there’s a quicker way,” explained Carter. “Follow me.”
Back in the tunnels, Riley struggled to keep up with Carter, deeper and deeper into the underground fortress. The tunnel ceiling leading to the beach had partially collapsed. They wasted precious time moving aside some of the larger rocks to squeeze through a narrow gap. So close to sea level, it was musty and damp here, water trickling from every crevice, pooling in puddles and rivulets making the rock slippery under foot. They emerged squinting into the evening light, the Chester’s inflatable standing by in the shallows. Jones waded out, helping the others clamber aboard. The helmsman reversed out, powering round to take them the few hundred metres to the Needles lighthouse.
The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger Page 44
