by Robin Crumby
“It’s four thirty in the morning, Riley. Bit late for a sail, isn’t it?”
Riley smiled her broadest smile and punched the air. “Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep, corporal. We were just trying to make it home for breakfast.”
“It may have escaped your attention, but the whole island is on lockdown. You’re lucky my boys didn’t sink you. You know I should turn you round, send you back where you came from.”
“Please. We’re just trying to get home.”
There was a heavy pause as Carter no doubt played out various scenarios in his head.
“I’ll send a team to meet you in Freshwater. Don’t make me regret this, Riley. Needles Battery, out.”
Chapter Forty-two
The next morning, the fast RIB from the Chester returned for the remainder of the colonel’s party, shuttling them the rest of the way to Cowes and from there by road to St Mary’s.
Zed woke to find the Americans had already left during the night, leaving behind a pair of mechanics working in the pre-dawn gloom under portable lights. Anders said they were replacing the fuel line and the other damaged helicopter components. The doctor too was nowhere to be seen. He must have left with the soldiers to deliver urgent vaccine samples to the hospital. Despite a thumping hangover, Captain Bjørklund had seen them off with a cheerful farewell.
Clambering down the ladder, Zed stepped uncertainly onto the rigid rubber seat of the RIB. The roll of the waves half-propelled him into the arms of a waiting seaman. He could just hear Anders’ laughter from above, mocking his unsteadiness.
Bouncing across the placid waves towards the island, Zed fought to keep down the contents of his stomach. He wasn’t sure if it was the Norwegian stew, the home-made vodka, the motion sickness or a combination of all three. The colonel was po-faced, unamused by Zed’s condition.
Arriving at the hospital, the atmosphere seemed altered. Gone was the quiet confidence and efficiency of a military-led relief effort. In its place, Zed could detect a palpable tension. This had become a fortress under siege from an unknown threat that might attack at a moment’s notice.
An orderly handed them each a face mask and instructed them to wear them at all times. Arriving without them had prompted mild horror as if their negligence was wholly irresponsible.
The orderly led them through the operations centre up the stairs to a large conference room, whose walls were covered with lists, maps and plans. Lieutenant Peterson, Captain Armstrong, the politician, the padre and Doctor Hardy were already waiting for them.
“Welcome back, colonel,” saluted Captain Armstrong.
“What have I missed?”
“It’s been a busy few days.”
“For all of us, captain.”
“The allied pockets around Southampton docks and Portsmouth Harbour have come under sustained attack. They were reinforced by the two new companies deployed from Camp Wight.”
“How many more men?”
“All told, about three hundred.”
“And we’re sure they were ready?”
“As ready as they’ll ever be. We have a further two hundred in training, ready for deployment later this month. On the advice of the medical team, we’ve separated out those units to reduce the chance of infection.”
Zed looked across at Doctor Hardy whose face was lit up by the dull glow from his laptop. He had barely looked up and seemed engrossed in running calculations on a spreadsheet, shaking his head from time to time as if unimpressed by the results.
“And, doctor, where are we at with the vaccine?” asked Captain Armstrong, hands on hips.
“Right now, none of us have any idea how our prototype will perform against the new strain.”
“But the early indications were good?”
“Captain, I’m well aware of the critical situation we face, but my team cannot be hurried into making mistakes. It’s a painstaking but necessary process. We can only learn through trial and error.”
“With all due respect, doctor, your team has been given everything they’ve asked for, at considerable sacrifice to other units, I might add. My men have scoured the local hospitals and pharmaceutical manufacturing centres. We need results, and we need them fast.”
“Look, you all need to understand, we’re looking at the greatest medical holocaust in history. The Millennial Virus is now on an altogether different scale from previous pandemics.”
“Then there must be more we can do.”
“If it keeps mutating, the best advice would be to avoid all contact with the virus. We could be looking at a final death toll in the billions.”
“Our quarantine measures were sub-standard,” said Lieutenant Peterson.
“What about all those people already infected? We can’t just abandon them,” challenged the padre. “We promised them a fresh start. A chance to rebuild their shattered lives.”
“The padre and lieutenant are both right,” said Zed. “This is our failure. The quarantine camps were set up to protect the island from infection. We can’t leave those people to their fate.”
“They came here seeking sanctuary and all they’ve found is fresh suffering,” admitted the padre. “That does not sit well with me.”
“There’s nothing more we can do for them.” The doctor shrugged. “The camps are part of the problem. They’ve become incubators for disease.”
“But, doctor, we have a duty of care.”
Doctor Hardy shook his head, avoiding their eyes, and continued tapping away on his laptop.
“The medical teams from the hospital are doing everything within their power to treat those affected,” said the captain. “But without a vaccine, we’re simply treating the symptoms rather than addressing the cause.”
“We always knew this would happen. This is all part of a natural process,” protested the doctor. “In every pandemic, there are always successive waves of infection as the virus mutates and new strains emerge. We saw the same cycle with Asian flu, bubonic plague and the Spanish flu. We all want solutions, but you’ve got to give me more time to study this new strain.”
“Time is the one commodity we have in short supply,” admitted the captain. “Meanwhile hundreds of refugees are dying by the day.”
“As inconvenient as it sounds, there is always a price to pay for scientific progress.”
“Doctor, I refuse to accept that,” challenged the colonel. “Either we make a stand right here, right now, or this is going to turn into a massacre.”
“What would you suggest? Go back to the mainland? It was only a few weeks ago we were saying the island was our best hope.”
“Aren’t we forgetting the threat posed by the rebels? We’re losing the war on the mainland,” admitted the captain.
“The virus is much more of a threat than any rebellion.”
“I agree with the doctor,” said the colonel. “If we don’t take a stand, there’ll be nothing left. We fight or we die.”
“Colonel, look around you,” interrupted the politician. “Since you’ve been gone, people are deserting in their droves. Morale is crashing. They all remember what happened last time. People are losing hope.”
“We simply can’t allow that. Anyway, that’s your and the padre’s responsibility. Perhaps if the carrot is no longer working, then it’s time for the stick,” suggested the captain. “We need to make an example of any deserters and punish dissent. They’ll soon get the message.”
“If people have stopped caring, threatening them with punishment is not going to help. Without hope, what do we have left?” challenged David Woods.
“I simply refuse to believe the spirit of the people can be vanquished that easily,” said the padre. “The will to carry on in the face of adversity. I choose to believe in man’s indefatigability. The promise of a future vaccine would give them that hope.”
“I want to believe that too, padre, but look around you,” cautioned the politician.
“The human spirit shines brightest in the face of adversi
ty. Pestilence never created anything but grief. It’s only when our backs are against the wall and our lives in the balance that we discover what we are capable of.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I saw the same thing at Paderborn,” said the padre. “I assure you, our finest hours lie ahead of us.”
“We need to give these people hope, set our collective sights on a brighter future.”
“We’ve allowed ourselves to live in the shadow of grief and the threat of further destruction for too long. I don’t know about you, but over the past few weeks, I’ve witnessed so many small acts of heroism and self-sacrifice. Each time it reaffirms my faith in humanity.”
“Padre, please. We should put our faith in science,” said the doctor.
“You all had your chance. Science has been humbled by the scale of destruction unleashed by this virus.”
“I’m surrounded by luddites and religious fanatics,” the doctor muttered under his breath.
“For all your empty claims about scientific progress and genetic engineering, none of you could stop the death of millions, could you?” spat Zed, coming to the padre’s aid. “Your so-called experts know just as little about the Millennial Virus as the quacks knew about the bubonic plague six hundred years ago.”
“That’s rich coming from someone atoning for past failures,” scoffed the doctor. “You’re the one with blood on your hands, not me. You’re still crippled by the guilt of taking this country to war under false pretences. The consequences of your incompetence have been devastating. September 11, 7/7, not to mention terrorist attacks in Paris, Brussels, Nice, Madrid and dozens of other major cities. That’s what’s really eating you, isn’t it?”
Zed shook his head but remained silent. The doctor had touched a raw nerve, an unacceptable truth he would never escape from, however hard he tried.
“This is getting us nowhere,” warned the colonel, losing patience. “Unless you two set aside your differences and start working together, none of us are going to have a future. We need both of you to focus on the present and making a difference to our predicament.”
“Gentlemen, we can’t afford to get distracted,” implored the captain. “The fate of everyone on this island rests in our hands. Doctor, if we’re going to mount a viable relief effort, then we need immunity from infection.”
“Like I say, I can’t give you that. The best I can suggest is the provision of masks and hazmat suits.”
“We still don’t have enough for everyone,” continued the captain. “Meanwhile, that virus is knocking our people down like bowling pins.”
“Then until you can protect everyone, I suggest we pull them out and buy our scientists more time.”
“We should start by issuing health warnings,” suggested the politician. “The sooner we tell people about the outbreak, the more support we can expect.”
“That’s out of the question,” dismissed the captain. We can’t risk fomenting civil disobedience. We have to keep a lid on this.”
“And ignore the lessons from the past?” said the doctor. “With MERS and SARS we learned that changes in public behaviour can make the biggest difference.”
“Democracy had its day,” continued the captain. “Politics was always a sideshow. A performance but never the solution.”
“Nevertheless, planning and communication are going to be the key to our survival,” insisted the politician, pointing to the boards and maps that surrounded them. “Re-establishing rule of law, bring these outlaws to justice.”
Zed pushed back his chair and walked to the window, looking back towards the main gate where the protesters were waving placards, pressed up against each other. He sighed and turned towards the nearest notice board, half-covered by a grey blanket. He could just make out a series of mugshots, most likely taken from Home Office records: police, passport, driver’s licences, or similar.
He lifted up the corner of the blanket and studied the faces. Some like Briggs and Copper he recognised, but others had no photo available, just nicknames written underneath such as “Cutter” or “The Blacksmith”. Several of the faces had been crossed out with black marker pen. With a small shudder of delight, he recognised Damian King.
“King’s dead? When did that happen?”
“Yesterday,” said Lieutenant Peterson flatly, looking over his shoulder. “Sergeant Jones’s team have confirmed kills against seven high-priority targets. They’re going back out later today to hunt down more of the ringleaders,” he added, before readjusting the blanket to cover the remaining faces. “That’s strictly between us though,” he whispered.
“Understood.” Zed nodded.
“Any update on the transmitter?” asked the colonel from behind them.
“We’re still having issues throughout the area. Been that way for several weeks now.”
“Do we know what’s causing all this interference?”
“Best guess is that the main transformer burned out when we turned the power back on. We’ve had spikes across the network. Equipment failing in all sectors.”
“But has anyone actually been up there to check?”
“We don’t have the manpower. Cabling’s a mess. We’re having to run replacements throughout the island and reset the equipment until we find the fault. In the meantime, we keep getting white noise and static.”
“If I didn’t know better I’d say our communications were being jammed somehow,” suggested the captain.
“You think the rebels had something to do with this?”
“I suppose it’s possible, but to pull that off you would need some fairly heavy-duty equipment. In the circumstances that doesn’t seem likely.”
“All the same, sergeant, can you get your team up to Rowridge and take a look as soon as possible?”
“Yes, sir.”
****
As the meeting broke up, the padre stood patiently behind Zed while he finished writing up his notes.
“We haven’t met properly. I wanted to introduce myself.”
“Of course. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m told your spiritual council is helping keep everyone sane around here. After the sisters stirred things up, you’re a breath of fresh air.”
“Oh, they’re not so bad.” He laughed. “I got to spend some time with Sister Imelda and the others.” He paused as if realising his stupidity. “Sorry, I’m being a bit slow on the uptake this morning. I had the pleasure of meeting your lovely daughter, Heather, and your good friend, Riley.”
“How are they?” said Zed, struggling to hide his guilt.
“With any luck, they’ll be back in Freshwater by now.”
“As far away from here as possible, I hope.”
“Quite. So how long have you been a man of the cloth?” asked Zed, changing the subject.
“Twelve years. My father was an officer in the army. I supposed I wanted to be like him. The adventure, the glamorous overseas postings, but I never liked the guns. Most of what I do is pastoral care.”
“What does that involve?”
“We’re embedded with the ground troops, so we deal with everything you can imagine. People are happy to talk to me because I’m not their commanding officer, but I can still help and advise them.
“I’ve never met a real-life army chaplain before, let alone a…” He hesitated, trying to think of the politically correct term.
“Man of colour? We’re somewhat of a rare breed. Before all this, there was a big push to recruit more ethnic minorities into the armed forces and those from different faiths. I don’t suppose there are many like me left now.”
“Well, then, it’s good to have God on our side,” he ventured awkwardly.
They both laughed, but in truth, the mention of Riley and Heather had thrown Zed off-kilter. His last conversation with Gill had made him realise how much his family meant to him. He had secretly hoped he might find them all here at St Mary’s on his return.
He had already made up his mind to quit at the next availa
ble opportunity. Latterly, he had come to realise that his work for the colonel was a fool’s errand. There could be no knowing what caused the outbreak. He was merely going through the motions, locked in a loop from his past. He yearned to break free and start afresh with the remaining people that still mattered to him.
“If you’ll excuse me, padre, I have something I need to do.”
Chapter Forty-three
There was an urgent knock at the door to Zed’s cramped office, and Doctor Hardy’s sheepish face appeared at the crack.
“I’ve brought you a peace offering.”
In one hand he gripped two mugs of tea. Tucked under his arm was a packet of chocolate digestives. Zed remained seated, and pointed towards the visitor chair. Was this a trick or a genuine olive branch?
“I suspect you’re wondering why I’m here.”
“You could say that.”
“Look, I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but in the circumstances, perhaps we could set aside our differences? Or at least try.” He grimaced.
“Look, we all want the same thing.”
“It’s nothing personal, I assure you. I know you have many questions for me, but there are some things I am simply unable to discuss. I’m happy to cooperate with your investigation, where I can.”
“Very well, then. I’ll keep my questions general. How much do you know about Spanish flu?” said Zed, gesturing towards the three piles of reports and printed documents on his desk.
“It was the focus of my PhD years ago. What do you need to know?”
“I’ve read all the various studies contained within the archive. To a layman like myself, the similarities with the current outbreak seem striking. But then, as you keep telling me, I’m not a real scientist.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean that. Heat of the moment.”
“Absolutely. Water under the bridge.”
“Well, as you will have read, Spanish flu is clinically quite different from seasonal influenza. Symptoms typically start within thirty-six to forty-eight hours. Delirium, intense headaches, very high temperature, profuse bleeding from the nose and mouth. In extreme cases it would feel like the lining of your throat and lungs were being ripped out. Black and purple swellings under the armpits like the bubonic plague. Really nasty.”
