Wildfire: A Post-Apocalyptic Pandemic Survival Thriller (The Hurst Chronicles Book 3)

by Robin Crumby

  “Another one of your wild theories, Mr Samuels. Please, can we just stick to the matter at hand? I couldn’t help noticing that your story about the interrogation of Taha made no mention of the flu virus.”

  “That’s right. She swore blind that she was unaware of any such programme. If it had ever existed, then she assured us that programme had been shut down before her time.”

  “Then why are we wasting time talking about her?” said Doctor Hardy, removing his glasses and shaking his head in exasperation.

  “Because we now know she was lying.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Our informant referred to a Project Chimaera, or in Arabic, Alkamir kayin khirrafi. A research programme so secret that only a handful of the Iraqi leadership knew of its existence. Our assessment was that their research was cutting-edge and credible.”

  “Did you say chimaera? You mean like the mythical creature?”

  “That’s right. In Greek legend, the chimaera was a fire-breathing monster with a lion’s head, a goat’s body and a serpent’s tail.”

  “Don’t you think it’s ironic that chimaera is also commonly used to refer to something illusory or imaginary that cannot be achieved? We might call that a red herring. Rather fitting, don’t you think?” Doctor Hardy smiled.

  “Except in this case where the Iraqi scientists appeared to have been close to a breakthrough. They had experimented on tens of thousands of Iranian prisoners of war, with dozens of separate strains of influenza virus. They were trying to engineer a virus that was easy to transmit and would ensure a high mortality rate.”

  “But that’s impossible. It’s been tried before,” said Doctor Hardy dismissively. He leaned forward in his chair, casting his eyes around the room, looking at each person in turn, choosing his next words carefully.

  “It’s been a closely guarded secret that for over one hundred years, Porton Down has conducted research into every known pathogen. To stay one step ahead, it was imperative that our teams worked without limits, pushing the boundaries of what’s possible to protect our nation from attack. Most of the world’s most deadly chemical and biological agents were first developed at Porton.”

  “We’re all well aware of Porton’s record and achievements, thank you. Indeed, whether that work was undertaken for defensive or offensive purposes is an ethical debate for another time,” confirmed the colonel.

  “The Common Cold Unit spent decades looking at dozens of different strains of flu virus. They experimented on thousands of willing volunteers,” said Doctor Hardy, growing red in the face. “In the last fifteen years, several laboratories attempted to create genetically modified flu strains. They wanted to see if it was possible to alter the rate of infection, splicing in genetic material from other viruses, such as Ebola or Marburg. The reality is that viruses are extremely unpredictable. They exchange genetic material with natural viruses all the time. An increase in the rate of infection is invariably countered by a decline in mortality. The Millennial Virus is a freak of nature. It simply could not have been man-made. It’s too perfect.”

  “So you’re saying that if you couldn’t do it at Porton Down, it’s just not credible that the Iraqis could have had any more success?” asked the colonel.

  “Correct. The considered opinion of my team is that it’s almost impossible that Iraq could have genetically engineered this virus.”

  “Well, hold on a minute,” countered the colonel. “We believe Iraq was not acting alone. There were numerous links with the Russian biowarfare division, and they were almost certainly sharing data with Syria and North Korea. Iraq certainly had the knowledge, skills and the will to do this.”

  “Various witness reports confirmed the human experiments. We suspect that they were testing a new virus,” suggested Zed.

  “How do you know that?”

  “One of the key witnesses was a truck driver who used to transport prisoners from Abu Ghraib prison to a military post in al-Haditha. He said that he saw canisters and drums marked with biohazard symbols. There were sealed airtight tanks just large enough for a single prisoner. The victims were said to have suffered from flu-like symptoms. Many of them died three to five days after exposure.”

  “But there are dozens of chemical or biological agents that could present as flu symptoms,” argued the doctor. “It doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “Well, we knew Saddam was stockpiling thousands of tonnes of chemical and biological weapons. The main concern was that he intended to fill the warheads of his Scud missiles with anthrax or some other biological agent. He planned to target his enemies in the region.”

  “But that claim was disproven, wasn’t it? It was inconceivable that he could launch an attack in forty-five minutes. Anyway, warhead delivery mechanisms might be effective for some bacterial weapons like anthrax, but they are extremely unlikely to work for viruses. Air release is much too unreliable. Wind might blow the agent in the wrong direction. Extreme temperatures or even strong sunlight could reduce its effectiveness. The chances of success are tiny.”

  “The MoD certainly didn’t take the threat of missile attack seriously. They were far more worried about human-to-human transmission.”

  Zed took over from the colonel. “The UN inspection team was highly sceptical until two disconnected pieces of information came to our attention. We discovered that the University of Baghdad had ordered frozen tissue samples from the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology in Washington. They were conducting research that required cell cultures from First World War victims of Spanish flu. Sixteen separate export orders were granted over the course of a four-year period in the nineties.”

  “And I suppose, at the time, no one thought that was suspicious?” asked the colonel.

  “Well, it’s not uncommon for pathogens and tissue samples to be exchanged between laboratories and universities,” confirmed one of the scientists.

  “We believe those tissue samples could have provided Iraq with sufficient quantities of the original Spanish flu 1918 pandemic strain to reproduce the virus,” continued Zed, to the weary sighs of those around the table.

  “Theoretically possible, but unlikely. Simply having those tissue samples is not proof that their team succeeded. Frankly, this chimaera nonsense is just another wild theory. Mr Samuels, the people round this table deal with facts. We’re scientists, not fantasists. Find us some hard evidence, not this conspiracy nonsense about ridiculous miracle weapons. What did you call them before?” said the doctor, reviewing his notes from a previous meeting with some derision. “Nazi Wunderwaffen!”

  Zed swallowed hard, feeling his cheeks redden. He was in danger of being laughed out of St Mary’s. He decided to bite back, even if that meant revealing more than he had planned.

  “Then what about the genetic markers you found, Doctor Hardy? You yourself said they were hard to explain. Wasn’t that the real reason I was brought to St Mary’s in the first place?”

  Hardy leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. He let out a long sigh. “Yes, I admit that was our thinking at the time.”

  “Go on, doctor,” instructed the colonel, with growing impatience.

  “Look, when we first sequenced the virus, our preliminary analysis indicated the presence of third-party RNA strands.”

  “And what does that mean exactly?” asked the colonel.

  “It suggested some level of human interference. Think of it as an artist’s signature. Some labs use coded RNA sequences to tag viruses so that they can track their spread in laboratory tests. But we came to understand that there was a simpler explanation. Viruses exchange genetic material all the time. Even if there was evidence of third-party material, it didn’t mean that the Millennial Virus was bioengineered. It’s far more likely this was simply a natural mutation. Experts like Professor Nicholas have always said that they expected another flu pandemic, they just didn’t know when.”

  “But they surely didn’t expect the outbreak to bear such striking similaritie
s with a long-dormant strain?”

  “But why not? We know that the Russians sent teams to Siberia to retrieve dormant viruses trapped in layers of permafrost. It was something of an obsession. They believed that their enemies would have no defence against such rare pathogens. Like smallpox. No one keeps stocks of the vaccine any more. Smallpox no longer posed a threat.”

  “And you’re suggesting that the same logic holds for a lethal strain of influenza?”

  “Again, why not? Splice in some genetic material from another virus and you have a pandemic the scale of which the world has never seen.”

  “Look, it’s just not that easy. You people have no idea.” The doctor laughed with open scorn.

  “But just because your team failed, doctor, could it be done?” asked the colonel.

  “I suppose it’s theoretically possible. Just very unlikely.”

  The colonel’s eyes narrowed, his palms resting flat on the table.

  “Then, gentlemen, with all due respect, however unlikely, we have to assume that someone, somewhere, may have succeeded.”

  Chapter Eight

  Terra was one of the last to leave Carisbrooke Castle. The convoy of four vehicles crawled along country roads in complete darkness, heading for their new home. Staying well away from the main roads, they skirted allied checkpoints.

  Terra rested her head against the window, staring at passing shapes and shadows, listening to the light rain. In the short time she had been at the castle, Terra had developed a strong attachment to the place. Lichen-covered stone walls reminded her just a little of Hurst. The austere accommodation was at best functional. She did not relish the prospect of spending the winter there. It remained a cold, unforgiving sort of place despite Briggs’s best efforts to upgrade the living quarters. She consoled herself that if it was good enough for Princess Beatrice, Queen Victoria’s daughter, then it was good enough for her.

  The last few days, the whole castle had felt so empty without Briggs. His entourage had gone ahead to put the finishing touches to their new home, said to be a school on the mainland. At least his absence had allowed her some head space to make sense of the past few months as his so-called special guest. Her dreams remained haunted by that fateful night at Hurst. The castle had fallen because of her. She never should have trusted Briggs to keep his promise. When he refused to stand up to King’s demands for revenge, he said Jack had got what he deserved. What did anyone expect would happen after keeping King locked up at the castle all those months? The looping image of Jack’s half-naked body twitching at the end of the rope made her nauseous once more. How could she have been so naive?

  The convoy squeaked to a halt at a small landing area on the Medina River, opposite the Folly Inn. She stood shivering in the shelter of the tailgate. A rowing boat with a throaty Yamaha outboard took it in turns to shuttle groups of four out to a floating pontoon in the near darkness. Waterlogged shapes in disorderly rows suggested pleasure craft in various states of disrepair.

  She blinked in the rain, struggling to catch sight of the passenger ferry that would transport them the rest of the way across the Solent.

  “Shouldn’t be much longer,” whispered her companion, looking distractedly at the illuminated dial of his watch.

  “How many hours do we have left?” she whispered anxiously.

  “We’re fine,” reassured the minder, with an undertone of irritation, handing her the rucksack to carry. He had barely left her side these last few days. A rising star in Briggs’s eclectic organisation. Most of them were former inmates from Parkhurst Prison or Albany, just up the road. Liberated during the outbreak, when the remaining guards could no longer care for them. The Governor’s repeated requests for relief unanswered.

  The younger man made no secret of his lack of enthusiasm for the task. He was only doing this as a personal favour. Briggs was a hard man to say no to.

  Briggs hadn’t trusted the allies to keep their word. He claimed the forty-eight-hour amnesty was a ruse to flush out those sympathetic to the rebels. Anyone attempting to leave the island would be rounded up rather than further swell the growing ranks of the disaffected. Briggs decided to slip away unnoticed in the night. With luck, they would catch the allies napping again. After all, it was a vast waterway to patrol with such limited resources.

  Huddled in muted silence under a tarpaulin she listened to the rain falling all around them. The incoming tide tugged gently against the polystyrene floats. When the wind strengthened, the whole platform seemed to tilt at an alarming angle.

  In the incessant downpour, water began pooling above their heads. The sagging material was stretched between four improvised poles. Terra was already soaked to the skin, holding a perfumed scarf to her mouth to mask the stench of mud and rotting fish rising from the riverbank.

  From time to time, one of the others pushed against the sagging bulge in the tarpaulin to release a torrent of water into the flowing river.

  On the far bank, a candle-lit lantern swung from a hook over the front entrance to the inn, casting shadows across the path. For a moment, she thought she saw a child’s face at the window watching them, but the curtain fell back into place and the face was gone.

  Their departure had been precipitated by Lieutenant Peterson’s surprise visit to Carisbrooke by helicopter. The Americans blamed Briggs for his part in what had happened at Hurst. It would appear that their partnership of convenience had run its course. Briggs’s presence at the castle was no longer tolerated. Did Peterson really believe that he could threaten Briggs? If there was one thing she had learned, to her cost, over the last few months, it was that Briggs could not be managed or controlled.

  In the end, it had been Damian King’s idea that they relocate to the new site on the mainland. He had made available to them what he described as a stately home, though Terra knew it was nothing of the sort. Walhampton was an independent boarding school, not a stone’s throw from Lymington Hospital, well equipped for Briggs’s growing entourage of nearly two hundred. King boasted that the three-hundred-year-old country house rivalled any National Trust site. It had even featured in the Domesday Book.

  The hospital group had been using the school as overflow accommodation. Their numbers had swollen over successive months as more groups drifted south towards the island. The school was an obvious choice, surrounded by nearly one hundred acres, its grounds turned over to agriculture. Lush pastures dotted with grazing sheep, cows and almost forty pigs.

  Victor said it was a tangible sign of the rebels’ strengthening union that King had allowed Briggs to take over the school. She knew Victor had worked hard to bring the two groups closer together. Scattered along the coast back towards Southampton were several other newly formed communities sympathetic to the rebel cause. Together they had formed an alliance that might soon rival the allies.

  Their heads turned in unison towards the sound of a low chugging noise coming from beyond the bend of the river. Terra glimpsed the powerful beam of the ferryboat’s searchlight sweeping ahead for any obstacles. The man from the Folly Inn swung his lantern from side to side, guiding the approaching ferry towards them.

  The bedraggled company got to their feet, herding closer together in expectation. Terra’s minder cleared a path to the water’s edge. They all knew who she was and what she represented. One by one they stepped aside to allow her through.

  The small vessel put its engines into neutral and coasted towards them on the rising tide. When they were close enough to throw a line, with a nudge astern, the ferry bumped gently against the jetty. Hanging down to protect its painted wooden hull, the oil-stained fenders groaned in displeasure, compressed against the fibreglass of the pontoon.

  The boat’s skipper reached over to shake hands with the local man. The flashlight picked out his weathered yellow oilskin jacket and sodden flat cap. They exchanged a mumbled greeting before handing over a package wrapped in plastic. Terra assumed it must be payment of some kind, drugs most likely.

  The remaini
ng luggage from the castle was quickly stowed beneath a weatherproof canopy that stretched halfway back towards the stern. Once safely aboard they crowded together in the shelter of the wheelhouse.

  The Folly man pushed the bow out into the tide, throwing their mooring lines to the waiting arms of the deckhand. They drifted silently along the length of the pontoon. Once clear of the line of moorings, the skipper threw the wheel over and powered the boat round to face back towards Cowes and the open sea beyond.

  It was just after four in the morning. With any luck, they would make it to Buckler’s Hard on the Beaulieu River before dawn.

  “Did you have any trouble getting across?” asked Terra.

  “Silent as the grave out there!” shouted the skipper over the steady rumble of the engine. “Most of the others left yesterday. We spotted one other fishing boat heading north out of Cowes. Trying to beat the deadline, I’d imagine.”

  “What happens when we get to the other side?”

  “The boss said he’s coming to collect you himself.” He grinned lasciviously, several of his teeth missing.

  Terra felt her cheeks flush. She pulled her jacket tighter, feeling the man’s eyes wander down her like a piece of meat. She only had to say the word and she could have this man killed. She glanced across at her chaperone, who took the hint, glaring back at the skipper.

  “Why don’t you keep your eyes on the road, old man,” he cautioned.

  “I’ve known your Briggs since the beginning, you know. People around here would lay down their lives for him. He’s like Robin Hood, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell him how well you served us. Your loyalty will be rewarded.”

  The skipper opened up their twin diesel engines as soon as they reached East Cowes, parallel with the burned-out shell of the old Royal Yacht Squadron. The bow rose higher as they powered into the black waves, sending spray flying either side. Looking behind, arms folded, she watched the island slowly fade into the pre-dawn darkness. The displaced water in their wake seemed to fizz with dull phosphorescence.