Jessamy Beech Ch. 15: Mull

Jessamy was satisfied. Surely Gorbachev wouldn't be stupid enough to withhold any information when she and Hamnavoe had him at their mercy. But the question remained. Someone was bringing hundreds of factory fresh guns into Orkney to be transported south onto Wick. They were new. So they'd either been in storage for the thirty years since Thanatos or... they were still being produced somewhere. A working factory. It was inconceivable. The cargo's destination, Wick on the north east coast, had been effectively quarantined by traders and mercenaries. Carefully avoided, after rumours of a cholera epidemic had circulated.

But what if something else was going on in the little fishing port?

Jessamy couldn't possibly be in two places at once. They had Aubrey to deal with. Whatever was brewing in Wick would have to wait.

...

The weather improved through the day as the Millennium Falcon steamed west along Scotland's wild north coast. Past Thurso and Scrabster, the final resting place of the MV Hamnavoe. On past the enormous collapsed cavern of Smoo Cave and the village of Durness, to finally round the blasted headland and towering stacks of Cape Wrath. Craters peppered the steep hillsides. Mounds of shattered rock lay in tumbled heaps at the base of the cliffs.

"Look at all that meteorite damage Angus," Phoebe pointed. Despite being only nine, Jessamy's daughter was one tough little girl Hamnavoe decided. She hadn't once complained about being cold or tired or hungry since they'd found her stowed away.

"That's no' meteorite damage, lass. Back before Thanatos, this used to be one giant military firing range," Hamnavoe explained, "all that destruction... is manmade."

Phoebe Beech had no concept of the inhumanities inflicted on one another by human beings before Thanatos. A scorched world of rubble and ruins was all she'd ever known, "Don't be silly. No-one's got guns big enough to do that."

Hamnavoe raised an eyebrow, "Maybe not any more Pheebs. But they used to. And a whole lot more besides. A thousand different ways to kill one another."

The world's last weapon of mass destruction, the Soteria satellite network, still orbited high above their heads. Invisible to the naked eye. Hamnavoe had seen at first hand what it was capable of. Firepower that eclipsed even the dreadful, devastating potency of nuclear weapons.

Firepower that was currently in the hands of Captain Jack Aubrey, a madman.

As the Millennium Falcon turned to head south west, with the setting sun on their starboard side, Hamnavoe fixed Jessamy with a look, staring silently into her vivid blue eyes as she stood on deck watching the rugged coast roll past. An unspoken thought passed between them.

One day left.

...

"Why the fuck are they still not attacking?" Ross muttered, more to himself than anyone else in earshot.

The Reekies that had poured south from their lair in Edinburgh had been lurking beyond Berwick Upon Tweed's mighty walls for an entire day. Waiting. And watching unnervingly. Always staying just beyond effective weapons range. The land beyond the town's north wall held the greatest concentration, as to the west and south the River Tweed provided an extra layer of defence. But even there the defence force remained vigilant, watching the invaders lest they decided to mount a sneak attack. To the east, lay the sea. But to reach it, Berwick's inhabitants wishing to evacuate would need access to the harbour. And that was already in Reekie hands.

The rising sun tinged the few tattered clouds pink. Then orange and gold as the final day before Aubrey's deadline dawned. By this time tomorrow, thought Ross, we'll either be vapourised or Reekie food. Either way, not a good prospect.

"Dad!" John Beech called. None of them had had much sleep. The constant threat of attack by a horde of bloodthirsty cannibals was hardly conducive to a good night's rest.

"What now?" Ross snapped, then instantly regretted it.

"Look!"

At first Ross felt his eyes were playing tricks on him. More Reekie reinforcements arriving, dozens of them. Taking up positions of cover behind mounds of rubble, charred buildings and burnt out vehicles. But these were different. A cold chill crawled up Ross's spine as he studied the newcomers through binoculars. Each and every one of the half naked savages brandished an automatic weapon. Gleaming black gunmetal with a curved magazine slung beneath. Berwick's situation had just become a whole lot worse.

...

Through the night, the Millennium Falcon steamed south, past Ullapool and Gairloch on the sparsely inhabited edges of north west Scotland. The vastness of the Isle of Skye appeared ahead, materialising through rolling banks of pink tinged sea mist, as the sun rose. The jagged ridge of the Cuillin mountain range rose up like broken black fangs, biting their way up into the dawn sky.

Jessamy and Hamnavoe took it in turns to watch Gorbachev or take over at the trawler's wheel while the other slept. Phoebe occupied herself tidying the cluttered crews quarters, which Jessamy felt rather apprehensive about. On a boat run by a known smuggler and people trafficker who knew what she might find.

They saw no-one. Not a single light along the shore, no smoke or any other sign of habitation. Though Jessamy suspected the sound of the Millennium Falcon's engine might be the cause. In a region swarming with Reivers, any decent folk would be exceedingly wary of strangers in or off the water.

The trawler chugged sedately under the Skye Bridge. The once gracefully curving arc spanning the strait between Kyle of Lochalsh on the mainland and Kyleakin on the island itself. Though still intact, it now stood charred by fire and stained by the tsunamis that had devastated the area. High sided vehicles lay tumbled precariously against the guard rails high above, blown there by thirty years of freakishly high winds, and left to slowly disintegrate.

...

The Millennium Falcon continued south west along the Sound of Sleat, passing the untamed wilderness of Knoydart to their left and the dun coloured southern hills of Skye on their right. A bitterly cold wind, the last vestige of the previous day's storm from the east, whipped spray from the wave tops.

"Ye given any thought what we're gonnae do wi' Gorbachev once we reach Mull JB?" Hamnavoe asked. The entrance to Mallaig harbour barely half a mile off their port side had been completely blocked by an enormous Caledonian Macbrayne ferry that looked to have suffered a direct meteorite hit, a gaping hole in its side like a toothless mouth.

"What I said still stands Angus," Jessamy responded, "stay with Phoebe. Because the alternative is leaving her with Gorbachev. Tie him up or whatever but keep him the fuck away from my daughter."

Hamnavoe meaningfully touched the handgun at his side, "Once we're there he'll have outlived his usefulness..."

Jessamy took a step back, "No... no, Angus. We start doing shit like that we're no better than Aubrey. We're here to try and put a stop to all the violence and chaos in the world, not add to it. Please, do as I say and stay with the boat."

Hamnavoe sucked his tongue, thinking, "Aye... okay. But if you don't come back by mornin' I'll be comin' lookin' for ye. Agreed?"

After a brief hesitation Jessamy nodded, "Agreed. Thanks to your friend we're gonna get there in plenty of time."

Jessamy gazed out across the water. If what she had planned was successful, she'd want Phoebe and Hamnavoe to be as far away as possible from Duart Castle.

...

It was late afternoon by the time the battered old beam trawler rounded Ardnamurchan Point, mainland Britain's most westerly headland, and Jessamy caught her first glimpse in over twenty years of the island of Mull. It had suffered further catastrophic meteorite strikes over the years, the bracken and heather covered hillsides ripped apart, with vast open wounds where they'd been blasted away down to bare bedrock.

Calgary. Old Snook. Even the lecherous old warrior from the kitchens, who'd reputedly been in the Royal Air Force when there was still a Royal Air Force to be in. They were all dead and gone. Though Mull looked almost unchanged from a distance, Jessamy knew that it wouldn't be the same island that she'd escaped from all those years before. On the night Torosay Castle was destroyed. The night she'd killed Butcher Beaconsfield.

The scared eighteen year old girl fleeing barefoot through the night was long gone. Jessamy Beech was now an entirely different person. Battle scarred, strong and capable.

"You okay JB?" Hamnavoe slipped an arm around Jessamy's shoulders, scanning the waters ahead. Conscious that the Poseidon could be out there somewhere patrolling and if the Millennium Falcon was caught in the open, all their planning would be for nothing.

"Yeah. Just... remembering, that's all. It was a tough life here... a thoroughly shit one, if truth be told. But I had some good friends too... who looked out for me."

"Where to?" Gorbachev called from the wheelhouse behind them, interrupting her thoughts.

"Turn left. Keep the Morvern hills on the port side. Head along the coast a few miles," Jessamy shouted back, "we can't risk the Poseidon spotting us... so take us into Tobermory."

PART THREE: BACK TO WHERE IT ALL BEGAN

"So this is where you lived?" asked Phoebe incredulously an hour later. The once white painted walls of Tobermory's centuries old distillery were now blackened with soot. The massive iron gates hung on broken hinges. Weeds and thistles sprouted from cracked paving slabs and the pitted road surface outside lay ankle deep in slimy grey mud. Drifts of broken roof slates and rotting timbers were all that remained of the roof.

Gorbachev had moored the Millennium Falcon next to the ancient stone jetty midway along the village's deserted main street.

The ruin of the old clock tower, the rows of patched and repaired fishing boats. The rusting hulk of an enormous car ferry lying half submerged just offshore with the words 'Caledonian MacBrayne' barely visible in dirty letters through the layers of barnacles and seaweed clinging to the corroded metal hull. None of it had changed.

Except... where there had once been the shouted orders of overseers, the rattle of transports ferrying workers to the crofts and the sawing and banging of day to day repairs and maintenance being carried out... there was now nothing. A smothering, all enveloping silence pressed against Jessamy's ears. Broken only by the whittering of a few waders hunting for molluscs along the shoreline, and the wind.

"Mum?"

"Sorry Pheebs. Just remembering how it used to be," Jessamy hugged her daughter against her hip, "I was evacuated here when I was younger than you are now. I was so scared. I was missing my family in Cornwall. I didn't think I'd ever see them again. When you're older I'll tell you all about it."

Gorbachev approached from the jetty, wiping his chubby hands on a filthy rag, "There's just about enough diesel to get back to where I picked you up. If... we take it steady."

Jessamy nodded, "I know you did it against your will Gorbachev. But for what you've done... thankyou," she turned to Hamnavoe, "I'll be as quick as I can. It's over fifteen miles to walk from here to Duart Castle so I better get started. We don't have explosives to use against the Poseidon. So all I can do is sneak in and kill Aubrey, destroy the Soteria Lite equipment and hightail it back here."

"You mean you'll TRY to kill Aubrey," Hamnavoe corrected.

Jessamy clenched her teeth as she gave her new husband a hard look, "Be ready to make a run for it. If I'm not back by noon tomorrow..."

"You will be, JB," Hamnavoe insisted.

"All the same. Take care of Phoebe for me eh?" Jessamy's ears pricked as a faint sound disturbed the silence.

"What is it mum?" Phoebe asked.

Jessamy cocked her head to one side, "Sounds like... an engine. A boat?"

Her face paled as realisation hit her. She'd heard the sound years before during the savage battle for Truro in Falmouth harbour. One of the Poseidon's rigid inflatable boats. Coming their way.

"Angus! Get Phoebe under cover," Jessamy quickly crouched in front of her daughter and fiercely hugged her, "mummy loves you Pheebs. Never forget that, whatever happens. Mummy loves you."

Hamnavoe gripped the terrified girl's hand, "And what the hell are ye gonnae be doin' when they get here, JB?"

"I've got a plan. Now go," Jessamy kissed him on the cheek, "I love you."

A haunted look passed over Hamnavoe's face. He paused for a second as if about to argue. Then he hoisted Phoebe into his arms and sprinted quickly across the road into one of the derelict buildings on Tobermory's Main Street.

"I didn't sign up fer this. I'm gettin' the fuck outta here!" Gorbachev turned and moved quickly back towards his moored trawler.

"WAIT!" Jessamy yelled, "if they see you run, they'll..."

TAKATAKATAK!

Bullets tore chunks out of the mud clagged road surface in front of Gorbachev as one of Poseidon's RIBs swung around the headland and powered into the bay, raising a bow wave of oily brown slush, "HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!"

Jessamy immediately froze, her eyes darting furtively to the building into which Hamnavoe had fled with Phoebe. Fifty yards away, Gorbachev looked petrified as the the RIB rapidly closed and beached itself just in front of him. Three uniformed figures leapt out onto the black shingle, leaving one still onboard manning the controls. Dressed in MTP overalls and black flak jackets, black kevlar helmets and with their faces covered. These were Aubrey's men alright.

"GET DOWN ON THE FUCKING GROUND! HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD!" yelled one of the men at Gorbachev, holding the business end of an M16 inches from the trawler skipper's face.

"If it's about the guns I can explain..." Gorbachev stammered and was immediately rewarded with a savage kick to the shin. He dropped to his knees, howling in pain.

The two others advanced towards Jessamy, weapons raised, "GET ON THE FUCKING GROUND! MOVE!"

Jessamy slowly spread her hands to show she was unarmed, but remained standing, as she watched their approach.

"I SAID GET ON THE FUCKING GROUND BITCH!"

The tallest of the two slowed, calmly pushing the other's gun barrel down, "Stand down. I'll handle this."

Warily keeping Jessamy covered with an old police issue MP5, the figure tugged down the Buff covering his face, "It's been a long time... Beech."

O'Brian.

Jessamy was patted down and quickly relieved of her Glock, her multitool and the sheaf of papers she'd secreted in her goretex jacket's map pocket.

"I'm guessing Newald told you where we were," O'Brian growled. Jack Aubrey's second in command. Jessamy guessed that the man would be approaching sixty by now. Hamnavoe's age. But despite that he still looked fit, well muscled and dangerous, "I should've put a bullet in his head when I had the chance."

"I guess that's what you're going to do to me now," said Jessamy.

O'Brian laughed, "Fuck no. I'm taking you and your bald friend back to Captain Aubrey. After all the shit you've put him through over the years he's gonna want to make you suffer. Do what he wants then probably turn what's left over to the crew," O'Brian roughly bound her wrists with cable ties, then gestured for Jessamy to move towards the RIB as he turned briefly to his associate, "check the nearest buildings. Make sure there aren't any more of them."

Gorbachev was already climbing into the RIB at gunpoint, his wrists also secured. Where were Hamnavoe and Phoebe? Had they escaped or were they in hiding somewhere in the ruins? Jessamy looked at her feet, aware that even the slightest glance in that direction might be enough to give her husband and daughter's whereabouts away.

"So why are you here?" O'Brian asked, "I take it you've got some delusion that you might be able to stop us."

Hamnavoe could handle himself in a fight. But she wasn't going to risk Phoebe's life. Jessamy needed to draw O'Brian's attention away from Tobermory's ruined buildings, "Fuck you," she snarled.

She saw the punch coming, and could have avoided it... or even blocked it. But Jessamy allowed O'Brian's fist to connect with her cheek, knocking her off her feet to land in a heap on the oil stained beach.

"Jessamy fucking Beech," O'Brian spat, "not so much of a fucking legend now are you?"

Jessamy licked blood from the corner of her mouth, "I should've finished you off in Devonport when I had the chance."

O'Brian studied her for a few seconds as if deciding whether to return Jessamy to Duart Castle or execute her himself. Everything hinged on his decision. Jessamy watched his hard gaze as he deliberated, straining to keep any telltale hint of emotion from her face.

O'Brian smirked as he slammed a gloved fist into her stomach. Jessamy doubled over and fell to her knees, "Get her on the fucking boat," he turned away, "ANY SIGN?"

The last of O'Brian's men emerged from a gutted shop front shaking his head, sliding awkwardly on a mound of fallen roof tiles.

"Right," O'Brian regarded Jessamy coldly, "we'll see what cargo you've got on board this trawler of yours then head back to the castle. There's an old friend of yours... who I think'll be dying to meet you again."

...

Crouching amongst the rotten timbers and decades old rat droppings on the top floor of a derelict hotel nearby, Hamnavoe peeked cautiously out through one of the cracked windows.

"They've t-taken her... haven't they? Th-they've taken my mum," Phoebe had witnessed Jessamy being bundled onto the RIB before Hamnavoe could pull her back from the window.

Hamnavoe shook his head, "No lassie. Yer mother's canny. She LET them take her. Aubrey's thugs'll take her straight to him. She'll be exactly where she wants to be."

Phoebe nodded, understanding the wisdom in her mother's decision. But it wasn't making her feel any better about it.

Hamnavoe began taking stock of food, ammunition or anything else useful he had in his jacket pockets, "We cannae go back to the boat, so we're going to have to find somewhere to spend the night. JB'll be back by morning. Then we can get you back to your sister in Berwick."

"Okay... dad," Phoebe said quietly.

Hamnavoe paused and stared at her.

"Well... you're married to my mum. I can't go on calling you Angus forever. Is that okay?"

A wide grin slowly crept across Hamnavoe's face, "It's absolutely fine sweetheart. Absolutely fine."

...

The RIB accelerated out into the Sound of Mull and turned east. Gorbachev cowered in the bow with Jessamy curled into a foetal ball at his feet, watched by O'Brian and his henchmen. A pair of Kalashnikovs taken from the Millennium Falcon's hold lay on a bench in the stern. A sample of what to expect when the Poseidon's crew returned in greater numbers to collect the rest. Their place of origin and intended destination were irrelevant. Three hundred extra automatic weapons would be most welcome.

The boat sped past the hamlet of Salen and the ferry terminal of Craignure where the soldier Seoras had helped Jessamy escape all those years before. Beyond that a few crumbling piles of stone were all that remained of Torosay Castle - once the headquarters and stronghold of Butcher Beaconsfield - until the night Thanatos had unleashed fire and brimstone from above.

Duart Castle stood further east, alone on a high promontory. A position remote and easily defensible from land, and with its cliffs and high walls on the seaward side a formidable prospect for any invader. Thirty foot high, ten foot thick walls had been designed to repel anything thirteenth century warmongers could throw at it. But now, halfway through the twenty first, almost every viable threat to it had been destroyed by Thanatos. Jack Aubrey had chosen well.