by Alec Birri
CONDITION
BOOK ONE
ALEC BIRRI
Copyright © 2016 Alec Birri
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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ISBN 9781785897504
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
To My Mother.
Alec Birri served thirty years with the UK Armed Forces. He commanded an operational unit that experimented in new military capabilities classified at the highest level (Top Secret Strap 3) and it is this that forms the basis of his novels.
Although semi-autobiographical, for national security and personal liberty reasons, the events and individuals portrayed have to be fiction, but are still nonetheless in keeping with his experiences.
www.alecbirri.com
Contents
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Part Two
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Epilogue
Prologue
The aircraft came to a halt and the fire spread. The pilot just had time to acknowledge he’d survived when smoke reminded him to get out – fast. He motioned to release the restraint harness but couldn’t and, when he looked down to take a second attempt, realised why – a bone was protruding through the skin of his right forearm.
He tried using his left hand instead, but couldn’t move that either. Attempts to lift his right leg and then his left confirmed he’d been trapped by a combination of injury and the aircraft’s wrecked systems and controls.
Between the flames he could see movement outside – blue flashing lights and people running around, so his extraction was only a matter of time. He forced himself to remain calm and even paused to consider the pointless irony of surviving a crash only to die afterwards.
That changed when fire reached bare flesh for the first time. His flight suit and gloves were designed to be fire-retardant but the exposed wrist of his right arm wasn’t, and he couldn’t help but cry out at the acid-like contact.
‘Get me out! Get me out!’ he screamed.
A gentle breeze through shattered glass kept most of the smoke away from his face, so he could make the urgency of the situation clear, but, along with plastics, metals, fluids, flesh, and bone, the steady supply of oxygen was all the fire needed too.
The skin around his wrist reddened, blistered, and peeled. He wanted to pass out with the pain, but its persistence ensured he continued to witness the torture.
Further flames erupted and began cutting through his whole arm. The protection afforded by the glove and sleeve soon burnt away causing a torment of fizzing and popping flesh to make him scream all the more.
He clenched a fist but the brittle skin split, exposing the tendons and veins underneath. The pain did eventually ease somewhat, but only because receptors in the epidermis had now burnt away.
He could clearly see his right hand and arm being consumed. What he couldn’t see was the fire making its way up and around the seat to his whole body. Inch by inch, the flames first singed and then penetrated his clothing before attacking the flesh beneath. The breeze kept his head clear for now, but it was only a matter of time.
He became aware of a strange acceptance and his panic subsided with it. He looked towards the broken window, where the frantic efforts to save him could still be seen. There were other things too – the sun, clouds, and trees in the distance. He could even see grass next to his head, which made him realise both he and the cockpit must be lying on one side.
His head was so close, the individual blades stood out and he marvelled at how calming grass could be. Small wild flowers nestled within and a lone bumble bee arrived for a moment to bounce its way between. All this with a raging inferno just feet away. He had never really appreciated nature before and wondered why he did now.
There was laughter amongst the shouts of the rescuers. Had they saved him? Was he out? Were they congratulating themselves on a job well done? He realised the laughter was actually that of his daughter, giggling and playing amongst them. Why? What on earth had possessed his wife to think that that’d be safe? He glanced above the instrument panel and just had time to smile before their photograph was reduced to ash.
He looked outside again, and they smiled back. It was the perfect summer’s day, but for some inexplicable reason his wife had decided it would be a good idea to have a barbecue right next to a burning aircraft. He tried talking to her about it, but nothing came out. Something in his throat stopped him. A sensation of melting around his face and neck caused him to closed his eyes. He could still see his family, though, and they beckoned him to join them.
The smell of roasting meat made him salivate.
Part One
Chapter One
‘Come on, Danny – wake up!’
‘Wake up, Dad.’ It was his daughter’s voice.
Someone took hold of his hand. For a second he thought both his wife and daughter must be in the aircraft with him, but accepted the nonsense of that. No, he was somewhere much quieter.
‘Dad, can you hear me?’
Sounded more like his wife. His left hand was being caressed. He decided to chance opening his eyes. Not in the aircraft any more. Somewhere less mechanical and, judging by the smell, much less inviting than a barbecue in the sun.
‘Dad, do you recognise me?’
He squinted at the shock of blonde hair. It never ceased to amaze him how much Claire looked like their daughter. Or was it the other way around? She didn’t seem to be with her, though.
‘Where’s Lucy?’ he croaked.
‘No, Dan… It’s me, Claire.’
He focussed on his wife and tried to smile.
‘Boy, are you a sight for sore eyes. Whe
re am I?’
He scanned the room before answering his own question. ‘A hospital. How did I get here? How did I get out of the crash?’
‘Try not to stress yourself, you’re still very weak.’
He glanced down and, as expected, his right hand and arm were bandaged. He winced at the memory of seeing the back of his hand with the flesh removed. By comparison, his left arm and hand were bare, but displaying a disturbing loss of muscle mass. What he assumed to be skin grafts made him feel sick. It hurt to move his fingers too – crush injuries from the aircraft being on its side, he decided. Dan recalled the sensation of his face and neck melting.
‘I need a mirror.’
Claire rummaged through her handbag, opened a compact, and passed it to him. Dan raised it to his eyes.
He was expecting the worst, but it still came as a shock. Even with bandages covering most of his head, his face did indeed look as if it had melted.
Loose, wrinkled, and ugly skin now hung where much firmer flesh used to be – more like that of an old man, rather than his thirty-six years. He closed his eyes and tried to hold back tears, but they came anyway.
‘It’s okay; everything is okay. You’re safe now.’
‘How can you even look at me like this?’ he sobbed.
‘It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.’
Claire squeezed his hand and he tried to squeeze hers back, but it hurt too much. She was smiling at him. His face didn’t seem to bother her; or if it did, she was good at hiding it.
‘You’re still a looker,’ she gently mocked.
‘And you’re a liar,’ he joined in. Dan became serious. ‘I don’t want Lucy seeing me like this.’
‘Too late – we’ve both been to see you and many times – she’s your daughter and doesn’t care how you look.’
Dan wasn’t convinced, and pondered the years of plastic surgery he would have to endure, and how he would look at the end of it. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘About six months.’
‘Six months? I’ve been unconscious for six months?’
Dan was surprised, but it explained why only his right arm and head were still in plaster and bandages – he imagined there wouldn’t have been much of him that wasn’t at some stage. At least he hadn’t had to endure consciousness through all of that. He sharpened up.
‘Football! What happened in the football?’
Claire looked at him blankly.
‘We’re hosting the World Cup this year – what’s the date? Have I missed it?’
Claire started to reply, but Dan stopped her.
‘Shush! Don’t say anything. I don’t want to know how far England got, just in case I have.’
He looked around the room for something to confirm the date, but other than the clock next to his bed saying it was just after twenty-five past eight in the evening, there was nothing.
‘It’s the sixteenth of August.’
‘Bugger,’ Dan exclaimed, despondently. ‘I’ve just missed it – make sure no one tells me any of the results!’
Claire kissed him on the forehead. ‘I’m sure you’ve no need to worry.’
There was a knock on the door and a man entered. He smiled at Claire, which annoyed Dan for some reason.
‘Awake, I see. Good morning. Do you know who I am?’
Dan shook his head.
‘My name’s Doctor Adams. How are we today?’
‘Okay, I suppose,’ Dan answered limply. He knew he was just feeling sorry for himself, but still decided the doctor wasn’t someone he would naturally warm to – probably because most women would.
The doctor took Dan’s temperature and pulse, and then checked over the bandages. ‘I think some of these dressings can come off today. Mind if I ask you a few questions?’
‘I suppose not,’ Dan replied. He was starting to sound pathetic so tried perking up. ‘I mean, yeah, sure.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Winston Churchill.’
Claire told him to take it seriously.
‘At least I’ve still got my sense of humour,’ Dan mumbled.
‘With the emphasis on “my”, as nobody else has it,’ Claire shot back.
Her look of mock indignation told Dan she was actually relieved to see something of his old self. He turned back to the doctor.
‘Squadron Leader Daniel Stewart.’
‘And how old are you?’
‘Thirty-six.’
‘What year is it?’
‘1966 – sixteenth of August apparently.’ He flashed a wink at Claire.
The questions kept coming. ‘Who’s the prime minister?’
‘Harold Wilson – or at least he was six months ago.’
‘Who won the World Cup?’
‘Don’t tell me!’ Dan put his hands over his ears, but pain forced him to drop them again.
Claire made a request. ‘Do you think it might be possible to get a recording of the matches?’
Doctor Adams appeared to hesitate before replying, ‘I should think so.’ He turned back to his patient. ‘Squadron Leader Stewart, do you remember the accident?’
Dan knew his injuries warranted all these questions, but he had to be careful with his next answer – as a military pilot he often dealt with sensitive and classified information and, as qualified as the doctor was, he probably didn’t have the necessary clearances. Especially as this particular mission… He stopped himself mid-thought when it occurred to him he couldn’t recall anything about it. He pondered the accident carefully. Nope, nothing – just the post-crash fire.
‘I… can… remember…,’ he said, before raising his right arm, ‘incredible pain.’ He winced at the recollection of flesh being peeled away layer by layer. He looked towards the room’s window, where the sun could just be made out through some clouds. ‘Trees… grass… flowers.’ He turned back to Claire and the doctor. ‘And a bumble bee.’ He realised how silly he must sound and his mood dropped again.
Doctor Adams became sympathetic. ‘Squadron Leader Stewart – may I call you Dan?’
Dan nodded.
‘Nobody goes through a trauma like yours without being affected psychologically in some way. You didn’t just suffer burns and a fracture – you have a head injury too. You might look fine, but it’s what’s going on inside that counts. Are you aware of the memory difficulties you’re having?’
Dan nodded, reluctantly.
‘That’s good. Recognition of the problem is an important step. You’ve only just woken up, so I think we should give you a day or so and then look at your medication to see if there’s anything that can be done to help. In the meantime, you need to get moving so I’ll arrange for some physiotherapy.’
He made a couple of notes on the chart at the end of the bed, before asking: ‘Do you have any questions for me?’
Dan had a million buzzing around somewhere in his battered brain, but decided just to ask what his prognosis was.
‘Well, if you respond to the physio and your memory starts to recover, then you could be back to normal in as little as three months.’
‘Back to flying, you mean?’ Dan asked, nervously.
Doctor Adams glanced at Claire. ‘Let’s just take one step at a time.’ With that, he placed his pen back into his coat pocket and left the room.
‘That’s my career over then. May as well give up now,’ Dan muttered to himself pitifully.
‘Now come on, don’t be like that – you could have died.’ Claire sat on the edge of the bed, placed his left arm on her lap, and massaged it.
It was a loving gesture and yet at the same time she seemed distant. Caring, but strangely cold. Dan wanted her to be all over him with emotion and wondered why she wasn’t. ‘You heard him,’ he moaned.
‘One step at a time. That’s as good as saying: forget it, mate.’
Claire chuckled. ‘You’re as stubborn as a mule. If I know you, you’ll be running around chasing nurses in no time!’ He found her words patronising.
If her intention was to boost his morale, it didn’t work. Dan wanted to bring her mood down to his. ‘It wouldn’t bother you if I did, would it?’
She stopped massaging his arm. Dan knew he would end up regretting his next question, but asked it anyway. ‘Do you think he’s good-looking?’
Claire got off the bed. ‘Dan, you are the most important person in my life and nothing else matters more to me right now than seeing you get better.’
He firmed his attitude. ‘You didn’t answer my question – do you think Doctor Adams is good-looking?’
‘I’ll say!’ The door opened and in walked a nurse, answering the question. She was pushing a small trolley in front of her and the contents made it clear it was time to remove Dan’s dressings. ‘He’s a dreamboat!’ She smiled at the two of them and a couple of smiles were forced back. ‘Have I come at a bad time?’
‘No,’ they both replied in unison.
‘I have to go anyway,’ Claire blurted out.
She kissed Dan goodbye, which he noticed wasn’t quite full on the lips. She paused on the way out.
‘I’ll be in again, tomorrow. Please try not to fret – there really is nothing to worry about.’
She blew a kiss in Dan’s direction and left.
‘She seems nice.’
‘Mmmm?’
‘Your daughter – she seems very nice.’
Dan was offended. ‘She’s my wife,’ he replied, irritated. ‘Do I really look that old?’
The nurse blushed and tried talking her way out of it. ‘No, what I mean is, er, you’re a very lucky…’
He chose to end her suffering. ‘It’s okay, I know I must be a terrible sight.’
