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The distant firing was more intense than ever, incessant heavy reports and
machine-gun fire reaching the ears of those on the yacht. The battle was at
full pitch, the night sky iridescent with the continual orange flashes of
on-shore artillery.
The Ocean Queen bumped gently against the wooden jetty which stretched out
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from the stony beach, a line of arc lamps intermingled with coloured
fairylights creating a welcome return for those on board. Mooring ropes were
thrown out, a couple of sweater-clad figures securing them, pulling the yacht
close in and running out a short gangplank. Passengers crowded the single exit
point, their faces white and strained, muttering amongst themselves. In the
distance gunfire could still be heard.
'What's going on over on Shell?' Manning was one of the last to leave the
yacht, addressing his question to a short bearded man who was still in the
process of knotting the mooring rope.
'I dunno but somethin' must be up. That's never a practice battle. Sounds like
they've been invaded.'
'That's fucking nonsense,' Manning's tone lacked conviction. 'Where's this
press photographer?'
'I ain't seen nobody, boss. Just me and Bill and those few folks there come to
meet their friends,'
Miles Manning seethed inwardly. His most important hour so far and the
bleedin' press couldn't be bothered to turn out. He looked around; people were
hurrying away from the jetty as though they wanted to put as much distance
between themselves and the sea as possible. Perhaps it was a good thing the
newspapers hadn't turned up. There were a lot of unanswered questions and he
meant to put those right as soon as possible. Publicity he wanted but not
adverse publicity.
'I want this boat checked over first thing in the morning,' he snapped. 'The
bottom caught something out there. Then something hit us. I'd like to know
what it was.'
Ricky Winterbottom strode in the wake of his boss back to the camp. Miles
Manning was in a rage and that could be dangerous for everybody who happened
to be around at the time. Nevertheless, you learned to stick close because
Christ help you if he wanted you and you weren't there.
The Blue Ocean Holiday Camp seethed with activity even though it was almost
midnight. The night was balmy and crowds lingered in the streets, queuing at
the seafood and fish-and-chip stalls. On the central boating lake mallard
quacked in protest at this continued nocturnal disturbance. A youth was
skimming stones into the water and somebody was yelling for him to pack it in.
It could just end in a brawl but Manning had no time for such trivialities.
Across the funfair and down by the neon-lighted amusement arcade he made
straight for the squat timbered building which bore the large notice in red
lettering - SECURITY.
Two men in green uniforms looked up as he entered.
'Ah, Mr Manning,' the older of the two spoke nervously, almost stuttered.
'We've been trying to get you at your office. There's a priority call for you.
Colonel Goode, Ministry of Defence.'
Miles Manning pushed his way past the desks, grabbed the telephone receiver
which was lying there. 'Manning speaking.'
The others in the room tried to listen without appearing to eavesdrop. A
staccato voice at the other end which they could not decipher, just a terse
crackling sound. But they saw the way Manning clutched at the desk for
support, how that permanent tan of his suddenly seemed to have paled.
'I don't believe it,' he grunted at length. 'This is some kind of hoax. It's
some bloody game that lot on Shell are up to, trying to drive everybody out of
the area.'
Colonel Goode was obviously at pains to convince him otherwise. And suddenly
Miles Manning wasn't cursing and protesting. Unintelligible grunts followed by
'What's the best thing for us to do? We've got something like five thousand
people in the camp here. We don't want a mass panic.'
A few minutes later he replaced the receiver and turned towards Ricky
Winterbottom and the two security men.
'That firing on Shell Island tonight,' his voice was a hoarse whisper, his
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features white with strain and shock. 'The island has been attacked, virtually
destroyed. There's nothing left of all the WD buildings and equipment, and
they won't know until daylight how many lives have been lost.'
'Attacked!' Winterbottom was incredulous. 'By whom?'
'By hundreds of giant crabs as big as fucking cows! I didn't believe it at
first but I do now. It sounds crazy but it's true. The Ministry reckon this
coastline is crawling with them. That's what hit our boat out there tonight.
We went right over the top of them, scraped our hull on their shells. Jesus
Christ Almighty, if they'd wanted they could've overturned the Ocean Queen and
done to us what they did to Shell. But they were too intent on attacking the
shore to worry about us.'
'We'll have to evacuate the camp,' Ricky Winter-bottom felt that he was
expected to come up with something. 'Get everybody to safety.'
'That's just what we don't have to do,' Miles Manning slid a King Edward cigar
out of his case, took his time unwrapping the cellophane and piercing the end,
collecting his dazed thoughts whilst he got it going. 'This is going to be one
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