by Sam Nash
My attention wavered again, wondering where in the world my son could be stationed, whether he was about to receive numerous licenced and unlicensed live cultures, infused with inorganic and potentially lethal buffers, as part of a bulk inoculation plan. Could that be what my vision was trying to show me, the outcome of this inhuman directive?
I remembered the initial telephone call from the under secretary, and apologised for my insensitivity. These people were grieving. Their colleague, team leader and friend had recently perished.
“I am sorry for your loss. Were you close?” I asked, hoping to prompt answers to my unspoken questions. It was Denise who faltered first. Her eyes reddened, blinking back the rush of emotion. She tried to articulate her response, choosing a series of curt nods instead. I turned to Ian, taking the pressure from Denise. He did not look up from picking at his fingers. Their anguish shrouded in a secrecy that compelled me to keep digging.
“How did he…?”
“Car accident… or so they say.” Denise blurted out. The tears fell. She pulled out a tissue from beneath her cuff and swiped it hard across her eyes. I waited. There was more she wanted to get off her chest, if I could just give her time.
I looked at Ian. He shrugged. “It was an accident.”
There was an exasperated hostility brewing beneath her skin. “An accident is a deer running out in front of your car. An accident is ice on the road or a lorry jack-knifing on the motorway. It is not two front tyres spontaneously exploding on your way home from work.”
Her glare singed Ian’s face. He dipped his head low. “It was an accident.” I left the awkward silence hanging between them, hoping for more information, but none was forthcoming. Denise made some excuse about taking Mary to the canteen for some lunch. Ian melted away with no excuse offered, leaving me reeling over news of their former boss. I had twenty-four hours to find a solution to this impossible task, and report back to the Minister.
I bundled up the files and documents pertaining to their studies and carried them through to a room that had a bank of five new computers set up. I’d never used Windows before. They had version 3.0 with an impressive array of software, including one called Excel, but I digress.
The documentary evidence on the experimental vaccines was horrific. Three trials of suspensions, at different concentrations, all administered to the rhesus macaques. Images of hairless monkeys, covered in skin lesions and sores, bleeding gums and extreme weight loss. There were lists of symptoms that ran on for pages and induced nausea to read. At the end of one report, the count of animals who had fulfilled their purpose, and whose bodies were incinerated as a matter of course.
I flicked through the remaining paperwork, looking for the analysis of vaccines combinations. They were missing. Neither could I find their risk projections for those soldiers whose immune systems were already compromised. I wandered through the department to find Ian. He was hiding in his office, eating a ham sandwich. I closed the door behind me and sat down to face him. “I can’t find the…”
“You know it doesn’t matter what conclusions you draw, don’t you?” His eyes were weary with defeat, A beaten dog.
“Then why would they ask me here?”
“To deflect suspicion. Nothing more. If you start causing ripples, you might find your tyres fail you too.” He bit into his sandwich. It was just another day at the mad house for him.
“But I have to try. Did you forget to give me the notes on drug interactions, steroids and the like?”
“I cannot give you what I do not have,” another shrug.
“Then who has those data files?” my annoyance, spilling out in my tone.
“No one. We were ordered not to conduct the tests.”
My mind spun. They were instructed not to conduct basic safety tests. This MoD had no intention of taking expert advice. I was almost afraid to ask, but I had to know. “Has batch production already begun?”
“Uh-uh. Three days ago.”
I left his office, my mind spiralling in panic. How could I stop this madness? What could one person do against a ministerial giant, hell-bent on a deviant course?
Denise found me leaning against a wall, taking a moment to calm myself. Mary had asked for her toys from my car. I gave Denise my keys and told her where I had parked. She analysed me with the perception women seem to always have and patted my arm. No words, just a half-smile of recognition that the penny had dropped.
I sauntered back to the computers and opened a Word document. The cursor flashed on the empty page, taunting me. What could I write in my report that had not already been said? My mind steered towards the former chief immunologist. What had he presented that so antagonised the Minister? Surely those at the MoD had enough common sense to see that even strong, healthy soldiers would struggle to generate antibodies to multiple diseases at the same time? And that’s without the additional chemicals added to hasten immune reactions and prevent one viral component from destroying another.
My vision came back to me along with a regurgitation of my stomach acid. The lawsuits. Thousands of families impacted by this chemical cocktail pumped into soldiers’ bodies. Perhaps I could argue that angle during my speech, but neglect to mention how I know the outcome of their actions. A flicker of optimism ignited in my heart, and I began typing.
Denise delivered more coffee and sandwiches to my workstation as I tapped away at my report. The words flowed from me and into the screen, without prejudice or rancour. I was an engine of scientific objectivity. Only once, did I stop to reflect that my sentences could be positioning my neck over the chopping block. I had a responsibility to those soldiers as well as their families. I could always soften the blow verbally, when I made my presentation to the defence panel in Whitehall. I doubt that they would be so blatant as to tamper with my car too, a drop of polonium perhaps, for a little variety, but not another fatal car accident. Gallows humour.
I was just getting to grips with this new spreadsheet software, when the almightiest racket, rang in my ears. It was so loud, it vibrated my chest. With my hands shielding my ears, I ran out of the computer room and into the corridor. People were scurrying towards the exit at the far end, some in office attire, others were in full hazard suits. One of them shouted over the siren.
“Containment alert. Follow me, sir.”
I started after him, but turned right into the main staff room. Mary had gone. Percy the Possum lay on the floor next to a pile of biros and her doodles.
I was seized with panic. She was not behind the seating nor under the coffee table. I tried to access the rooms and offices surrounding the staff area, but a large man in full biocontamination suit dragged me off to the evacuation point. I ran down the lines of people standing on the grass beyond the front of the building, shouting her name, in the hope that she had been led to safety by the young technician charged to watch her.
A full personnel register was called. Everyone accounted for, except for Mary. I saw the young tech and grabbed her by the lapels of her lab coat. “Where is she? All you had to do was keep an eye on her.” There were hundreds of onlookers awaiting her response, wincing at my manhandling.
“It all happened so fast. I picked up the possum and teased her a little about it, then she screamed her head off. That’s when the alarm sounded. She scarpered before I could catch her.”
I released the woman and marched towards the building. A pair of suits tackled me before I had got within fifty-feet of the entrance. “Sir, the decon team have not finished the sweep of containment fields yet. You cannot go inside until we have the all clear.”
“It will be clear, believe me.” I growled through clenched teeth. “I think you’ll find the error lies in the circuitry of your alarm systems.” Despite my protestations, I was unable to enter. I felt so helpless. She was just a little girl, inside one of the most dangerous places in Britain. What possessed me to bring her to this place of biological warfare?
I started walkin
g around the perimeter, peering in the windows and clambering over ridges of the landscaped gardens, in the hope of spotting my sweetie pie. Patrolling armed officers, honed in on me, until I flashed them my badge and explained my predicament. The voice of the armed guard at the campus checkpoint came back to me. “This is no place for a child, sir.” I was horrified and contrite, the thought of her being exposed to Anthrax spores, or VX Nerve Gas. Laying alone somewhere, twitching in agony, paralysed on the cold, hard floor. What if the electrical control of ventilation systems had gone haywire? She could be breathing in all manner of poisons, from Sarin to Phosgene, Ricin to Cyanide.
Twice round the building I ran, with no sign of Mary. My heart thumped in my chest and clear, logical thinking was overtaken by wretched fear. Hundreds of professionals looked on as my emotions got the better of me. My anguish turned to dread, and crying shamelessly, I turned and walked towards the car park. I reached the Volvo and leaned my back against the boot, a cascade of tears spilling down my cheeks.
“Can we go home now, Grampy? I don’t like it here. It smells funny.” There she was, sitting on the grass by the front bumper, cuddling Mubbs close to her chest. I must have been hyperventilating, as the relief made me giddy. I gathered her up in my arms and squeezed her tightly, until she complained that I was hurting her ribs.
Panic over, I held her hand all the way back to the computer room, printed off my notes and returned the confidential folders to Ian. A final word of thanks to Denise, and Percy, Mubbs, Mary and I began the journey home. At least I could complete my presentation in a safe environment for Mary, especially if Lily had not yet resurfaced.
We stopped at a service station and ate egg, chips and beans in a Little Chef. For a whole hour or more, I forgot that the medical fate of so many servicemen and women lie in my hands. I revelled in the company of my sweetie pie, listening to her babble and feed Mubbs and Percy with squashed chip fragments and ketchup.
I took the most direct route to my house, ringing Lily soon after our arrival. No response. Mary climbed up on the sofa, gave Percy a talking to about his behaviour, then drifted off to sleep in front of the TV. I spread out my notes across the coffee table, and tried to make sense of the disorder.
At eleven o’clock, the doorbell rang. Lily had come to collect Mary. She offered no explanation, nor thanks, just picked up her sleeping child and teddy, and bundled her into David’s car. The evening air had cooled and Mary’s bare legs seemed chilled. I rushed to get the blanket from the back of the settee, but when I returned to the drive, Lily sped away.
I stayed up until past midnight, trying to figure out a way to persuade the Secretary for Defence of the folly in his vaccination plan. If only I could contact some of my former colleagues to discuss this with, but I suspect that would count as treasonous.
Thursday 26th July, 1990
I am laying on a gravelled roof, my elbow bent, my finger poised over the trigger. Through the telescopic sights, the green cross is central to a window in the building opposite me. A nudge to the left clears the suns reflection from my target. The back of his hair is messy beneath the padded band of his earphones. He reaches forwards, adjusting the dials on the digital panel before him, then grabs at a handful of peanuts from a pack. Leaning back into his chair, I adjust my sights once again, compensating for his movements. Something to his right, grabs his attention. I can see his face now, the familiar profile of my child, become man. His sharp jaw and stubble covered cheeks, the small scar on his forehead from an adolescent football injury. He smiles. It lifts every muscle around his eyes. I wriggle down on the gravel, steadying my frame.
I’m ready. With my left hand, I engage the laser guide. It bounces a red beam from David’s temple. I squeeze the trigger with my right index finger. The shot rings in my ears. He slumps. The bullet has torn a path through his brain, its exit from his skull conveying blood and tissue across the room and wall. Mission complete, I dismantle my rifle, brush the gravel from my fatigues, and hurry away from the scene.
I woke feeling desolate and drenched in sweat, another vision. I would like to think that this was no more than a dream, manufactured by my sub-conscious in response to my growing apprehension over today’s meeting, but I have learned the difference. If only my portents of doom were simple outlets of anguish. There has only ever been one other time, when my premonitions have arrived in clusters like this, and my poor Minnie proved them all true.
Few have been the occasions where I have influenced the outcome of my visions. There is no doubt in my mind that I must act, but how? I do not know where he is stationed or who could have ordered his death, and why David? He is of lowly rank, and no threat to anyone. The trembling in my guts resolutely refuses to subside.
The meeting is scheduled in Whitehall at four o’clock this afternoon. I am sure that someone is watching the house. A blue transit parks a little way down the street. It drives away when I walk out to the pavement. No less than five minutes later, the van returns. With this in mind, I have moved my old journals, along with a few other bits, to my safe. I will leave clues for David regarding its location and the combination, for when he gets back from his trip. Just in case something happens to me. I am catching the train to London in half an hour. I’ll keep this journal on my person. Writing seems to sooth my nerves and give an order to my thoughts.
***
My concentration is being elusive. Every time I attempt to rehearse the meeting statements in my mind, it veers back to the sight of my son, covered in globs of his own brain matter. I am struggling to hold back nausea and tears, but I know that I cannot help him or tens of thousands of soldiers if I lose my cool.
There is a woman sitting opposite me on the train as I write this. She gives me a weird, no-teeth kind of smile whenever I look up at her. It is most disconcerting. I have angled the spine of my journal against the edge of the table so that she cannot see what I am writing, but she seems indecently inquisitive. Twice she has tried to engage me in conversation, and both times I have politely shut her down. She looks wrong somehow. As if she has intentionally tried to dress in casual attire, to fit in with other passengers, but went too far. Her hair and makeup are professional, salon ready. The clothes looked like they are from a charity shop but the handbag on her lap must have cost a fortune. Even I can tell the difference between a knock off and the real thing.
We are nearing Blackfriars Station. I fully intend to lose her in the crowds, then make a dash to the tube. It’s only a couple of stops to Westminster, but it would be a long walk and I think it might rain.
***
They are making me wait outside the boardroom. I should be going through my notes again but I am too nervous. It was bad enough trying to prove my credentials to the security team on reception. I fumbled with my passport and a credit card from my wallet, then had to empty my pockets of keys when the sensors tripped the alarms. A couple of swipes over my chest and back with the handheld detector and they were content to let me pin my guest badge to my lapel.
I swear they are only doing this to make me sweat. The board members filed in ages ago. I recognised at least four of them from the television bulletins about Defence of the realm. Better keep this journal well hidden. It wouldn’t do to let them know that I have documented all my past and present dealings with Her Majesty’s Government.
***
Just boarded the 18:46 from platform one at Blackfriars. Lady Charity hopped on the next carriage, thinking I hadn’t seen her. I hardly know where to begin. Suits, military uniforms, crystal carafes and a mahogany table you could have set for twenty people. They sat in a line on one side of the table, facing a solitary, hard backed chair.
Anthony Knight, Secretary of State for Defence, sat central to the panel. He stood up and gestured for me to take the seat. I complied and listened to his formal welcome and introductions. With my notes balanced on my knee, I started my speech, listing procedural compliance of those who performed the tests at Porton Dow
n, and complimenting them on their high standards of professionalism. A high-ranking army official sighed, a loud, tortured exhalation of contempt. I sat up straight in my chair, cleared my throat and attempted to recall my rehearsed phrases of warning. It did not matter how carefully I couched my sentiments in colourful language, they amounted to the same thing. Just as the previous Chief Immunologist had told them, I strongly disapproved of their directive to bulk inoculate troops within a twenty-four-hour window.
I noted the scowls of dissent from the suits at the far end of the table, before the bluster of intimidating questions began. It was obvious from their clumsy justifications that these men, and one woman, had little background knowledge of biology. I mentally recalculated my approach.
“Forgive me, sirs, madam. I understand that the welfare of your servicemen and women is your main concern, or you would not have commissioned this task. Your attempt to protect the troops from possible bioweapons is laudable, but misguided. Even if you could predict the hazardous threats from the opposing forces, no risk assessment has been formulated for those personnel whose immune systems have already been compromised.”
The sighing general thumped his arm down on the table. No one jumped, leading me to assume that this display of dominance was a favoured trick. “What are you saying? That we send sick listers off to war? Our troops are on top form.”
“Sir, you misunderstand me. By compromised, I mean that their immune systems are already suppressed, or under attack by former vaccines. Those especially at risk are soldiers taking steroids.” I left that statement hanging. The suits glanced down at their notes. Only the uniforms looked affronted by the implication.
I knew that my findings were inflammatory. It was difficult to tone down my misgivings, but this was my specialism. This was why I had been asked to conduct the review, wasn’t it?
Lady suit piped up. “Our troops do not take steroids, Dr Lawrence. They are given high protein diets and train daily. Medical records are meticulously kept on any supplements administered.”
