Books by Michael Green
‘Big Aggie Sails the Gulf’ Aacorn International Limited
‘Successful Speechmaking’ Cobb Horwood Publications
‘The Blood Line Trilogy’:
‘The Crucial Gene’ MGC Limited, republished as ‘Blood Line’ by Random House NZ, translated to German and republished as ‘Stunde Null’ by Verlagsgruppe Luebbe, Germany, republished in English as an e-book by MGC Limited.
‘Blood Bond’ Published by Random House NZ, translated to German and republished as ‘Der Jungste Tag’ by Verlagsgruppe Luebbe, Germany, republished as an e-book by MGC Limited.
‘Blood Roots’ MGC Limited
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand
AN MGC E-BOOK
MGC Limited
Box 518
Whangaparaoa 0943
New Zealand
www.mgc.co.nz
Blood Line was first published as ‘The Crucial Gene’ by MGC Limited 2006
Republished as ‘Blood Line’ by Random House New Zealand 2008
Translated to German and published as ‘Stunde Null’ by Verlagsgruppe Luebbe, Germany 2009
© 2006 Michael Green
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
Kindle ISBN 978–0–473–30861–2
This book is copyright. Except for the purposes of fair reviewing no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any other information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author.
Cover illustration: Getty Images
Cover design: Mathew Trbuhovic, Third Eye Design
My thanks to:
Sue Cosgrave, Sally Dowling, Margaret Fotherby, Babs Halton, Nicholas Harris, Shirley Henwood, Gary Irwin, Lesley Marshall, John Pryor, Colleen and Roger Thrussell, Marion West and Dr Graeme Whittaker for all their help in improving the manuscript.
And to my wife Hazel, who gave me the time and space to complete this novel.
Dedicated to my late son, Stephen
(who was a great tradesman, a great teacher and a great son)
Channel Eight
They’ve only given me seven minutes, son,
and seven minutes, all said and done,
isn’t long to say goodbye;
just fourteen seconds — each year gone by.
For Grandma couplets flowed, but then,
She played the game, three score and ten.
For you, like life — no tidy metre,
no contrived words — no perfect rhyme.
Son,
feel the magic of the wind,
that shepherded Little Dee
in circles
around the sheltered waters
of Blockhouse Bay.
Feel the shudder, as Big Aggie
butted her ugly bow against the waves
on the long, long slog, back from Issy Bay.
Feel the peace and quiet, as Archangel lay
resting in the morning quiet of Harris Bay.
Feel the magic of that moonless night
as AWOL slid, sleek, fast, back home,
with Ans
snuggled at your side
gazing at the stars;
and Raconteur
chugging frightened in your wake.
‘Raconteur, Raconteur,
AWOL calling Raconteur.
Hey Dad, take care,
there’s rocks ahead,
Keep well to port.’
And still,
despite the warnings,
we didn’t see them coming.
And then, as now,
I know,
I should have led the way.
Son,
listen to the music of the wake,
listen to the crying in the wind,
and always, always listen out
for me, on Channel Eight.
The Chatfield Dynasty
Contents
Title Page
Books by Michael Green
Copyright
Dedication
Part 1
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
Part 2
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
Part 3
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
Part 4
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
About the Author
Part 1
1
Mark peered through the aircraft window. Instead of taxiing to the terminal, the plane had stopped abruptly in a service area at the edge of Singapore’s Changi Airport. As fuel tankers drew up alongside, Mark’s hunch that something was wrong grew stronger.
It had been a thirteen-hour flight from Heathrow. Mark was fit and wiry, and his full head of dark hair made him look younger than his late fifties, but he was feeling his age after the journey. His wife Helen was a few years his junior, though he couldn’t help thinking how old she was now looking as she coughed into her handkerchief. Perhaps she would feel better after she’d stretched her legs while the plane refuelled.
The public address system crackled. ‘This is the co-pilot speaking.’ Mark could sense tension in the voice. ‘We have been advised of an incident in the terminal building. We’ll be taking off again as soon as we’ve refuelled. Those passengers who were due to disembark in Singapore will be flown back from Auckland once the situation in the terminal has been resolved.’
Pandemonium broke out. The university lecturer sitting next to Mark and Helen announced loudly there was no way he would be flying on to Auckland. As he continued his tirade, Mark saw armoured personnel carriers drive up and disgorge soldiers carrying automatic weapons. The soldiers quickly surrounded the aircraft. Passengers peered out of the windows and lowered their voices to hushed whispers.
The public address system crackled again: ‘Passengers are reminded that the use of mobile phones and electrical equipment is not allowed while the aircraft is refuelling.’
The lecturer immediately fumbled in his pockets and retrieved his phone. ‘I can’t get a signal,’ he complained after furtively jabbing the keypad.
‘The authorities could be jamming the frequency,’ Mark speculated.
As soon as the fuel lines were disconnected
and the tankers driven clear, the aircraft taxied to the end of the runway and charged forward. They had been on the ground less than forty minutes. The lecturer who had claimed there was no way he was going to fly on to Auckland cheered and clapped the loudest as the jet left the runway and climbed into the sky.
Twenty-two hours earlier, Mark and Helen had arrived at Heathrow to find their flight had been delayed four hours. An extraordinarily large number of flight cancellations was compounded by a shortage of check-in staff.
Due to the painfully slow progress of the queue, they had to spend a considerable amount of time listening to the same university lecturer they would later find themselves sitting next to on the plane.
‘Typical story,’ he complained. ‘Bloody airport staff, they go on strike every holiday time. No thought for the travelling public!’
Mark and Helen were only too pleased when they finally reached the check-in counter. The usual security checks were followed by a long list of health-related questions: ‘Where have you travelled in the last six weeks? Do either of you have any flu-like symptoms?’
Helen wasn’t feeling well. She’d felt off-colour ever since she’d arrived in England a month earlier. Although she’d been running a slight temperature, she hadn’t complained. Knowing that a doctor would have done no more, she’d simply dosed herself with paracetamol and carried on. A flu virus had been sweeping England and doctors were prescribing the usual remedies for mild fever. Now that Mark was dealing with the formalities at the check-in counter, she didn’t feel inclined to complain. She suppressed her urge to cough; she just wanted to get home to Auckland where she could see her own doctor.
By the time their hand luggage had been x-rayed, it was already six o’clock Sunday evening. Back home in New Zealand it would be seven o’clock Monday morning. Their daughter Jane and her husband Bruce would be awake, preparing for a new working week. Mark decided to phone them.
Jane answered the call and Mark quickly acquainted her with the situation at Heathrow: ‘We’ve been delayed, it’s chaos … You’d better check flight arrivals before you set off for the airport tomorrow. Heaven knows what time we’ll get in now … And can you give your brother a call? He said he might come down and meet us, too … How are the children …?’
There were further delays. Eventually, at nine o’clock, nine hours after they’d arrived at Heathrow, their aircraft roared down the runway and climbed into the dark, rain-laden sky. They were tired, hungry and fed up. Their mood wasn’t improved by the fact they’d been allocated seats towards the rear of the aircraft and that the passenger in the aisle seat alongside them turned out to be the same complaining man they’d had to spend so much time listening to in the check-in queue.
‘We apologise for the delay,’ announced a cheerful-sounding pilot. ‘The delay was caused by crew sickness …’
‘More people extending their Christmas break,’ scoffed the lecturer.
After dinner was served and the cabin lights had been dimmed, Mark and Helen dozed off for fitful periods, or at least feigned sleep. Anything was better than listening to their fellow passenger, who was clearly intent on recouping as much of his fare as possible in the form of free booze.
It proved even more difficult than usual for them to sleep. A section of the aircraft immediately behind them was curtained off as a crew resting area — not that there appeared to be much resting going on. There was a continual stream of crew coming and going, accompanied by muted, agitated voices.
Two hours before they arrived in Singapore, the aircraft cabin lights were switched on for the pre-landing meal.
The lecturer was quickly into his stride: ‘I don’t know why they bothered waiting for more crew; half of them must be sleeping in there,’ he complained loudly, pointing his finger towards the curtained-off area. ‘No wonder the service is so bad.’
Shortly after the aircraft took off from Singapore, Helen began to feel very ill. As the journey continued her condition deteriorated; she coughed continually, her temperature soared and her breathing became laboured. A flight attendant brought her an oxygen bottle and mask, which gave her only temporary relief.
Eleven hours after leaving Singapore, the jet altered course to commence its approach to Auckland International Airport. The manoeuvre framed the glistening waters off Oneroa Beach in the aircraft window, reminding Mark of the morning nearly thirty years earlier when he’d arrived from Britain to join his brother Christopher in New Zealand. If only Christopher and he had managed to persuade their younger brother, Paul, to join them. Had they done so, the whole family would be living in New Zealand now, and Helen would have been spared this nightmare journey.
He looked at her again anxiously; she seemed to have aged a year for every one of the last eleven hours.
‘My wife’s getting worse,’ he said anxiously, catching the attention of the flight attendant as she checked that seatbelts were fastened.
‘I can’t do anything more for her,’ she snapped. Then her training kicked in: ‘I’m sorry, we won’t be long now. I’ve arranged for an ambulance to meet us as soon as we’re down.’
As the plane flew over Auckland city, Helen caught her breath again. Mark took her hand and squeezed it. ‘Just a few more minutes,’ he promised.
A little before ten o’clock on Tuesday morning, the aircraft skimmed the Manukau Harbour and touched down gently on the runway at Mangere. The lecturer, who’d helped drink the bar dry, led another round of applause. Mark glanced across at the terminal. Their daughter Jane would be there with their grandchildren Zach and Nicole by now. Perhaps his son Steven would be there to meet them as well.
The plane stopped abruptly alongside two large marquees, and a mobile staircase was being driven to the forward exit door. Mark was relieved to see an ambulance parked beside the tents, but wondered why the plane hadn’t taxied to the terminal. ‘Don’t tell me there’s trouble here, too,’ he muttered.
Helen opened her eyes. ‘How do you feel?’ he asked.
She didn’t reply. She simply shook her head wearily before closing her eyes again.
The aisles were now crammed with passengers, stretching up to retrieve their hand luggage from the overhead lockers. Mark was frantic; Helen needed the ambulance, and soon, but he had to resign himself to waiting until the aisles were clear before they could attempt to leave.
The passengers jostled past the seats and down the steps, and were directed into the larger of the two marquees. As soon as they had disembarked, the flight crew also hurried out and were diverted into the smaller marquee.
Mark waited anxiously for the flight attendant to return to assist them, but he saw her, along with the other crew, rushing into the smaller marquee. He and Helen had been deserted.
In the silence of the empty plane, Helen’s laboured breathing was even more pronounced. Yet it wasn’t the only sound. There was an echo — the same gasping sound — coming from the curtained-off area at the rear of the aircraft.
Mark scrambled from his seat, rushed up the aisle and threw back the curtains. Before him were four ghostly white faces, members of the crew. They were all dead. A fifth crew member was, like Helen, fighting for her life.
He looked out the aircraft window again. A few passengers had left the large marquee and were gesticulating wildly, arguing with medical staff dressed in long gowns and facemasks. Suddenly, a small group of passengers set off towards the terminal. Seconds later, sirens sounded as military vehicles raced down the runway. The absconding passengers, the lecturer among them, stopped in their tracks as the convoy halted. Gun-wielding soldiers wearing protective clothing jumped from the trucks and lined up before them, barring their route to the terminal. The lecturer, buoyed up by the free booze, decided to continue. Soldiers shouted at him to stop, but he pushed them roughly aside. A gunshot rang out, and his body crumpled onto the runway.
The truth dawned on Mark. He turned and made his way back towards Helen, tears streaming down his face. He moved to pick her up, to
carry her to the waiting ambulance. But he was too late; Helen was dead.
2
The Owen family were awake early that Tuesday morning. Bruce was out of bed first. He had his shower and set about preparing breakfast for Jane and himself. It was their daily ritual; they would eat breakfast in bed before Bruce set off to work, and before their two lively children, Zach and Nicole, woke up.
While Bruce was making the breakfast, Jane was checking the aircraft arrival times for Auckland airport. Still half asleep, she requested their home computer to display pre-selected websites, expecting her choice to be projected onto the screen on the bedroom wall. She rubbed her eyes; all the website displays were blank.
She instructed the TV to display the twenty-four-hour news channel. The main story concerned a computer virus that had brought the World Wide Web to a standstill. At least that explained why her website displays were blank.
She decided to try the oldest form of communication available on her integrated system — Teletext. The Teletext information for arrivals at Auckland airport was odd. Most arrivals were cancelled, but at least her parents’ flight was still showing. She checked the departures screen; all outbound flights had been cancelled.
When Bruce walked in with their breakfast, she flicked back to the twenty-four-hour news channel.
‘This is crazy,’ she remarked, as she took her tea and toast. ‘Auckland airport’s at a standstill, and yet it’s not being reported on the news.’
Bruce shrugged. Jane looked at him, concerned. She felt his forehead; he was burning up. ‘Why don’t you take the day off?’
He shook his head. ‘We’re short-staffed as it is, half my section’s off sick. I have to go in.’
She knew he would have preferred to stay at home. He was always telling Jane how beautiful she was and how he found it hard to get out of bed and leave her. But despite wanting to stay, and despite feeling unwell, he knew he had to go to work. She didn’t want him to go either, but she knew how strong his sense of responsibility was.
Blood Line: What if your family was the last left alive? (The Blood Line Trilogy Book 1) Page 1