by Conrad Jones
“That would very much depend on whether they intend to transport any salvage by sea, or if they plan to land it first, and then move it by road,” Chen answered.
“What condition will this chemical ordinance be in after all this time under water?” Grace asked looking at Helen Walsh for the answer.
She blushed again and cleared her throat before speaking. She tried very hard not to look at Tank but she couldn’t help herself. His piercing blue eyes made her uncomfortable, but she wanted to impress him somehow. She had been invited into an alien world of espionage and violence, and if she was to succeed here then she needed the respect of people like John Tankersley.
“I’m not an expert in munitions, but my guess is that the shells would have been stored in holds below deck, and some would have been piled on pallets on deck,” she began.
“That would be our assumption also. We are in possession of a photograph which shows munitions stored in rows above decks,” Grace encouraged her.
“If I’m correct then the munitions exposed to the sea will have corroded by now, releasing any vapour stored within them. The corrosion would have happened over such an extended period of time that the condition of each shell would be unique to itself. We would not have noticed any significant environmental evidence, although indigenous sea life may have declined in the immediate proximity of the wreck,” she sounded more confident as she explained a subject that she was expert in.
“There has been a significant reduction in fish stocks all over Liverpool Bay for decades,” the Major interrupted looking over the top of his spectacles. Sea fishing was his favourite pastime and the oceanic environment was close to his heart. The decline of fish stocks in the waters around Britain was always attributed to overfishing by giant Icelandic trawlers, but even when quotas were introduced the decline continued unabated.
“Well whether that is a coincidence or not I can’t tell you, but I can tell you that any munitions stored inside water tight holds will be in reasonable condition,” she said.
“What do you mean by reasonable condition?” Tank wasn’t one hundred percent certain what she meant.
“Well, the brass shell casing will be oxidized, and will have turned green by now,” she looked Tank in the eyes as she spoke. She was feeling much more confident now. “The blister agent inside should be in perfect condition, especially because the temperature down there on the ocean floor will keep everything refrigerated.”
“They wouldn’t be able to use the shells as artillery munitions then?” the Major asked.
“No. The explosive charges, which fire the projectiles, will be in a highly unstable state. I think that moving them or exposing them to a significant change in temperature could cause them to explode,” Helen Walsh looked around the table and for the first time she felt as if she had contributed something of value to the investigation.
“That is not what I wanted to hear,” Tank sat back in his chair and folded his huge hands behind his neck.
“That is definitely not good news,” Chen added.
“I don’t know if it is such bad news,” Grace interrupted. “If they cannot be moved without exploding then surely that is a good thing.”
“That would depend on where they explode,” Helen Walsh replied confidently.
“What do you mean?” Chen asked.
“If they remained stable during the recovery, and the explosive begins to sweat and become critical, then it could be several hours before they exploded,” Helen explained.
“Which means that they could be on the mainland when they exploded,” Grace encouraged her.
“Exactly.”
“What if they explode beneath the water?” Tank asked.
“I’m sure that if the shells are still dry and they should be, then one exploding shell could ignite the whole load,” Helen used her hands to reinforce the point as she spoke.
“Would the sea water dilute the blister agent in the shells?” the Major asked.
“No, because it isn’t technically a gas, it’s a vapour which would make its way to the surface as bubbles. Once it was above the surface then it would cloud above the sea, but because it is heavier than air it wouldn’t dissipate into the atmosphere for days,” Helen answered.
“Like a fog?” Grace asked.
“Exactly like a fog, and just like a fog it would be at the mercy of the winds,” Helen answered.
“So if there is an onshore wind the vapour could be blown toward the city?”
“Yes.”
“Fucking hell,” Tank said beneath his breath.
“My thought exactly,” said the Major removing his glasses and rubbing his tired eyes.
“What is the worst case scenario of a vapour cloud drifting into the city?” Grace asked.
Helen Walsh picked up her pen and held it between two fingers. She flicked it quickly back and to as she contemplated the answer.
“The problem with a vapour such as this is that no one would know that they had been infected until the symptoms became apparent. By which time it would be too late to treat,” Helen put the pen down and looked at the Major as she spoke. “It would be four to six hours before the first symptoms showed. First an intense thirst which is caused by burns appearing in the delicate tissues of the oesophagus, followed quickly by the blistering of any skin tissue which came into contact with the vapour. Any exposed skin including the eyes would be terribly burned, and if the burns are not treated quickly then the victims usually bleed to death. If they do not bleed to death then they drown in their own bodily fluids as blisters form in the tiny air sacks within the lungs.”
“I can understand how the lungs would become damaged by the blister agent but I’m not sure I understand why victims would bleed to death too?” Grace asked.
“If you can imagine the epidermis beneath the blistered skin becomes similar to the texture of a piece of wet bread, and the victims cannot stop scratching the blisters. They literally tear their own skin off. The thirst and the itching causes a state of delirium, a madness like a rabid dog,” Helen spoke clearly and without over dramatising the issue. The meeting remained silent.
“I have to ask the question, where does this detailed information of the effects of the blister agent come from?” Grace asked curiously.
“There have been several in-depth studies carried out. The earliest recorded experiments were carried out by the Germans, during the First World War, and then further experiments were completed at several of the death camps in the forties. Then there is detailed evidence from Iraq during the nineties, but most of the information comes from a paper written by Christopher Walsh,” Helen replied. It was obvious to everyone in the room that human guinea pigs had been exposed to this terrible chemical and the results recorded. Another blinding example of man’s inhumanity to man.
“If this stuff drifted into the city during a rush hour when commuting is at its peak then we would be dealing with a national disaster. Victims driving, sailing or flying out of the city wouldn’t display any symptoms until they were hundreds of miles away, by which time they would have infected dozens of others,” Chen clarified the scenario.
“We need to get to Christopher Walsh well before he gets to one of these wrecks. We must concentrate on stopping them reaching the shells in the first place, and then we don’t have to worry about the blister agent being released at all,” the Major said. There was little point in dwelling on the impact of a vapour cloud reaching the city. It would be virtually impossible to plan for such an incident.
“If they propose to land the salvage then they would need a functioning cargo dock, cranes, containers and the full works,” Tank regained his composure and spoke.
“Correct, and we would have to assume that they would try and land them nearby. We could alert the port authorities to a possible arms shipment and have them on alert,” Chen suggested.
“I’m not so sure,” Grace said. “If I were trying to land a cargo like that I would head for Ireland, transfer the sa
lvage from one vessel to another and then I would sail it back, or alternatively I would move it via containers through the Irish ferry ports.”
“We need to cover every eventuality. Grace I’ll leave it to you to monitor cargo berths here and across the Irish Sea,” the Major put his glasses back on and made notes as he spoke.
“Roger that sir,” she replied. Helen Walsh chuckled at the use of military jargon by Grace. Grace looked at her sternly. She had redeemed herself by knowing her subject, but it wouldn’t take much for her to lose the little respect that she had gained. Helen took the hint. She stopped giggling, and looked sheepishly at the screen.
“John, you and Chen could ask some of our European friends if they know who is working for Christopher Walsh, and apply a little pressure to some of the uniformed division’s informers. The foreign communities are pretty tight and in a situation like this one someone out there must know something,” the Major removed his glasses again and looked at Tank. Tank looked at Helen Walsh to see if she had understood the implication of the Major’s orders. He didn’t think that she had, and he didn’t really care.
“Miss Walsh, I mean Helen, I need you to work with a crisis team. Put together a plan of action in the event of blister agent infecting a large group of civilians,” the Major ordered.
“I’m not sure that I’m qualified to do that Major,” she replied, taken aback by the order.
“We have crisis teams in place who already have a number of contingency plans set out in the event of a disaster Miss Walsh. They will come up with all the logistics based on the information that you give them. From there they can adjust their plans. What I need you to do is explain in detail the after effects of an infection. I also need you to pass on the details of the potential treatment that you mentioned to our chemists. They may be able to emulate the chemical that Christopher Walsh has patented,” the Major was more insistent this time.
“Okay Major, I’ll do my best,” she blushed and looked at Tank again. He nodded to her which she took as encouragement. He smiled and she relaxed a little taking the gesture as a huge compliment from the taskforce’s lead agent.
“If we are to assume that Christopher Walsh is trying to benefit from his blister agent serum, then any publicity at all means that he has won. He will have achieved his objective. We don’t have much time people, so let’s do what we do best and take this bastard down,” the Major stood up and walked out of the room. The time for talking was done.
Chapter Thirteen
Lightship L2
Joe Hammond was coming round from a deep alcohol induced slumber. It was a sensation that he had experienced many times before over the last six years or so. His recent memory was somewhat blurred and he had the sensation of being carried from one place to the next, and of being transported by a vehicle. This feeling wasn’t alien to him. He had lost count of the number of journeys he had endured in the back of a police van or an ambulance. At least the police usually put him into a warm dry cell where he could sleep it off, where as the ambulance rides resulted in some jumped up young doctor sticking a tube down his throat and pumping his stomach. Silly bastards, if he didn’t want the whisky in his stomach then he wouldn’t have drunk it in the first place. They didn’t understand that he wanted the oblivion that whisky brought him, more than that, he needed the oblivion. It was his escape from this shithole of a world he had found himself in. He was too much of a coward to check out completely. Suicide frightened him because he thought that it would hurt. He had been raised as a catholic and somewhere in his pickled brain he knew that suicide was a bad thing. Joe wanted to die, but he didn’t want to live in the world sober while he waited for his imminent death. The whisky was his solution.
Joe Hammond had been a successful recording artist in the nineties. He had a string of top ten hits followed by a brief career just being a celebrity. Every reality television show that you can name involved the pop star Joe Hammond. He hated every moment of it but it paid well, and his agent said it was imperative that he maintained his high profile as long as he could. The problem was that Joe Hammond was thrust underneath the public’s microscope. The real Joe Hammond was not a nice person to know. Beneath the pearly white grin was a nasty jealous man. Reality television gave the public, especially his young adoring fans a window into his soul, and the more they grew to know him the more unlikable he became. Over a period of time, he had dropped from the ‘A’ list to the ‘Z’ list and his appearance work dried up. The less work he had the more bitter he became. As a last ditch attempt to revitalise his career he released a new album which he financed himself with the remnants of his fortune. It was a huge flop as his fan base of young fans had all grown up, and his bad reputation on reality television was off putting to new ones. His home was his only collateral and he was forced to sell it to pay a huge outstanding tax bill. Joe Hammond was left homeless and destitute. The army of friends and colleagues that he once adored to insult had long since turned their back on him. Many of them took great joy in watching his demise. Whisky became his mistress and only friend, and he sought solace with her as often as he could afford to.
The reassuring sound of a diesel engine from somewhere in his subconscious stopped. The sensation of being transported changed to one of being still. He registered these changes but was still unable to physically do anything about it. He would probably wake up in a warm prison cell soon. The sound of heavy boots in an empty metal void was his next conscious memory. He thought he could hear voices, but he couldn’t recognise the language. Joe was suddenly aware of being lifted roughly by his feet and hands. He tried to open his eyes but he could only manage a blink. It was dark and he was in the back of a van, and then he was outside in the cold night air. The thick guttural accents continued to chatter as he was carried along. He was aware of the smell of the seaside, seaweed and salty air. A seagull squawked in the distance, first one and then it was joined by dozens more. The sound of the gulls took his drunken mind back in time to a much happier place. He was sat on a beach made from white powder sand looking at a turquoise sea. The sky was cloudless and the sunshine was intense. It was Clearwater, Florida and he was enjoying a picnic with a brunette bronzed beauty, but he couldn’t remember her name. He did remember arguing with her because she didn’t enjoy rough sex and he did, probably a little too much. She was nursing a thick lip and badly bruised thighs, which she was covering up with a wraparound sarong. Then he remembered a fat seagull swooping down and stealing the sandwich from his hand as they argued. He had stood up and chased the bird down the beach, as if he could catch the winged food thief. When he realised that pursuit was futile he turned back to the picnic and to his horror there was a flock of seagulls swooping on it. The picnic was ruined within seconds by the feathered dive bombers. In his mind the memory faded as quickly as it had appeared, but he could still hear the seagulls.
Joe was rudely awakened by the smell of bleach. He could feel a harsh scraping at his face and neck and he opened his eyes momentarily. His head was banging. The cheap whisky was eating into his brain, and his vital organs were in the final stages of cirrhosis. Every nerve ending in his body screamed at his brain for more booze to quell the pain. He managed to open his eyes. He tried to move but couldn’t, because he was bound to a chair. His head was forced backward sharply and the painful scraping carried on. His befuddled mind registered that someone was shaving his matted beard. His scalp felt cold and exposed as if it had already been shaved. The disposable blade nicked his throat and he groaned.
“He is waking up,” a gruff voice spoke in a foreign accent.
“Hurry up and finish shaving him,” an English voice spoke.
There was a distinct smell of bleach, not just in the air, but also on him. He was confused. He heard water being squeezed into a bucket, and then he felt something like a sponge being rubbed on his legs. There was a strange tingling sensation were the sponge touched him.
“What’s in the bucket?” the foreign accent said.
“It is a mild acidic solution, not dissimilar to a dilute form of bleach, and it should protect the treated skin from the blister agent.”
“Should do? Hey you don’t sound too confident,” the foreign man chuckled as he spoke.
“It is nearly perfected but you can’t do enough testing. Trial and error is the only way forward in medicine.”
“You know that you are a very sick man don’t you Mister Walsh, a very sick man indeed,” the foreign man laughed and shook his head as he spoke.
Christopher Walsh stopped what he was doing and glared at the Estonian man. The man stopped laughing immediately and carried on shaving the homeless tramp. Christopher was not a physically frightening man by any stretch of the imagination. He was tall and lean with thick fair hair. His face was handsome and freckles covered his nose and cheeks which gave a youthful appearance. The Estonian man wasn’t scared of Christopher, but he had seen the victims of his experiments, and that made him wary of causing him offense. The man was warped. Plus he paid well and the promise of a bonus running into six figures endeared him further. Uri had seen many acts of extreme violence in his homeland where he had worked as hired muscle for ruthless organised crime families. He had lost count of the number of men that he had killed with his own hands, but Christopher Walsh was a different kettle of fish all together. He was a complete genius, and that was obvious. He was also a complete psychopath, which was also obvious. Uri would take his money and do as he was bid, but he would have to watch his back while he did so.
