Boomf… boomf.
Both barrels erupted, and Brian, his face and chest a mangled mass of flesh, blood and bone, was flung backward, flat on his back, his staring, lifeless eyes unable to see the cloudy, dust laden skies. Tom wasted no time in reloading the gun. After checking that Sam wasn’t seriously hurt, he ran back to where he had left Ryan and stood over him. The man was clutching at his head, an accumulation of blood clouding his vision.
“You could have killed me, you nasty fucker. Wait till Brian gets hold of you. Brian, where the fuck are you?”
Tom lowered the barrels of the shotgun. Many thoughts raced through his mind: survival, his family, food, resources, and a hate for people like Ryan, Brian and his obnoxious family. His final thought before he pulled the trigger, the shot punching a hole in Ryan’s chest, was: The world has changed. There are no rules now.
CHAPTER 6
“See anything?” Commander Parry asked the armed Marine scanning the shoreline.
Corporal Davey lowered his binoculars. “Not a dicky bird, sir. Saw a glint of light, probably reflecting off a piece of broken glass. Looking pretty bleak across there, sir.”
“Let me know the minute you see anything.”
“Sir.”
“Victor-Two, come round to starboard five degrees,” Parry ordered via the hand-held radio.
“Aye, aye, sir,” responded the lieutenant commanding the RIB, a rigid inflatable boat, that was ahead of the ship with a line linking the two.
The captain of the British SSN HMS Ambush, one of the UK’s latest nuclear attack submarines, watched as the RIB, with a towline attached forward of the submarine, moved further right. Such was the damage to the submarine’s controls, and without the harbour master’s boat and the usual heavy-duty tugs that would have been despatched to help bring them into harbour, he’d had to resort to using their on-board RIB to provide additional steerage.
They were returning from operations in the area of the Norwegian Sea, where their assignment had been to seek out and attack any Russian naval forces spotted heading for Northern Europe, with the intention of disrupting supply lines between the continent and the UK. NATO command had been successful, causing so much damage to the Russian Northern Fleet that the Russian ships were forced to withdraw. Ambush, harassing the Soviet navy as it fled east, suffered a near catastrophic attack from a Udaloy Destroyer, rendering the submarine immobile and in danger of sinking in the bitter depths of the Norwegian Sea. It was only the timely arrival of a US carrier-borne Hornet, firing a Harpoon anti-ship missile, that prevented the Soviet destroyer from finishing off its prey. But the damage had been done, and what was left of the crew fought for three days to keep the submarine afloat. Out of the crew of 130, only seven survived. Many died in flooded chambers; others, although in dry, watertight compartments, were trapped and soon ran out of precious oxygen, slowly suffocating until the air finally gave out. Out of contact with Fleet Command, and the Admiralty back in the United Kingdom for that matter, Parry coaxed a barely serviceable submarine through the Greenland-Iceland-United-Kingdom-Gap (GIUKGap), passing through the North Sea, his aim to steer the stricken submarine to Portsmouth’s harbour. And here they were now.
Parry picked up the handset and communicated with the Helm. “Right rudder, ten degrees.”
“Ten degrees, right rudder, aye, sir,” came the response from the helm.
Parry waited for a few moments as the sleek black hull slid round through the water. “All stop.”
“All stop, aye, sir,” responded the helmsman below.
He must have felt lonely down inside the boat, with only a petty officer for company. Commander Parry and Marine Corporal Davey were on the bridge fin while the other three survivors were in the RIB.
The submarine drifted — only the RIB out front controlling its headway. Parry picked up his binoculars, zooming in on the boat acting as their steerage. Lieutenant Wood’s face filled the lens, his lips moving as he instructed the sailor controlling the RIB. He swung the binos right and scanned the area of his approach. They had successfully negotiated the narrow gap, with Old Portsmouth on the right and Gosport on the left. Now, he needed to get alongside. The Mary Rose Museum was on his starboard side. He intended placing the submarine alongside Western Way, not far from the shattered remains of HMS Victory. His radio crackled.
“Victor One. Taking line across now. Over.”
“Understood. Tide’s strong. We’ll be stationary soon. Make it quick.”
“Aye, aye.”
The inflatable sped for the wharf, the crew trailing out more rope as it moved further away from Ambush. Parry just hoped there would be enough. They’d had to splice two lengths together as it was. He checked the water, looked across at the wharf. They were stationary. The submarine would soon be drifting back the way they came, pushed by the tide that was heading out.
“Helm. As discussed, turn her over gently.”
“Aye, sir.”
The pump-jet propulsion kicked in, just enough to hold the vessel in position. It would be on and off for the next ten to twenty minutes as the helmsman jockeyed the vessel into position. Parry looked across at the wharf, no more than a hundred metres away now. The RIB was alongside the wharf wall, and he saw two figures shimmy up one of the steel rung ladders pinned to the wharf wall, leading down into the sea itself. The rope was dragged around one of the large bollards and secured.
“Victor One. Secured. Over.”
“Acknowledged. Wait my command.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Helm. Five knots.”
“Helm, aye.”
The submarine trembled slightly as it fought against the tide, picking up speed, the bow turning slightly towards the wharf. The men on the harbour started to take up the slack, ready to let it out again once Ambush passed the point they were at.
Parry watched the harbour wall get closer. He waited and waited.
“Helm, standby.”
“Standby, aye.”
The submarine powered forward. He waited.
“All stop.”
“All stop, aye.”
The vessel was now no more than fifty metres from the wharf, but its bow was slightly past the top corner of the wharf where the harbour wall continued east along the northern way. The tide eventually stopped the submarine’s forward movement, and the landing party pulled quickly on the line, tying it off as the bow was directly opposite their position. As the submarine drifted south, the hawse yanked on the bow, pulling the submarine into the side.
“Helm. Harbour party ready.”
“Harbour party, aye.”
What it really meant was that the helmsman would stay in position while the petty officer sprinted outside towards the stern, ready to toss the line so the stern of the vessel could also be tied up.