The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger

by Crumby, Robin

  A few hours later, Zed was shaken awake by a male nurse in scrubs. The young crewman disconnected the drip, washed and shaved Zed’s stubble, and helped him get dressed into fresh clothes supplied with the ship’s insignia. He inspected the result in a handheld mirror, barely recognising the dead eyes staring back at him, nor the sallow skin and hollow cheeks. He wiped away dry tears, overwhelmed by a profound sense of shame and hopelessness. The nurse standing behind the wheelchair placed a comforting hand on Zed’s shoulder.

  “If you’re ready, sir, I’ll take you through.”

  Zed took a deep breath and raised his good hand to lead on.

  In the Chester’s State Room, Peterson, the colonel and the ship’s Chief Medical Officer were talking quietly. They broke off their conversation at Zed’s arrival.

  “How are you feeling, son?” enquired the doctor with almost paternal empathy.

  “Better, thank you,” replied Zed, his voice fragile, close to breaking.

  “Good. The plasma drip should wash out all trace of those opiates in your system. Give it a couple of days and you’ll be back on your feet, I promise.”

  “Zed, you’re here as an observer, okay? I’m not expecting anything of you today.” The colonel sat up straighter and shuffled the papers in front of him. “I trust you’ve both had a chance to read my report.”

  “We have,” acknowledged Peterson. “It certainly puts a different complexion on things.” He ran a finger down the printed sheet, several sections highlighted in yellow. Redeeming evidence perhaps, hoped Zed. “I still have one of my men doing fact checking. There’s a limit to what we can do to verify without a sat-link to Washington.”

  “In the interests of time, I suggest we lay our cards on the table,” suggested the Colonel. Peterson and the doctor exchanged muted agreement. “As you know, during my time in Folkestone, I spoke privately with Benoit LaSalle and his Chief of Staff. They confirmed what we all suspect: that Porton Down has been less than transparent about the focus of its research. It’s now clear that the UN versions of the documents in question contradict some but not all of the prosecution’s evidence.”

  “It all depends how much emphasis you place on their Singapore theory,” cautioned Peterson.

  “Singapore?” repeated Zed, unsure whether he’d ever heard reference to the tiny island city state in any of the reports.

  “Yes, one of the epidemiologists at the World Health Organisation nicknamed the virus ‘English Flu’ and it kinda stuck.”

  “Why not Singapore Flu?” asked Zed.

  “Because the index patient was an English-born physician, based in Singapore,” explained the doctor.

  “The link with the UK was tenuous at best. All the early reports pointed to the wet markets in Guangzhou, China.” The colonel laughed. “It’s like claiming the Spanish Flu started in Spain.”

  “There’s a little more to it than that,” claimed the doctor. “Even Doctor Hardy claims Porton scientists were the first to identify this new strain…”

  “Why don’t we cut to the chase, gentlemen?” interrupted the colonel. “The Chester didn’t arrive here by chance, did it? You were sent here as part of Operation Neptune. The Chester formed part of a United Nations naval taskforce enforcing an exclusion zone around the United Kingdom.”

  Peterson chewed his lip, eyeballing his British counterpart, considering his response. “Correct. Our mission was to intercept any ship attempting to approach southern England. Neptune is phase one of the UN quarantine and relief operation.”

  “Then you’ve been in contact with LaSalle all this time?”

  “No, sir. The UN is in just as much of a mess as we are. Different factions fighting it out. LaSalle’s doing his best to get things back on track. It’s hard to know what’s going on right now.”

  Zed jotted down a dozen questions, jostling for position: “Then why did you choose to stay silent till now?”

  “We weren’t sure who to trust. Until Major Donnelly made his move, we assumed the colonel knew more than he was letting on.”

  “I had my suspicions,” acknowledged the colonel with a raise of the eyebrows. “I decided to keep my powder dry.”

  Peterson’s tone softened, reaching out and placing a hand on Zed’s shoulder: “You really think we would have saved your butt all those times if we didn’t think you were one of the good guys?”

  “So I should be grateful?” chirped Zed, holding up his prosthetic arm.

  “Your investigation was important to us. You had access to MoD files and personnel. As you know, we’ve been supporting you as much as possible.”

  “Then what happens now?” asked the colonel.

  “LaSalle is activating phase two: Operation UK Star. A cleanup of southern England, same as they’ve already done in France and Spain. Round up survivors into quarantine zones, dispose of bodies, get critical infrastructure back on line.”

  “What about Camp Wight and the island?”

  “Depends whether the Council chooses to cooperate.”

  “What choice do they have?”

  “After what’s happened in the last couple of weeks, trust and goodwill are in short supply.”

  “Remove Donnelly and Captain Armstrong will come round.”

  “I wish it was that easy. You really think Briggs will go quietly?”

  “When the time comes, Briggs will play ball,” reassured Peterson with a wry smile.

  “I concur,” confirmed the colonel, much to Zed’s astonishment.

  “You think you know Briggs?” challenged Zed, horrified by their overconfidence. “The man’s unhinged. He’s no team player. He’ll kill anyone who stands in his way.”

  There was a curt knock at the door and a crewman announced. “They’re ready for you now, sir.”

  “Excellent. Gentlemen, if you’ll follow me, there’s something I’d like to show you.”

  Chapter 39

  Through the destroyer’s maze of narrow passageways, the male nurse did his best to keep up, pushing Zed in the wheelchair. Below the main deck, Peterson paused at the doorway marked ‘starboard hangar’, a space large enough for a second Seahawk helicopter, though Zed had never seen inside. He punched in the entry code and held open the heavy metal door.

  To Zed’s astonishment, inside were green surgical tents, transparent walkways and an airlock to what looked like a containment area where technicians were hunched over microscopes and centrifuges. To his right, he spotted Gill speaking with one of the lab workers. She broke off her conversation with a broadening smile.

  “I wondered when you’d show up.” She limped over and awkwardly threw her arms around his shoulders. There was an underlying smell of disinfectant about the lab coat.

  He planted a kiss on her neck, hugging her tightly, whispering “I thought you were dead.” Opening his eyes, he realised with embarrassment that the entire hangar had paused in their labours, gawping at their reunion with professional detachment, pencils poised to record their observations, like scientists monitoring mice in a chamber.

  Gill released herself and the moment was gone. “You don’t remember, do you?” he began, remembering their last encounter in his cell at St Mary’s, though he was beginning to wonder whether he had imagined the whole thing.

  She appeared not to understand, making notes on a clipboard. “Remember what?”

  “I saw you.”

  “When?”

  “At St Mary’s. You tried to kill me.”

  “Me?” she laughed, like it was some big joke. “Why ever would I want to do that?”

  “Doctor Stephens,” one of Gill’s colleagues called out, pointing at a close-up of cell structures magnified on his screen. She reached over his shoulder and tapped away at the keyboard, rotating the image, issuing commands. On the companion monitor, she scrolled through a digital feed of chemical formulas, numbers and letters. “Try the other batch and see if we get the same outcome.”

  Zed waited patiently for her to finish. “What is all this
?”

  “It was the Doc’s idea to organise the exchange. Cross pollination, he called it. I suspect Donnelly was keen to get rid of me.”

  “Why?”

  Gill moved closer to avoid being overheard. “Look, we’re all keen to get on with the job, to forget what happened.”

  “That’s alright for you but I’m the one being accused of espionage.”

  “We all have our crosses to bear.” She shrugged unsympathetically. “The only reason I dodged that same bullet is that my team refused to co-operate and I guess Doctor Hardy put in a good word for me. You think that makes any difference in the long run? My card is marked, the same as yours.”

  “Donnelly’s not going to give up. You know that.”

  “We’ll see. Anyway, you want me to give you the grand tour or what?” She gestured towards the cramped hangar. “It may not look much, but they’ve assembled an impressive team,” she said, wandering between work stations, introducing Zed to her colleagues, pointing out the purpose of each sub team. “These two are from Fort Detrick in Maryland, Sean over there is from the Centers for Disease Control.”

  “What are they all doing here?”

  “Triple checking all the test results coming out of Porton and St Mary’s, challenging any exaggerated claims, running simulations, crunching data, extrapolating potential responses. It’s a joint effort. We’re here to keep everyone honest.”

  On the opposite wall of the hangar, a line of crewmen waited their turn to be injected with the latest vaccine shot from St Mary’s. The Chester’s Chief Medical Officer called them over, one by one, his fleshy cheeks flush from the exertion. Zed picked up a vial of colourless liquid from the first crate, inspecting the printed label that read ‘ADL-14b’.

  “Does it work?” asked Zed, rolling up his sleeve, ignoring the murmurs of disapproval from the crewmen waiting in line.

  “It’s not perfect, but it’s the best we’ve got.” Doc flicked the end of the syringe, plunging the needle into Zed’s forearm. He did the same with a second syringe, sticking a band-aid over the two pinpricks of blood.

  “Why two?”

  “One’s for the virus, the other’s for smallpox. We’re getting reports of an outbreak on the mainland.” Zed nodded, thinking nothing of it. He glanced back at the lab, shaking his head with a smile. “How long have you been checking up on Porton Down?”

  “Since the end of the Cold War,” replied Doc with a shrug.

  “Seriously? Whatever happened to the ‘special relationship’?”

  “You’re probably too young to remember. Back in the Eighties and Nineties there was a big falling out between our countries over Soviet bioweapons programmes. Your prime minister, Maggie Thatcher’s advisors chose to believe Gorbachev and Yeltsin’s lies about perestroika and glasnost. They ignored the overwhelming evidence US inspectors presented proving what was really going on at Biopreparat. It was only when defectors like Alibek and Pachenik provided first-hand accounts that you Brits took any notice.”

  The colonel overheard the Chief Medical Officer’s response, adding: “You weren’t the only ones feeling ignored. Porton’s scientists were frustrated by the government’s collective failure to act.”

  “In what sense?” asked Zed.

  “Successive rounds of austerity had taken their toll. The MoD had taken the difficult decision to mothball Porton Down’s biological research capability, merging departments, retiring senior figures. So, as we were cutting back investment, the Soviets doubled down. Porton’s century-long reputation as a world leader was suddenly at risk. An entire revolution in genetic engineering almost passed us by.”

  “And when the Kremlin tried to cut a bilateral deal with Washington,” added Doc, “the Brits were caught off guard.”

  “The MoD hierarchy closed ranks, drew a veil of secrecy around its biological research. Insisted military scientists should be allowed to pursue their own agenda. Refused calls for reciprocal inspections, cited national security concerns. At GCHQ we investigated claims a high-ranking Porton officer was using back channels with scientists in other countries to seek alternative sources of funding.”

  “How?” asked Zed.

  “After the first Iraq war and the collapse of the Soviet Union in the early Nineties, the creation of international inspection teams, like UNSCOM, meant, for the first time, that an entire network of experts from different countries could exchange data and knowledge. It made cross-border collaboration significantly easier.”

  “Meaning Hardy and Donnelly have been under suspicion for years?” asked Zed.

  “We couldn’t prove it, but we’ve long suspected it was happening,” added Doc. “When British special forces intercepted those Iraqi pathogen samples in 2003, Porton denied everything. Said they never existed.”

  “Then what makes you so sure they did?”

  “Because our operative on the ground located the convoy, alerted AWACS, but your guys got there first,” admitted Doc.

  “But there was never any proof?”

  “Not officially but, remember, the Chester was used as a floating detention centre in 2003. We were interrogating a steady flow of Iraqis transferring in and out from Abu Ghraib and Camp Bucca. This is a relatively small ship. People hear stuff. Word gets around.”

  “Go on,” encouraged the colonel.

  “There were these two scientists from a vaccine testing facility at Al Hakamin brought here. You Brits pulled strings to have them transferred to the UK. Several weeks later, they disappeared, literally. No record of their transfer, whatsoever. That’s when the Pentagon lost patience. Initiated an active monitoring programme.”

  “Against your closest ally?” asked Zed.

  “It happens more often than you think,” admitted the colonel. “Especially when trust is in short supply.”

  “Anyway, the net result was that, over the years, CIA operatives and the NSA systematically gathered reams of intelligence about Porton’s programmes. You’ll remember our interest in the Foot and Mouth scandal and Mad Cow Disease. We considered accidental release of a flu-like pathogen a very real possibility.”

  “But you remain open to the bioterrorism scenario we discussed?” confirmed Zed. “Let’s not forget, Saddam personally advocated the use of biological weapons against Iraq’s enemies. He was an outspoken supporter of terrorism.”

  “The chances of mass loss of life from a successful bioterrorism attack are actually minuscule,” countered Gill. “Perhaps as low as one percent.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting the sarin attacks in Tokyo?” asked the doctor.

  “At Porton, we use Aum Shinrikyo as a case study. More than a billion dollars in assets and yet, even with all their resources, they only managed to kill thirteen people. Far less than the 7/7 bombings in London or attacks in Madrid. What hope would Al Qaeda, Islamic State or any other terrorist organisation have working with primitive equipment in a cave or make-shift lab? The threat was always exaggerated.”

  “I’m not so sure, the government’s emergency Cobra committee were heavily influenced by those simulations Porton scientists ran on the London Underground. They proved the danger posed by the release of a biological agent on public transport networks.”

  “Yes, but it’s actually much harder than you’d think,” admitted Gill. “Especially with a pathogen capable of human-to-human transmission.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting the outbreak of West Nile Encephalitis in New York City in 1999?” countered the doctor. “That had all the hallmarks of a terrorist incident. First recorded instance of the disease in North America. Caught everyone cold. At first, no one had any idea what it was. The CDC initially concluded it might be transmitted by mosquitoes, but it turned out to be something entirely new.”

  “Opinions differ,” Gill batted away dismissively. “Considering the CDC’s motto is ‘Expect the Unexpected’, it became something of a private joke at Porton.”

  “Well, West Nile Encephalitis was so rare in the US, it actually took
a vet to make the link,” admitted Doc with some embarrassment. “He observed large numbers of crows and other birds dying. No-one knew why.”

  “Significant epidemics are, thankfully, incredibly rare,” added Gill. That’s why they’re so fascinating. Us epidemiologists wait a lifetime for something like this to happen. With H1N1 we found a strong correlation between the numbers of dead birds and the likelihood of human infection. We called it a harbinger.”

  “A harbinger?” repeated Zed.

  “You know. An omen? Something that foretells disaster?” answered the doctor.

  “Exactly,” agreed Gill. “In Europe and Asia, we realised that earlier detection would save lives. It’s why the WHO created the Sentinel programme, to make sense of all the terabytes of incoming data, to facilitate better communication between all the disparate agencies.”

  “In the US, they created rapid response teams to coordinate federal and military efforts. The perceived risk of further pandemics provided massive budget increases. ”

  “Except, in the UK, we overemphasised the bioterrorism angle,” suggested Gill. “A huge red herring which diverted resources away from the real priority: studying pandemics and how we stop the next one. Like closing those wet markets in China. There were countless clues we missed. Warning signs for what was about to happen.”

  “Don’t get her started,” sighed Doc with a wry smile. “It’s her pet subject. The rise of autoimmune disorders.”

  “Conditions like type one diabetes, Crohn’s disease, MS, psoriasis, rheumatoid arthritis. In the UK alone, there were more than four million sufferers, three quarters of them women.”

  “No doubt. We had similar numbers in the States,” added Doc, “twenty three million, plus change, nearly eighty per cent female.”

  “I’m not following you. You’re suggesting there might be a connection with the Millennial Virus?” asked Zed.

  “It’s one theory. We were tracking a generalised shift in the human microbiome, you know, the mix of bugs that live in our gut. Some conditions are genetic, passed from one generation to the next, but others are caused by lifestyle choices, stress or diet.”