Enemy Within: A heart-wrenching medical mystery (British Military Thriller Series Book 3)

by Nathan Burrows

  While he waited for the helicopter to approach, Adams took out his phone and snapped a few more photographs, much to the soldier’s disgust. But Adams knew there was nothing they could do about it. Then he tried calling Hannah, as he knew she would be inside the cordon. Her phone would be in her locker in the changing room. But when he tried calling, he realised he didn’t have a signal.

  Adams put his phone away and watched the third Chinook circling lazily in the air above the playing field. A soldier, or perhaps an airman, in combats and a high-visibility vest, was standing on the edge of the makeshift helicopter landing site talking into a handheld radio. At least they’d got a marshal in, but Adams was still a bit irritated it wasn’t him.

  The Chinook touched down neatly in a line with the other two and figures started appearing from the rear of the helicopter. The first twenty or so people who disembarked were more soldiers who quickly dispersed to reinforce the cordon. Then a strange procession made its way down the ramp of the Chinook. Six people, all in full nuclear, biological, and chemical suits, shuffled down it, carrying a large piece of equipment between them. Adams recognised it as an air transportable isolator. It looked like an incubator for a premature or unwell baby, but this device was for adults. The device was too heavy to be wheeled across the grass. They tried, but the wheels just dug into the soft grass, so they had to carry it toward the department. Adams was just raising his phone to snap some pictures when the handset was snatched from his hand.

  “Sorry, sir,” a male voice said. “You can’t take pictures here.” Adams turned to see an angry-looking police officer with his phone in his hand.

  “Can I have that back please, officer?” Adams asked, keeping his voice neutral and glancing at the yellow handle of the taser tucked into the front of the police officer’s uniform.

  “No. This area’s restricted, and that means no photos.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on is that if you don’t move away from this area, and behind the cordon, you’ll be arrested.”

  Adams looked over the police officer’s shoulder to see that the cordon had been extended outwards while he was waiting for the helicopter to land, and he was now effectively inside it.

  “Arrested for what?” Adams replied.

  “On suspicion of being a twat. Now move along like a good boy.”

  Knowing that there was nothing he could say or do, Adams did as he was instructed. He walked away from the police officer, who still had his phone, and the trio of soldiers, and headed for the main hospital building where a crowd was gathering. It looked like a mixture of hospital personnel and civilians. Beyond them was a couple of vans with antenna and satellite dishes on the roofs.

  A few moments later, the police officer caught up with Adams to return his phone. He did so wordlessly and, when Adams examined his phone, the earlier photographs he had taken had all been deleted.

  Adams joined the throng of people between the hospital and the emergency department. They were slowly being moved back and away from the area by a line of police officers. There was no shouting, no pushing or shoving. Just an unbroken line of navy blue gently manoeuvring everyone away from the area.

  “What’s going on?” Adams asked a hospital porter he recognised.

  “No idea, mate,” the porter replied. “Not a Scooby.”

  “Can I borrow your phone? I need to contact a friend who’s inside the emergency department.”

  “You could, but I can’t get a signal.” The porter looked around at the crowd that surrounded them before turning to Adams with a concerned expression. “No-one can.”

  90

  Any hopes that Waterfield had of a decent lunch, preferably with a pint, at the Old Shades were dashed when he saw the trays of sandwiches being brought into the COBRA meeting room. A succession of young women, all wearing identical black skirts and white blouses, ferried them in along with large flasks of tea and coffee and fresh carafes of water. It looked as if they were going to be in the room for a while longer, if not all day.

  The Prime Minster had disappeared not long after the previous briefing session, giving the occupants of the room fifteen minutes or so to stretch their legs. Waterfield had taken the opportunity to go up to the surface, retrieve his phone, and call Amelia to let her know he was tied up with a crisis.

  “What’s going on?” she had asked him. “There’s nothing on the news.” That was reassuring, at least. The current crisis hadn’t hit the media as yet.

  Waterfield had just disconnected the call when a familiar, if unwelcome, face arrived. Admiral, or to give him his full title, Admiral Sir Kevin Knox, the Vice-Chief of the Defence Staff. He was Waterfield’s deputy, and the two had not got along for years. It wasn’t helped by the fact that Admiral Knox already had his knighthood, whereas Waterfield would have to retire before he got his.

  “Knox, what are you doing here?” Waterfield had said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “I don’t need an understudy.”

  “PM’s orders,” Knox had replied as he had brushed past Waterfield. “All hands to the pump, apparently.”

  The two men were now sitting next to each other in an uncomfortable silence in the bowels of Whitehall as they waited for the next briefing session to begin. This one was going to be chaired by Arthurton, and was mostly going to be delivered by Cartwright as the head of the security services, but Waterfield had a speaking part.

  Almost twenty minutes after most of the trays of sandwiches had been cleared, Arthurton returned. He was flanked by two armed police officers, who took up a station on either side of the entrance door to the briefing room. Waterfield regarded them curiously. The presence of armed officers actually in the room wasn’t something he’d seen before.

  “Ladies, gentlemen,” Arthurton said as he took his place at the head of the table. “I hope you’re all refreshed?” There was a muted chorus of approval around the room. The gathered audience was predominantly from the security services and the police, and unlike the earlier briefing, when people were standing at the back of the room, everyone had a seat. To Waterfield’s delight, Knox had been relegated to the cheap seats at the back of the room.

  “Right, so, welcome to the first briefing for Operation BETSY, as this horrendous situation has now been formally named,” Arthurton said. “We could have perhaps had a punchier name for it, but this is what the computer’s given us. Cartwright? Over to you.”

  With the preamble over, the head of MI5 started his briefing. There wasn’t a great deal of new information, but a lot to update.

  “Okay, so we have three focal points at present for this operation. The first is in Norwich which is spread out over a couple of sites. First is the Ascalon Institute, the research facility where we believe this virus was created. The remains of a Level 4 containment lab have been found, and the lead researcher was killed a couple of days ago.”

  “Sounds like they’re cleaning up to me,” the man next to Waterfield whispered in his ear.

  “There’s also another murder linked to the institute. A research assistant who worked there was murdered while walking home last week, and the local police have had a report of a missing man who worked there as a security guard.”

  Cartwright took a sip of his water before continuing.

  “The second site in Norwich is the hospital. General Waterfield? Could you brief on that element, please?”

  “Certainly,” Waterfield replied, pleased to be in the limelight even if it was only going to be for a few moments. “We deployed sixty members of 16 Close Air Support Regiments from Colchester to isolate the emergency department. They were able to lock the facility down within moments of landing at the hospital.”

  The Metropolitan Police commissioner nodded in approval. So he might, Waterfield thought. He couldn’t see the police being able to achieve that task so effectively. Perhaps that was slightly unfair, as the police didn’t have paratroopers with guns and Chinook helicopters to ferry them about.

/>   “Is it still locked down?” Arthurton asked. Waterfield was about to reply when a man in a suit cut across him, earning a fierce look from the chief of defence staff.

  “We’ve deployed jokers to the immediate area to stop any cellular communications, but word is now leaking out,” the man said, looking to Cartwright as he spoke.

  “We can’t hold the line for much longer, Arthurton,” Cartwright added. “Word will get out in the next few hours. I’ve got a team at GCHQ squashing the social media posts, but they’ll soon reach the point where we can’t do that anymore.”

  “Okay, understood. Any news on the casualty?” Arthurton asked, addressing the room.

  “It’s now casualties, Home Secretary,” a young woman sitting in the cheap seats replied. “The index casualty is hanging on, but there’s now also a member of hospital staff who was looking after her exhibiting symptoms. Whatever’s causing it is incredibly fast acting.”

  “Thank you. Cartwright? What do we know about the index case?”

  “She’s the journalist who sent the material to the PhD student,” Cartwright replied.

  “So she’s been in the laboratory?”

  “We assume so.”

  “Right,” Arthurton said with a sigh. “What else have we got?”

  “Some chatter’s been picked up on the airwaves by the donut,” Cartwright replied. “It was between a burner phone in the United Kingdom and a mobile phone in Sierra Leone.”

  “What did it say?” Arthurton asked him. Waterfield leaned forward in anticipation of his answer.

  “There were several phrases picked up. The term ‘Ascalon Institute’ was used, as was ‘third study’ and ‘incubation period’.”

  “Do you have the full conversation?”

  “No,” Cartwright replied.

  “Why not?”

  Cartwright regarded Arthurton with a look of exasperation.

  “Home Secretary, do you have any idea how many phone calls are made every second of every day? We can’t record them all.”

  “Right, what else have we got?” Arthurton looked around the room. “Anyone?”

  The woman who had provided the update on the casualties raised her hand.

  “Home Secretary?” she said nervously.

  “Yes?”

  “The World Health Organisation has just deployed an infectious disease team to a non-governmental organisation in Kissy Town, Sierra Leone.”

  “How is that related to this operation?” Cartwright turned to the woman and glared at her as if she was wasting their time.

  “I was going to tell you, sir, but it’s only just come in. The NGO is called ‘Allied Forth’.”

  “Never heard of them,” Cartwright barked.

  “Neither had I, sir, but it’s the backers of the NGO who are relevant.” A hush descended over the room as every set of eyes turned to the woman. “They’re funded by the Ascalon Institute.”

  91

  Lizzie made her way painfully down the hallway of the White House. Every joint in her body was aching, her head was still pounding, and she felt nauseated. Her headache wasn’t being helped by someone pounding on the front door to the building.

  The last hour had been absolutely awful. Obi was dead, lying on his bed covered in a sheet soaked in blood. The only saving grace was that Lizzie didn’t think he had suffered too much, as he’d never really regained consciousness since they’d dragged him onto his bed. Jack was in a bad way, and only a few moments before had vomited fresh blood. Lizzie couldn’t be sure, but she thought he might be jaundiced as well. Divya was bleeding so much there was no way it could be her period, and she too was aching so much she could barely move. Isobel was barely rousable, but she wasn’t bleeding. It was only Lizzie and Claire who were, relatively speaking, being spared the worst of the symptoms. But watching the others and knowing that they might develop the symptoms they had at some point was terrifying.

  The banging on the front door continued, causing Lizzie to wince. Every blow on the door sent a wave of pain through her head.

  “I’m coming,” Lizzie tried to shout, but it only came out as a croak. She eventually reached the door and, after fumbling with the key a couple of times, managed to swing it open.

  There were two people standing on the doorstep. They were both dressed in full length white suits with semi-rigid helmets, thick gloves that came halfway up their forearms, and rubber boots. Lizzie looked through the visor of one of them to see a kind-looking middle-aged white woman smiling at her reassuringly.

  “Hello,” the woman said, her voice distorted by whatever device was amplifying her voice so that she could be heard outside her suit. “I’m Doctor Northfield from the World Health Organisation. Can we come in?”

  Over the woman’s shoulder, Lizzie could see a team of people in the courtyard in front of the house. They were all dressed in the same protective equipment and were assembling a large tent. Behind them, the gates to the complex were closed.

  “Sure,” Lizzie replied, stepping back from the door in relief. She swayed as she did so, and Doctor Northfield reached out a gloved hand to steady her.

  “What’s your name, my dear?”

  “I’m Lizzie. I’m a medic.”

  “Was it you who called us?” Doctor Northfield said as she gently guided Lizzie to a chair.

  “No,” Lizzie replied. She felt faint and knew it was because help had finally arrived.

  “How many people are in the house?”

  Lizzie managed to give Doctor Northfield a handover of sorts. She told her about Jack, and where his bedroom was, and then Divya.

  “They’re the sickest,” Lizzie gasped. “They’re both bleeding. Jack’s got haematemesis and rectal bleeding. Divya’s got really bad vaginal bleeding.”

  Doctor Northfield nodded at her companion, who made their way into the house. Lizzie realised she didn’t even know if the other person in the suit was male or female.

  “Don’t forget Isobel,” Lizzie tried to call out after the suited individual. “First floor.”

  “Don’t worry, Lizzie,” Doctor Northfield said. “They’ll all be triaged.”

  “I didn’t tell you about Obi,” Lizzie replied.

  “What symptoms does Obi have?”

  “None,” Lizzie sighed. “He’s dead.”

  Another suited figure appeared at the door and, after telling Lizzie that she would be back in a few moments, Doctor Northfield had a hurried conversation with the new arrival. He, or she, was carrying a monitor in their hand. When they approached Lizzie, she saw it was another woman.

  “Hey, Lizzie,” the woman said as she put the monitor down next to her chair. “I’m Maureen. Doctor Northfield’s told me all about you. Is it okay if I have a quick look at you?”

  Lizzie nodded her assent and sat back in the chair as Maureen wrapped a blood pressure cuff around her upper arm and placed an oxygen saturation probe on her finger.

  Twenty minutes later, Lizzie was lying alone in her bedroom, having been helped up the stairs by Maureen and another medic. Maureen had asked Lizzie to stay in her room, not that she had any intention of going anywhere else. She was exhausted. Bone tired. Doctor Northfield had given her an intramuscular injection of something, but Lizzie had been so tired that she’d not even asked what it was.

  “There’ll be someone on the landing,” Maureen had said. “If you need the bathroom, they’ll be able to help you.” Maureen had reassured Lizzie that there had been no change in the condition of the others in the house since the WHO team had arrived.

  Lizzie rolled over and reached for her phone. She needed to sleep, but she had to speak to Adams before she went to sleep. Just in case she didn’t wake up. It took her a couple of tries, but eventually she managed to call him.

  “Hey, Lizzie!” At the sound of his voice, Lizzie felt tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Hey, Adams,” she said quietly. “Listen, I’m in trouble.”

  “Is your predatory lesbian back again?” Adam
s said, and Lizzie heard him laughing down the line. But it wasn’t the best connection. “Did you get a lock fitted on your door?”

  “No, it’s not that. I’m in serious trouble.”

  “Hold on.” A few seconds later, the line was much clearer. “Sorry, I was on my bike. What’s going on?” His voice was full of concern.

  “I’m sick, Adams,” Lizzie said, trying to stop crying. “We’re all sick. Obi’s dead.”

  “What? Did you just say someone’s dead?”

  “Yes, Obi. And I don’t think Jack’s far behind him.” Lizzie forced herself to sit on the edge of the bed. She knew that if she lay down, she would be asleep within seconds.

  “What’s going on?” Lizzie could hear the fear in Adams’s voice.

  “I don’t know. Whatever it is, it’s vicious and ridiculously quick.” Lizzie took a deep breath and stumbled to her feet to look out of the window. Outside, the suited teams had constructed a series of tents that she recognised as a decontamination line. She’d put enough of them together in her time on exercises. “The World Health Organisation are here. They’re all in full PPE.” There was a silence on the line. “Are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m here,” Adams replied. “What symptoms have you got?”

  “I just feel awful,” Lizzie said. “The worst headache I’ve ever had, my joints are burning, I feel sick. But I’m not as bad as the others.” Not yet, Lizzie thought, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Adams asked. “Tell me what I can do?”

  “There’s nothing you can do, Adams,” Lizzie replied. “I need to sleep. I’ll call you later.”

  “Call me the minute you wake up so I know you’re okay.”

  “I will, I promise. I need to sleep.”

  Adams was still talking as Lizzie ended the call, but she couldn’t stay on her feet anymore. She threw the phone onto the table and picked up a tissue to mop her eyes before she fell onto the bed and rolled over.

  Next to her, the tissue that she had used fell to the floor, the blood on it unnoticed by Lizzie.