“Everybody on board,” hissed Tom. “I’ll not start her until we’re all in.”
Tom and Andy kept watch while the two mothers loaded what they were carrying into the trailer. Then they hustled the two children into the back, seating them opposite each other on the bench seats near the front. They followed after, securing the back door. This left the two men to complete one last scan of the area, leap into the vehicle, followed by Sam, and, once started, the two families headed to where they hoped they would find safety.
CHAPTER 12
Captain Parry led the way through the streets, a steady wheeze from his respirator as he sucked in filtered air and blew it back out. He’d kept his 9mm Browning holstered. Corporal Davey, a Marine, walked parallel with him on the other side of the street — if you could call them streets. Davey was armed with an SA80, as was Able Seaman Harper behind him. Every step he took involved manoeuvring around chunks of rubble as they made their way down Charles Dickens Street. Further back, the group had passed the shattered Portsmouth City Council building. It had seemed pointless in hanging around the submarine any longer and after two days Commander Parry had decided that they should take a risk a delve deeper into Portsmouth. They had been on the move for at least two hours, and the devastation became more apparent the deeper they moved towards the centre of the city. What cars there were on the streets were either on their sides, crushed, or even flipped over on their tops by the force of the blast. After that, the firestorm had blistered the paint and burnt out the upholstery. Most of the vehicles and their contents smelt rank: the dead bodies of the drivers or passengers trapped in the confines of their metal coffins had lain there rotting since the strike.
Clearly, rescue has not been an option, thought Captain Parry. It didn’t bode well for their search to find a functioning administration, but now he doubted they would even find survivors. Many of the taller buildings looked like blackened, jagged teeth, where the upper storeys had been torn asunder, the debris carried by the hurricane-force wind into anything that stood in its way. What had happened after the blast wave was apparent: not only evidenced by the darkened, gutted buildings but also the layer of dirtied ash that covered everything in their path. The blast wave, having shattered the upper storeys of the buildings in the city, was followed by a firestorm of unimaginable intensity that engulfed anything and anyone that would feed it.
Parry wriggled his shoulders, feeling uncomfortable in his NBC suit and mask. It wasn’t something he had worn very often. In fact, the last time he had put it on was during a training course, and that was probably two and a half years ago. Although tempted to avoid wearing the cumbersome gear, his petty officer, PO Bell, had been insistent they left the submarine fully protected from whatever contaminants were out there. Now he could see the state of the city, and the dust clouds kicked up as they traipsed down street after street, he was glad he had capitulated. He was also glad of the warmth the extra layer of clothing provided. Parry was amazed at how cold it was once they had left the confines of the submarine. They moved further in, observing worsening signs of destruction. He suspected they were getting closer to Ground Zero, where the single nuclear missile, launched from a Soviet submarine, had struck. Parry had expected to find more extensive damage to the harbour itself, and suspected that the missile or bomb had missed its designated target point.
He glanced up at the buildings ahead, and knew the group would need to change direction. He signalled a halt and checked his street map, not that it was proving easy to negotiate their way through the streets with no signs and very few recognisable landmarks. And the devastation seemed to be getting worse. He beckoned the PO and Lieutenant Chris Wood forward and signalled the rest to keep watch. Watching for what, though, he was unsure.
The three crouched in a circle facing each other, and Parry held the map out in front of him. “I believe we’re here,” is voice muffled by the mask, pointing at Charles Dickens Street. “This curves round to the right towards Alec Rose Lane, then left to Isambard Brunel Road.”
“It all looks the bloody same off the map, sir. Wherever we are, I suggest we change direction. Looking at the level of damage, we have to be moving towards the centre of the blast,” suggested Lieutenant Wood.
“I agree, Chris, that’s what it looks like. Best if we start going north, skirt the city, and head towards the hospital.”
“Why the hospital?” asked Chris.
“If there are survivors, the hospital would make a sensible rallying point.”
“Makes sense. Is there a government bunker in this area?”
“If my memory serves me right, Crowborough covers the east, apart from London, and Chilmark to the west, so unlikely. So the hospital would make sense.”
“That’s one hell of a trek though, sir, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Speak your mind, Petty Officer Bell. We need to cover all options.”
“We’ll never make that in one go.” Bell tapped the map. “We could hold up somewhere to the west, maybe check out the marina, see if there are any boats afloat. Cut through Victoria Park and follow the A3, M27 north. Much faster than negotiating our way through this mess. Take us about three hours. We don’t want to be out here in the dark. No telling what we might come across.”
“I like the sound of that. What do you think, Chris?”
“I can see the value in that. Let’s go with it sir. See if we can find some supplies or even transport on the way. Maybe we should go via Mountbatten Way. I doubt we’ll find any of our ships, but it would be good to check out for any survivors.”
“I agree. Let’s do it then.”
Captain Parry briefed his small command, and they turned back and walked the way they had just come, cutting through Victoria Park. The park’s trees had been stripped of their foliage, ravaged by the blast wave and the firestorm that followed it. The group moved down Queen Street, the scene no different from what they had just left: abandoned vehicles, most burnt out or crushed, buildings blackened and shattered. They turned right and headed north, taking a cut through between two blocks of flats, or at least the skeletal structures, windowless and roofless, which remained.
The sailors were midway through the gap when there was a crackling sound, followed by the sound of tortured metal and concrete as a weakened section of the structure suddenly gave way and toppled over. Tons of reinforced concrete crashed down less than fifty metres from their position. As they threw themselves to the floor, a cloud of dust blossomed around them, driven by the debris hitting the ground. The jagged lumps deflected upwards, eventually landing amongst the seven men, showering them with pieces of masonry and steel. Larger chunks rained down on them as they tucked in every extremity as close as possible to their bodies. The pounding continued as a second building, much closer to the men, lost its upper levels, set off by the collapse of the adjacent building. Huge blocks smashed into vehicles, tarmac and the pavements, shattering the paving slabs, the blocks themselves shattering into smaller pieces, sending slithers of concrete to slice into the sailors close by. A final display of violence saw two more buildings surrender their defiance of the bomb that had torn them apart a matter of weeks ago, crashing down around the men cowering beneath, smashing Lieutenant Wood’s back in, practically severing his body in two. Corporal Davey was completely buried under a three-ton piece of masonry, his breath crushed from his body, his flesh and bones pulverised beneath the weight, killing him within seconds. Taylor panicked, jumped up, and ran away from the madness and confusion that surrounded him, only to be pummelled by a rain of concrete. Then a steel girder stopped him in his tracks, slicing off a leg at the knee, a second striking him across his shoulders, breaking all the bones it touched, his life quickly ebbing away.