Black Crags

By Simon Austin

"When a mystery illness strikes at an American military base situated deep in the Yorkshire Wolds, world-renowned virus expert Dr James Robinson is sent to investigate. Robinson, accompanied by a disaster-relief team, arrives at Black Crags to find one person already dead and fifty more seriously ill. Yet Robinson soon appears more interested in causing considerable damage to the Station Commander’s private stash of Scotch than in combatting the disease, and his penchant for the amber liquor raises questions over Robinson’s ability to carry out his duties.

But nothing at Black Crags is quite what it seems. Robinson soon finds that the base itself serves a far more surreptitious role than he was led to believe; that the disaster-relief team may have CIA connections and a secondary, and far more sinister, purpose at Black Crags; and that the virus might be a smokescreen to cover something even more disturbing.

Yet Robinson has his own dark secrets, too. Although loosely following the orders issued by his paymasters his real agenda instead revolves around the fallout from events at a remote research station down in the Antarctic barely a year ago. Driven by revenge, rather than a sense of duty, Robinson will stop at nothing in order to accomplish his personal mission at Black Crags ..."

Black Crags is a dry, droll, slow-burning, slightly “old-school” thriller with a twist in the tail and a central character whose loyalties and motives remain decidedly murky right through to the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Austin
• Release date: Mar 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301302956

Simon Austin

After serving a spell as a soldier I gained 1st Degree in Chemistry, and have spent the last twenty-odd years as a (self-confessed) technical genius within the Polymers and Coatings Industry. As a spare-time writer I’ve written and e-published two full thriller/adventure novels, with several more are in various stages of progress. I enjoy reading, and have been influenced by, authors such as Alistair MacLean, Clive Cussler, Ian Fleming and Dick Francis, amongst others. My aim is to produce enjoyable thrillers that are at least as good as anything else on the market. It’s a big ask, and I might not be there yet - but you can help the process along by checking my books out and letting me know what you think through your comments and reviews.

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Black Crags

By

Simon Austin

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 – Simon Austin

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior permission.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover image and design: Alex Austin

First Edition: March 2013

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

CHAPTER 1

The Eastern Airways Jetstream 41 throttled back hard as it skimmed the perimeter fence. After touching down it bounced, just once, then quickly slowed. The pilot applied a feathering touch to the left hand propeller, slewing the little blue and white plane hard in a one-eighty turn on the short runway. By the time the aircraft pulled to a stop outside the terminal building all but one of the twenty three passengers were queuing impatiently in the aisle. A cold blast of air signalled the cabin doors had been opened, and then they were gone.

I stayed in my seat, enjoying the brief moment of peace. It was the fourth flight in thirty six hours, and I was dog-weary. Tired of the jostling, the rudeness of those seasoned travellers, and their competition to be first on the phone, and first to the terminal. But I had other reasons to linger: the plane offered a safe haven, a last chance to draw breath before the final phase began; and I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that, once through the terminal, there was every chance that the wheels were going to fall off my carefully laid plans.

A snowplough had turned on to the runway, and a landrover followed immediately behind, its amber lights flashing brightly. It was snowing hard now and already the ribbon of tarmac had disappeared under a thin white carpet. A fuel truck came alongside the wing of the Jetstream and instantly the cold air became mixed with the pungent aroma of aviation fuel.

There was a light tap on my shoulder. I turned to find the stewardess hovering expectantly. She was a pretty little thing, but jaded and tired. As jaded as I was...

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said, ‘But you’ll have to go. We need to prepare the aircraft for the next flight.’

‘Sure, no problem.’ With a reluctant smile I got to my feet, collected the bag from the overhead locker, and started for the door.

Out on the hardstanding a KLM Cityhopper was warming its engines for take-off. I glanced up at the sky; the clouds were dark and heavy and there was every sign that, if the white stuff kept falling, the airport would soon be closed to commercial traffic. It could have been a cheery thought, except the next flight I was booked on was strictly unscheduled. Cunningham’s words had been specific, though brief: succeed at any cost... The wheels had been put in motion; and even a little matter of a snowstorm wasn’t going to alter that now.

I turned up the collar of my coat but it proved of little use against the driving wind. A figure in a yellow visibility jacket stood, disconsolately, an outstretched arm pointing in the direction of the terminal building. Bloody snow ... I’d seen enough of the stuff over the past few weeks to last me a lifetime.

The line for the passport check had thinned considerably by now. The officials were being especially thorough today, the young lady scanning every passport and scrutinising every face. And behind her stood a large policeman, his eyes constantly passing up and down the queue. Not menacing, exactly; just tough, calm, professional ... reassuringly so. The machine pistol was cradled casually in both arms, yet it enhanced, rather than detracted from, his air of alertness.

The guy in front collected his papers and strode away. I stepped forward and handed over mine. The woman thrust the passport under the scanner, her eyes glued to the screen in front of her. Seconds passed. It seemed like it was taking an eternity to scan...

‘What’s your final destination, sir?’ The words were delivered in a soft, pleasant tone, but she never blinked.

‘Just across the water. North Yorkshire.’

‘And would that be business or pleasure?’

A fair question, and the answer was conceivably both, although perhaps Cunningham wouldn’t have agreed. Behind her, the armed policeman sensed my hesitation and, almost imperceptibly, moved that step closer to alertness. I tried a smile, but it felt forced. Got to say something, son, and quickly... ‘It’s just business, unfortunately.’

Silence. The passport still hadn’t scanned. Had someone fucked up...? Her eyes continued to bore into my own. She was attractive, despite the bulky airport jacket, but I sensed there was a hard edge to her. And matey-boy with the gun was starting to take a real interest now...

The machine beeped twice, and suddenly she was all smiles again. ‘That’s fine,’ she said, handing the document back. ‘Have a good business trip, Dr Robinson.’

‘Thanks.’ But I couldn’t look the copper in the eye as I went past. Fifteen years in the job, and never before had I felt so anxious going through passport control. Perhaps it was a sign of things to come. This was already bearing all the hallmarks of a classic balls-up, and I hadn’t even started yet…

Customs was empty, so I walked straight through. A single suitcase was going round and round on the conveyor belt. Shabby and lonely, just like its owner — and unfortunately it was mine. I hoisted it onto a trolley and wheeled it into the main foyer. The urge to grab a taxi and bugger off somewhere — and right now anywhere would do — was becoming stronger by the minute. Instead I headed for the cafeteria, and a welcome cup of coffee. The peace didn’t last long.

‘Dr Robinson? Is there a Dr Michael Robinson here?’

The voice had come from out in the main hall, and the accent was American. I couldn’t place the twang, and I didn’t really care. Good guys were good guys, bad guys were bad guys, and an accent mattered not a damn. I didn’t trust anyone, at least not until I got to know them, and even then I didn’t trust them much. If they stayed alive long enough — and in this line of business that wasn’t a given — then they might even be elevated to the lofty heights of an acquaintance, but I counted very few amongst that number. It was something one just kinda got used to.

There were any number of people milling around the compact arrivals hall but only one could have been the owner of that voice. A stocky figure in jeans and a thermal fleece, his face weather-beaten and with sun-bleached streaks in the brown hair. Bigger and fitter than I was, and certainly not so tired. Plan B — the spontaneous urge to make a run for it — had just evaporated … but then it had never been more than a fleeting thought anyway. I grabbed my coffee, and the baggage trolley, and ambled back into the foyer to meet my new friend.

‘I’m Robinson,’ I said. ‘And you are ...?’

‘Mitch Dawson.’ He stuck out a hand. ‘Thank Christ you’re still here, Dr Robinson. I thought I’d missed you. We’d best get going. The pilot’s getting edgy — says we have to take off soon or not at all.’

‘No chance of it being not at all, is there?’

He looked at me blankly. Evidently not... I gave a deep and overly dramatic sigh. ‘Better lead on then, friend. It’s never a good idea to keep the pilot waiting.’

Dawson grabbed the larger of my bags and bade me follow him. I didn’t argue, just tailed along behind like a reluctant schoolchild. His contacts must have been better than mine for we by-passed security completely this time. Back out on the apron stood a dark grey helicopter, its rotor blade whining with impatience, blowing up a maelstrom of snow. Dawson climbed on board, gave a smile and thumbs up to the two men in the cockpit, and wedged my bags into one of the luggage nets.

There were just four others in the cabin. Two seats at the front were going spare and Dawson skilfully manoeuvred me into the one by the window. With the snow falling ever more heavily it was obvious time was in short supply; for hardly had I fastened the seatbelt before the engine changed in pitch, the helicopter rolled forward a couple of yards and then lifted off with an unsteady jerk. As we rose beyond the shelter of the terminal building the strength of the wind became all the more apparent; and with each and every gust the craft gave a gut-wrenching lurch. I sighed inwardly: it was going to be a bumpy flight.

Dawson seemed to read my silence as a sign of nerves. ‘Don’t worry, Doc — these flyboys are some of the best around. Hell, they should be at the rate I’m paying them.’

‘They’re your pilots?’ And yet there was a definite sniff of the military about the helicopter, and about Dawson and his crew in particular...

‘Yeah, they’re mine.’ Dawson gave a chuckle. ‘But they cost me plenty. The guy flying this crate, Dave Steiner, already had fifteen years in the Marine Corps, had pledged his life to the flag and never had a doubt he was in for the full term. But that all changed the moment I waved the promise of a big salary under his nose. Now he never misses a chance to tell me how poorly run this outfit is, and how he wishes he’d never taken the job. Doesn’t moan when he cashes the pay cheque each month though.’

‘And the other pilot. The youngster?’

‘Brad Stone. He’s only been with us six months. We poached him from a Search and Rescue team off the Florida Keys. Still on probation really, but he’s doing ok so far’

I nodded towards the seats behind. ‘And all these guys are part of your team too?’

‘Yeah.’ But, since Dawson didn’t turn round, he clearly wasn’t interested in making the introductions. ‘We specialise in helping out with the odd disaster. And by odd I mean really odd. The work’s dangerous but the pay’s good. Especially when the good old US of A is writing the cheques.’

‘You work for the Government, then?’

‘Now and again we do, yeah. Usually involves clearing up other people’s messes. Helped cap a few oil platform fires, lifting people out of the rubble after earthquakes, that sort of thing. Worst one was some weird shit down in the Antarctic once.’ He suddenly seemed to be watching me closely as he asked, casually, ‘You ever been there Doc?’

‘The Antarctic? Me?’ I shook my head. ‘Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure. Just come back from Norway though. That was cold enough for me.’

‘That’s still a long way from the comforts of a hospital or a research laboratory, Doc. Mind if I ask what were you doing out there?’

‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’

The brief flicker of disbelief that crossed his face was almost too good to be true. But then, as he realised I was joking, that huge smile cracked back into life. ‘No, really, Doc — what prompted you to go out there?’

‘Work, money, and kudos, I suppose. I was due to give a speech at a conference in Trondheim. Besides, it’s a good place to monitor the fluctuations in solar radiation. A hobby of mine.’

‘Uh-huh. Northern Lights, and all that. Very pretty, so I hear.’

‘Not just pretty — more like pretty spectacular. Especially right about now. There’s been a hell of a lot of increased activity over the last few days. We could be on the verge of something really quite interesting.’

‘End of the world shit, huh?’

‘Hardly.’ I risked a glance out the window but saw nothing but white. ‘We’re far more likely to come to a sticky end in this bloody thing instead.’

‘Then I’ll sleep soundly tonight, Doc. Rough as it feels this ’chopper’s not going to crash.’

‘I hope some of that optimism rubs off on those around you, Mr Dawson. I could certainly use a pint of whatever you’ve been drinking.’

‘As soon as I bottle it I’ll get some sent right over.’ That wide grin again. Big and friendly, was Mitch Dawson. ‘So what gives? Some would say you’ve drawn the shitty stick if you’ve been whipped out of Norway and fast-tracked to Black Crags instead.’

‘And there was me hoping for a few days holiday after the conference,’ I agreed, with a pained sigh. ‘But when the British Ambassador turns up and tells you you’re off to some god-forsaken place in the middle of Yorkshire, it’s a little difficult to wriggle out of it. Especially as he was accompanied by a couple of heavies in dark suits, if you get my drift.’

Dawson smiled again, but this time there was little warmth in it. ‘I know just what you mean: those suits you mention sound a helluva lot like the ones who persuaded us. I hope you’re all I’ve heard you are though, Doc. Like I say, the stuff we do is dangerous but the money more than compensates. But this, well ... this is something else.’ As his words tailed away a flicker of something crossed his face again. Worry, perhaps...?

In truth he had good reason to worry. Yeah, so I’d come from Norway in a hurry but then everything recently had been done in a hurry. There was the rushed summons to the Consulate in Trondheim, the garbled news of an outbreak of a mystery virus in a small American military base in Yorkshire, the terse pack a bag and get going and the miraculously-produced plane ticket to Humberside via Aberdeen. It was all one big rush — and that, usually, amounted to one big balls-up in the making.

‘I guess we’ll find out soon enough.’ I said, all the while wondering how much Dawson actually did know about the trouble at Black Crags. He wasn’t giving much away, at least not yet. ‘I take it you didn’t exactly volunteer either then?’

‘For this shit? You’ve gotta be kidding me. The money’s good but it ain’t that fucking good. They had to twist my arm real good this time.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘In fact they twisted it so far they nearly shoved it up my ass. That’s the trouble with sucking up to the Government ... you take on one or two contracts and they suddenly think they own you.’

That was true enough, friend... ‘You said something about being down in the Antarctic a while back?’

‘Yeah.’ A grimace, then he added, ‘That was one hell of a messy business.’

‘I don’t suppose it had anything to do with a certain research station on the Weddell shelf, did it?’ I let the words fall out casually, as if nothing more than a throwaway comment.

His opal blue eyes hardened as he stared straight back at me. ‘As a matter of fact, it did, Doc. How in the hell ...?’

He had every right to wonder, given it had hardly made the news and then only in a starkly sanitised form. Research Station Weddell 1052 had been a fifteen-month joint affair between the British and French to study the effects of cold weather on viruses. But five months into the programme a French scientist had gone round the bend, shot all his companions with a hunting rifle and then set fire to the research facility before plugging himself in the head. It had been Dawson and his men who had got there, and far too late at that. Either because of the shocking nature of the affair, or perhaps the diplomatic sensitivities, one way or another there had been very little reporting on the affair. I hadn’t heard it in the news, or from the grapevine, or indeed even from the support ship, the RMS Shackleton, when it had returned to Portsmouth. But I had heard that the whole business carried with it a distinctly fetid smell ... and in my book that meant it had all the classic hallmarks of a cover up. But Dawson wasn’t to know that my source had been a little closer to home for, as with all my sources, I kept that sort of information strictly under my hat.

‘The scientific community is a pretty small one, and the rumours travel fast,’ I said glibly, for the lies had been getting easier by the hour. ‘I know someone who knows someone who knows ... well, you get the idea.’

‘Then I’m just sorry we didn’t get there in time,’ said Dawson quietly. He was about to add something to that statement when the helicopter caught a pocket of air and dropped like a stone. It was only a few feet, perhaps, but it was enough to dislodge some of the baggage in the overhead cages.

And it was violent enough that I let out an involuntary curse, as well. I looked at Dawson in some alarm. ‘You reckon this Steiner guy is supposed to be the best? And yet before take-off you said he was getting distinctly, ahh ... edgy.’

‘A poor choice of words, for sure,’ Dawson admitted ruefully, his face creasing back into that ever-ready smile. ‘Dave Steiner is always impatient, whatever the weather or the situation. But he’s a damn fine pilot, and there’s no one I’d rather have up front in a shitstorm like this.’

‘You’d better be right. My old mum had high hopes for a long and illustrious career for her only son: she wouldn’t be too impressed if her little boy bowed out early due to bad weather. Not after what she had to put herself through to get me into Med. School at any rate.’

He laughed again. ‘I kinda get the feeling you don’t do a lot of this, Doc, do you? Trust me, your momma’s little boy will be just fine. I’ve been through much worse.’

So had I, but he wasn’t to know that, either. In fact I had the feeling that the less Mitch Dawson knew about me, the better. I wasn’t swallowing his story about being part of a freelance troubleshooting outfit that chipped in whenever disaster struck. But I did buy into him working with the US Government, and I also figured it was true he went around cleaning up after people. Dawson’s team looked big and tough, and certainly capable of clearing up — or indeed causing — the odd mess or two, for they had the unmistakable sniff of a professional outfit. If I had to stick my neck on the block — and there was every chance I might have to do just that — then I’d stake that neck on Dawson being CIA and therefore, one assumed, on the side of the great and the good. But as I didn’t know him from Adam, and as I’d never been a particularly good judge of character either, it suited me just fine if Dawson got the impression I was the shy, retiring, never-take-a-chance sort of guy. And if he believed that, he’d believe anything …

Dawson glanced at his watch, then got out of his seat and wandered towards the front of the ’chopper. The craft was bucking and yawing all over the place yet he never put a hand out to steady himself, never took a false step. Instead he chatted to some of the others, made a few jokes, and checked the state of the equipment nets, and then the pilots. A real pro, was Mitch Dawson, unfazed by anything ... I turned back to the window, not that there was much to see. Just the damned snow, and plenty of it. It was coming thick and fast, illuminated by the navigation lights, and it was coming horizontally. As there was nothing else to do I went with the only option at my disposal: sleep. God only knew it might be a while before another chance came along...

***

It was more of a dig in the ribs than a polite nudge, and yet I found it hard to shake away the slumber. A glance at the watch suggested I’d been out for nearly half an hour. Not bad for someone who was supposed to be scared of flying...

‘I think we’re here,’ Dawson was saying, as he jabbed me again. Then he pointed a stubby finger in the direction of the window.

I looked outside. It seemed the polite thing to do, especially as Dawson was taking such an interest — although it was an interest I didn’t particularly share, and for a number of perfectly