Sentinel: A post-apocalyptic thriller (The Hurst Chronicles Book 2)

by Robin Crumby

“Really? I think you’ll find you’re overestimating the capabilities of this facility. We’re a relic of a by-gone age. Our equipment is outdated. Most of it is barely serviceable. We’ve had years of budget cuts and a lack of investment. I seriously doubt we can be of much use at all. These days we’re more a storage facility and archive than anything else. We were mothballed years ago.”

  Riley had been watching Zed coming to the boil like a pressure cooker. He had been clenching his fists, listening to the Major’s lies, shaking his head. She wondered what Zed knew.

  “Why do you insist on maintaining this charade?” spat the Colonel. “Do you really think we’d be here if we didn’t know what Porton Down is? We know what research you do here.”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. We might be able to loan you some test tubes and samples, but that’s about as far as it goes.”

  Zed stepped forward, unable to contain himself any longer. “We all know what you do here. Fact: Porton Down has the largest stockpile of deadly pathogens, nerve agents and other chemical and biological weapons anywhere in Europe.”

  The Major turned to face Zed as if noticing him for the first time, his eyes narrowing disapprovingly.

  “I’m sorry. And you are?”

  “May I introduce Zed Samuels. He was a contractor to the MoD for several years.” said Abrahams. “He was part of the Chemical, Biological, Radiological, Nuclear CBRN team, as a special investigator. Spent some time here on secondment to the Defence Science and Technology Laboratory.”

  Zed took over from Abrahams. “What about all the testing programmes run out of Porton? No one knows more about biological weapons than you do.”

  The Major was playing dumb, still refusing to cooperate.

  Zed turned to face the Professor and Colonel Abrams.

  “The bulk of the work I did on Project Wildfire was based here.”

  “I’m sorry,” interrupted the Major, “Project Wildfire?”

  “Wildfire was a covert feasibility study to determine whether it was possible to weaponise the flu virus,” answered the Colonel.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” laughed Riley in disbelief. “Why would anyone want to weaponise the flu virus? It would be unstoppable.”

  “Exactly,” said Zed. “But we knew other countries were conducting similar research, so it was only a matter of time before someone figured it out. Wildfire was considered a strategic priority. Its budget and operational detail hidden, its mission was to develop both the virus and an effective vaccine.”

  The Major glared at Zed. “You’re seriously mistaken if you think we’re somehow responsible for all this. You think we’d have sat on our hands if we had stockpiles of a vaccine and did nothing, watching people die all around us?”

  “No one is accusing Porton of that,” reassured the Colonel. “By all accounts, Project Wildfire was decades of work. There must be reams of data in your archives. The MoD spent millions of pounds working on this, off the books, of course. If it had been leaked that the UK government was secretly developing biological weapons, well, I’m sure you can imagine the headaches that would have caused.”

  “You have a moral duty to cooperate Major,” added the Professor.

  “Please,” said Riley imploringly. “We really need your help.”

  There was a moment of silence as the Major stared at Zed, his bottom lip stiffening, as he seemed to weigh his options.

  “I suggest we continue this conversation somewhere more private. I would need to check if such a programme ever really existed and whether anyone is still alive who worked on it. It’s not something I’m familiar with. Most of the research programmes were shut down following the outbreak. We have a skeletal staff now. Our resources are limited as I’m sure you can understand. I suggest the four of you come with me and the rest stay here. Staff Sergeant, can you fix these men up with some hot food and somewhere to rest up?”

  The Major invited Zed, Abrahams and the Professor to follow him.

  “What about me?” said Riley.

  “I’m sorry,” apologised Abraham. “This is all classified information. It’s best if you stay here with Sergeant Jones and his men.”

  With a shrug of his shoulders, Zed hurried after the rest of the group as they headed towards a security door with a keypad next to it which gave access to a long subterranean corridor stretching off into the distance. The Major entered a six-digit code and waited for the door to hiss open. Riley watched them leave and turned to face Jones.

  “I guess I’m stuck with you lot then.”

  “That’s cool, you can hang with us. Stick with the grunts. We’ll keep you company,” winked Jones and gestured her over to sit with the rest of the soldiers, who made space for her.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was a long walk through countless dimly-lit corridors, sparsely decorated concrete and brick walkways that led further and further into a maze of underground tunnels and rooms. There were very few people down here and the whole base seemed deserted. They stopped at another electronically operated security door with a small glass window reinforced with wire mesh that revealed a more modern interior beyond. The Major grabbed a security card that was attached to a piece of elastic secured to his belt and swiped it through the device. The screen turned from red to green and with a groan the security bolts top and bottom sprang open and the door slid back.

  Inside, Zed could see a series of labs off to the right. To their left was a conference room and office suite beyond. The Major waved the group inside and followed them through to the conference room.

  “Take a seat gentlemen. Jenkins, can you get our guests some coffee?”

  He waited for his aide to leave before closing the door and taking a seat at the head of the large oval table set with more than a dozen swivel chairs. The room was austere with plasterboard painted white and piles of paperwork, lever arch files were stacked high on shelves that ran the length of one of the walls.

  “Colonel Abrahams, Mr Samuels, Professor Nichols,” he said addressing each of them in turn. “Before I can discuss any operational details about our work here at Porton, I’ll need each of you to identify yourself. Do you have ID of any description about your person?”

  “You’ve got to be joking,” sneered Zed. “Last time I carried an MoD card was nearly a decade ago.”

  “Major, surely you can look us up on a database somehow?” asked the Professor.

  “I’m afraid not, our protocol says that I can only…” started the Major.

  “Protocol?” laughed the Colonel. “With all due respect, screw protocol. As the ranking officer, I’m giving you a direct order. Either you give my team access or I will have you relieved of your command. Is that clear?” insisted the Colonel.

  The Major swallowed hard, eye-balling his superior.

  “Very well,” he conceded. “In the circumstances, I can bend the rules a little. Identify you another way. Make sure you are who you say you are. If you can write down your full names, ranks, serial numbers, departments you worked for, and any security clearances, then we can see what we can do.”

  He passed round some paper and pens and Zed, the Professor and the Colonel spent a couple of minutes writing down as much information as possible. Dates, locations, reporting lines. When they were done, the Major scanned the lines of text, nodding silently. He excused himself, closing the door behind him.

  “Do you think he’s going to help us?” asked Zed.

  “If he doesn’t, I’ll have him arrested,” said the Colonel tersely.

  “This place hasn’t changed a bit,” said Zed, looking round the room. “It’s like time has stood still down here.”

  “Don’t be fooled by appearances, gentlemen. This is a state of the art facility. If they don’t have the answers, I doubt anyone else in the country will. This is our best hope.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said the Professor.

  After what seemed like an age, the Major came back in with three printouts of their MoD-iss
ued photo IDs. He seemed satisfied that the three of them were who they said they were and visibly relaxed. He took a deep breath before continuing.

  “Very well. What I’m about to tell you is classified. Porton Down and the work we do here has been one of this country’s best-kept secrets. If word ever got out about what we’ve been working on over the years, it could be very damaging. Worse still, if there was any suggestion that the government somehow caused the outbreak or failed to respond appropriately, you can only imagine the wild rumours and conspiracy theories. It would be unthinkable.”

  “We all remember the ‘foot and mouth’ scandal back in 2001,” added the Professor. “The rumours that circulated about an accidental leak? It set public relations back years, decades even.”

  “My point exactly. Security around our research, even now, is absolutely critical.”

  Each of the visitors nodded their consent, before the Major continued.

  “You asked earlier about Project Wildfire. Officially, that programme was shut down a long time ago along with several others like it. In reality, it was simply de-prioritised, kept on the back-burner just in case. When we got wind of other countries attempting to develop a weaponised flu virus, we reactivated our own programme. Project Wilderness was the upgrade to Wildfire. Since the most recent outbreak, we’ve redoubled our efforts. Sooner or later we figured that someone like you would come calling.”

  “Are we the first?”

  “You are the first and only visitors we’ve had in some time. We lost contact with the MoD shortly after the outbreak. Since then, we’ve been on our own. At first we assumed that it was just a communication breakdown, but as time went on we realised the MoD was crippled.”

  “Major, perhaps I wasn’t clear. The MoD, along with the rest of government, the police, the NHS, it all fell apart. There’s nothing left. If you’re waiting for a relief operation, then you’ll be waiting for a long time. When was your last contact?”

  He shook his head. “We’ve not heard anything for months now. We figured it wouldn’t be long before they got things back up and running.”

  “So your men seriously have no idea what’s been going on topside?”

  “Colonel, these people have families, spouses, children living off-base. They’re well aware of the outbreak. All leave was cancelled. We needed them to stay focused on their jobs and their research.”

  “So your team has been underground in this facility for over two years then? No one has come or gone in that time, is that correct?”

  “We mounted two expeditions to the Army base at Aldershot but neither of them returned. They simply vanished not long after leaving Porton. We assumed the worst.”

  “Probably ambushed along the main road,” added the Colonel. “We’ve heard reports of survivor camps and skirmishes throughout this area. Convoys being attacked, making attempts to relocate our forces very difficult. It’s why we flew our team up here.”

  “Just keeping this place operational has been a challenge. We’re fine for drinking water. We have all manner of recycling and filtration systems to capture rainwater and pump groundwater. Food is the problem. We’re already dangerously short of almost everything. This facility was only designed to survive a level-one attack for up to six months. If we don’t get a relief mission in the next few months, we can’t continue. We cut rations again by a third two months ago. In the last few weeks, we’ve become increasingly dependent on scavenging missions into local towns. Well, you’ve seen what we’re up against now. We can’t even maintain a functioning perimeter. We’re trapped underground, living like,” he stammered, searching for the right words, “like rats.”

  “Major, we’re evacuating as many of our remaining forces as possible to Camp Wight on the island. It’s a new start, free of the virus. We could take you and some of your team to Professor Nichols research facility near Newtown. You’ll have everything you need.”

  “That’s all very well, but how on earth would we get my whole team all the way to the Isle of Wight? There are hundreds of us. We would need a whole fleet of Chinooks. It’s unthinkable.”

  “What choice do you have? You can’t stay here forever. Camp Wight has everything you need to continue your research. It’s a secure facility, with accommodation and food for thousands. Eventually our plan is to mount a clean-up operation of the mainland. We would hope to be in a position to get your team back here, perhaps in a couple of years. In the meantime, you’re going to need to relocate. It’s not safe here anymore, you must see that.”

  The Major sighed, accepting the inevitability of their situation. They could only hold out so long here.

  “I’d need to discuss this with the other officers. It would be a massive operation to safely relocate this many people and their lab equipment somewhere else. Even if we could replicate their set-up on the island, it would put our programme back by months.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a small price to pay? Better your team is relocated than left here to die.”

  “Perhaps, but my team say they are so close to a breakthrough. Just a few more months would see if they’re right.”

  “How far has your team got with its research?”

  The Major hesitated, as if he was pulling back from transparency.

  “I’m sorry Colonel. I wish I had better news to share. It’s been a frustrating time so far. So many blind alleys and dead-ends. Why don’t I get the guys actually working on this full time in here and they can give you the run-down?”

  He disappeared for a few minutes until they heard the footsteps of a small group returning. They knocked and entered. It was clear that the two men in lab coats accompanying him had not been outside for many weeks. Their skin was pale to the point of translucence. One of them had a straggly beard and lank grey hair that reached past his shoulders. Zed thought it smelled like neither of them had taken a shower in a week.

  The Major introduced them both before handing proceedings over to the Colonel. Professor Nichols sat beside him unpacking a small black laptop computer from his rucksack and set out a notepad and pen ready to take notes.

  “Thank you for joining us. As I hope Major Donnelly has already explained, it’s a matter of national importance that you share everything you know about the Millennial Virus with the Professor.”

  The two men glanced at the Major before answering. He nodded his approval.

  “Why don’t you jump right in and give us a status report?”

  The scientist introduced himself as Doctor Hardy and spoke rapidly in a sing-song voice that Zed found irritating beyond belief.

  “We don’t have an effective vaccine if that’s what you really want to know. But we’ve come a long way. We already know so much about the virus, its origins, genetic profile, and its history.”

  “How long have you been working on this?”

  “Oh, we’ve been tracking the virus since the very first outbreak.”

  “And when was that exactly?”

  “Back in Singapore in September 2000.”

  “That long ago? That’s far earlier than we were led to believe. Why was that not more widely reported?”

  “Well, like any virus, we’re talking about a moving target here. Each year since, there’s been at least one different strain. The first outbreaks were minor, reported in CDC and WHO bulletins, the kind of thing you’d only find in medical journals, amongst a long list of other viruses. The most recent outbreak was much more virulent. Here we call it MV-27, or just MV for short.”

  “MV-27? So I am right in saying that there have been twenty-seven identifiable strains of this virus already? Why did the press never get hold of this? We were led to believe that the virus struck out of the blue. Or was that just the excuse that explained how poorly-prepared the country was to deal with a pandemic virus of this scale?”

  “They were as prepared as they could have been. The NHS had run drills and tested the readiness of public health infrastructure, but in the end, none of it did much good.
The plans were based on reasonable assumptions, early detection, sufficient time to prepare. The virus was unstoppable. None of the antivirals or generic flu vaccines we had stockpiled worked all that well. The only people who survived either avoided contact or had natural immunity.”

  “I’m assuming that exposure to some of those low-level strains has helped boost immunity in the general population, which suggests a sudden shift or mutation. Was there a catalyst or specific event that prompted the outbreak?”

  “Possibly, we’re still learning.”

  “Do you have a detailed history? Are there reports we can get access to?”

  “Absolutely. We’ve gathered everything we could find that was available worldwide prior to the breakdown. Published papers, briefing documents sent to hospitals, WHO and CDC reports, patient histories, archived materials, everything.”

  “Fantastic, that’s why we’re here,” said the Professor. “How many people do you have working on this right now?”

  “Well, there’s a core team of twelve scientists. Plus around another twenty or so in support roles, lab technicians, that sort of thing.”

  “And despite all those resources and years of data, you still have no breakthrough, no prototype vaccine?”

  “Well, we’ve certainly had a few modest breakthroughs. We’re getting closer by the day, but no eureka moment. It’s only a matter of time and hopefully a bit of luck.”

  “Tell me about the current focus of your research?” asked the Professor.

  “Before the outbreak, we were collaborating with three other facilities running similar research programmes in the US and Europe. We were able to exchange data sets and build a comprehensive study. That body of data was critical to the early breakthroughs we made.”

  “So where is that body of data now? Do you still have access to it?”

  “Yes and no. Sadly when our internet connection went down, we lost access to anything held in the cloud. Fortunately, due to the sensitive nature of the data, we kept a secure copy of most of it onsite. So anything downloaded and stored in Porton’s network is still available. But anything else, sadly, is now beyond our reach, unless someone can restore power to the DSTL data centre.”