“But why eighty per cent women?”
“That’s the question,” admitted Gill. “We think having children later in life is one factor. You see, our immune system has evolved over millions of years to protect mother and baby during multiple pregnancies. Choosing to postpone motherhood is a relatively recent adjustment, putting career first. It’s likely that lower levels of oestrogen led to the body’s over-reaction to perceived threats.”
“What Gill’s suggesting is that both immune dysfunction and cytokine storms caused by the introduction of a virus, can have similar outcomes.”
“In which case, once identified, could these conditions be treated?” asked Zed.
“That’s Porton’s hypothesis,” acknowledged Gill. “We began testing the effects of increased oestriol levels, the hormone produced during pregnancy. It helps mother and foetus fight infection, including autoimmune disorders. The solution could be as simple as giving young women booster shots of oestriol to enhance immunity. We now understand that’s what Doctor Wu’s team is testing in Ventnor.”
“DARPA worked on something not dissimilar a few years back. I think it was called ‘Bright Star’.”
“I thought DARPA designed stealth bombers?” laughed Zed.
“They have a life sciences division too. The Pentagon brought them in to shake up our thinking. Gene vaccines were thought to accelerate natural selection, harnessing the body’s own immune system, and be more stable because of it.”
Something was nagging at the back of Zed’s brain. “Wait. Wasn’t Bright Star one of the vaccine programmes red-flagged by the UN? They considered it a smoke screen for offensive weapons tests. Iraq and Russia used similar tactics. Offensive defence, they called it,” he continued with a grunt.
“Two sides of the same coin,” countered the doctor. “Most countries, including the UK, were expert at walking that line. The ability to hold contrary positions and not be seen to be contradictory. The bottom line was that our front-line troops needed protection. Without effective vaccines, hundreds of thousands of Allied service personnel might have been exposed to Saddam’s bioweapons.”
“And so began a new arms race,” cursed Zed.
“No-one could have seriously imagined how those technologies would be misused,” argued the doctor. “Gene splicing put the power of Gods into the hands of men.”
“Yes, but biological weapons are, by their nature, imprecise and indiscriminate. The chances of collateral damage were always very high.”
“You could say the same of any new technology,” replied the doctor. “Nuclear for example. Used for constructive or destructive ends. Don’t blame science, blame the politicians. They’re the ones who quashed debate, said the world wasn’t ready, drove science underground. They stopped nothing. Only now can we begin to understand the consequences.”
“My team spent hundreds of hours a month writing endless threat assessments for successive government,” insisted Gill. “No-one can claim we didn’t warn you.”
“I assure you, we read and discussed every single report, but no government in the world is going to waste money on something so unlikely. Pandemics were placed alongside meteor strike or some other act of God. If it happens, it happens. We deal with the consequences.”
“Which brings us back to bioterrorism. What if this wasn’t an ‘act of God’, Colonel? What then?” asked Zed.
“Look, investment in biological defences was never going to take precedence over investment in tangible resources: trucks, ships, and planes. Call me old-fashioned, but I’ve always been a conventional weapons kind of guy. Fighting wars with germs always seemed so far-fetched.”
“That didn’t stop the Pentagon issuing warnings to US ships operating within twenty-five miles of hostile territory that they could be vulnerable to biological attack,” admitted the doctor.
“That’s just the reality of modern warfare,” acknowledged the colonel. “Technology gives one side a temporary advantage. Just as the tank broke the stalemate in the First World War or the rifle superseded the bow and arrow. This is what progress looks like.”
“Bioweapons are different,” added Gill. “Once initiated, the attack cannot be stopped. Control is an illusion, gentlemen. Germs always win in the end. And Mother Nature is always one step ahead of us. She never stands still.”
Whether it was the fatalism of the conversation or cumulative fatigue catching up with him, Zed felt suddenly overwhelmed, gripping on to wheelchair’s armrest, heart racing, wondering whether he was having some allergic reaction to the vaccine. He felt dizzy, the room began to spin and his head slumped against the headrest. Doc was the first to take note, feeling Zed’s forehead. “He’s burning up.”
“Can someone bring him up to my quarters with some ice?” requested Gill. “He’ll be more comfortable there.”
Peterson glanced at the colonel and both men reluctantly agreed.
Chapter 40
Gill reversed Zed’s wheelchair over the doorsill and spun him round to face her compact cabin, considerably larger and more comfortably appointed than his cell in the brig, with a bunk set above a desk that slid underneath. Judging by the photos of family and friends, a plantation-style house and aerial shots of the Chester, the room belonged to one of the officers. He wondered whether the previous occupant had fallen victim to the virus when it ravaged the ship’s crew.
Gill filled two glasses of water and handed one to Zed’s shaking hand, spilling some down his shirt.
“You’re a mess, aren’t you?” she sighed.
Zed puffed out his cheeks but didn’t answer. She helped him take off his shoes and heaved him up into the cot. At the foot of the bed a television gathered dust, booked-ended either side by stacks of fishing magazines.
“It’s nice and quiet up here. You won’t be disturbed.” She tenderly kissed his forehead and crept out, closing the door behind her.
Zed lay perfectly still, exhausted, though unable to think about sleep, reflecting on everything he had learned in the last seventy-two hours. The Rockingham allegations, the Iraqi samples, the cover-ups. He had no doubt now, the truth had been altered to suit the government.
If this had happened once, he concluded, then it must have happened dozens of times. Those in power would do whatever it took to crush their enemies, to maintain the status quo, to rewrite history, if necessary. They would never go quietly, nor let men like Zed or Doctor Kelly succeed. Perhaps this had always been their plan. To wipe the slate clean, to start again. Let the pandemic play out so that whoever was really pulling the strings could emerge squinting into the light, ready to rebuild. He closed his eyes, trying to organise his thoughts. The question now nudging its way to the top of the list was not why or how but who? This was never the work of a lone wolf. To organise a coordinated attack of this scale would take an international network, but how on earth had they remained hidden all this time?
After what felt like a moment with his eyes closed, but was likely several hours, he woke to find the cabin in complete darkness. Someone was knocking at the door. The colonel slipped inside, turning on the light switch.
“What time is it?” asked Zed, shielding his eyes. It felt like the middle of the night.
“About nine. Doc said you shouldn’t sleep too long.”
Zed stretched and yawned, trying to stir some life into his aching limbs. The colonel rummaged through his briefcase.
“I brought you something to read.”
“I’m not sure I’m up to this yet.”
“Nonsense. This was Doc’s idea. Time to exercise those grey cells,” said the colonel, handing Zed a folder labelled ‘Phoenix’ with the now familiar imprint of the Central Intelligence Agency stamped in the top right-hand corner.
“Colonel, I appreciate the vote of confidence but I’m struggling to remember my own children’s names.” Zed grimaced.
“Give it time. The more you practice, the better you’ll get. Memory is like a musical instrument. Doc says yours just needs a t
une-up. All those tests you did when you first arrived suggest there’s nothing wrong with your short term memory. Your cognitive abilities are almost back to normal.”
Zed sat up, opened the cover of the Phoenix report. Thirty plus densely typed double-sided pages. “Tell me what I’m looking at?”
“The Phoenix Group was a Washington-based NGO, a think-tank producing various position papers on climate change, third world famine, that sort of thing. Strictly low level. Small but noisy. They supported the occasional demo in London and New York. Nothing out of the ordinary. Activists intent on change. Surprisingly well-funded for a group of their size. Donor list had some rather interesting contributors. Industrialists, scientists, celebrities, neocons mostly. Are you familiar with GCHQ’s Echelon surveillance programme?” Zed shook his head. “We monitored Phoenix’s London operation for some time.”
“Why was the CIA so interested?” Zed asks, flicking through the document.
“Because, beneath Phoenix’s convincing veneer of respectability lay a more radical geo-political agenda. They advocated for social and economic change. A hard core inner circle committed themselves to a revolution, a new world order, railing against the ubiquity of sin and the corruption of youth.”
“So what? Lots of people wanted to change the world.”
“There are several parallels with Camp Wight. Donnelly speaks of war as a ‘continuous cycle of attrition’ at Council meetings. Phoenix used similar language. They believed peace and democracy were simply illusions to pacify the common man, that overpopulation placed a huge burden on earth’s dwindling resources. The solution they proposed was Chinese-style state controls. One child per couple. Don’t you see?”
“Not really. It’s the price we have to pay to survive. The Allies are only doing what’s necessary.” Even as he heard the words escape from his own mouth, Zed realised they were not his own. The colonel blinked back at him, shaking his head.
“What you just said. You know, those are Donnelly’s words, not yours?”
“I don’t know why I said that.” Discombobulated, Zed struggled to hide his shame, as if he had just belched at the new boss’s dinner party. “I don’t know what to think. I can’t even make sense of the most basic facts.”
“Then trust your instinct, your gut. Never forget, men like Donnelly like to twist the truth to their purpose, peddling false hope to the masses. Don’t be taken in by his schizophrenia.”
Zed lowered his head in defeat, not daring to meet the colonel’s gaze.
“I’m sorry, Colonel. It would appear I’m destined to disappoint everyone.”
“It’s been less than forty-eight hours. Give yourself more time. The withdrawal symptoms will pass, I promise you. You’re still our best chance. No one has the same feel for this material as you.”
“What hope do we have of ever finding the truth? I can’t even trust my own judgement.”
“We’re all counting on you. Don’t forget why I chose you in the first place. That curiosity, scepticism, distrust of reported facts. Set aside this self-doubt, believe in your gut. “
“Donnelly confiscated everything. My books, notes, everything.”
“I’ll get you copies.”
“That’s not the point. I could spend the rest of my life looking and not finding. The more I learn about what happened, the more I realise the truth is unknowable, invisible, organic, like some inoperable cancer, gnawing at my soul.”
“It’s human nature to doubt. Give yourself a break.”
“Piecing this all together was already hard enough, now, well I’m just not sure it’s possible. We both knew the clock was against us. As soon as Donnelly realised we were on to him, he began destroying evidence. The truth may be lost forever.”
“Listen to yourself. He’s filled your head with this defeatism, brainwashed you into thinking that your objective is unwinnable. Don’t you see? He wants you to quit. To stop caring. Because he knows we’re closing in. He’s scared of what you will uncover.”
“I can’t do this any more, Colonel. I’m so tired. Tired of living.”
“If you quit now, you’ll never forgive yourself. They’re attempting to rewrite history, covering their tracks. For God’s sake, man. We can’t let them get away with genocide. Do it for your family. Do it for Heather.”
Hearing his daughter’s name for the first time in days pierced the dark clouds of his psyche like a shaft of light. It brought him much-needed clarity and perspective. The colonel was right. If he didn’t care about himself, perhaps a sense of family duty might sustain him a little while longer. For Heather, for Gill and Riley. His bonds of family, of friendship, remained strong. Donnelly could never take those away from him.
“Gill told me you believe your daughter still blames you,” continued the colonel, as if reading his thoughts. “Donnelly tapped into your guilt, used it to his advantage. When have you ever given up on anything in your life? Most of us never got a chance to say goodbye to the ones we loved, don’t spurn a solid-gold opportunity for reconciliation. Remember, a child’s love is unconditional. Setting aside your differences will bring you closure, I promise you.”
“You haven’t met my daughter.” Zed laughed. “The only unconditional love I’ve ever known is a dog’s. Remember King Lear’s daughters? Heather is more Goneril and Regan than Cordelia. Filial ingratitude is the norm in our family. My parents never understood the path I chose. When my marriage broke down they blamed me for not being able to see their precious grandchildren.”
The colonel must have noticed the flash of anger and recrimination burning in Zed’s eyes, scrunching up the report in his hand.
“There, that’s it. Hold on to that sense of injustice. Nurture it, channel it. It will serve you well. But please, Zed. No more of this doom and gloom. It doesn’t suit you. Focus on what’s right in front of you.”
Zed flicked through the pages of the report with a heavy sigh. “Then tell me, what in here links Phoenix with Porton?”
“That’s the question the Americans are hoping you can help with. Join the dots, so to speak. They have a few leads. Nothing much. They claim Phoenix had a decentralised command structure, a revolution built on blockchain, essentially leaderless. Cut off an arm and a new one forms, multiplying, dividing, slowly spreading throughout the world. They had operations in the US, Australia, Canada, Hong Kong, India, Saudi Arabia, the UK. Everywhere and nowhere. Gradually infecting critical organisations, taking them over for their own purposes.”
“Like a virus,” mused Zed.
“Exactly,” said the colonel, sitting up straighter. “And without a host, all viruses die. Helpless, unable to reproduce.”
“Malign actors have always sought to undermine democracy. What makes you think Phoenix was any different?”
“Technology. They weaponised political debate to a degree we’d not seen before, secretly bankrolling extremists and ideologues, using the echo chamber of social media to spread their message to millions in seconds. Not just fake news, but sophisticated autonomous AI software producing so-called synthetic content they knew would land with target audiences. Algorithmically-generated faces, famous people grafted on to actors’ bodies, their words dubbed or faked to support Phoenix’s position on climate change, immigration, anti-vaccination, or anti-globalism.”
“The Russians had been doing that for years.”
“Yes, but this time they sought to influence public opinion in novel ways. Altering footage and photos of world leaders to suit their narrative. The industrial scale of their production meant law enforcement struggled to keep up. As soon as they took one story down, four extra ones would surface. They also devoted resources to altering perceptions of past events too, whipping up ill feeling about China, deflecting blame for industrial accidents.”
“Meaning all reported history becomes untrustworthy.”
“Exactly. A free speech lawyer acting for Phoenix claimed injunctions were disproportionate, stories faked by their rivals to discredi
t them.”
“Weakening the public’s trust in democracy.”
“Look, GCHQ was losing the information war, tying up resources, diverting attention. It was a smokescreen to conceal their true purpose.”
“Which was what?”
“We believe Phoenix was more than just a noisy mouth-piece, they were prepared to take direct action where necessary. Remember al-Nazridi?” Zed struggled to place that name. “They were actively supporting at least two terrorist groups.”
“Why?”
“Because the very existence of Islamic State or Al-Qaeda justified the continued war on terror. A physical embodiment of everything that was wrong with the world. They wanted to stoke fear, stir people’s imagination, provide a platform for everything Phoenix believed should change. It became a licence to circumvent the rule of law.”
“Then perhaps the virus was the ultimate catalyst for change. After all, every hero needs a villain, every crusade needs a foil. In a twisted sort of way, this actually makes sense to me,” admitted Zed.
“Only if the outbreak could be controlled,” cautioned the colonel. “LaSalle’s investigators believe the Iraqis may have secretly developed several pathogens capable of human-to-human transmission, with or without Russian help. The UN inspectors found no trace of them. We can’t yet prove whether their programme disappeared to Syria or back to Russia. Anyway, whether accidentally or otherwise, LaSalle claims a genetically enhanced version of one of those pathogens turned up in mainland China several years later with devastating consequences.”
“Meaning Porton could be a wholly innocent party in all this,” admitted Zed. “There’s no actual proof of a link with the outbreak in Guangzhou. At best, it proves that Donnelly and Doctor Hardy were economical with the truth. In this day and age, is that really such a crime?”
“There’s more you don’t know. LaSalle believes Phoenix was just one mouthpiece of an international network. Donnelly had links with other scientists advocating for change. They were supported by regular people of all stripes and colours. Neoconservatives, Church leaders, eco-warriors.”
The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger Page 30