by Robin Crumby
“And so begins the descent into anarchy and chaos. Thousands of years of civilisation collapsing all around us. Don’t you see?”
“Hey, nice to meet you,” shouted one of the marines brightly. “I’m Anarchy and my buddy here is Chaos.”
“You think this is funny? This is just one big joke to you guys,” said Riley accusingly, failing to see the funny side of it. “This is the beginning of the end. Don’t you realise that?”
“Lighten up Riley,” said Jones. “Don’t be fooled. We’re all on the same side here. Or at least we were last time I checked.”
The other marine chipped in: “This ain’t the end lady, this ain’t even the end of the beginning. The beginning of our future.”
“Don’t take it personally. It’s just the survival of the fittest,” Jones said, slapping his team mate on the back. “Plain old evolution, ain’t that right?”
“You’re wrong. This is a tipping point for humanity.”
“Right, and we need to pivot to survive,” said Jones leaning forward intently.
Riley slammed her fist down on the table and closed her eyes for a second.
“No. You’re wrong. I won’t accept that this is a race to the bottom. Where only the fit survive and the rest are damned. Don’t you see that it’s up to all of us to stand up for what we believe in? We need to make a stand for what’s right, what’s decent.”
“Listen, in my world, we follow orders or people die. If somebody says a mission objective is important, then we get it done. My job is not to question whether something is right or wrong. There’s a chain of command. People smarter than me get the right to make that call. Sometimes you operate without context. Life’s never that black and white. We operate in a world of shades of grey. I leave that other stuff to those with all the facts. My job is to get in, get the job done and bring everyone home again, alive.”
Riley gave him a weak smile. “How very convenient! You never have to choose. That means you never have to lose sleep at night, wondering about morality or justice.”
“Back off Riley. I make tough calls every day. Who lives, who dies. But I sleep like a baby, every night,” sneered Jones, irritated by Riley’s high-handedness.
“Well, I suggest you should crawl back under whichever rock you came from then.”
“I’ll do that. Why don’t you go back to something you’re good at, like whining, and leave us grunts in peace?”
“Come on Riley,” whispered Zed, “before you start a fight.”
Zed pulled her up and half-pushed her out the door, despite her protestations. Outside the canteen, he slammed her up against the wall.
“Have you completely lost your mind?”
Riley wriggled from his grasp and stared back at him defiantly.
“You do realise that we’re a long way from home. We happen to need those guys if we’re going to make it out of here in one piece.”
He paused, staring into Riley’s eyes. They were still burning bright from the confrontation with Jones.
“How did you think we were going to get back? Without these guys we have no chance. There are a thousand bad guys between us and home. We try stealing a car, hitching a ride, we wouldn’t make it five miles from here. This is bandit country. The Wild West. We wouldn’t stand a chance. We either get on that helicopter out of here, or we’re not going home. So you may want to rethink your charm offensive with the Americans.”
“Okay, Okay. I get the point. I’ll try to be nicer to them. But only till we get home. I’m not sucking up to those guys for a moment longer than I need to.”
“Right now, we need them a whole lot more than they need us.”
There was a low rumble that shook the complex as dust and loose plaster from the ceiling fell all around them. They crouched down, covering their heads, noticing another group down the corridor doing the same. She caught the eye of one of the Porton Down men who feigned a smile and said: “That happens from time to time.”
“What was it?”
“Probably some of the locals making their presence felt. Since we lost control of the perimeter fence, they do that sometimes. Every morning we drive them out, fix the fences and every night they creep back in under cover of darkness. But don’t worry, we have a small army guarding the entrances. This bunker complex is completely secure. We’re quite safe.”
“Where have I heard that before?” whispered Riley to herself.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Zed wandered back from the labs with his mind scrambled. The blood sample he had given when he arrived had proved the subject of much discussion amongst the scientists. The test for the virus had proved negative as expected, but had revealed that he had a very rare blood type, AB minus. They had seemed surprised this had never been diagnosed before which prompted perplexing follow-up questions about whether he suffered from incidents of cognitive difficulties, such as memory lapses, or attention deficit disorder. When he looked understandably concerned and asked for an explanation, the scientist seemed to clam up.
“It’s nothing to worry about. We’re just pursuing every lead, trying to understand why the virus affects people in different ways. You should count yourself lucky.”
He certainly didn’t feel lucky. Back in the stuffy confines of the conference room, Professor Nichols was sat with Doctor Hardy, one of the Porton Down scientists, staring at the pale white screen of a laptop. Either side of them on the table top were piles of print-outs and sheets covered in data points, graphs and analysis. He stood behind the two men, listening to their exchanges, struggling to understand their technical jargon. Despite his scientific background, it was like listening to a foreign language at first, but the more he tuned in, the more he found he could follow along, without necessarily understanding every word.
“Is there anything I can do?” he said, hands on hips.
The two scientists paused in their discussion and looked up at Zed as if a child had just asked their parent whether he could drive the car.
“I wish there was,” said the scientist with a hint of mockery. “There are only a dozen people in the country qualified to interpret this data and three of them are in this facility. The rest are likely dead. What did you say your specialism was before all this?”
“I was an analyst. Ministry of Defence. Specialist in biological and chemical programmes.”
The professor smiled supportively and relented. “Listen, be our guest. What harm can it do? The summary report is in the green folder on the top of the file. Below that are the clinical trials and the analyst reports. Stay clear of the computer print-outs. Even I can’t make head nor tail of those.”
Zed took a deep breath and sat down at the end of the table and opened the folder marked “MV-27 contact report”. It was dated the previous month and contained over a hundred pages of analysis, patient histories, trial data, recommendations for further research and summary conclusions. He was pleasantly surprised to find he could follow the narrative.
He immersed himself in the data, vaguely aware of the two scientists arguing about something. He had always been good at shutting out extraneous noise and focusing on the task at hand. It had driven his wife and children crazy. The ability to absorb himself in his work had been both an asset and a liability. A rich source of contention between husband and wife. His daughter joked that when Daddy went into his study to work, even the end of the world couldn’t distract him. He had a nasty habit of missing mealtimes and bedtimes absorbed by whatever project he was working on.
Zed settled in to his reading, dimly aware of others coming and going. Riley popped her head round the door trying to attract his attention before a guard shepherded her back to the canteen area. He read the first three reports without pausing for breath. There were so many links with Wildfire, triggering a series of flashbacks, half-remembered conversations, wild theories, and unsubstantiated claims from nearly a dozen years ago. It was like re-activating a part of his brain that had lain dormant all this time, things he hadn’t
thought about in years.
There was something nagging at the back of his mind but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He wondered whether the scientists were so close to the data that they were missing the bigger picture. He tried to remember his training. Look at the facts and what they’re telling him. Take a step back and start again. Why was this happening? What could have caused the outbreak? Where did the virus originate from? Why was it so effective?
His instinct told him that there were few coincidences in this world. The Millennial Virus was effective, by design. Was it possible that someone had bio-engineered the virus and if so, how? Could they have spliced together two different known viruses? Was that even possible? He knew many countries had tried and failed. Was it reasonable to believe that someone had succeeded?
“Professor, sorry to interrupt. You said before that the Millennial Virus shared characteristics with many other common viruses but had several unique features?”
“That’s right. The influenza viruses A, B, and C belong to the family Orthomyxoviridae. Influenza A viruses are by far the most prevalent. IAVs are further classified into subtypes depending on their surface glycoproteins…”
“I’m sorry Professor. You’ve lost me. In plain English, please?”
“My apologies. Theoretically, yes, it would be possible to bio-engineer a virus and mix parts of one with another to improve its efficacy, if that’s what you’re really asking. As far back as the 1970s, a couple of researchers, called Lamb and Choppin I think it was, proved that there were overlapping coding sequences that formed part of the influenza cloning and replication process and that mRNA splicing was occurring in the host organism. The amounts of cellular mRNAs and proteins evolve differently during the infection process. Attempts have been made before to alter the ratio of spliced to unspoiled mRNA. If a virus was bioengineered in this way, it might be conceivable through trial and error to splice together segments from other viruses in what would amount to a Frankenstein virus.”
“And what if someone was to introduce segments from other deadly viruses, I don’t know, let’s say Ebola Zaire, Rabies or Smallpox, then what?”
“The question you need to ask is why? Why would someone want to engineer a virus with the potential to wipe out human life as we know it? Consider for a moment that a country had developed a designer virus capable of targeting an enemy. How would they stop the virus from spreading back to their own country and killing themselves? It would be a bit of an own goal wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose, but humour me. Just for the sake of argument, what if there were environmental limiters that could ensure a virus could only survive and propagate in the target population centres, with minimal risk of spreading back to the country that created it?”
“Again, theoretically possible, but unlikely. We know from historical data collected prior to the collapse that all continents had been infected. It was everywhere. Africa, Asia, Europe, North and South America. It was present in all climates, all ethnic groups, all age groups. There was nowhere to hide.”
“But leaving aside the ‘why’ for a moment, let’s just imagine that a megalomaniac determined to unleash this deadly virus on the world, with little care for his own people or the consequences. Could it be done?”
“Yes, of course. Anything’s possible.”
“Then shouldn’t we be looking at this with that theory in mind?”
“Zed, with all due respect, these people are not twiddling their thumbs. They have teams investigating all angles, all theories, however wild and implausible. They’re conducting research without limits. Even if something is immoral or unethical, they chase down every lead. Trust me. But sorry, there I go again, shutting people down. Listen, don’t let me stop you. If you have a hunch then follow your instincts. It’s certainly an avenue of research we have been pursuing, just without much success.”
Zed thanked the scientist and went back to the reports spread across the table. Leaning back in his seat, he closed his eyes, trying to organise his thoughts. He remembered a document that had been smuggled out of North Korea almost a decade ago that suggested the leadership was prioritising the development of a virus capable of targeting the West. The regime had determined that the native population could be vaccinated and protected. But that was a long time ago. His team had dismissed the report as propaganda and disinformation. One of a number of similar attempts to mislead the West into believing a level of North Korean sophistication and technical expertise far beyond Europe and America. Still, Zed was an experienced enough investigator to know that the most unlikely explanations should never be thrown out. They had a habit of coming back to haunt you.
There was a commotion on the other side of the room as a scientist in a lab coat barged his way into the room clutching a computer printout.
“Major, I found this top sheet in the archive. It was restricted access. One of the clinical teams was working on a project several years back that was attempting to insert third party DNA strands into the H5N1 avian flu virus with limited success.”
“That’s right, they could never get them to bind properly. I remember the study now. Can you bring us the paperwork and get Miller working on it? There might be a clue in there somewhere. Worth a shot. We’ve only got an hour before we’re due back in the large conference room. I suggest we start summarising what we’ve found so far and try and build a coherent plan with some next steps.”
Zed blew out his cheeks. It didn’t leave much time to get through the stack in front of him, let alone the countless others he would need to wade through to try and make sense of this. He knew there would be thousands of similar studies and reports. This was just scratching the surface. He didn’t doubt that if he kept looking he would find something. He always did. Something overlooked. Something that didn’t quite fit. Disconnected pieces that might form part of the jigsaw. It had been his job years ago and he was good at it. Some said very good. But there was a limit to what could be achieved working on his own. He just wished he had the rest of his team with him. He needed more staff.
He thought back to the early days of Wildfire and their interrogation of an Iraqi scientist. Chemical Sally, they called her. What was her real name? He couldn’t remember after all this time. Then there was another, Nassir al-Hindawi, who was said to have masterminded Saddam’s weapons programme. The Allies had captured one of his senior scientists who became part of a classified CIA rendition operation. The Americans had allowed a team from the MoD to sit in on one of the debriefing sessions where they were interrogating him about his research. Zed was trying to remember what they had learned. A flu virus had been discussed, he was sure of it. Collaboration with a foreign power. Funding certainly, resources and knowledge provided. There his memory failed him. Russia possibly. Anyway, what mattered more was that some of their attempts had focused on the flu virus. Saddam Hussein had been obsessed with biological weapons since the early Eighties. There had been incontrovertible evidence of their use in the Iran-Iraq war. Human experimentation, the use of anthrax against Iranian prisoners, field testing of bombs laced with camel pox against Kurdish rebels. It didn’t take a huge leap of faith to believe the Iraqis were secretly working on other viruses. He stifled a laugh, remembering that two of the Iraqi scientists had studied and worked in the UK at Edinburgh University and the University of East Anglia. Perhaps the virus was conceived right here in this country. The irony of it was too much.
At the appointed hour, the Major collected Zed and the others from the meeting room where they had been working and ushered them through to a meeting room large enough to accommodate close to sixty staff. Around a dozen men were sitting at the back of the room waiting for the rest to arrive. Several others were standing near the back. Riley and Sergeant Jones looked disinterested, their arms crossed.
Zed stood next to the wall where he had a good view of the white board and projector screen. He listened distractedly to the Major’s briefing, his thoughts elsewhere, churning over the reports he had be
en skimming.
The Major was saying something about pulling more scientists and researchers on to the project, focusing as much resource as could be spared on MV-27. He invited Colonel Abrahams to take the floor and after a brief introduction and shake of hands, the Colonel cleared his throat and surveyed the room.
“We’re initiating a phased evacuation of this team to the Isle of Wight. The first convoy will leave here in the next 48 hours. We’re calling this Operation Newtown. You will be given further instructions by your commanding officers. We’ll leave a skeletal maintenance and defence team to keep this facility operational should we need it again. You only need to take the bare essentials, everything else will be provided for you at the other end. You’ll be reassigned to Professor Nichols’ team who have a research facility set up at St Mary’s hospital.”
He paused while several of his audience exchanged concerned looks, digesting the news.
“I’m sure you’re all wondering why you need to be evacuated from a secure military facility,” continued the Colonel. “Porton Down was designed to remain operational in the event of an attack or outbreak, for up to six months. You don’t need me to tell you that we’re now operating well outside those parameters. Even with rationing, we estimate supplies will last another few weeks at most, after which you’ll be dependent on scavenging trips in to the local towns. For those of you who haven’t been topside for a while, let’s just say it’s not a nice place to be. The locals have not taken kindly to your snatch squads. And, without wanting to alarm you, there’s an angry mob up top, rampaging inside the fence. Right now, they’re trying to find a way in. That’s not going to happen any time soon, but we know full well that there will come a time when we’ll need to make a break for it.”
Riley noticed that the Major was looking anxious at the implication that his staff were in any way in danger or that his soldiers were incapable of defending the base. As soon as the Colonel paused for breath he jumped in.
