breakwater and wait for daylight, before unloading onto smaller boats that would come inshore to dock. It was unlikely any workers would arrive the night before a scheduled delivery run, but they couldn’t be certain, and so the Major had detailed Will as lookout.
He was hidden from casual observers by a small wooden shack that had survived the developers, back in the day when Plymouth was undergoing its first makeover since the 1960s. At the turn of the millennium, Mrs P had told them in a history lesson – shortly before she was banned from teaching them modern history – there had been an attempt to boost the national economy by building new houses and roads, paid for by the taxpayer and making the owners of construction companies very rich, something she called corporate welfare.
When the global economy crashed in the early 2020s – as the reality of climate change bit and efforts were finally made to cut carbon emissions, as fossil-fuel giants fought back, countries disintegrated, and Devon devolved – everyone who had bought second homes in the city upped and left, along with thousands of university students who had been the source of much of the city’s employment. There were few jobs for those that remained; more people left. Plymouth was a ghost of its former self, with rows of vacant houses and empty high-rise blocks of flats, and a bleak city centre of boarded up and burned out shops.
The docks, halfway through the process of becoming luxury waterside flats when the crash happened, still serviced some smaller cargo ships. The larger vessels were kept out by a harbour slowly filling up with silt. National government used to keep the harbour dredged to accommodate naval aircraft carriers and Trident submarines, but now the Kingdom was no longer United, there was no regional money to pick up the slack and Plymouth’s imports by sea were under threat. Will wondered if Spight had a plan for when the cargo boats could no longer dock.
But that wasn’t an issue tonight. The cargo ship coming at Spight’s behest would be meeting their flotilla, out beyond the breakwater. The Major, Mrs Mason, Tom, Dick and Harriet, and a host of resistance activists from across Devon and Cornwall, were waiting in small boats, using up precious fuel, preparing to turn back the cargo vessel by whatever means necessary. Of course, it could all go horribly wrong. It was a cold night to be rammed and thrown into the sea. In the dark. Chopped up by propellers. Shot at. Drowned. Will shivered and his stomach churned. At least he was no longer hungry.
*
Two miles out to sea, the Major was unknowingly echoing Will’s concerns for the safety of himself and the others, who remained invisible even when the slim crescent of the moon emerged from behind cloud to cast light upon the swell. There was a strict embargo on showing lights until their target was in sight. Bobbing around in a small fibreglass day sailing boat with Mrs Mason, as the moon disappeared, and absolute blackness settled all around him, they could have been on their own in the middle of the ocean, if it weren’t for the sound of waves breaking on the boulders of the breakwater, and the occasional light on the horizon behind them.
If only .... The Major drew his thoughts back from that particular cliff edge and turned them in the direction of their mission. Which should be starting … he began to check his watch and realised he couldn’t see it in the dark. And couldn’t show a light. Which meant he couldn’t smoke his pipe. He held it loosely in one hand anyway.
Never mind, he thought, it couldn’t be long now.
It felt like an age before lights appeared off their starboard bow, still way off in the distance as a ship rounded Rame Head. From its running lights, it was headed straight for them. Time to gear up.
He could hear a gentle snoring. Mrs M had fallen asleep. He nudged her and she snorted awake. ‘Boat’s on its way in,’ he whispered.
‘Why are we whispering, who’s going to hear us?’ Mrs M whispered back.
‘There could be a lookout at the breakwater, sound carries.’
He could sense an eyebrow being raised, but she kept her opinion to herself.
‘Papa Bear to Baby Bears, Papa Bear to Baby Bears, hold position and get ready for the approaching bowl, over,’ the Major rasped into his walkie-talkie. Mrs M had chosen the call signs, designating herself Goldilocks. Her reasoning, that no one accidentally coming across their wavelength would take them seriously.
‘Baby One to Papa Bear, received and understood, standing by, over,’ came through the walkie-talkie. Tom and his team were in position.
‘Baby Two to Papa Bear, received and understood, standing by, over.’ So were Dick and his team.
‘Baby Three to Papa Bear, received and understood, standing by, over.’ This came through so close he heard Harriet’s voice in stereo, both through the radio and from his left, nearby.
‘Papa Bear to Baby Three, we’re too bunched up, get yourself over to port. No engines, you’ll need to row. Over.’
He could hear Harriet and her team cursing as they hunted in the bottom of their boat for their oars. A clatter of wood as the oars were slotted into rowlocks and then silence. He gave them a couple of minutes, then ‘Papa Bear to Baby Three, give your position, over.’
‘No idea Papa Bear, but we can’t hear you any more. Er … Baby Three. Over.’
‘Roger that.’ It would have to do.
The lights of the oncoming boat were coming closer. The Major reckoned they had another five minutes until it would be upon them. Mrs Mason nudged his shoulder and passed him her hipflask and a piece of flapjack. While he sipped whisky and ate, he heard her going over their weapons, dry-firing to check the mechanisms were in good working order, before loading them with the few bullets they had. Guns were still fairly easy to come by. Ammunition was harder to find.
her moonstruck moment
It had surely been hours. After sitting still for so long in intermittent rain and the chill wind coming in off the water he was freezing, despite his heavy wool jacket. At least the rain was passing over and clouds were clearing. The moon had crossed the midpoint of the sky and was heading for the western horizon. Will yawned and checked his watch by flashing his torch briefly. If Mrs Mason’s information was correct, there was still about half an hour to go before the boat reached her and the Major. So, more waiting.
Hopefully he wouldn’t have to be here much longer, or he might start glowing in the dark, irradiated by the abandoned Trident nuclear submarine facility at Devonport, two miles away from where he was sitting. Stories of what decades of accidents and inadequate storage of materials had done to the local population were legion all across the county. Will reckoned they were rubbish, but still, it made him uncomfortable to be there.
He slumped back against the shack. And heard a scuffing sound, nearby.
He tensed, listening hard.
It came again.
Will held his breath. Should he take a look around the corner of the building, and risk being seen, or wait for whatever it was to come around that corner, and definitely be seen? Whichever it was, he needed to get up. Getting to his feet as quietly as he could, he waited, nerves thrumming with tension.
It was too big to be an animal, unless it was a human-sized animal. A someone, or some thing, from Devonport …
The scuffing separated itself out into shuffling footsteps. Then came a scraping noise,
