Hurst by Robin Crumby (the reading list book TXT) 📖

towards its maximum velocity, it arced over the island and just as suddenly started its descent. The screen in the stateroom alternated between the view from the missile back to the drone, keeping pace with the convoy at about five hundred feet. The missile raced towards its target, dipping down as it reached terminal velocity, zeroing in on the heat signature of the lead vehicle carrying the tracker. Jack found he was holding his breath, fearing what was to follow. The screen went completely white, followed by static as the missile detonated.

The operator switched views back to the drone. It showed a massive explosion and a mushroom cloud of smoke. It took a couple of minutes for the smoke to clear sufficiently for them to make out the scene of destruction. A huge crater emerged in the roadway. One vehicle was a tangled mess. Bodies lay motionless nearby. Two other vehicles were on their sides. The last car, further behind, had its four doors open. Figures stood gawping down the road.

“Can we zoom in at all, Jenkins? Would be good to get a look at those guys.”

The drone dropped altitude and zoomed right in. The four figures hove into view. Peterson squinted and blinked, not quite believing his eyes. “Isn’t that…?”

“It couldn’t be, could it?” added Jack, leaning closer.

“It most definitely is,” Peterson said, shaking his head. He lifted the grey-green handset to his lips and said, “Jenkins, let the XO know that we have a miss. Repeat, we have a miss. Briggs is still alive, and it looks like he’s got a new friend.”

“I didn’t even know those two knew each other. Perhaps they’ve been in league all this time?” said Jack.

The camera zoomed in further and sure enough, standing next to Briggs was Victor, the first officer from the Maersk Charlotte.

“The double-crossing rat,” spat Jack. “I wonder if Anders knew about this.”

Chapter Fifty-two

Terra woke after a restless night and immediately felt a shooting pain down her side from sleeping on a hard bed in the cold, damp room. It took a few moments to get her bearings as memories from the last few days came slowly back into focus. The trip to Osborne House, the dinner, Peterson and Armstrong’s speech, the sense of renewed hope for the future. Then Briggs had taken that all away. Kidnapped, imprisoned, forsaken. Alone again. She was a survivor though, wasn’t she? She’d survived worse than this.

Her surroundings were relatively spartan, bare stone walls cold to the touch. A simple chair and table nestled under a bare timber-framed window, which looked down over the ruins of an unfamiliar castle. In the foreground were a small chapel and courtyard, ornamental gardens and high stone walls covered in moss and lichen.

She had been brought here under cover of darkness, hooded for most of the journey. Disoriented, she was unsure where exactly she was on the island. Her best guess was that this was Carisbrooke Castle as she could think of no other site of this scale or grandeur. It also fitted the bill, based on what she knew of Briggs and his men. They had been incarcerated in Parkhurst Prison, no more than a couple of miles away.

She stretched out her arms, ran through a few warm-up stretches and yoga positions to stimulate her circulation and stop the shivering. It took a few painful minutes to eliminate the stiffness she felt in her lower back and arms. Staring out the window, a light drizzle flecked the windows from rain clouds blowing in from the sea.

She heard footsteps in the corridor and the rattle of keys as the door swung inwards and one of Briggs’s most trusted men stood waiting to take her downstairs for another audience with the man himself. Her escort was a curious-looking individual. The facial tattoos that decorated one side of his head reminded her of a Maori warrior. His beard and sideburns were in need of a good trim, with only a small tuft of hair at the scalp. The rest of his head was shaved smooth. Nevertheless, despite his radical appearance, he seemed cordial enough.

Terra had been pleasantly surprised by Briggs’s behaviour towards her so far. He had been kind and attentive, asking her repeatedly what she needed to make her stay comfortable. His men had returned several hours later after an exhaustive search of Newport. They brought clothes that were several sizes too big, together with expensive toiletries, the likes of which she had not seen in years. He had insisted she wear a particular dress, the yellow one, knee-length, classic style with the floral pattern. The autumnal yellow of the dress set off her red hair in the sunlight. Apparently, the dress reminded him of a special someone he had known long ago, and this seemed to put him in a good mood.

Her escort knocked but didn’t wait to be invited in. Briggs was in the middle of an angry exchange with another prisoner whose hands were bound behind his back. She recognised the man from Osborne House but didn’t know his name. He was in his mid to late fifties with a full head of white blonde hair. A large cut had been patched up above his left eye, a purple bruise darkening underneath. She exchanged a pained look of sympathy before he was led away. He tried to say something to her, straining against the rope binding his wrist but was quickly pulled away. As the door slammed shut behind him, she heard him shout “Don’t tell them anything.”

Briggs’s expression softened as soon as he spotted Terra. He threw his arms wide, beaming. “Good morning, Terra. How fares our Queen of Hurst this rainy day?”

“Well, thank you,” responded Terra awkwardly, maintaining her distance. The great hall made her think of Hurst, though the castle was clearly much older judging by the roof and brickwork. It reminded her in so many ways of the historic places she had visited as a child. The Tower of London, Hampton Court, Windsor Castle. The musty smell, the damp and cold, but also the sense of awe and wonder at standing somewhere so rich in history. It was almost as if she could sense the ghosts of kings, queens and noblemen who had graced these royal surroundings. There was a very real aura of history and drama that impregnated every stone, every brick. One could not help but feel a little bit inadequate and unworthy standing there amongst these magnificent surroundings. The incongruity of Briggs and his men’s occupation of the castle was not lost on Terra.

“Come and sit and have some breakfast with me.” He studied Terra, trying to anticipate what would make her happy. “Hatch, bring us some coffee, and I think cereal and fruit today, am I right?”

“Thank you,” responded Terra, modestly taking her seat opposite Briggs, aware of his attentions. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her, like a kid with a new toy, enjoying the shape of the dress and the way its cut accentuated her curves. He watched, absorbed by her every move as she helped herself to an apple, which she cut carefully into slices and ate one by one. When she had finished, he asked for the plates to be cleared before restarting his inquisition. There was no artifice, no subterfuge, no threat, albeit implied, to his questions, and she willingly complied, answering his every request with a directness that he found refreshing.

“Now, why don’t we go back to where we left off last night? You were telling me all about Jack and Zed. Where are my notes?” He rummaged through a pile of papers in front of him and pulled out a sheet of lined paper. The handwriting looked childlike, accompanied by doodles and scribbles in the margins.

“So, I’ve got here that your friend Zed likes to carry around a double-headed axe. Who does he think he is? Spartacus? Bit cumbersome, isn’t it?” He turned towards his henchmen standing nearby and laughed bawdily. Turning back to Terra, without a hint of irony, he went on, “I prefer a butcher’s knife myself. More up close and personal.” He crudely gestured a slice across his neck to demonstrate how he liked to use it, prompting another laugh from his men. “I look forward to meeting him. Sounds like my kind of guy. I might put his head on a spike outside my castle as a reminder to any other jumped-up wide boy who thinks they can mess with me.”

“But, Briggs…” She paused, a little embarrassed. “Can I call you Briggs?” He nodded and encouraged her to continue. “As I assured you yesterday, the people of Hurst had nothing to do with the attack on your convoy. They’re mostly pacifists. They spend their time fishing and growing vegetables, not fighting. They’re not looking for trouble.”

“Bullshit. Anyone who’s in league with the Americans is no pacifist. The missile or bomb that killed my men may have been American, but you can be sure that someone from Hurst helped pull the trigger.”

She leaned forward, her eyebrow raised playfully. She felt composed in Briggs’s company, demure, playing along. She knew from last night that Briggs had a weakness for her. She suspected he was more than a little bit susceptible to her charms. She intended to use every advantage that gave her, without crossing the line. The bruise on her left cheek ached when she moved her jaw, a reminder that you could push him only so far.

Briggs had expressed his regret immediately and the man who struck her had not been seen again. She remained unintimidated by the threat of further violence, though not oblivious to the danger. She was deliberately provocative, working hard to retain his attention. She wasn’t sure how much Briggs had heard of the plan for Camp Wight, but it wouldn’t hurt to test the extent of his knowledge and spread a little disinformation at the same time to downplay Hurst and create a degree of separation.

“I can assure you the Americans want little to do with Hurst. It’s an outpost, nothing more. They have no appreciation of history. No real understanding of local politics. Like a bull in a china shop, they’re, well, just doing what Americans do best. Throwing their weight around, sticking their noses in to other people’s business. Trying to do the right thing, but in the process, treading on a lot of toes.”

“Okay, Terra. If you’re so bleeding clever, what would your counsel be?” asked Briggs, in a moment of indulgence.

She smiled and Briggs looked at her suspiciously, his head tilted to the side as if he was torn between wanting to believe her and beating her to a pulp. She was under no illusion that the moment she ceased to please and beguile him, her life would be expendable. Careful, Terra, she told herself. Be very careful.

She leaned forward and fixed him with her most winning smile. “If the Americans want to set up camp here, let them.” She shrugged and looked over his shoulder. “Wait until they’ve ferried over their supplies and stores, got everything set up. Bide your time. What harm can it do? If you risk an all-out war with them, you’ll lose. Remember the war on terror? Remember what happened to every army that invaded Afghanistan or Iraq or Syria and tried to fight the Taliban, ISIS or Al Qaeda in a conventional way? They all failed. You could do worse than learn from their experience. Your men need to become invisible, like shadows in the night. Go underground, become fifth columnists, fill every position of power. Bide your time, like sleepers waiting for the right moment to strike, when the allies are at their most vulnerable.” She leaned back again, her smile gone. “Anyway, that’s what I would do.”

“Interesting. You and I think alike. Terra, you might just make a name for yourself around here. I need a good adviser, someone I can trust. I’m just not sure I