Wildfire: A Post-Apocalyptic Pandemic Survival Thriller (The Hurst Chronicles Book 3)

by Robin Crumby

  “Start by asking him why the Americans wanted them all dead.”

  The tanker skipper looked terrified, his face smeared with dried blood. The translator spoke quickly, using words that were half-familiar to Terra, reassuring him that he would not be harmed if he cooperated. The skipper raised his hand to protect his face, cowering as if he expected to be struck at any moment.

  “He says his name is Jorge Sanchez. He’s the First Officer, from Puerto Cabello in Venezuela. The rest of the crew are from Chile or Argentina. Those two in the corner are Filipino.”

  “Ask him why they were in the English Channel,” continued Victor, waiting impatiently for the translator to relay the question.

  “He says the Santana was carrying refined petroleum from Kuwait City to the Rozenburg Refinery near Rotterdam in Holland. When they heard how fast the enfermedad was spreading in Europe, they decided to anchor off La Coruña and wait for further instructions.”

  As the Puerto Capello man finished each sentence, his words were translated into passable English.

  “They tried to reach the company for several days. They left messages but got nothing back. In the end, they decided to continue on their journey to Rotterdam.”

  “So what happened? Why are they here?”

  “He says they were chased by pirates off the French coast, near Roscoff. The Santana couldn’t outrun them, so he did what they were trained to do. He cut his engines and disabled all power. They hid in the compartment behind the engines, but the pirates found them and locked them up. When they couldn’t get the engines restarted, they must have abandoned them. He says they drifted for days until a fisherman called Jack set them free.”

  “Did he say Jack?” interrupted Terra, hardly believing her ears. “Jack saved these men?” she repeated in astonishment, watching the skipper’s face.

  “That’s what he said. Jack and some soldiers from a castillo.”

  “So why did the Americans have them in custody?” pressed Victor.

  The translator relayed the question, and the skipper seemed on edge, shaking his head, repeating that he didn’t know. Victor loomed over him, his fists clenched. The threat of further violence seemed to loosen the skipper’s tongue.

  “He’s worried we’re working with the Americans, says they intercepted his ship weeks before in the Bay of Biscay, just west of La Rochelle. They boarded the Santana at gunpoint, seized some of their food and syphoned off most of the marine diesel. They interrogated each of them for hours, trying to find out what they knew about the enfermedad.”

  “The virus? What about it?”

  “The same questions over and over again. About other groups, other countries, where there were survivors. They seemed particularly interested in islands. Majorca, Minorca, Greek Islands, the Channel Islands, Sardinia, Corsica.”

  “Why islands?”

  “He doesn’t know. He thinks they were looking for a place to land.”

  “What about the rest of Europe?”

  “They had intermittent radio contact with different groups all along the coast. North-western Spain, around Bordeaux and Brittany. He says there was a large group of British survivors in Cornwall.”

  “Ask him about the virus.”

  There was a brief exchange as the translator clarified the phrase he had used.

  “He calls it the ‘English Flu’. He says very few have survived.”

  “He means the Millennial Virus?”

  “No, he said where he comes from, everyone calls it ‘English Flu’. Apparently, the UK is under some special quarantine order. No ships are allowed to land for fear of infection. That’s why they were so worried about coming here.”

  “But that makes no sense. We all saw the same news reports. The virus was everywhere, not just here. The Americans confirmed that. Why would they start calling it ‘English Flu’?”

  “He doesn’t know. It’s just what he’s heard everyone else calls it.”

  “No wonder no other ships have come here. What if the United Nations has established an exclusion zone around the whole of the UK, and only the Americans have dared to ignore the mandate? It would all make sense,” said Terra, thinking out loud.

  “Then why did Peterson want these men killed?”

  “Maybe it’s because they know something about the outside world. Or perhaps this scare story about the UK was invented to keep others away. Who knows who started that rumour?”

  “There’s something else. He says that their radio stopped working when they entered the Channel. They couldn’t raise anyone any more. They lost contact with the French groups in Brittany.”

  “You think someone could be jamming the signal?” asked Terra.

  “Well, it’s not us.”

  “What about the Americans?”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know. To keep everyone in the dark? Right now, the Americans control the flow of information. That’s to their advantage. These men might be the only ones who know the truth. Maybe that’s why Peterson wanted them dead.”

  “Briggs guessed there was more to this. That’s why he wanted them kept alive. He thinks they might be able to provide leverage when the time comes to negotiate with the allies,” said Victor.

  The interrogation complete, Victor, Terra and the translator were ushered towards the open doorway. They were all keen to get some fresh air. Terra lingered by the door, struck by a thought.

  “But how on earth would you go about jamming radio signals?”

  “Beats me.” Victor shrugged. “Perhaps the military has the equipment.”

  “Or the police.”

  “Ask Copper. He might know.”

  “I couldn’t help overhearing, but there’s a teacher who worked here that knows a lot about radios,” said the guard. “I think his name is Gerry. Lives in one of the houses just over there. He taught design and technology, or something.”

  “Perhaps you can find this Gerry. Before I take this to Briggs, I want to know if what he says is even possible.”

  The guard set off towards the cluster of staff houses on the far side of the school grounds, leaving the visitors with the Santana men. Looking into the darkened room, nobody had moved an inch. Victor closed the door and clicked the padlock shut.

  “I wouldn’t put it past Peterson. I don’t trust that guy,” admitted Victor.

  “I never understood why the Americans were here in the first place. Who chooses the Isle of Wight when you could be sunning yourself in Majorca, Malta, Gibraltar or Corsica?

  “Then that’s the question we need an answer to.”

  ****

  A few minutes later, the guard returned, pushing a reluctant Gerry, who didn’t seem to understand why he had been brought there. Victor looked him up and down and put his arm around his shoulders.

  “So, Gerry, I hear you know something about radios?”

  “Bits and pieces. I taught design and technology at the school.”

  “Excellent,” said Victor, squeezing his shoulder. “Now, say, for the sake of argument, you wanted to disrupt all communication between the UK and mainland Europe, how would you go about that?”

  Gerry blinked and smiled, pushing his glasses up his nose where they had slid down. He seemed amused by the simplicity of the question. Terra wasn’t sure what he had expected; perhaps Victor’s reputation had preceded him.

  “Well, it’s fairly straightforward to block communication at a local level, but to do so at a regional level requires a bit more grunt.”

  “Go on.”

  “Basically, there are two ways. You could raise the noise floor or try spoofing.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Okay. Raising the floor is a way of drowning out the signal by transmitting ‘white noise’. Basically, you broadcast static. It makes it harder, though not impossible, to separate out any radio signals from the background noise. It’s a bit like trying to talk over machinery or engine noise. It requires a bit of specialist equipment and a lot of power to dr
own out the other signals, but in theory, you could jam anything. It’s very difficult to overcome this.”

  “And the other way?”

  “Spoofing is similar. The idea is not so much to drown out the signal but to send out another signal that’s very similar. That makes it very hard to isolate one from the other. Bit like trying to make yourself heard in a crowd when lots of people are talking at the same time. Or when you drive between two broadcast areas, you sometimes get that with radio stations overlapping each other.”

  “Let’s go with door number one. How would you broadcast this ‘white noise’?”

  “First you’d actually need to get your signal into the antenna. Direct connection would be best.”

  “So where would you go to do that?”

  “Not far from here actually. There’s the Rowridge Transmitter right there,” he said, pointing south-east.

  “You mean that massive tower on the island?”

  “Yes, you can’t miss it. It’s the main transmitter for the whole of the south of England. If you took control of the site and installed your own equipment, you could drown out all other signals. Well, theoretically anyway.”

  “And all wavebands would be affected?”

  “Not exclusively. There’s a chance that very local point-to-point line of sight transmissions would still work. Below the radar, if you like. Also, ELF might still work.”

  “What’s ELF?”

  “It’s what US submarines use to communicate over very long distances. They have dedicated transmitters based in the middle of nowhere, with incredibly low ground connectivity. I think the US system is called Seafarer. They have a base station somewhere in Wisconsin with very long cables up to fifty kilometres long that can send out coded transmissions. They can be received virtually anywhere on the planet. Britain tried to build an ELF system up in Scotland, but they couldn’t get it to work, or someone withdrew the funding.”

  “So you’re saying that it’s possible that the Americans are the only ones who have this ELF way to communicate over long distances. Interesting. Thank you, Gerry. You’ve been very helpful. You can go now,” said Victor, patting him on the back. He motioned for Terra to walk with him so they would not be overheard.

  “So whether it’s Peterson or someone else, we know someone may be trying to block communication in this region.” Terra sighed. “The next question we need to answer is why? What are they up to?”

  “Why would anyone want a news blackout in southern England?

  “How much do we really know about Lieutenant Peterson?” asked Terra.

  “Why? What are you thinking?”

  “What if the other senior officers on board the Chester didn’t die of the virus? What if Peterson got rid of them somehow?”

  “No, Terra. It would require a grand conspiracy to keep something like that secret from the rest of the crew.”

  “But it’s not hard to imagine, is it? Once an alarm is sounded that infection had been detected onboard, the crew would be confined to quarters. Peterson could have found a way to control things. Told the crew what they wanted to hear. Kept them in the dark. Pretended that the commanding officer and XO died of the virus.”

  “But why, Terra? Why would Peterson do that? He’s a career naval officer. What does he gain?”

  “Men like Peterson crave power and control. Who’s to say that they didn’t choose this island? It has natural advantages. Big enough to sustain a large group indefinitely. The presence of that antenna is a clincher, don’t you think? Anyway, where else would you go in Europe?”

  “But what about the rest of the Americans? Someone would have stood up to him. You’re not suggesting they’re all in league with Peterson?”

  “It would only take a few of the senior officers to make this work. Who knows? If you ask me, Peterson went rogue a long time ago. He saw an opportunity, and he took it. He’s smart and ambitious. Who’s to say he didn’t plan this whole thing? In the absence of outside influence, he controls the message. Their version of events is absolute. Who are we to know better?”

  Victor didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he had to admit that it was an intriguing explanation.

  “We need to talk to Briggs, right now.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Riley felt terrible leaving Adele at St Mary’s hospital on the island. When it was time to leave, the little girl clung to Riley’s arm, fighting back the tears. One of the nurses standing nearby broke off her conversation with a colleague to come over.

  Bending down on one knee, she took Adele’s hand and whispered gently, “Are you one of our brave volunteers?”

  Adele wiped the tears from her eyes and nodded back at the nurse. Underneath her uniform, the nurse wore thick woollen tights but still shivered against the bitter wind. She noticed Riley staring at her legs.

  “I know, they’re hideous, aren’t they? But there’s no heating here, and it gets so cold.”

  Riley smiled back at her and pulled Adele in tight, squeezing the breath from her lungs. She was the closest thing Riley had to a daughter.

  “I’ll be back before you know it,” she promised, stroking Adele’s hair.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll look after her,” reassured the nurse. “Anyway, with all the soldiers around here, this is probably the safest place in the country right now.” She winked playfully, pointing towards the prison.

  The child seemed comforted by the nurse’s words and released her grip on Riley’s arm. The admissions nurse handed Riley a clipboard with some paperwork to complete.

  “Are you her mum?” she whispered.

  “Actually, she’s not my daughter.”

  “Just put ‘guardian’ then. I don’t suppose it really matters; no one checks any more. The director still insists we do things properly. The NHS wouldn’t let a little thing like the end of the world get in the way of paperwork, would it? What would the world come to, I don’t know.”

  “With any luck, I’ll be back before dark.”

  “Well, if you get stuck, I’m sure we can find somewhere for her to stay for the night.”

  Riley continued filling out the form, pausing at one of the questions, as the nurse leaned forward to help.

  “I’ve put Zed Samuels as next of kin. He’s actually based here at St Mary’s.”

  “Oh, right, very local then. Is he a soldier or a doctor?”

  “Actually, neither. He’s working with the colonel and the team of scientists that arrived from Porton Down.”

  “Oh, I know. That lot keep themselves to themselves. They don’t mix with the rest of us.”

  “Any idea where I might find them?”

  “They work in that new building on the far side of the compound. I think you’ve probably missed him though. A big grey helicopter arrived this morning. Made quite a racket.”

  Riley looked crestfallen.

  “I can check if you like. See if one of the others knows anything?”

  “Don’t worry. I can try again when I come back for Adele after her tests. He might be back by then.”

  Riley said her goodbyes, and the nurse led Adele into the main building. Riley watched the pair of them leave, secretly hoping Adele might turn and look back, but she disappeared down the corridor and out of sight. It broke her heart to leave her here, but she had a promise to keep.

  ****

  The journey to Ryde was further than she expected. The driver said it would take them another couple of hours from St Mary’s. His body language betrayed the fact that today’s assignment was anything other than a burden. He slumped against the headrest, absent-mindedly playing with the radio dial, searching through static for a signal. When he did it for the third time, Riley asked him to stop.

  “Sorry, more habit than anything else. I suppose I keep hoping there’s someone out there, or just some music.”

  Riley had run through every scenario in her mind, wondering how Zed’s daughter would react to the knowledge that her father was still alive. How could she ex
plain why Zed was unable to come himself without making it seem that he had more important priorities?

  She knew that Zed and his wife were separated and that the kids had been living with their mother before the outbreak. It didn’t sound like the family was particularly close. Something reminded her of his muted reaction to the letter from Ryde Boarding School informing him that his daughter was still alive. It was almost as if he was numb to the news. His behaviour had puzzled her at the time.

  He had confessed that his weekends with the kids had slipped to monthly visits, whether through travel or work commitments, but they were so understanding. He always made it up to them, spoiling them with gifts, meals out or pizza nights in. Riley wasn’t sure, but it sounded like the type of excuses you told yourself to ease the guilt.

  She cursed her luck that she had not had the opportunity to speak with him. Since telling him how she felt on the clifftop at Freshwater, she felt unburdened. Gone was that sense of emptiness that had gnawed at her soul. The regrets and recriminations after losing everyone she cared about during the pandemic. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she looked forward with anticipation, rather than dread.

  The car swerved around a sharp bend and onto the main road at high speed, without slowing to check for oncoming traffic. They seemed to be the only vehicle on these back roads. Suddenly, she realised that she hadn’t been paying attention for the last few minutes. This wasn’t the road to Ryde.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, leaning forward in her seat, looking around for a landmark or something she recognised. “I don’t know your name.”

  “It’s Terry,” the driver said, stretching out his right hand for her to shake over his shoulder. “The main road from Newport to Ryde is reserved for military convoys during the week. Trust me, this way is much quicker.”

  Looking out the window, there was only field after field of open countryside. Now and again they passed entrances to construction projects where plant and machinery were digging holes or erecting structures needed to cope with the vast influx of personnel.

  “So, Terry. How long have you been here?”