by Conrad Jones
“You look after him and get him to a doctor,” she turned to her remaining operative. “Let’s follow those tracks,” she said as she climbed into her vehicle. The snow started to become a blizzard as an onshore wind picked up. Grace looked toward the city across the bay and swallowed hard as what looked like a fog bank about a mile across obscured the twinkling lights.
Chapter Twenty Seven
The Explorer
Big Gordon Morris was the platform captain of a semi-submersible gas exploration rig called the Explorer. The Explorer was a huge floating mobile structure used to drill for oil and natural gas in offshore environments. The superstructure was supported by columns sitting on hollow hulls or pontoons, which are ballasted below the water surface. They provide excellent stability in rough, deep seas. Big Gordon had worked on the rigs since being an apprentice engineer at the age of seventeen. He worked three weeks on shift followed by three weeks leave which suited him down to the ground. Gordon was married at a young age and twenty years on, he had two beautiful grownup daughters and a long suffering wife who all worshiped the ground that he walked on. Big Gordon was a big man. His shoulders were as wide as a salon car. He was also a big drinker. He loved nothing more than a few beers and a game of cards with the boys. His favourite tipple was Southern Comfort, which he drank by the litre bottle. Many a foolish man had tried to keep up with Big Gordon round for round, and none had succeeded. The shift pattern that he worked allowed him to have plenty of time away from home where he could drink and play cards to his heart’s content. Then with a pocket full of money he would spend three weeks at home in the bosom of his family. Life at home in his three bedroom house with three women could sometimes become hormonal and so by the end of his three weeks leave he was ready to get back to the male dominated world of the gas drilling rig.
This particular shift pattern was almost at an end. He had two nights left to work before the helicopter came to relieve his crew and take them back to the mainland. Everything was hunky dory until the deafening sound of an explosion rocked the Explorer to its core. The massive hollow pontoons on which it floated boomed like huge kettledrums as the shock wave hit the rig. Gordon and the majority of his crew had downed tools hours before, and were in the relative safety of the crew module. The crew module was a purpose built survival pod as well as a fully functional living space. It was made from fireproof polycarbonate and was designed to withstand gas fires and explosions. The modules were designed as a safe haven for the crewmen in the event of a disaster, and somewhere they could take refuge and survive until help arrived from the mainland. Everything that a full complement of men needed to live was inside the crew module, accommodation, medication, food and of course, water.
When the shock wave hit the rig there were three men above deck on safety watch. Their role was to monitor clocks and dials, pressure gauges and thermometers to ensure that the automated drilling process was running smoothly. The cost of fossil fuel exploration ran into the billions and any kind of down time on the rigs because of maintenance issues had to be avoided at all costs. The rig was hit by a concussion wave first, which was followed quickly by a deafening wall of sound. All three men on the maintenance shift turned and looked in the direction of the explosion. The initial blast was followed by a succession of smaller ones. Across the Bay in the distance towers of orange flame erupted from the blackness of the ocean. One of the men caught some of the smaller plumes on his camera phone.
“What’s over there?” an electrician shouted to his colleague across the metal stanchions. He was pointing toward the towers of flame in the distance.
“I don’t know, but there’s no rigs over there.”
“Might be a ship?”
“That wasn’t a ship, maybe an unexploded bomb though.”
“No way, there were too many blasts. It has to be a gas explosion,” the speculation continued.
“Get Big Gordon on the blower. We’d better check in with him,” the engineer headed to a communication booth fixed into the bulkhead of the superstructure. Before he could pick up the handset, it rang.
“What’s going on?” Gordon asked.
“Couple of big bangs about a mile due west of our position,” the engineer explained.
“Big bangs? I nearly spilt my beer,” Gordon joked nervously. The first thought when an explosion is heard on a gas rig is that it is the rig itself. “There is nothing but sea a mile due west of us.”
“We can’t see anything up here, the weather is too bad. There were three or four explosions and then nothing. It could have been an unexploded bomb,” the engineer was sticking to his theory.
“I don’t think so, there were too many blasts,” Gordon repeated what his workmate had said word for word. The engineer frowned in disappointment.
“You guys need to belt up, it could get choppy,” the engineer said. “I’ll report anything unusual immediately.” Experience told him that there would be large waves headed in their direction although the chances of them affecting the huge rig were very slim indeed. If a crew member dropped a spanner on the floor then everyone was told to belt up, it was a standing joke on the rigs.
“Don’t you worry about us we’ll hold on tight,” Big Gordon laughed again. “I’ll report the blast to the port authorities.”
Gordon replaced the handset and picked up a thick glass tumbler which was half full of amber liquid. He sniffed the fluid and savoured its powerful aromas. The Southern Comfort disappeared down his throat in one gulp. He smiled and rubbed his huge belly as the liquid burned inside him. On his desk was his PC and he logged onto the company website using his code and password. He clicked on the tab which was labelled ‘Incident reporting’, and filed a brief description of what had happened. With the report sent and stored, he returned to the recreation area of the crew module and poured himself another drink. The room was buzzing with chatter as the men guessed and second guessed as to the cause of the explosions. Several of them were looking out of the reinforced glass window, which was set into one wall looking away from the superstructure, there was nothing to see but snowflakes and darkness.
“Are we playing crash or what?” Big Gordon said as he approached the card table. The deck of cards had been left untidy and they were spread out across the table face down. “Who’s left the cards in this state?”
“Tommy Young should have stacked them away but he’s an idle bastard,” one of the men shouted and raucous laughter broke out through the crew module.
“Oh stop crying will you, and don’t call me idle,” Tommy replied and the men laughed again. “I admit to being a bastard but never idle in a million years.”
The five crewmen chuckled and pushed each other playfully as they sat around the card table in their respective seats. Everyone had their own seat at that table and no one dared to sit in another’s chair. It was bad luck. Big Gordon picked up the deck and shuffled the cards without looking at them. He spilt them into two piles and then expertly flicked them into one deck before dealing out the regulation four hands. Four men could play at any one time with the loser making way for the next man.
“What do you think caused the explosion, Gordon?” the man to his immediate left asked. He was the only civilian member of the crew and they called him Chef because he was responsible for providing three square meals a day for the engineers and technicians.
“Probably one of your curries, Pat,” Gordon teased him much to the amusement of the men. “The last time I went on shore leave I couldn’t stop trumping after that Chicken Madras you made. I reckon some poor bloke has exploded on his way back to shore out there.” The men laughed and the chef pulled a scowl for a brief second before joining in the mirth.
“Oh yes very funny, I didn’t hear you moaning when you were all scoffing it, like pigs at a trough you are when I make curry,” the chef scolded the card players as they continued to laugh at him.
“Highest card to deal,” Gordon said sliding a card face up to each player before giving himsel
f the last one. The red light on the shore line flashed which indicated that a call was coming in from the mainland from head office. Big Gordon cursed and stood up. His huge shoulders swayed as he walked into his office and he had to turn sideways to enter the room. He picked up the telephone with pudgy fingers.
“Gordon Morris,” he spoke gruffly. He was annoyed by the interruption of his card game.
“Morris, this is Jackson at the port authority here,” an unfamiliar voice said.
“How can I help?”
“You obviously heard the explosions?” Jackson had already read his incident report form.
“Yes we heard them but there’s nothing much to report apart from what I have put in my report,” Gordon explained grumpily.
“We need your lab rat to run some tests for the next hour or so, just to make sure there are no toxic fumes heading ashore, we can’t be too careful,” Jackson was curt when he spoke. Each rig had to take samples of the slurry created by the drilling from the waste filters at regular intervals. They were analysed in a small lab and the findings sent directly to the company’s main laboratory via computer link. Everything was automated and so the lab technician was rarely aware of the results of his own tests.
“Okay, what tests would you like him to run?” Gordon was as polite as he could be under the circumstances.
“Air quality and moisture samples please every thirty minutes, and we need the results sent immediately to the following server address,” Jackson reeled of a dot com address. “We also need thirty minute weather reports please.”
“Anything else I can do for you?” Big Gordon asked sarcastically.
“That’s all for now, thank you,” Jackson hung up. Big Gordon swore at the hand set and slammed it back into its receiver as the first tendrils of a strange mist engulfed the rig. It had been carried on a light breeze and it had the slightest scent of garlic to it.
Chapter Twenty Eight
‘Two Hours Later’/ the Evacuation
The Major and a combined government reaction team had set up the evacuation communications centre. They had taken refuge in the network of sandstone tunnels, which made up the secret government bunker beneath the city. It had been purpose built to cope with a nuclear, chemical or biological attack from above, and was designed as a safe haven for the government, military leaders and the Royal Family in the event of an imminent invasion.
The Ministry of Defence and the Home Office had conspired with the taskforce to release a blanket news statement to the effect that there had been a petrochemical explosion of significant size in the gas field off Liverpool Bay. The story was that the explosion had damaged several of the drilling rigs and toxic gasses had been released into the atmosphere. The city centre was being evacuated as a precaution in the first instance. The evacuation of the inner city had begun in earnest and chaos reigned on the streets of Liverpool. All modes of public transport had stopped. Air raid sirens had been sounded for the first time in decades and all television and radio stations were transmitting a pre-recorded set of evacuation instructions. Banks, jewellers, and cash rich businesses were being instructed to fasten down metal shuttering, and to set time locks and intruder alarms before sending their staff home. Armed police wearing ugly protective suits were patrolling the streets to prevent looting. The city centre was beginning to empty but the streets leading away from it were gridlocked. The snowstorm had intensified making all but the main arterial routes impassable.
“Is the perimeter functioning properly?” the Major asked his closest group of advisors. Many of the government employees were completely unaware of the real situation that they were facing.
“Yes Major. The motorways have been closed and all traffic leaving the city is being filtered to the decontamination areas. We already have five miles of queuing traffic at all the major junctions with the perimeter,” the fat controller said. He didn’t think that the perimeter idea was a sound one and he almost wanted it to fail just to prove that he’d been right all along.
“What about the decontamination process itself?”
“As far as we can tell it is working, but they are treating uninfected people at the moment,” the fat controller shook his head and his double chins wobbled.
“We don’t know that David,” the Major countered sternly. “We cannot take any chances with people’s lives. By the time we have confirmation of a blister agent being present it would be too late to help thousands of innocent men, women and children.”
The fat controller was about to argue when Helen Walsh approached the desk at which they were sat. Her face was pale and she looked washed out. The pressure of becoming the resident blister agent expert was obviously getting to her.
“Helen?” the Major greeted her.
“I have very bad news Major,” she replied and her eyes filled with tears.
“We have to deal with very bad news in this department everyday Helen, that’s what we do, now please keep your voice down and tell me what you found out,” the Major tried to encourage her a little.
“We have results in from the Explorer gas drilling rig,” her voice choked as she spoke. “The laboratory on board tested moisture droplets which had been left behind by a fog bank which passed over them roughly two hours ago. It tested positive for concentrated 2-chloroethyl sulphide, the strongest blister agent that we know of.”
“Okay give me your best guesstimate as to our situation,” the Major prompted her without acknowledging her distress. He picked up a pen to jot down some notes as she spoke. He also loosened his tie which was very rare indeed. The Major was always immaculate.
Helen took a moment to gather her thoughts before continuing. “The moisture tested by the rig laboratory was taken from a sample of vapour which had been left on the metal handrails. The moisture would only have formed as several layers of the substance built up over a period of time. I’m guessing here obviously,” she paused.
“Obviously,” the fat controller sniped. He removed his glasses and breathed on the lenses before wiping them on his long suffering tie. The Major threw him a withering glance before prompting Helen to continue with her worst case scenario. The fat controller used the opportunity to letch at Helen’s shapely legs.
“For a vapour to form on the rig then it must have been in contact with the 2-chloroethyl sulphide for a reasonable amount of time, which gives us an indication off the size of the blister cloud,” she explained.
“Blister cloud?” the fat controller rolled his eyes to the ceiling and then looked at her behind.
“For want of a better description yes, blister cloud,” Helen turned on him and caught him looking at her. She glared at him blushed and looked away.
“It’s perfectly obvious what Helen is talking about,” the Major growled. “Please continue.”
“If we imagine that the vapour took twenty minutes to develop into visible moisture droplets and then if we surmise that the blister agent would be at its most concentrated form in the centre of the cloud,” she used her hands to aid her communication as she spoke. The Major had noticed that she did that a lot.
“Okay I’m with you so far,” the Major said.
“Then the blister cloud or fog bank, whatever you want to call it could be over a kilometre wide already, and that means that when the centre of the cloud had passed the rig then the periphery was already over the city centre.”
“In which case we already have infected people?” the Major asked.
“Definitely,” she nodded.
The Major looked at the fat controller for confirmation. He replaced his glasses, took a deep breath and nodded slowly in agreement with Helen’s theory. It was a tough pill to swallow but it looked to all intents and purposes that he’d been wrong. It didn’t help that she had caught him staring at her ass.
“What about the travellers at the airport?” the Major asked him.
“They haven’t reported any fog bank encroaching as yet and we closed it to all incoming flights ninety minutes ago.
It has since been evacuated so it would have been closed in time to prevent any casualties there,” he replied.
“What about the underground rail system?”
“That could be touch and go. If there was already part of the blister cloud over the city, then the stations nearest to the river could have been affected before we managed to close them,” the fat controller looked at Helen. “What do you think the actual strength of the periphery vapour would be Helen?”
“It would be much weaker than it is at the centre, obviously it would be dissipated by the wind and diluted with atmospheric gasses,” Helen blushed a little as she replied. It was the first time the fat controller had asked her a serious question. “I think that infected people may display mild symptoms, redness of the skin, sore throat, stinging eyes and maybe rashes or slight blistering of exposed skin tissue. It certainly wouldn’t be life threatening unless they were severely asthmatic.”
“Okay we need to react to the time scale that Helen has suggested and react quickly. Anyone in the city centre two hours ago may be infected,” the Major said to the wider group of advisors as he picked up the telephone. “Get onto it immediately.”
