“I told you it was her!” shouted Sam excitedly. “Who’s your friend, Terra?” he challenged, prodding the professor with the shotgun.
“Careful, Sam. He’s here to help,” replied Terra, getting slowly to her feet.
Riley and Scottie were waiting in the covered entrance to the castle, hands on hips, not quite believing what they were seeing.
“You’ve got a nerve coming back here,” snarled Riley.
“I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t urgent. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“You can talk here. We have no secrets from each other.”
“The Italians are preparing to move against you,” warned Terra.
“Salieri? Why?”
“Apparently, you stole from him. He probably wants your land.”
“We did nothing of the kind. Anyway, this has all been sorted. We went to talk to him. We made a deal.” Riley directed her attention to the boxes of supplies and equipment. “This is all the stuff we scavenged from Barton ready for Marco to collect. He’s taken two of our girls hostage. One of them’s Zed’s daughter.”
“I heard.” Connor had told Terra so much about his sister, Heather, she felt she knew her, though they had never met. “Salieri is a man of his word. With a little encouragement, I’m sure he’ll do the right thing.”
“And that’s where you come in, is it?”
“Look, if it hadn’t have been for me, Sam and Tommy would be dead. I’ve only ever looked out for Hurst’s interests.”
“Yeah, well, there’s still a lot of red ink in your ledger.”
“You don’t know Salieri like I do,” she bluffed. “The Italians wouldn’t risk an all-out attack against a fortress. He’ll try and isolate you, like he did to the Bunnies.”
“We don’t respond well to threats or intimidation, as you well know.” Riley’s eyes narrowed, her point made. “We’re more than capable of defending our interests.”
The professor coughed politely, defusing their escalating animosity. Terra was so focused on Riley, she had clearly forgotten he was there.
“I’m sorry, this is Professor Nichols. He advised the Council on Camp Wight’s quarantine protocols. His team has been working on a prototype vaccine at Lymington Hospital. We’ve brought you samples,” she added as a peace offering.
The professor opened one of the cases and showed Riley the neatly packed vials.
“And now you work for Briggs?” asked Riley, running her hand over the glass containers.
“Not by choice,” he mumbled.
“Why would we trust Briggs’s vaccine over the Allies?”
“Because this one actually works,” insisted Terra testily, to the dismay of the professor, waiting his turn to explain, as they had agreed in advance.
“Our vaccine is different,” he opened. “Designed to act like an accelerant, turbocharging the creation of additional antibodies. The Allies’ vaccine is a good start, but it doesn’t provide lasting protection.”
“And yours does?” challenged Riley. “How could you possibly know?”
“It’s early days, but the results are positive. I would encourage you to undertake your own pilot. There’s plenty more where this came from.”
“In return for what?”
“I understand you trade with a number of local groups. I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.” The Professor smiled, waiting for her response. Riley seemed to hesitate, preoccupied with something. “Terra tells me you worked in a hospital before all this.”
“I worked with veterans. Physical therapy, mostly,” she added, almost apologetically. “But I’m a fast learner. There’s a doctor in Milford comes out to the castle every couple of weeks. He’s shown me the ropes.”
“By all accounts, you’re doing an outstanding job,” he flattered.
“We do our best. Actually, we have a patient presenting with unusual symptoms. I’d love a second opinion if you have the time, Professor.”
“Certainly. Happy to take a look. Lead on.”
The hairs on Terra’s neck began to prickle, imagining the worst.
They followed Riley through the Tudor archway, towards the eastern wing of the castle. A number of cold, bare-brick rooms had been haphazardly converted to serve as an infirmary, separate from the rest of the accommodation. Riley handed the professor and Terra bright yellow hazmat suits, hanging on brass hooks.
“Following proper quarantine procedures, I see,” he added, taking off his brown moleskin jacket with leather elbow patches, stepping into the largest size.
“We isolated these two cases as soon as symptoms developed.” Riley helped him fit a mask and rubber gloves, before entering the first room. “Her name’s Greta,” she explained, making way for him to pass. “Thirty-five year old female experiencing headaches, fever, aches and pains. She has a strange rash all over her chest, abdomen and thighs. At first, we thought it might be an auto-immune condition, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Based on a prior history?”
“Yes, she has Type one diabetes. She’s up to date with all her vaccinations.”
The professor checked Greta’s pulse and blood pressure, working quietly, breathing hard in his suit.
“I saw a couple of similar cases at the hospital last week. The symptoms are subtly different from the Millennial Virus.”
“What do you think it might be, Professor?” asked Terra from outside, keeping her distance.
“Hard to say. One of the specialists at the hospital claims our immune systems are going through a period of readjustment, but I’m not convinced.”
“Caused by what?” asked Riley.
“Simple really, our environment and living conditions are changing. Before the outbreak, we were all obsessed with hygiene: purified water, clean surfaces, antibacterial wipes. Think of our immune system as a natural born killer, born into a peaceful world. Suddenly, there’s this cataclysmic shock caused by the pandemic, a return to almost medieval levels of sanitation. Our bodies need time to adjust. They perceive threat and have a tendency to overreact.”
“You’re talking about cytokine storms?”
“That’s right. Sometimes they’re caused by something as harmless as dust or pollen. It seems that the more we try to protect our bodies from infection, the more vulnerable we become.”
Terra looked on jealously, unable to contribute to their medical discussion, as the professor listened to Greta’s breathing through a stethoscope. “We only have ourselves to blame. Children grew up in these awful sanitised environments, exposed to fewer microbes. Some experts think we reached a tipping point a few years ago which led us here.”
“You think we should all be eating dirt and sneezing on each other,” joked Riley.
“The pandemic is nature’s way of fighting back, feeling taken for granted. If the rumours from Ventnor are to be believed, who knows, the next generation could be the first born with natural immunity against the new breed of viruses.”
“You should speak with Sister Imelda. One of the sisters from Ventnor is staying with us.”
The professor nodded, disinterested, moving on to a physical examination of Greta, troubled by the rash on her stomach and thighs. He lifted one arm and gently prodded at a fluid-filled scab with his gloved finger. The patient seemed barely conscious, feverish. He stepped back with a heavy sigh. “You might be right about the auto-immune disfunction. Hard to know for sure without a fuller examination. What can you tell me about Greta’s movements in the last seventy-two hours?” he asked breathlessly.
“Let me think,” said Riley. She seemed flustered by the professor’s questions. “She came with us to Barton. I’m not aware she came into contact with anyone.”
“I see. Is she the only one with these symptoms?”
“As far as I’m aware, yes.”
“These fluid-filled scabs are quite distinctive,” he said, taking a closer look with a magnifying glass. “It’s a long shot, but I’d say this could be variola.”
; “Variola? But there hasn’t been a recorded case…,” began Riley.
“In almost fifty years,” he confirmed, brow furrowed with concern.
“What’s variola?” asked Terra, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed.
“Smallpox,” sighed the professor. “Like measles, it appears to be making a comeback.”
“Is it infectious?”
“In its day, smallpox killed more people than all the world wars and epidemics combined.” The professor closed his eyes and shook his head. “We’ll need to check everyone at the castle.”
“We isolated her as quickly as we could.”
“Unfortunately, smallpox has a much longer incubation period than flu. You’ll all need immediate vaccination.”
Terra sub-consciously backed further away, her mind racing. It seemed beyond coincidence that sickness had struck both the Bunnies and Hurst groups in quick succession. She already knew Briggs had few qualms about using disease as a weapon against the Allies. She cast her mind back to the break-in at Porton Down, smiling inwardly, impressed by Briggs’ ingenuity. Now she understood. More pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, his plan beginning to reveal itself.
“What’s the treatment for variola?” asked Riley, still trying to process the scale of the threat to her community.
The professor seemed reluctant to answer. “Lots of water, antibiotics for the rash. With any luck, it’s a mild strain.”
“What if it’s not?”
The professor avoided the question. “The rest of you need immediate vaccination. We keep limited stocks at the hospital.”
“Since when?” asked Riley, deeply suspicious. “I thought only the military kept smallpox vaccine.”
“We’re not ambulance chasers, if that’s what you think,” countered Terra.
“You mentioned another patient. Does she have the same symptoms?” asked the professor.
“Oh no. Stella’s pregnant,” Riley explained with joy. “She just needs rest.”
“I see. Well, you’ll need to keep her as far away from Greta here as possible. Smallpox can cause premature births, even terminations. It’s a very unpleasant disease. If it was allowed to spread, it would be catastrophic for everyone.”
The colour drained from Terra’s face, considering the consequences. “What have you done, Briggs?” she mumbled under her breath.
Chapter 38
Slumped in the wheelchair, Zed slipped in and out of consciousness, dimly aware of falling rain, the deafening throb of rotor blades, a bumpy landing followed by the unmistakable motion of a ship in a swell. Twice he tried to push aside the oxygen mask but a forceful hand repositioned it over his mouth. He felt so weak. The strength to resist deserted him. Voices he half recognised. American. Military. Then he lapsed back into nothingness.
When he next woke, some time later, still groggy, the dull ache in his arms and legs had subsided. He could move his head from side to side, up and down, casting his gaze around a bare chamber with steel floors and whitewashed walls, pipework across the ceiling, toilet in the corner, metal basin, no mirror. From the look of the place, this wasn’t the first time it had been used as a holding cell. Scratches on the wall suggested a long prior occupancy.
His skin felt alive, crawling with imaginary insects, stomach cramping though he didn’t feel hungry, the back of his shirt drenched in a cold sweat. He tried to wipe his brow but his good arm was unresponsive. A colourless tube snaked up his arm to a bag of plasma hanging limply from a metal hook. The steady drip every few seconds exacerbated the sensation of time passing slowly. Inside his skull, a rhythmic pain pulsed, ready to explode whenever he tried to move, fighting an urge to vomit into the empty bucket beside his chair.
He tried to shout out, to call for help, but his mouth made a metallic rasping sound he didn’t recognise. He exercised his tongue, searching for moisture, counting teeth. An old root canal throbbed with pain. After so many days of feeling nothing at all, the sensation had become life affirming.
He strained to identify the sounds of life aboard a busy ship. His hearing imprecise, foggy, as if he were underwater. He remembered little of the journey here. Logic suggested the USS Chester or the container ship, the Maersk Charlotte.
After an hour of concentrated effort, rotating his ankles, wiggling his toes, he tested putting weight on each foot. Gulping breath, he forced himself upright, gripping the side of the wash basin. Cupping his hand, he gulped water from the tap, his thirst unquenchable, splashing water against his face. The liquid burned his throat, his entire chest felt on fire, but he persisted, fearful of dehydration and exhaustion.
Staring at the heavy bulkhead door that opened outwards, he tried the handle. Locked from the outside. So he was a prisoner, he thought to himself, slumping back against the wall, exhausted from the exertion. All thoughts of rescue and salvation dissipated.
His time with Donnelly had become an indistinguishable haze, punctured by moments of nightmarish flashes, repeating on a loop. In the end, he would have said or done anything to make them stop.
One of the crew knocked and entered, followed by Colonel Abrahams, a red folder under his arm.
“Good, you’re awake.”
“How…long..?” It took a supreme effort to get his words out.
“Don’t try to speak. Just nod or shake your head.” Zed nodded in response. “The drugs should wear off in a couple more hours. You have no idea what I had to do to get you out.” The colonel’s voice remained monotone, lacking in sympathy, like an interrogator searching for the truth. “Why didn’t you tell me about Operation Rockingham? You put us all in an impossible position.”
“I..tried...” There was so much Zed wanted to say.
“The prosecution’s case is comprehensive,” continued the colonel, “I’ve spent the last seventy-two hours trawling through every GCHQ file I can find trying to unpick Donnelly’s allegations, but most of it checks out. All roads appear to lead back to Rockingham.”
“No.”
The colonel grimaced. “Whether you were aware of it or not, your team sat in the epicentre of a three-way power play between our intelligence services, scientists and politicians.” Zed shook his head as vigorously as he felt able. The colonel noted the look of recrimination and softened his stance.
“The buck has to stop somewhere. Perhaps you were just naive. We’ve both been around the block long enough to know that intelligence is rarely clear-cut, sometimes contradictory, but politicians depend on us to be free of bias, independent in our conclusions. It only takes one rotten apple for trust in the entire system to be undermined.”
Zed shook his head at the suggestion he was that person.
“The government deserves at least some of the blame for its austerity programme. What did they think would happen when intelligence gathering teams are merged with analysis? The net result is a lower quality product, not to mention the outflux of senior analysts retired as part of department restructuring.”
Zed nodded in violent agreement.
“Donnelly claims Porton scientists were wholly innocent, caught in the middle, trying to keep their MoD masters happy while politicians circled, baying for blood. The checks and balances were laughable. It was much too easy for politically-motivated groups like Rockingham to fabricate evidence.”
Zed tried to speak again but could only manage a guttural sound.
“Look, ever since I joined as a graduate trainee in the Eighties, there’s always been a healthy battle of wills between MI6, GCHQ and the other agencies. Each had distinct operating parameters for good reason. The whole idea of the Joint Intelligence Committee was meant to keep us all aligned, but when politicians wilfully ignore the experts’ advice, this is what happens. The entire thing was unprecedented. The ‘September Dossier’ should never have been made public. Policy makers crossed the line, involving themselves with the analysis of intelligence. Decisions became politicised, skewed towards established positions. Impartiality was lost.”
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br /> The colonel removed his reading glasses for cleaning, rubbing his tired eyes.
“I understand why you did what you did. We all get frustrated,” he admitted. “What are we meant to do when sound advice becomes distrusted or ignored? When politicians stop asking the right questions, information vacuums somehow get filled. It’s human nature to want to please. We tell our handlers what they want to hear. We all bear a collective responsibility, not just you.”
He paused, noticing Zed’s agitation.
“Look, we all have blind spots. You did what you thought was right. What was needed to bring about a precipitous end to the suffering in Iraq. In your mind, the civilian population had already paid a terrible price for Saddam’s obstinacy. In the grand scheme of things, your actions saved lives. I don’t believe for one minute you acted maliciously.”
The colonel gave Zed a drink from a plastic bottle.
“How did you..?” began Zed.
“Get you out? Doc took a blood sample, ran an independent toxicology report back on the Chester, and you tested positive for opiates and a range of other drugs. Captain Armstrong agreed to suspend proceedings to allow a period of convalescence until you’re fit to stand trial. Who knows how long that will take?” He winked, breaking into a smile for the first time.
“Chester?”
“How did we get you here? Lieutenant Peterson argued your safety could no longer be guaranteed at St Mary’s. Of course, the prosecution will have more time to develop their case, but in the circumstances, it was our best option.”
“Not guilty,” slurred Zed, lurching forward.
“Don’t worry.” The colonel held up his hand in response. “The case against you is not quite as black and white as I first feared. With a little extra time we should be able to refute at least some of these claims. But I should warn you. Peterson’s offer wasn’t without conditions. His ship, his rules. There’s an agenda, I just don’t know what it is yet.”
The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger Page 28
