by Sam Nash
“With respect, madam, can you be sure that soldiers are not sourcing and taking steroids outside of the system?” I watched her response. Her pinched frown made me realise that she thought of the rank and file as nothing more than automaton killing machines. Eating when they are told, sleeping when told and killing when told. They were inhuman to her, incapable of free thought or actions. It had not crossed her mind that there exists the same hierarchical interaction and competitiveness between personnel as anywhere, more so in fact. The pressure to acquire strong muscle mass, be agile and more aggressive was always bound to lead to chemical enhancement for some. The question was, for how many? Were any of those undisclosed supplements really a steroid based cocktail to beef up the army? And I had not even tackled the issue of the experimental inoculations, if that was indeed what they were proposing to administer. Who knows what they were instructed to cook up at Porton Down?
Anthony Knight was conspicuous by his silence. I peered at him a few times during the presentation, but his expressions did not flicker once. He looked rather bored by proceedings.
I could see the blustering general gearing up for another onslaught. “Are you suggesting that we send our unprotected men out into the desert to be sprayed with deadly spores or gas? For God’s sake man, that bastard used Sarin on his own people. Our intelligence indicates that Saddam has massive stores of bioweapons, and that is without the exposure to typhus, yellow fever, malaria and such, that are naturally present in the population over there. What do you expect us to do, give them an aspirin each and tell them to wash their hands?”
“Sir. I am an advocate of vaccines, truly, but this programme is insane.” On reflection, that was not my best choice of words, but I persevered, nonetheless. “This schedule involves a regime of Nerve Agent Pre-treatment tablets, before and during mobilization, that can have serious side effects, particularly if they are crushed or chewed instead of swallowing. Plus, up to twenty-eight inoculations at once. Most, if not all, are packaged up with chemicals to enhance the immune response, sending the body’s reactions into overdrive. Even the toughest, fittest bodies would struggle to assimilate all that.” What possessed me to be so emboldened I will never know? I suppose in that moment, I believed it was worth risking my own life to protect thousands of others. A fleeting thought about two front car tyres exploding, passed through my mind. I found it difficult to swallow. Perspiration was bleeding into the notepaper clutched in my hands.
The board members were silent. I wiped my hand on my trouser leg. Anthony Knight looked directly at me and said; “Does that conclude your presentation, Dr Lawrence?”
I wanted to say yes. I wanted to run from the room, book a flight to Outer Mongolia and never come back, but the dogmatic immunologist inside forced my mouth open. “No, sir. We have not addressed the experimental vaccines.” A muscle in my leg started to twitch, making my knee tremble. I pushed my foot down into the floor to mask its affect. The pages slipped from my lap and skittered across the polished floor. Embarrassed, I left them. I took the moderate rise of Knight’s brow as a sign that I should continue, but with caution. “It appears that two coded inoculations are untested for human safety. I was not given any details of their constituents, nor the diseases for which they are purported to protect against.”
Knight’s head whiplashed around to scowl at the other suits. Their petrified expressions, evidence enough of their superior knowledge on the matter. My ego got ahead of me. “Sir, need I remind you of the Nuremberg Code, research principles and ethics on Human Experimentation?”
The general flushed crimson, both arms slamming down on the table. “Why you, obstreperous upstart! How dare you…”
“Actually general, he is right.” Lady suit interrupted. “We are vulnerable. Without the definitive lawful sanction on the products, we leave ourselves open to legal action further down the line.”
Knight seemed to contemplate her statement with little regard. He smoothed down his hair, puffed out his chest and said, “Then it remains classified. All medics will be instructed not to document inoculations or which of the coded vaccines are administered. They cannot bring legal action if there is no record of it occurring.” He stood up, buttoning his jacket and thanking the panel members for attending. He then turned to me and said, “Dr Lawrence, would you follow me. Please?”
My stomach erupted inside me. I took a deep breath, and attempted to gather up my fallen notes from the floor.
“Leave those,” Knight said. “My assistant will collect and shred them.”
I followed him through a side door into an anteroom, and from there into a long corridor. The passive look on his face had returned and I could not ascertain his mood or intentions. We were at the rear of the building, when he turned and beckoned me down a set of concrete steps. I could hear my pulse throbbing in my jugular, the rate increasing with our descent. A left turn at the bottom, brought us into a basement foyer and face to face with an armed guard. Was this where they held dissenters until they cracked, or dispatched those who failed to comply? Despite the feeling that my organs were liquifying inside, I held my head high and tried to feign confidence.
More doors and another set of steps, this time narrow and made of steel. We descended beyond the bowels of the Ministry of Defence building into a tunnel laden with pipes and conduits. Wafts of mould and rodent excrement filled my nostrils. Condensation dripped onto metal junction boxes in an unconducted chorus. Our steps echoed, then synchronised, until a third set could be heard above our own. In the dim light, the silhouette of an enormous man approached. I glanced around for something, anything with which to defend myself, my breaths shortening to canine panting as the man came into clear view. He looked at Knight, nodded recognition and said, “Sir,” then passed by, continuing down the tunnel.
Knight must have caught my look of panic. “Shortcut to the office I’m using. Mine’s out of commission at the moment, spot of refurb, so I’m camping out in the old War Offices.” As we reached the far end of the tunnel, the ding of an arriving lift sounded. Two men alighted, carrying rolled up blueprints and wearing hard hats. The control panel on the wall had only one button – down.
“So, it’s true then?” I ventured, when the wobble in my throat had abated.
“What is?” He seemed distracted.
“That there are huge underground bunkers beneath the MoD.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say huge presently, but that is the plan.” Knight smiled for the first time. It caught me off guard. He had perfect teeth, straight, white tombstones of expensive dentistry. “Would you like to see?” He continued, directing us to the lift controls.
“But is it not…um…top secret?” Different scenarios raced through my mind. This is where the baddie tells all, knowing that the protagonist will meet a tragic end. What would it be a gunshot to the back of the head or an injection of something lethal, with no messy clear up? Perhaps one of his henchmen will break my neck and drag me out of the service entrance wrapped in plastic?
“Of course, it’s secret, but you are bound by the terms of confidentiality and I am choosing to inform you.” That smile again. Most unnerving. Curiosity and a fatalistic streak in me, rose to the surface and drew me inside the metal cube. He pressed the button on the control panel. The doors closed and I felt my innards lurch as we plummeted into the depths. The sharp smell of cordite filtered in as the brakes screeched and we bobbed to a full stop. God knows, how far underground we were standing, but it seemed an awful lot lower than the escalators and lifts of the Tube stations.
It took a moment to equilibrate. A dizzying mixture of too much oxygen and the stench of molten metal threw me off kilter. I steadied myself against a wall.
“Are you alright, old boy?” Knight said, coming to my aid. A part of me was annoyed by his use of that phrase. Knight is about my age. Another part of me, felt relieved that he had used a term of endearment. Perhaps I was not for the chop after all, but then, what was I doing in
a top secret military bunker?
“It’s quite hard to breathe.” I managed to squeeze out.
“Oh yes. I believe they are welding some of the ventilation shafts today. It does pong a bit.” He pushed a series of stiff buttons on a keypad lock. It clunked, and Knight opened the heavy blast-proof doors. “Come through, Dr Lawrence. It should be better in here.”
I found myself in the confines of Central Command, a war room with one foot in the military past and another stepping into the future. At the far end, banks of computer terminals, the like of which surpassed even those I saw at Porton Down. Remnants of telecom history nestled in corners. Colour coded telephones, direct lines to The White House and Downing Street and such.
At the heart of the bunker, the large shiny table supported a cardboard and plastic model of their development plans. I bent low and scrutinised the tiered structure of layered chambers, dormitories, agricultural pods and geothermal heat source. The access tunnels to its own water supply and underground train network to GCHQs across the country. With the potential to house a large number of people for an infinite amount of time, this was far more than a War Room. This was the Noah’s Ark of nuclear bunkers, a solution to the event that would spell the end of the mankind.
Knight allowed me a few moments to absorb the information, then said, “pretty impressive, don’t you think?”
I couldn’t think. I was still processing.
“Of course,” he continued, “it’ll take years to complete, and I dare say that plans will change as we go along, to take into account all the modern tech that crops up, but the bare bones of it is sound.”
I looked at the model again. Some of the dormitories were set out like miniature housing units. There was a creche and a schoolroom. This was no simple Command Centre. I looked at the disparate resources surrounding us, then back at the model. Entire sections of the chambers were devoted to computers and giant screens.
Knight followed my train of thought. “My sources tell me that you are a quick study, when it comes to computers.”
“I have dabbled. They are remarkably versatile, particularly in assisting with scientific research.” I found myself arching my back and elongating my spine. Knight was quite the imposing figure, by virtue of his height as well as his professional status.
“Hmm, scientists are a tricky bunch, no offence. You’ve heard what those damn fools are planning over at CERN?” Knight dug his fists into his trouser pockets and rocked back on his loafers. He seemed surprised when I shook my head, then he explained. “One of them has found a way of connecting computers from all over the world using the telecom lines. He’s insisting the technology to enable it remains free, other than the telephone bills you understand. They are calling it the World Wide Web.”
“But that sounds amazing. I imagine that would be a good thing, surely?” I said, without thinking.
“But good for who? They want it open for any Tom, Dick and Harry to by-pass our monitoring systems and God knows where that will lead. It should be for military use only, or if not, tight regulations for industrial use.” He scoffed, then turned it into a snuffle. I had no intention of fuelling his anger further. I looked once more at the model to diffuse tension. How could they predict the use of giant flat screens and interconnected computers, unless they were already in development?
Hot dust and the stink of melting steel seeped through the vents. I pinched my nose and covered my mouth, then retreated with Knight back to the elevator doors. On our jerky ascent, he continued to berate the CERN scientist for his altruism. “I am convinced that no good can come of this. We already have guided missiles, imagine the chaos and destruction if the likes of Gorbachev and his cronies use linked computer systems to accurately target our cities and installations with nukes? Or, God forbid, Saddam Hussein coordinates his militia to orchestrate bioweapon strikes using the World Wide Web.” Knight shook his head. “I’m telling you now. This will be the biggest threat to our future since Hitler.” He strode out of the lift and jogged up a small flight of steps into an older tunnel set. The cast iron legacy of pipes told me that we were under the old War Offices.
More concrete stairs followed that fed into plush marble hallways, rich wool carpets and polished brass banisters. We were met by a number of thin young gentlemen, each carrying a bundle of papers. One of them appeared to outrank the others. He stepped forward, pushed his spectacles closer to his face and licked his lips. “Sir, the Council have been waiting for you for over half an hour. They have news from the White House.”
Knight bounded up the last of the steps and brushed him aside. “They can wait. This is more important. Schedule something for later this afternoon.”
“Very good, sir.” The young man dipped his head reverentially, then ushered his little party away. I scurried after Knight, my thoughts tangled in a knot of concern and interest. How could speaking with me be more important than dealing with news from the White House? My mind wandered back to the reason I had been summoned to the MoD. Perhaps Knight agreed with my findings after all and was looking for another solution.
We paced across the grand hallway, between marble columns and to the left of an enormous central staircase. I could not help myself from craning my neck at the neo-Baroque splendour all around. Knight stopped and looked back at me dawdling in the hall. “Impressive, isn’t it?” He said, a smirk grew in a crescent above his chin. “Hardly used these days. It’d make a damned fine hotel, don’t you think?” He laughed at my look of blatant horror. The thought of one of our finest architectural buildings in Whitehall, being sold off the highest bidder made me shudder.
His temporary offices were of the same majestic standard, oak panelling, warm burgundy tones and the original Chesterfields from Churchill’s time. Knight marched me through his assistant’s room and into the inner sanctum, and offered me refreshments. I declined. I had the nagging feeling that he was deliberately bolstering my ego in preparation for a sinister request.
Despite my refusal, his secretary brought in a silver tray of tea, coffee and small pastries, and placed them on the gigantic walnut desk before me. Knight chose to walk around his office, ensuring that I had the discomfort of twisting in my chair to maintain a polite dialogue.
“I’ll get to the point, Dr Lawrence…or may I call you Pip?” He froze and locked my gaze. I opened my mouth to reply, but was strangely perturbed. I found his familiarity abhorrent. He didn’t push the matter. Instead, he continued with his train of thought. “I suppose I really ought to address you as fitting your proper title, my lord.” The pacing resumed, but he watched my response eagerly.
“I’m not sure I follow…?” I said, more than a little confused.
“You are, are you not, The Right Honourable, Earl of Sedgewell?” Knight’s arms were folded behind his back and he leaned over me like a Headmaster chastising a pupil.
“I think you are mistaken in that respect…”
“No, I don’t think I am. It has taken us quite some time to verify your lineage. Your son, David…a fine young man you have there…he has proven invaluable in our search.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Such a skilled and intelligent fellow. Quite useful in the field, I hear. We’ve put him in some pretty hairy situations, I can tell you, but he has discharged his duties admirably.”
“What has David got to do with…”
“Are you telling me that you have no knowledge of your heritage? Tell me that can’t be so.” Knight glowered at me, just inches from my nose. He scrutinised my features until his proximity forced me to turn my face from his. Whatever his preconceptions were, he seemed satisfied that I was genuine, and moved away. He moved to the window, leaving the pause in conversation for me to fill. I did not have anything to say. He turned back to me and said, “You are really unaware that you are a descendent of The Family?”
“What family? I, and all my relatives are Lawrence’s, with the exception of my late wife. What ar
e you driving at?”
“We lost your branch of the tree when your grandmother eloped. Your father should have taken up his Uncle’s title after death, but it fell into abeyance. Up to that point, we had a full record of your lineage, right back to the beginning.”
I must have given him a look of total incomprehension, as he went to his desk, pressed the intercom, and muttered instructions to the person at the other end. Knight opened the office door and beckoned me to follow him down the corridor and into a stunning library with floor to ceiling oak cases of pristine and antique hardbacks, shielded by fine guilt wirework. The quantity of books was overwhelming.
Two of his thin young men were laying out huge leather bound books on another fine table. They each offered us white cotton gloves to match their own, then left the room.
“You see here,” Knight began, pointing at the careful marks of ink on the parchment. “This was your Great Uncle, the Seventh and last Earl of Sedgewell, Born in 1834 and died in 1905. He and his lady wife bore no children, and so the male offspring of his only sister, Phebe stood to inherit the lot. Only she chose to disappear from society. More than that, she disappeared from everywhere.” His elation, took me aback. He clasped his hands together and said; “You cannot begin to imagine how pleased we all are to find you, my lord.”
“Please, don’t call me that. I am not a lord. I am a simple GP and immunologist. Nothing more.” I tried to take in the branches of the tree set out before me. There was my grandfather Lawrence, married to Grandma Phebe, my father and mother, then me. They had continued the branches on to Lily and David, but there it stopped. I breathed out my relief.
Knight’s mood seemed to swing abruptly. I can’t think what prompted it. His expressions dimmed to disappointment, then his brow set to stern. “Of course, you have some tough decisions to make now, my lord. Being of, The Family, you must consider your options carefully.”