‘But we’ve already signed those as part of our federal induction.’
‘Not these you haven’t,’ said the director. ‘I would read them very carefully before you sign them.’
He was more than halfway through his coffee by the time Ray and Dodds finished reading the documents; the beverage had been delivered by an extremely attractive secretary, of which both men were oblivious.
They looked at each other. Dodds whistled softly under his breath, a high then a low note.
‘You got that right,’ said Ray.
‘So, what happens if we don't sign?’ asked Dodds interestedly.
‘You don't have a choice,’ said the director. ‘Not if you want to find out the information that you require.’
‘Just asking,’ said Dodds, before both he and Ray dashed off their signatures.
‘Okay,’ said the director. ‘Now that's out of the way, let’s get down to business. I’ve already briefed you on Storm, so I’m not going to go over old ground. You know it's a drug, you know its efficacy; in fact you know all that would potentially happen if it was ever to hit the streets....’
He paused.
‘....or do you?’ he finished.
Ray put his head on one side.
‘I don't follow you,’ he said.
The director smiled.
‘Not many people do,’ he said. ‘Okay, let’s take it back to square one.’
He paused again to marshal his thoughts.
‘This drug was originally developed by an English biochemist, who became obsessed with communism. He became so obsessed with the socialist notion of equality that he designed a drug to create it, or at least that was his original intention. Like most drugs, or like a lot of drugs, let’s not generalise; like a lot of drugs, the sense of euphoria it gave to its takers was merely a side effect, not the expected result.’
He paused again.
‘And now you need to bear with me,’ he said. ‘I’m going to tell you two seemingly unconnected pieces of information. The thrust of the conversation will become clear, I promise.’
Ray and Dodds both nodded.
‘The Storm project or the Storm Protocol as it became, was formally inducted almost exactly two years ago,’ said the director. ‘Up until that point, it had been a dream for two ambitious young employees. Or to put it another way, one ambitious young employee and one disenchanted lab technician.’
‘This agent had discovered the dusty old file, and had seen the potential benefits. He had spent a further five years with the aforementioned laboratory technician, honing and improving the compound. Up until that point, no resources had been committed to it and it was only really available in tablet form. Tragically, the lab technician who worked on the project was killed in the Pentagon car park, the night the protocol was first presented to me.’
‘Did you think they were connected?’ asked Ray.
‘At the time, no,’ answered the director. ‘This is the biggest low rise office block in the world. There are almost twenty nine thousand people working here. It's not unusual, unfortunately, in a population of that size, to lose people to accidents and murder.’
‘But you think they're connected now?’ stated Dodds.
‘I think they're connected now,’ echoed the director. ‘I have no doubt in fact. Especially after all that has happened over the last few weeks. Anyway, back to the story.’
He poured himself a glass of water.
‘With the establishment of the officially sanctioned project, came the development and refinement of the protocol. Thanks to that investment, we’ve now been able to synthesise the substance in both liquid and gaseous form. So we now have our nirvana. We have a biological weapon that enables us to disarm enemies and opponents in a safe and bloodless fashion. No collateral damage; the ultimate scenario.’
Ray raised his eyebrows and made an hmmm sound.
‘You don’t approve,’ said the director sharply.
‘Not my place to approve or disapprove,’ said Ray. ‘It just seems that as a country, and specifically as federal law enforcement bodies, we keep on making the same mistakes.’
The director ignored the subtle rebuke.
‘Which leads me neatly on to the other seemingly unconnected piece of information,’ he said, clearing his throat and then draining the rest of his water. ‘The early days of the war in Iraq and the fight against terror in Afghanistan were different from the first Gulf War.’
The change of subject made both Ray and Dodds blink.
‘Yes, they were still fought under the same conditions, under the same glare of the media spotlight, but no matter how our armed forces tried to spin it, the opposition in Iraq and Afghanistan were tougher and more resilient, and the allied forces were sustaining casualties.’
‘As a nation, we didn't hear that, certainly not initially,’ said Dodds. ‘Some of the reporting is starting to get more critical, but still pretty low key.’
‘The actual fatalities are fairly low for such an aggressive and sustained campaign,’ agreed the director. ‘The hidden issue is with the injuries. Our troops are returning with missing arms, missing legs. Thousands and thousands are coming back; literally tens of thousands of amputees. In a way, it is more shocking and brutal than the fatalities, especially for the amputees themselves, and their families of course. It is the hidden story of this campaign, gentlemen.’
He tapped himself on the chest vigorously.
‘So, we talked to the armed forces.’
‘We meaning the CIA?’ asked Dodds.
The director nodded.
‘We started doing some statistical analysis. We took a look at every fatality and every injury. Where did they happen? How did they happen? Why did they happen? At the end of that analysis, we reached a disturbing conclusion. A disproportionately large number of our troops had been killed or maimed while trying to clear heavily fortified, static enemy positions.’
‘So what's this got to do with Storm?’ asked Dodds.
‘All will become clear,’ said the director. ‘Bear with me for a couple more minutes.’
‘That's good,’ said Dodds, ‘because I’m not seeing the connection yet.’
Ray glanced across and shot him a look of warning. Dodds shrugged. The director seemed oblivious to both actions.
‘Does anyone remember MASH?’ asked the director suddenly.
‘The Korean war comedy,’ said Dodds. ‘That was a great show. Still holds the record for audience figures I think?’
The director nodded.
‘One of the strangest things to flourish in wartime is the advancement of medical techniques and technology,’ he continued. ‘Yes, MASH was a comedy, but the reality was Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan, all those conflicts have seen huge advances in the appliance of medicine. Army doctors and medics have pushed the envelope further than most, mainly because they have to.’
He paused to further assemble his thoughts.
‘Do you remember a film called Jacob's ladder?’ he asked.
‘The one with Tim Robbins,’ answered Ray. ‘He was a Vietnam veteran I think, suffering all sorts of hallucinations.’
‘That’s the one,’ said the director. ‘So would it surprise you to know that war is also a fertile breeding ground for drug research?’
Both Dodds and Ray went to speak at once, but the director held up his hand.
‘Just hear me out for a second,’ he said, ‘then you can comment.’
They both sat back reluctantly, if not actually relaxing.
‘In the last three months, the prorated percentage of fatalities and serious injuries, including amputation, has been reduced by forty eight percent.’
‘That’s only because we are pulling all the troops out,’ protested Dodds.
The director shook his head.
‘No, I'm talking about prorated. These figures are worked out based on the number of fatalities and injuries as a percentage of the troops deployed at that particular time.’
‘Less dangerous missions?’ ventured Ray.
‘Far from it,’ said the director. ‘With fewer troops on the ground, it is possibly more dangerous now than it ever was.’
‘So this has something to do with Storm,’ said Dodds.
‘This has everything to do with Storm,’ responded the director. ‘Forget everything I’ve already told you about this drug. Yes, it's almost instantly addictive, it does create almost one hundred percent compliance with any subject that takes it, and it does introduce almost unimaginable highs, but there is another far more sinister side effect that you won't find in any of the protocol folders apart from mine. It is the reason, in fact, why you had to sign a new nondisclosure agreement.’
‘Now you're starting to scare me a little,’ said Ray.
‘You have every right to be scared,’ said the director. ‘When this drug breaches a specific concentration level in the body, the taker loses all self control. The drug itself and the acquisition of more becomes the only focus. Subjects who have entered this state will do anything, and I mean anything. The effects are not reversible and pretty much fatal.’
‘So it kills you?’ asked Dodds.
‘Not the drug itself,’ said the director. ‘But the things you will do under its control. Let me be very clear, when I say you lose self control, you literally become a machine; one which has only one purpose. Pain and suffering do not exist.’
‘And you know all this because you’ve been testing it,’ stated Ray dispassionately.
‘We knew about this unique side-effect before,’ said the director. ‘Why do you think we developed it? Ostensibly, Storm was created as a weapon to control minds. If we could do this, we could prevent bloodshed and protect our troops and soldiers in combat situations. That was its original purpose. But we took it a stage further. We’ve developed it as a weapon of destruction. We’ve honed it into a gas; colourless, odourless and tasteless. Our troops on the ground have been firing smoke canisters into enemy compounds, outwardly to provide cover for our attacks, but the smoke canisters contain concentrated levels of Storm. Once the canisters are in you sit back and wait.’
‘Why wait?’ asked Dodds.
‘Depending on body type; height, size, mass, the effects kick in around the seven hour mark. Our troops sit back until all of the gunfire and bloodcurdling screams have died down, then they carefully enter the compound. After a dose of Storm, normally all they need to clean up an enemy compound is a hose for all the blood and entrails.’
‘So why not just stick to the original usage? Why not stick to the bloodless scenario?’ asked Ray. ‘It makes a lot more sense to me.’
‘Because the effects wear off very quickly, and we are then left with large groups of potentially dangerous opponents, which we have to feed, clothe, house and guard.’
‘So this is all about economics?’ said Ray incredulously.
‘Isn’t it always,’ said the director. ‘It also saves us a fortune in munitions, as they end up slaughtering each other. We only need to retain our guns for personal protection.’
Everyone collectively shivered, even the director.
‘So this makes killers out of people?’ asked Dodds.
‘As I said earlier, it removes all self-control and all inhibitions. Once you've taken this in sufficient quantities, you're no longer human. You become a creature with the twin aims of eliminating your opposition, your competition if you will, and acquiring more of the drug.’
‘So to use your movie theme, it would be night of the living dead?’ stated Ray.
He wasn’t smiling and neither was the director.
‘A very good analogy, Agent Fox,’ he said. ‘But I would go further. If this drug gets into widespread circulation, there will be hundreds, thousands, maybe tens of thousands of deaths. These creatures will kill anything they regard as competition, and they absolutely positively will not stop until they get what they want. In fact, imagine a zombie and the terminator combined.’
Dodds shook his head.
‘This is too fantastical,’ he said. ‘Things like this only happen in the movies. A drug that creates zombies! Pull the other one.’
‘Unfortunately Agent Dodds,’ said the director. ‘Not only is it true, but it leaves us with a unique problem, one I believe that one of your agents can help us with.’
‘You’re talking about Dale now right?’ said Ray.
‘Agent Foster, yes,’ replied the director. ‘I know he's over there without jurisdiction, but you seem positive you can trust him. We need to make sure that whatever he does, he gets those files back. I have an agent there at the moment,’ said the director, ‘but I’m going to need Agent Fosters help.’
‘Why do you need Dale’s help, if you have an agent over there?’ asked Ray.
‘The scale of the operation we are trying to break down is very large,’ said the director. ‘Not only does Agent Foster have invaluable domain knowledge in the area of narcotics, but I have it on good authority that he has hooked up with a team who seem more than capable of looking after themselves.’
Dodds and Ray looked at each other in surprise.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the director, not allowing them any pause for further thought. ‘At the end of the day we need his help. If this stuff gets out onto the open market, God help us all.’
Chapter 47 – Conspiracy
10th April 2011 – One month before the Storm.
A conspiracy is nothing but a secret agreement of a number of men for the pursuance of policies which they dare not admit in public. – Mark Twain.
As a child he had always loved order. They say that you rebel against the background you were brought up in, but he’d been the opposite. His parents had been very traditional. His house had been orderly and logical and he’d relished it. It had not been a warm happy house, but it hadn’t been cold and unhappy either. Somewhere in between would have been fair; they were an average family.
He supposed his love of the alphabet stemmed from this upbringing. The letters represented order; grammar gave him a defined set of rules within which he could work and never deviate. He excelled in English at school and it came as no surprise to anyone when he enrolled at Sandhurst Officer College. His father had been a career soldier, and the army represented everything he loved; a set of regulations outside of which he could not step and wouldn’t want to anyway. He was the opposite of spontaneous. His friends would have described him as solid and dependable but a bit boring too; Major Ian Reid, the perfect officer.
He quickly rose through the ranks, and it was with a sense of pride that he became the head of media relations for his regiment. He dealt with all aspects of communication, but his favourite was always the written word. He would delegate the others; retaining veto on all of the DVD’s, websites and TV news segments, but always reserving the written parts for himself. There was no one in the team who could write speeches and condolence letters better than him.
He never meant any of it of course. Words for him were tools to fix any situation; a means to an end. A soldier standing on a landmine was messy and unfortunate. Major Reid could use words to clear up the mess, to make everything sensible and ordered and clean again.
He signed the letter he was working on with a flourish, and placed it into the labelled envelope. She had looked so sad at the funeral, the mother. Her son had been the sole victim of an attack on a Taliban fortified position, but when the colonel had got up and delivered the eulogy, she had seemed soothed and comforted by it. From where he was sitting, Major Reid could have sworn it gave her a sense of hope. He was proud of his work, and even though he didn’t normally do so, he decided this time to mail her a copy. Hopefully, she could revisit it and gain additional comfort from it.
He dropped it into the out tray and headed off to the mess for dinner.
He never gave it a second thought.
#
Roughly a week later, he watched the barman switch to another channel and felt the slight impact
as his colleagues all slapped him on the back and congratulated him.
‘You looked good sir,’ said Robinson. ‘No offence, but you are the best we’ve got at speaking at length, but yet saying absolutely nothing at the same time.’
‘None taken,’ he replied. ‘It is a special skill. With words you can spin anything. Maybe I should go into politics?’
‘The army’s loss if you do,’ said Campbell. ‘You’ll have another pint before you go?’
‘No, early night for me I’m afraid,’ he responded. ‘There was another ambush last night apparently; two casualties and one fatality. Have to get something written for the CO before they arrive back at base.’
He threw a fifty onto the bar to ensure a good time would be had by all except him.
‘Well done guys,’ he said, before making his excuses.
He nodded to the MP’s on the way back to his small maisonette. Another perk of army life; you didn’t have to look for accommodation. It was small and basic but that’s all he’d ever needed.
He went to unlock the door, and realised he’d left it unlocked; good job there was plenty of security. He locked it behind him and switched on the hall table light and the first thing he noticed was a shapely pair of legs extending from one of his leather wingbacks in the sitting room. He walked in and confronted the intruder; an elegant looking woman in her late forties.
‘Did you write this crap?’
She was waving a piece of paper at him. It was both a question and an accusation rolled into one.
He ignored her.
‘How did you get in here?’ he asked, with all the authority he could muster, already knowing the answer.
‘The front door was open,’ she said stiffly.
‘You’ll have to leave, I can’t talk to a civilian about army matters,’ he said sternly, taking a step toward her.
The bang made them both jump. He felt the bullet impact into the wall to his right; saw the plaster disintegrate and the small whiff of smoke from the old service revolver she was holding.
‘That should bring them running,’ she said with satisfaction.
The Storm Protocol Page 45