Wildfire: A Post-Apocalyptic Pandemic Survival Thriller (The Hurst Chronicles Book 3)

by Robin Crumby

  “You’re ‘special’,” she mocked, mimicking the American doctor’s voice. “Can’t be that special if I’m still going to die.”

  “We don’t know that. Anyway, the pills should start making you feel better, sweetie.”

  “What about that machine he said would kill the cancer cells?”

  “You mean the radiation therapy? He said there was a machine at St Mary’s, but I doubt it’s still working. Don’t get your hopes up until we know.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I just want to help them find a cure if I can,” she said with an air of resignation.

  The doctors were all sanguine about her chances. Without a bone marrow transplant, their best hope was to reduce her symptoms and alleviate her pain when the time came. In the meantime, they were accelerating their tests, hoping to learn more about why she was one of the few to catch the virus and get better. They seemed to think that Adele’s defective immune system was the cause of her increased resistance.

  “You’re a brave girl, Adele,” added the chaplain from the front seat, trying hard to put a positive spin on this macabre exchange. “Who knows, maybe they’ll name the vaccine after you.”

  Riley shook her head, discouraging him from continuing. Adele had been so stoic about her illness.

  “I didn’t tell you. I had another nosebleed yesterday. Took ages to stop. It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

  Riley pulled Adele in tight and whispered in her ear, “Listen, we’ll get through this. We all have to hope for the best.”

  Adele nodded weakly, staring off into the distance. The car fell silent, bar the low rumble of the road.

  With every mile they were another step closer to St Mary’s. She had wanted to send a message to Zed, hoping she could see him. She hadn’t heard a peep from him since he left. She was beginning to wonder whether he was even still at the hospital, or had moved to another location. Come to think of it, this was the longest time they had ever been apart.

  She had been replaying their last conversation over and over. Unburdening herself, telling him how she felt, was liberating and a huge weight off her mind, but in hindsight, she worried that she’d gone too far. It might taint their friendship somehow.

  The more she learned about Zed’s former life, the more things fell into place for her. He had always been so reticent, so unwilling to open up. To a trained counsellor like herself, it remained a puzzle. She knew about the family break-up, the separation from his wife and kids, but imagined there must be more. The revelations about Iraq, Project Wildfire, and the political fall-out had provided more pieces of the jigsaw. She knew now that Zed had been demonised, driven out, made a scapegoat for so-called flawed intelligence that had led Britain to war. She was sure she still only knew a fraction of what had really happened.

  She had counselled enough combat veterans to recognise depression in all its forms. In her experience, the mental scars of war ran much deeper than the physical. Coming to terms with disability was one thing. She knew that prosthetic limbs and plastic surgery had transformed the lives of those in her care, even returned to some of them a semblance of normality and self-respect. The memories of the horrors of war were far harder to erase.

  If you had never served in the military, it was impossible to imagine the pain of watching helplessly as a squad member and buddy died in your arms, or seeing non-combatants, innocent women and children, suffer terrible injuries. The second-hand stories of atrocities, genocide and mass graves were hard enough to hear, let alone see first-hand.

  It had been Riley’s job to support the individuals who came to her weekly sessions, to put those horrific events in context, to help them to compartmentalise and move on. But in truth, she assumed some of that burden on their behalf. It was impossible not to be affected by their stories. The nightmares, the anxieties, the sense of helplessness. It was stupid really, but in some way their pain and sadness were somehow contagious.

  She knew that Zed’s role had been office-based, not frontline, but the mental scars could run just as deep. Despite her probing, he still refused to talk about his departure from the MoD. Reading between the lines, there had been suggestions of impropriety, errors of judgement, guilt by association. Those rumours had followed him to his next job.

  She knew the man she had grown close to had a good heart. She found it impossible to believe he could have willingly done anything illegal or immoral. Her only hope was that he would get some form of closure from re-engaging with his old life. Reopening the Project Wildfire files and trying to get the answers he so badly craved might explain what really happened. Not knowing was perhaps the hardest thing.

  ****

  As they progressed through the outskirts of town, they arrived at another checkpoint that controlled access to what the padre said was the island’s most significant military compound which encircled the hospital and several other large buildings in the vicinity. The whole base was ringed with high fences, imposing brick buildings beyond. She could see a group of three bulldozers clearing a residential area to make way for new buildings.

  Newport seemed much changed since her last visit. The island’s capital was in truth no bigger than a small town, the size of Chichester or Farnham, near where she had grown up. Its population had swelled dramatically in the last few weeks, back towards its pre-outbreak peak. There was a buzz about the place, which surprised her. Most of the houses and apartment blocks looked occupied again. People going about their daily lives. On the roads, there were a number of military convoys shuttling troops and equipment back and forth.

  Beyond the checkpoint, they drove alongside high walls topped with razor wire that could only belong to a prison. The driver pulled up parallel with a row of perhaps a dozen identical vehicles with white numbers stencilled on the doors. The padre jumped out and set off towards a low-rise building.

  “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  A few minutes later he emerged with the requisite passes and handed them to Riley.

  “There you go. Look after them. These should get you to Ryde and then all three of you back to Freshwater. They’re good for seventy-two hours. Whatever you do, don’t overstay your welcome. You saw what happened to those lads.”

  “Thanks. These should give us plenty of time. We’re not planning on staying.”

  Riley looked out the window at the imposing facade of the main building. “Is this the old prison?” she asked.

  “That one there is Albany Prison, and the other is HMP Parkhurst.”

  Riley shivered. “Isn’t that where they put all the mass murderers and gangland criminals?”

  “So they say. The Kray twins, the Moors murderers, the Yorkshire Ripper, they were all there.”

  “Until some genius let them out. Men like Briggs.” She sighed. “So how do your men like being locked up in prison?”

  “If it means a warm bed and some privacy, then it’s better than what they’re used to. They were the only places around here we could find with accommodation for several hundred men. Besides, we don’t lock their doors or anything; they’re free to come and go. Right, I’m afraid that this is where I leave you. The driver will take you to the hospital just over there,” he said, pointing to the far side of the compound. “Then he’ll take you on to Ryde and back here afterwards.”

  Riley leaned out of the window and took the chaplain’s hand.

  “Thank you again. You know, your brother would be proud of you. I can’t tell you how grateful we are for the lift and your kindness.”

  The chaplain’s right eye twitched at the mention of his brother. “It was the least I could do, after everything you did for him. I hope you find what you’re looking for. God be with you.”

  He banged his hand on the top of the car, and the driver pulled away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Zed had worked through the night, trying to get through the latest batch of classified documents. He reached for the coffee mug on his cluttered desk and took a sip before realising it was stone
cold. He spat it back into the cup. He stood up too quickly and almost stumbled. His right leg had gone to sleep from the hours of inactivity.

  Down the hall was a small kitchenette with a portable gas stove. He filled a saucer of water from the tap, lit the gas and warmed his hands against the flame. On the window ledge beyond the glass was a jug of cold milk.

  At this hour of the morning, he still had the place to himself. Most of the team didn’t seem to troop in until after breakfast. Waiting for the water to boil, he massaged his shoulders, stiff from hunching over the desk all night. In the cupboard were some digestive biscuits and a half-eaten bar of rum and raisin chocolate. It wasn’t much of a breakfast but better than nothing. He stuffed a couple of the biscuits into his trouser pocket for later.

  He heard footsteps coming along the hall and the sound of his office door opening.

  “Check the kitchen. His light’s still on.”

  He recognised the colonel’s voice. A man in uniform stuck his head around the door of the kitchenette and seemed relieved to find him.

  “He’s in here.”

  “Do you want a cup of something, colonel?” Zed shouted down the hall.

  “No, got one, thanks. I’ll be in your office when you’re ready.”

  Back in the tiny room, Zed cleared some desk space, moving several stacks of reports to the side. Top of the pile, the cover sheet was stamped with the United Nations seal. It remained Zed’s job to hunt for the proverbial needle in the haystack. Any clue that could reveal the origin of the virus.

  “Did you find anything of interest in those UN briefing documents?”

  “Nothing we didn’t already know. Useful to have independent verification, I suppose. How’s Doctor Hardy’s team getting on?”

  “He’s as elusive as ever. Still refusing to answer questions. By all accounts, they’re struggling to explain the presence of certain proteins and gene sequences, but they still reject any suggestion of human interference. I was very clear in my instructions. They need to investigate all possibilities, however unlikely.”

  Zed rifled through the pile and handed the colonel a number of sheets stapled together in one corner.

  “This one piqued my interest.”

  “What is it?” said the colonel, quickly scanning the cover sheet.

  “A leaked extract from an Iraqi autopsy report. The Iranian soldier had died in captivity. He had suffered horrible asphyxiation, his lungs were filled with liquid choking his airways. Frankly, it reads like something from the First World War, yet this was nearly seventy years later. The symptoms are consistent with Spanish flu.”

  “Or more than a dozen other chemical or biological agents. It proves nothing.”

  “Well, it proves that Saddam Hussein was conducting human tests on prisoners of war, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. It’s all documented in here. Between 1983 and 1988 more than twenty thousand Iranian soldiers were killed by gas attacks, or in chemical and biological weapons tests, not to mention the thousands of civilians who were killed by canister bombs. The first-hand accounts of experiments at Abu Ghraib make for grim reading.”

  “I thought all the patient records were destroyed before the invasion?”

  “Most of the written records were, but we still have sworn statements from the guards obtained under interrogation by our inspectors. They admitted the widespread use of biological agents against prisoners of war.”

  The colonel shrugged as if unimpressed by these revelations.

  “Any proof of Russian involvement?”

  “Not yet, but I did find countless examples of Western nations supporting the Iraqis’ programmes, whether knowingly or unknowingly.”

  “Such as?”

  “Blueprints for the construction of a factory designed by Neuman Corporation in the US, CBW hazmat suits from a DuPont factory in the UK, industrial plant equipment and chemicals sourced from Germany, Holland and France.”

  “Yes, we know all that. Dual-use was their get-out-of-jail-free card. What else?”

  “How about this?” said Zed, reaching for another sheet on top of a different pile. “Papers signed by Saddam himself, personally authorising the production of nerve gases such as tabun, sarin and VX. And here, reports from UN observers independently verifying the terrible consequences. My point is these documents confirm that this was a regime without scruples, prepared to flaunt international regulations and kill civilians without hesitation.”

  “But what does it tell us about his biological weapons programmes? We already know Saddam was using nerve gas and twentieth-century chemical weapons against the Kurds and other civilian targets.”

  “I’m coming to that. Chemical weapons were like gateway drugs to Saddam. He was so delighted with their performance that he gave orders to accelerate research into biological weapons that could target enemies in other regions. In 1988, he began test-firing rockets and bombs filled with anthrax, ricin and botulinum toxins. At al-Hakam, in the western desert, the Iraqis produced over half a million litres of biological agents. In December 1990, special forces seized evidence that he was attempting to convert his Scud missiles to carry a biological warhead.”

  “And yet, when the inspectors reached al-Hakam, they found no trace of those warheads or biological weapons?”

  “Colonel, we both know that there was a massive cover-up. Unofficially, the UN destroyed over thirty-eight thousand munitions loaded with, or capable of being loaded with, CBWs. The Scud threat was real. According to the Pentagon, even if one of those Scuds loaded with anthrax had been launched, it could have contaminated an area of three thousand seven hundred square kilometres for several decades. That’s a hundred times more lethal than the Hiroshima bomb.”

  “Hold on, that’s stretching the truth a little, don’t you think? I remember that report. It stated that munitions were, quote, ‘capable’ of being loaded with CBWs. Those biological weapons were never found, were they?”

  “Officially, that’s correct. But unofficially, the UN inspectors knew the stockpiles existed, but they proved impossible to locate. Their efforts were consistently frustrated by a lack of cooperation from the Iraqis. In all likelihood, they were simply buried in the sand somewhere.”

  “After the war, what happened to the UNSCOM team you worked with?”

  “As far as I understand, the team was wound up and disbanded. Many of them left under a cloud. Rumours about US interference and CIA espionage. It became a political football. The lack of cooperation from the Iraqis certainly didn’t help matters.”

  “And what about you? I understand you left the MoD payroll not long afterwards.”

  “Me? Oh, I stayed on for a bit, hoping the inspection programme might force some meaningful change. After all that hard work, I suppose I became disillusioned. The sanctions that followed only made things worse. The civilian population was hit hardest. Rates of malnutrition and infant mortality soared. It was a terrible price to pay for our collective failure.”

  “I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself. There’s only so much you can do in that situation. And this business about your own departure? I’ve read what little there is in your personnel file. What really happened?”

  “The September Dossier happened.”

  “You mean the ‘Dodgy Dossier’?”

  “I remember it like it was yesterday. September 2002. The lead-up to the second Iraq War. I was one of those so-called experts they wheeled out before various intelligence committees. We briefed ministers, advised the Defence Department, but in the end, they used us. They twisted the truth to make the case for war. When public opinion turned, they made us the scapegoats. The ‘45 minute’ claim was preposterous. It sullied our reputations, made us laughing stocks. Kelly was the real victim. I never believed he committed suicide. One way or another they killed him, plain and simple. It was the final straw for me. I quit, went into hiding. Then they had the temerity to come after me?”

  “Why?”

  “They turned my life upside dow
n, launched a half-hearted investigation. Made allegations that I’d been passing documents to the Americans. It was complete nonsense, but that kind of stink tends to stick. Someone higher up the food chain was pulling all the strings.”

  “Yet none of that was in your file.”

  “It’s because it was all made up. In the end, I moved abroad, worked for a biotech start-up, but the MoD wouldn’t let it go. They threatened to have me extradited to face unspecified charges. I ended up coming home voluntarily after six months. Being away from my family was terrible. The Official Secrets Act meant that I couldn’t talk about it, and no one could ever understand what I was going through. Most of what I knew was classified. Not being able to see my kids tore me apart. They were still only little back then.”

  “It sounds like there was a bigger political agenda. You were just a pawn. Expendable. In my experience, politics and science rarely work well together,” admitted the colonel.

  “What’s really frustrating is that most of these documents are heavily redacted. At best, they’re incomplete. I suspect the originals would tell a different story. If I could get access to the original archive at Porton where they keep copies of everything…”

  “I can get you up there, if you like. Doctor Hardy’s team needs to retrieve more vaccine samples. I can get you on that helicopter?”

  Zed sat upright, suddenly energised. “The Porton library should have thousands of documents, going all the way back to the First World War. Some that apparently never got digitised.”

  “I could introduce you to a couple of people there. One is the archivist, the other is someone I used to work with back in my Moscow days. He’s something of a Biopreparat specialist. He could tell you a lot more than I can about what Russia was up to with biological weapons.”