The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger

by Crumby, Robin

  “Do you believe Kelly was made a scapegoat?”

  “Look, the MoD could have handled the entire thing very differently, but they threw the book at him. It was a toxic time for everyone involved. A game of high stakes poker. In the end it didn’t matter that Kelly had the winning hand, he lost the confidence of those who backed him. Kelly left them no choice. Everything was on the line. Doors were closing rapidly. All those who could have stood up to protect him, turned their backs.”

  “And you, Major, did you stand up for Doctor Kelly?”

  “I tried. We all tried. But by that stage, it was too late. Look, Kelly wasn’t afraid of anybody. As scientists, we all admired the way he stood up to a government pushing for war. Kelly was tough, but no one could have survived that fall from grace.”

  “Major, were you ever interviewed by the police about the circumstances of his death?”

  “We all were, but the MoD forbade all its staff from talking to the press.”

  “You’re saying there was a code of silence about what really happened?”

  “Please understand, Kelly’s death was a tragedy for all of us. No civil servant should ever be put in that situation. The MoD should have protected one of their own but they threw him to the wolves because he dared to speak out.”

  “What did Kelly know that was so potentially explosive?”

  “There was a lot at stake. All the intelligence in the run up to the war suggested Saddam was preparing to fire Scud missiles at Israel. Intelligence suggested the warheads might be loaded with anthrax. Even if one of those weapons had launched it would have been an environmental catastrophe. We couldn’t let that happen.”

  “This was never about Israel’s security,” challenged the colonel. “It was about oil. Billions of dollars at stake. Two billion barrels per year, give or take.”

  Donnelly bridled at the suggestion. “I’m not qualified to comment on the motives behind invasion, sir. My team was asked to provide a scientific opinion about the state of Iraq’s weapons programme. Kelly knew what was at stake. He overstepped the line.”

  “Is that why Donald Rumsfeld labelled Kelly a loose cannon? Someone who could inflict untold damage on US intelligence operations?”

  “I have no idea, but Kelly’s security clearance meant he would have known about active US operations. The Americans put a lot of pressure on the MoD and the British government to manage the situation before it got out of hand.”

  “After all,” suggested the colonel, “we should never let the life of one innocent civil servant get in the way of national interests.”

  “Kelly had responsibilities he should have respected.”

  “Some people believe Kelly was driven to suicide. A pawn sacrifice to preserve the special relationship with America? What do you believe?”

  “The truth. Kelly committed suicide. It’s a tragedy, certainly, but one of his own making. Who knows what Kelly believed in those final days? He was under intolerable pressure. Paranoia even.”

  “Major, before Kelly died, he claimed that people were out to get him. He referred to ‘dark actors’. He even claimed that one day he would be found ‘dead in the woods’. What do you think really happened?”

  “As you well know, Colonel, in our line of business, espionage is a common enough fantasy. We invent a whole narrative around ourselves. Little accidents, items going missing, strange coincidences, being followed, being watched. It’s a form of self-delusion, of narcissism. Self-esteem is a fragile commodity. When the MoD turned their backs on Kelly, that rejection, that fall from grace, well, I suppose suicide was the only option open to him. To fall on his sword. To do the honourable thing.”

  Zed could barely contain himself listening to this carefully constructed nonsense. He coughed loudly and was rewarded by the colonel’s invitation to speak.

  “As much as the Major is keen to portray Kelly as a delusional loner who only had himself to blame for his demise, Kelly was hardly the only civil servant threatened with sanctions. We are all aware of others who were silenced.”

  “Go on,” encouraged the colonel.

  “I suffered similar treatment at the hands of the MoD. First, they put the screws on you. Remind you of your obligations under the Official Secrets Act. Then if you don’t heed their warning, they really turn up the pressure, threaten your family, your friends. If that doesn’t work, then things really escalate. They record your phone calls, messages, people follow you everywhere you go. You think you’re going crazy.”

  “Are you going to muzzle your dog?” snarled Donnelly, whipping his head around towards Zed. “Look, I’ve been surrounded by conspiracy theorists most of my life. I’m a man of science. I fought tirelessly to debunk the so-called alternative facts about vaccines, about global warming. For a man like Samuels,” he said, pointing to Zed, “his beliefs colour the world around him. He assumes meaning and significance where none exists. He sees a plane crashing into a building and assumes some government is responsible. He sees vaccine side effects and assumes it’s evidence of malpractice. Social media adds rocket fuel to these unfounded conspiracies time and again. Scientific fact and evidence became secondary. Opinion is all that matters, whether right or wrong. Speculation becomes inevitable. Life is random. Things happen without logic or higher purpose.”

  “That’s all well and good, Major, except in this case, the government went out of its way to control newsflow about the Kelly affair. Anyone shut out of the process became suspicious. Perhaps you can tell us what happened to you immediately after Kelly’s death?”

  “It took a while, but things returned to normal. Difficult lessons were learned, by all of us.”

  “You were promoted. You ended up with Kelly’s old job, senior scientific advisor on biological weapons.”

  “I suppose I became one of several go-to people on policy matters.”

  “Kelly always denied that he was Andrew Gilligan’s source for the BBC article that debunked the government’s case for war. Who do you believe was Gilligan’s real source?”

  “I have no idea. You best ask him.”

  Colonel Abrahams picked up a printed sheet from underneath his folder and handed it to the court administrator.

  “I can now reveal Gilligan’s source was in fact one Stephen Lawrence Donnelly.”

  Donnelly stared blankly at the colonel. “No comment.”

  Chapter 24

  Captain Armstrong halted the Council hearing to allow Major Donnelly an opportunity to confer with his advisers. The colonel excused himself and summoned a staff car to drive him and Zed to a jetty where a Royal Navy launch was waiting to take Doctor Simms and his team to the USS Chester at anchor off East Cowes, north of Wooton Bridge.

  Leaving port, Zed was unusually grateful for the benign weather conditions, sheltered as they were in the lee of the island. Instead of gripping on to the nearest handhold, fighting seasickness, for once Zed could admire the angular design of the missile destroyer. He remembered Lieutenant Peterson once telling him how the ship’s construction was designed in such a way that not a single angle was ninety degrees. Something to do with minimising radar signature. The decks appeared busy as always. Crewmen hosed down the helicopter landing area, scrubbing the deck with long-handled brushes. A tow truck dragged the Seahawk out through the starboard hangar doors, its rotors folded back for storage, interrupting a dozen men and women exercising in shorts and t-shirts. On the next tier up, a forest of antennae, dishes, masts and flags decorated her superstructure.

  The Royal Navy launch moored next to a grey steel walkway lowered for their arrival. The former intelligence officer saluted his American counterparts as Zed, Doctor Simms and two other scientists hauled their equipment up the steep stairs to the main deck. One of Lieutenant Peterson’s aides escorted the colonel to the bridge, leaving Zed with Simms. Inside the ship’s medical centre, the Chester’s Chief Medical Officer administered injections to a lengthy line of willing volunteers. The St Mary’s team handed over the bulky c
ases to an American nurse who checked them off against her inventory on a handheld computer. Each box contained over a hundred shots of flu vaccine. Simms ran his finger down the Chester’s vaccination record, noting several gaps.

  “I see some of your crew are still waiting for their first jabs,” noted Simms. “What does the ‘R’ mean, next to these names?”

  “Refused. The vaccine is still optional for American personnel.”

  “Why would anyone refuse something that could save their lives?” challenged Zed.

  “Some of these guys did tours in the Gulf. They have long memories. Everyone knows someone with side effects. PTSD, depression, chronic fatigue. Some would rather take their chances with the virus. We can’t force them.”

  “That’s why we made vaccination compulsory on the island as a condition of entry,” explained Simms. “Any refusal just increases the risk for everybody else. Particularly those with underlying health issues who can’t get vaccinated.”

  “Believe me. We did try. Ultimately, it’s the CO’s decision.”

  Zed returned to his laptop screen, reviewing the notes he made on his previous visit to the Chester. Zed was distracted, killing time until he could speak with Lieutenant Peterson about everything he had seen in Ventnor. After a few minutes delay, a crewman arrived to escort Zed through the now familiar corridors and stairwells that led to the bridge. The crewman paused outside the Combat Information Centre, waiting for permission from the officer in charge, before ushering Zed inside. It took a moment for Zed’s eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. Rows of screens, each with a technician, monitoring some aspect of the ship’s operations. Everyone appeared to be talking at once into headsets. He wondered what might be happening.

  Peterson and the colonel noticed Zed’s arrival and waved him over.

  “Bad time?” asked Zed, shaking the American’s hand.

  “No, it’s always this busy. Every surface contact, road and sea tracked from here. We’re the eyes and ears of the whole Allied relief operation.”

  “Don’t tell Captain Armstrong that,” joked the colonel, “he still thinks he’s in charge.”

  Peterson smiled. “No, sir. Me and Armstrong, we’re two different sides of the same coin.”

  Zed admired the American’s professionalism. There were so often bruised egos when men of different ranks and nationalities were thrown together in coalition groups. Technically, the captain outranked Peterson, yet the Americans were so used to taking the lead, based on their numerical superiority, Peterson sometimes needed reminding. Politics too often consumed precious time at Council meetings, much to the colonel’s annoyance.

  A minor commotion on the far side of the room distracted Peterson. “Excuse me a second, will you?” He leaned over the crewman’s shoulder, tracking a moving dot on the warfare console. The technician clicked and highlighted the target with a red symbol. “TAO, surface. New interrogative track 07943,” he announced over his microphone. The screen showed an outline of the island and the whole of the Solent area, displaying all contacts within a radius of perhaps twenty-five miles.

  “TAO, aye. Confirm distance, course and speed?” demanded the tactical action officer, as calmly as if he were issuing a sandwich order.

  “Four thousand yards. Two-seven-zero degrees. Closing speed: twenty-five knots. Making straight for us, sir.”

  “Are we expecting visitors?” asked Peterson, taking a sip of coffee.

  “No, sir,” confirmed the officer in charge. “If they break two thousand yards, issue a warning.”

  The technician acknowledged the command. On the gigantic video screen at head height, the feed switched to a live feed of the approaching shape. The image took a moment to focus on a fast-moving skiff racing towards them, bouncing into the light swell.

  “Confirm, two crew, sir. We’ve tried hailing them. No response.”

  “Keep trying,” instructed the officer. “Fire control?”

  “TAO, aye. Standing by.”

  “Cover track 07943 with the five-inch. Let’s put a shot across their bow. See if we can’t get their attention.”

  A few seconds later there was a loud boom and recoil and the water in front and to the right of the skiff’s bow erupted as a standard round from the Chester’s main armament landed close by.

  The skiff emerged from the spray, correcting course, no further than one thousand yards from the Chester’s starboard bow, making for mid-ships. Both crew appeared undeterred, sinking lower in their seats.

  “No change to course or speed.”

  “TAO, fire control. “Targeting computer is reporting a malfunction. We need a few seconds to clear the jam.”

  “Standby on the 25mm. Arm the AWS,” ordered the officer in charge.

  “What’s the AWS?” whispered Zed to a crew member standing next to him.

  “Close-in automated defence system. The turret looks a bit like R2-D2,” he responded nonchalantly, not taking his eyes off the feed. “Fires three thousand rounds a minute. Can take down an anti-ship missile travelling at eight hundred knots.”

  Zed remembered the white cylindrical tube sat atop what looked like a Gatling gun. His guide had called it the Phalanx. The video screen showed its barrel tilt upwards as if woken from its slumber, zeroing in on the approaching boat in abrupt robotic movements. The men on the skiff seemed to straighten seeing the automated weapon target them. The image zoomed in on the skiff’s bow packed with sacks, jammed under the gunwale, making its nose pitch into the waves.

  The Phalanx made one final correction and roared into life, spitting fire in an almost continuous burst. The approaching craft disintegrated. Through the splintered haze of fibreglass and material, the engine burst into flame. As the Chester ceased firing, there was nothing left of the men or the boat, save wreckage in the water.

  It felt so strange to be in a darkened room watching these events play out so close to them. Zed let out a held breath, realising how close they had come to disaster.

  “Send out a team to recover the bodies,” barked the officer.

  “I’m guessing that’s not the first time,” whispered the colonel under his breath.

  Peterson shrugged. “Every humanitarian mission I’ve ever been involved with ends with tension with the locals. Some blowhard claims we’re stealing something. Food, women, vaccine, you name it.”

  “We all remember the attack on the Cole back in Yemen,” acknowledged the colonel.

  “These days we don’t take any chances,” admitted Peterson.

  “I guess some people don’t appreciate having an American missile destroyer anchored in their backyard,” added Zed. “Did you serve in the Gulf?”

  “Three tours,” answered Peterson. “Junior officer on the Donald Cook during Operation Iraqi Freedom.”

  “So when did you join the Chester?”

  “Not until 2012. But some of the crew have been since ’97.”

  “I read the Chester was used as a floating prison,” said Zed.

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Two British nationals were held here before they transferred to Guantanamo. I saw the prisoner photos. Their lawyer complained about the treatment they received. Faces beaten to a pulp, fingernails removed with pliers, whole digits missing. Those men were tortured until they gave up every secret.”

  “Not here they weren’t,” countered Peterson. “Anyway, in the eyes of the law, enemy combatants forfeited their rights. After 9/11, we were inundated with warnings of terror plots, attacks we believed were imminent. Those interrogations saved thousands of American lives.”

  “Nothing justifies torture.”

  The technician nearest them seemed to tune into their conversation, stiffening in his seat. Peterson led Zed and the colonel to a quieter area where they would not be overheard.

  “You realise, some of those prisoners begged to be sent to Guantanamo. They knew what would happen if they were sent home to face justice in their own countries,” said the colonel supportively.r />
  “We would never have captured Osama Bin Laden or the other Al Qaeda leaders,” insisted Peterson.

  “Maybe, but the new terror laws and investigative powers were unprecedented, impossible to justify. Human rights, personal freedoms, privacy all went out the window. Anyone who spoke out was made a scapegoat. Look what happened to Doctor Kelly? The government trusted no-one in the end. GCHQ monitored all our conversations. I’m sure it was the same in the States. They used the war on terror as a pretext to usher in a new era of surveillance. Carte blanche for the government and its agencies. And once they got a taste for it, they couldn’t stop. It’s still happening now. As soon as they suspected Gill was helping us, she was threatened and then silenced.”

  “Hold on a moment, Zed,” cautioned the colonel. “Mister Fox conducted a thorough investigation. She wasn’t the only one exposed to the nerve agent. It was accidental.”

  “No, Colonel. The only reason she survived is because they still needed her. Someone was sending her a message. Step out of line and face the consequences,” insisted Zed. “Lieutenant, you’re aware there was an attempt on my life, only last week.”

  “You’re being overly dramatic again. It was an attempted robbery. Nothing more,” suggested the colonel.

  “It’s not the first time they tried to shut me up. It happened once before, years ago.”

  “Is that when the Agency were trying to recruit you?” asked Peterson. It was more statement than question. The colonel seemed amused by his direct approach.

  “They tried,” stammered Zed, “but I said no. I went to work for BioPharma instead.”

  “Yeah, they approached me too, straight out of the Academy, but I was never cut out for intelligence,” said Peterson, hands raised in submission.

  Doctor Simms appeared at the doorway and summoned the colonel, leaving the two of them alone. Zed determined to take advantage of this comfortable detente to push for answers.

  “So the Colonel told me a little about your mission,” opened Zed flatly. “That you share our suspicions about the outbreak.”