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

by Robin Crumby

  “I apologise, what I should have said is that we are extremely fortunate to have Doctor Hardy and his team from Porton Down assisting our efforts. Each of them are experts in their field.”

  “We’ll do whatever we can to get the Professor back, but in the meantime, the show must go on,” said Peterson.

  The room fell silent as the scientists seemed satisfied with the Colonel’s olive branch. Zed sat forward, resting his good arm on the table.

  “Assuming now is the right time, there are some questions I’ve been meaning to ask.”

  The Colonel encouraged Zed with a wave of his hand.

  “Please, be my guest.”

  “Mr Woods?” said Zed leaning across the table and addressing the politician who was still immersed in his notebook. His head snapped up as if surprised that Zed should be asking him a direct question.

  “Reading the reports prior to the outbreak, when the virus was first detected, it would seem that there was forewarning of what was to come. So why were the authorities in this country so poorly prepared?

  “Yes, of course. It’s an important question,” he said, clearing his throat and removing his spectacles. “In all honesty, it was a shambles. At first the Ministry of Health incorrectly assumed that the outbreak was simply a seasonal spike. The media were partly to blame. The winter flu crisis had become somewhat of an annual scandal at the NHS and that familiarity led to an undeniable complacency which made everyone slow to react.”

  He half-laughed as if remembering something: “I was actually part of the cross-party committee that reviewed the pandemic preparedness plan a couple of years ago, so I know a little more than most. I can assure you that the plans were very carefully thought-through with four robust lines of defence: surveillance, vaccines, containment measures and medical treatments.”

  “I’m not sure the UK did any better or worse than anywhere else,” said Doctor Hardy supportively. “The WHO’s Sentinel Programme was set up as an early warning system. They had something like one hundred and ten influenza centres in eighty-three countries. It was state of the art. Incredibly sophisticated, massively resourced. They had antigenic maps tracking over five thousand strains of the virus, collaborating internationally. Their job was to analyse each strain against different antibodies to see how the immune system reacted. Their focus was mostly on Asia as the most likely source of an outbreak.”

  “Why Asia?” asked Zed.

  “Because in Asia, particularly in rural areas, many villagers live in close proximity with chickens, ducks and geese, which are so often the hosts for influenza viruses,” he answered.

  “There’s no question that the WHO early warning system failed,” admitted the politician. “It was too porous and slow. We were warned that if an outbreak could not be contained within the first thirty days, there would be little chance of stopping its spread. The delays in inter-agency co-operation proved devastating. It was always assumed we would have more time when the first outbreak was detected…” his voice trailed off.

  “You see the flu virus has such a short incubation period,” added Doctor Hardy, “it moves at frightening speed. Air travel and densely populated urban areas would do the rest.”

  “What about all the hype around Google Flu Trends speeding up detection?”

  “Yes, we all read that. The theory was sound, that by tracking key search phrases related to the virus and treatment, we could identify outbreaks much faster and deploy our resources appropriately. It was fast and cheap and by all accounts it worked as a public health service, but it was still early days for the system. Our response was always too slow.”

  “Mr Woods, you mentioned vaccinations as the second line of defence. The Professor told me that the UK government had an annual immunisation programme in place to protect key workers, doctors, nurses, politicians,” said Zed, raising his eyebrows. “He mentioned two million doses stored in strategic locations around the country. Can you explain what happened to those and why they weren’t deployed?”

  “Because it all happened so fast. The Professor was right. This country invested huge resources in stockpiling antiviral drugs for just such an outbreak. From what I understand, those drugs simply didn’t work for the Millennial Virus.”

  “That’s not entirely correct,” countered Doctor Hardy. “It’s true that the government and military kept large stocks of Tamiflu and Relenza. Both proved somewhat effective in boosting immunity, perhaps by as much as thirty percent. At best, that helped to slow the outbreak and keep critical services functional that little bit longer, but certainly not sufficiently to be of lasting value against MV-27. In the past, we’ve employed what we call plasmid-based reverse genetics to create a seed strain for a human vaccine. Essentially, we home in on the hemagglutinin, the protein that triggers the immune response, and develop a vaccine based on a weakened form of the virus. That worked previously against H1N1 and H5N1, but as soon as the virus evolves, it can quickly elude the vaccine and enter the body undetected by the immune system.”

  “And based on the Porton team’s research and clinical trials so far,” said the politician, “are we confident that a prototype vaccine is close at hand?”

  “I wish that were so,” regretted Doctor Hardy. “It could take several years and synthesising a vaccine is just the start. In all likelihood, large-scale vaccination would require the production of millions of shots, enough for multiple doses per person. Setting up the production line alone could take years.”

  “We’re already working on it,” assured the Colonel. “We have two sites just outside Newtown which we expect to be operational in nine months’ time. In the interim, we have transferred limited stocks of Tamiflu and Relenza to the island.”

  “Well, the longer we wait, the more manageable that problem becomes. Fewer people to treat,” scowled Zed.

  “Quite, although we expect population numbers to stabilise now the initial outbreak has subsided” said the Colonel, frowning. “Doctor, for the benefit of Mr Woods, perhaps you can recap on your analysis of the virus and its origin?”

  “Certainly, we completed analyses of three of MV-27’s eight RNA segments some time ago, which placed them within the human and swine families, certainly outside the avian virus group and H5N1 variants. The team discovered many parallels with the Spanish flu pandemic in the aftermath of World War I. We were lucky enough to exchange data sets with the US Armed Forces Institute of Pathology’s historical archive, which contained more than three million autopsy samples including many victims of the Spanish flu pandemic. We were also able to cross-reference our findings against Royal London Hospital’s collections of tissue samples from 1918-19.”

  “I’m sorry Doctor, I’m not sure I’m following you. I thought you said the Millennial Virus was a variant of avian flu? Is that no longer the case?”

  “Most flu strains originate from an avian host. With the Spanish flu, after nearly one hundred years of study, we’re still a little sketchy on how the process works and how the virus mutates to acquire novel genes. Most experts agree that, in order to become capable of affecting both birds and humans, an avian flu virus must first undertake a prolonged incubation period in pigs. This allows the virus to exchange genetic material with human flu strains. Mutations are fairly common, producing new viruses capable of rapid infection.”

  “So you’re convinced that this virus evolved naturally without human interference?” asked the politician.

  “Absolutely,” said Doctor Hardy. “Right now, any suggestion that the virus was genetically altered as some sort of bio-weapon is preposterous and unsubstantiated by any evidence I’ve seen.”

  “Well, hold on,” cautioned Zed. “That’s certainly not the impression I had from the Professor. He seemed convinced there was a chance that MV-27 was man-made.”

  “Convinced is a strong word,” corrected the Colonel. “I’d say it was a line of inquiry he believed was worthy of further exploration. I think it’s fair to say that Doctor Hardy’s team is skept
ical.”

  “In my view, it’s simply not credible,” confirmed Doctor Hardy.

  “Regardless of whether there’s any truth to it,” said the politician, “we need to be very careful. Any conspiracy theory like that would spread like wildfire. Right now we have no way of countering it. If people start to believe that the government failed in some way, that this whole disaster was avoidable, then we’ll lose control quickly.”

  “The vaccine is everything,” asserted the Colonel. “The people have to believe that we are close to a solution. In the meantime, we can accelerate the deployment of our Tamiflu stocks and get everyone on the island vaccinated. That should buy us some time and build trust and confidence.”

  “If Tamiflu shots are limited, I recommend we keep them in reserve for key personnel only at this time,” suggested Peterson.

  “That would be contrary to the UK government’s guidelines we just discussed,” said the politician. “The best way to defend the island against a fresh outbreak is to vaccinate as many as possible. Build up the herd’s levels of immunity.”

  “We’ve learned the hard way that we can’t save everybody. As the highest-ranking officer, it’s the Colonel’s decision to make. Colonel, unless I’m mistaken, this operation remains under military jurisdiction?”

  “Lieutenant Peterson is correct. Until we can locate additional supplies of Tamiflu or Relenza, we hold what we have in reserve. I’m not ignoring the guidelines on this, but right now, we don’t know what’s coming. We need to keep our powder dry.”

  “I can’t emphasise enough,” said the politician in a display of displeasure, “that the limited efficacy of available vaccines, not to mention the delay in producing something that will be effective against the virus, is going to have to be kept totally secret. If I’m going to be out there telling people that they’re safe on the island and that a vaccine is imminent, we as a collective, need to lock this down. If people even get a whiff of the truth, then this house of cards will come crashing down quickly.”

  “Very well,” said the Colonel rising out of his seat and leaning forward over the table. “I need everyone in this room to commit to a code of silence. This information does not leave the room.”

  The meeting finished rather abruptly and the scientists were led back to their sleeping quarters where a movie had been laid on for their evening entertainment. Peterson grabbed Zed’s arm as he was leaving.

  “The Colonel and I are having a night cap, care to join us?”

  “Thank you, but it’s been a long day for me and I’ve lined up a date with one of the Doc’s sleeping tablets.”

  “It won’t take long, but it’s important,” fixing him with a Hollywood smile that would have made him millions in another lifetime. Zed reluctantly agreed and followed him towards the Captain’s suite underneath the ship’s conning tower.

  The suite was furnished with several armchairs and a low sofa with armrests. On almost every inch of wall were photos of military personnel, past presidents, home ports and family members. Through a narrow doorway was a bed and a small bathroom beyond. Peterson approached a walnut-veneered side-cabinet with two decanters and four crystal glasses set on top.

  “Have a seat gentlemen. Let’s see,” he said picking up one of the decanters. “I’ve got brandy or whiskey. No ice though, sorry about that.”

  It had been some time since Zed had tasted either, but chose whiskey. He swilled the amber liquid around the glass, inhaling deeply with his eyes closed. The fumes alone were intoxicating enough and caught in his throat. He took a sip and allowed the whiskey to slide around his mouth, before swallowing greedily. It tasted like pure nectar.

  “I know, right?” grinned Peterson. “Twelve-year old, single malt. I nearly promoted the guy who found me this.”

  He took a sip in mild reverie, before putting down the tumbler on a U.S. Navy branded coaster. He perched on the side of the desk and leaned forward with his arms crossed.

  “What I’m about to tell you is highly classified. I need your word, both of you, that this goes no further.”

  The two men straightened in their chairs and nodded.

  “One of the mission profiles the Chester was designed to fulfil was responding to a nuclear, biological or chemical attack. We were equipped with enough NBC suits for an entire crew, along with a fully functioning lab to analyse any samples we collected.”

  Peterson sat down in a brown leather arm chair opposite the two men, inspecting the liquid in his glass.

  “Before the Chester sailed from our home port in Coronado Island, San Diego, the Captain and XO were briefed on a full spectrum of current threats in the Middle East and Asia based on the latest intelligence reports. I wasn’t party to those briefings, but as acting commanding officer of this vessel I have since read everything. I found something that I think would interest you both greatly.”

  He walked over to a wall safe and dialled the combination before reaching in and extracting a thin brown folder with three sheets of paper stapled together in one corner. He handed the document to the Colonel who scanned the front page, trying to make sense of what he was being shown.

  “This report is eyes-only. Any mention of its existence will be flatly denied.”

  Zed was trying to read what was written on the page, but the angle was reflecting the light in such a way that all he could make out was the heading “US Navy Intelligence - CIA Briefing”.

  “That’s the last report we received, dated more than two years ago. It basically lends a lot of credibility to your theory, Zed. One of our CIA operatives in Jakarta, Indonesia intercepted an encrypted communiqué between North Korea and what we believed to be Russia that, once decoded, referenced project ‘Chuma’. Now that had our intel guys jumping around for a while as Chuma is apparently the Russian word for plague or pestilence. We believe a rogue faction in the Russian military was providing technical assistance to Pyongyang. The communiqué suggested that they were working on a flu virus. Of course, that report was an advisory note only, no one seriously considered this a credible threat to national security.”

  “Hindsight is a wonderful thing,” said the Colonel.

  “But even if they had succeeded in their research, there’s no way to prove any of this, is there?”

  “Well, that all depends on the team from Porton Down. If they were able to further sequence the virus, find some link or genetic marker, then we’d have something.”

  “And the reason you’re not trusting the others with this information is because…?” asked Zed.

  “This document could be the smoking gun that legitimises any conspiracy theory. Until we have some semblance of proof, this stays between the three of us, am I clear?”

  Reluctantly, Zed and the Colonel nodded their agreement.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Shortly after dawn had broken, Jack became the last to arrive outside the castle entrance. The work party of some fifteen people stood shivering in temperatures that had barely risen above freezing this morning. Over their shoulders and leaning against their thighs were a variety of gardening implements including chainsaws, shovels, rakes and various tools to maintain the farm machinery.

  They were on their way out to the fields around Keyhaven to attend to their daily duties. A group of three were heading to the waterfront fields that overlooked Hurst, with views towards Yarmouth and the island. Each day they would gather their herd of dairy cows inside the large shed to be fed and milked. After a recent night-time raid the previous week when one of the cows had been found dead, its carcass butchered for meat, they took it in turns to leave a volunteer on site to watch over the animals. It was a boring job, but some liked it for the peace and quiet away from the castle.

  Once the three were done with the cows, they would move on to tend to the resident flock of pedigree Zwartbles sheep that they had maintained since the outbreak. They were a curious sight, with black or brown fleeces, white socks and tails. They had proven surprisingly good company and foll
owed the team around, bleating and nudging against the thighs of workers as they put out feed or mucked out the pens. Some of the crew thought of the Zwartbles as pets rather than beasts. Their numbers had swollen after another successful lambing season providing new additions to the flock. Jack resisted any talk of killing the animals, they were worth more to Hurst alive than dead. Their fleeces and wool were coveted and worn by many to insulate them against the cold winters.

  Another party was heading to the two fields nearest the marshland that had been turned over to vegetable production. This year had been their best yet and their winter crops included leeks, parsnips, sprouting broccoli, squash, turnips, carrots, and cabbages. Most of their production was bartered with other local groups in the village or further afield.

  Three of Corporal Ballard’s squad came with the group to keep watch over them as they worked. The area around Milford-on-sea had been sparsely populated for some time now, but in the last few weeks that was changing as more and more migrants moved East towards the embarkation points at Lymington or Southampton.

  There were half a dozen smaller groups that lived in the village, occupying some of the bigger properties, but they mostly kept themselves to themselves. They were no trouble. They traded with Hurst from time to time and cooperated where mutual interests overlapped. Any new arrivals were looked on with suspicion and encouraged to move on, not to linger where they were not wanted.

  Jack pulled his dirty yellow oilskin jacket tighter around his shoulders, zipping up the front until it was snug under his chin. He surveyed the rest of the group, standing waiting for him. They were in good spirits this morning. He did a quick head count, checking that Joe, Will, Tommy, Sam and Scottie were all present and accounted for, before moving off slowly up the shingle back towards Milford.

  Joe caught up with Jack: “Has Sister Imelda left yet or is she still here?” he asked.

  Jack paused mid-step and studied Joe. Jack had spent half the night tossing and turning, pondering the question of what to do. He was placed in an impossible position. Do the right thing or remain loyal to his team? He had a good mind to refuse the Sister’s request for Jean and Joe to stand trial, but his scruples were getting in the way.