by Tim Heath
Thirty minutes later, he felt a lot happier about the situation. He'd shown them the outline, running off the highlights, without giving up his source. It was clear to them that Bradley was well connected, either directly with the base or through someone else who was. They'd been excited by the information they'd seen, the make-up of the probes, the launch information. They'd then talked about a million pound contract for the story and the promise to keep him on the staff as a senior reporter after it broke. Memos got sent. It could go live that week, and the paper was keen to break the story at least a day before it would otherwise break with their rival paper. Bradley left with instructions to put the finishing touches to the story and to have it back with them by the end of the day. He started to go and find somewhere quiet to sit and write, though he needed some lunch first, so he headed for a restaurant.
Picking up on the newspaper's internal memos was a team of two South Africans, working as part of a more prominent group that saw Nigerian and South African secret services joining forces. They'd been monitoring a couple of the major newspapers for anything relating to the probe mission. This news changed their mood instantly, and once the two of them had found the information and reported it, they were out onto the streets, keen to talk with this mysterious reporter looking to turn traitor on his current employer. From the little they knew, this man was apparently in contact with a real source for the level of information he had far surpassed theirs. Their own attempted hack into the army base the other day had not been successful, and now that weakness in the system had been repaired and fortified. Posing as high-level employees from the newspaper Bradley was doing a deal with, they'd met him in a restaurant and started up a conversation. For Bradley, as he had been so secretive and it had only just happened, these people could only have been who they said they were. He wasn't willing to talk about sources, but their probing was starting to get to him. They threatened to pull out of the million pound contract altogether. They kept asking about who it was, whether it was someone on the base. They'd stated it was important this was reputable, that the paper had a right to know, especially if they were paying out a million pound fee for the story. On this note, Bradley realised they had a point. He did not want to say too much but made it clear his source was direct and was not a person. When they quizzed Bradley further, their robust nature eventually got through to Bradley, and Bradley let on they had a listening device stashed safely away that was picking up everything and was untraceable. He lied about that last bit as he was getting worried that he was revealing too much.
It was maybe ten minutes after sharing this that his two companions left abruptly and Bradley felt a little confused as to what had just happened. The two men reported in with the information and were told to wait outside the restaurant until they received further orders. Bradley, meanwhile, continued to work on his article, potentially the crowning moment of his career. He was already starting to spend the money. It made it harder than usual for him to concentrate.
“Focus, man! Focus!” he told himself. “You are nearly there. Don't mess it up now.”
One Year Ago
The second day of discussions had long been finished, and most of the delegates had left. There were no formal plans for that evening, each group free to find their own entertainment, and some just went back to their hotel, tired from what had been a stressful day.
The British and Americans had remained, and both parties sat in the lounge area of their rented conference facility. Drinks were regularly served by the catering team, who had been asked to stay on a little, with the promise of a massive bonus.
“We are going to have to talk about what happens after, you know,” the Americans started, laying right in with their sole agenda. “We have poured in millions for this, and our goal all along has been the power plant blueprints that we agreed to share.”
The British snarled at this, three of the group falling back in their chairs, each looking annoyed but not rattled by the statement.
“This was a space probe agreement, and you all know it!” the British said first.
“Quit playing games with us. You'd have got nowhere without us. Your space program, if we can even call it that, was a joke. You have no experience, no expertise, and yet you needed us to get you where you are. All the time we've worked on the technology together, building and developing the nuclear capability, something we know for sure that you've developed and extended into practical applications for use on a ground-based power station. You can't pull the wool over our eyes. We know what's going on.”
“And what is going on, please tell me?” The British were getting angry now, and it showed.
“You needed everything we could give you. Technology and the experience of NASA, the mighty US dollar. Investment and trade. It was us making this happen for you, and without us, you were nowhere. It was our government agreeing with your government that it was in everyone’s best interest if we could do this together. And while the space probes are revolutionary and brilliant for what they are, they were just a smoke screen. You needed us to help you to see if we could get them to work so that you could profit from the rest. So we are here for the blueprints. We too are equal partners in this. We can agree to split the world how we want so that we don't both sell power to the same countries. We can reach a solution. There is no way you can hold onto this thing on your own.”
“Is that so? I'm not sure you know how business works.”
“Don't patronise me, you stupid Brit!” Everything went silent for a few seconds. The emotions calmed a little before the American continued: “We knew all along what kind of deal this was.”
“So I won't need to remind you that our deal was to launch four state-of-the-art space probes that will revolutionise our ability to monitor, record and track anything and anyone we like. And on that front, we are partners.”
At this, the Americans collectively grunted.
“You surprise us,” the Americans said, “to think that we would be so naive as not to know this was your smoke screen all along. Had it been us you stole this from, it would already have been over.”
Both teams locked eyes with each other. It had been said. The Americans knew that the British had stolen the idea. Did they know from whom it had been taken? It was probable they could now guess, anyway.
The conversation paused as a fresh supply of coffee was brought in, though nobody wanted any, nor had it been ordered. The waiters removed the empty cups, before exiting back into the kitchen. It was here that the team of caterers made their first mistake. They sent a call to their section head who was also based in London at that moment, reporting news about the power plant blueprints. These seemed to be the hot property now at stake between the Americans and British, though the announcement of the space probe program had also been of great interest. This call had been tracked by the same MI6 Black Ops team who'd been busy earlier that day. It was the first sign that anyone else had been keeping tabs on the talks. It became a major security alert which needed dealing with quickly––and they knew exactly what needed to be done.
Twenty Three Days Ago
The two South African secret service agents had been in conversation with area HQ for thirty minutes, through coded messages.
“We need to be careful about what they are picking up. It's possible they will be able to monitor any message we send,” came the latest reply.
The two guys looked at each other. They'd been going around the same issue for some time now. Still, there had been no reply to their central question.
“Has the virus already been uploaded,” they repeated.
“We are unclear on that,” came the automatic reply. They were staying silent, and it was becoming clear. Over half their questions that day had been answered the same way. In other words, we aren't going to tell some low-ranking field agents like yourselves. They got the message.
What most people at the time had not known, apart from those in the African secret service, was that the attempted h
ack had not been without some success. True, the team from Nigeria that had carried out what they thought was the main hack had not been able to find out what they were after. That had been to look for the plans for the power station as well as to understand the real origins of the breakthrough. That information had very explosive potential and was highly valuable if traded for money or other trade links. That attempt was just the smoke screen because unknown to that team was an Indian genius who was also working for the service. He'd managed to piggyback his way in during the attempted hack and had successfully uploaded a worm that would sit dormant in the computer system but kick in once the probes were fully operational. It would effectively give him full control, and he would use it to send the probes back to Earth. The Indian young man also worked for the Chinese. Why earn from just one side when two were paying top dollar? The worm was, therefore, more destructive than either side knew, and included a message that would appear in the final seconds before impact. It was the Indian technician's way of showing ultimate power; to laugh in the face of those who were paying him, to prove he was the best and feared no one.
Back on the street once more, the two South African agents were given orders just to watch Bradley. At that moment he was paying up, having packed up his things into his bag moments before, and he was now heading towards the main doors. They were in a small park across the road from the restaurant, and it was a busy day in London. Cars, buses and taxis moved in every direction. Bradley was outside and on the street, deciding which way to turn. The two agents, safe in the crowds, left the park, keeping him in eye-shot the whole time. They agreed to split up, and one started to cross the road as two shots rang out. Their eyes went instantly to Bradley who fell to the floor. Blood was visible on the pavement where he lay. Screams could be heard, as people ran for cover. Cars stopped. The two agents froze, then quickly backtracked. A crowd of people were starting to approach Bradley, but even from a distance, judging by the expressions on the faces of the gathering crowd, hands coming up to shocked mouths, it was clear that Bradley had been killed. Back together again, having moved further along the road out of sight of the incident, the two agents sat on another bench in a small green area. Police sirens could be heard approaching, and two cars travelled at speed past them, their blue lamps flashing and bouncing light through the darkening evening. One of the two agents opened his phone again, keying in his message in code:
“Was it us?” he wrote.
“We are unclear on that,” came the instant response.
Present Day
The hospital had continued to be busy, with all staff continually stretched and ran off their feet. That was apart from Lorna, who was to remain exclusively available for John. The nurses were running out of steam, their energy levels dropping, as patient after patient came in, the majority of them beyond hope even before arrival. It was more a matter of making them comfortable in death rather than keeping them alive.
What the hospital was struggling to cope with was the number of visitors arriving, who were desperately searching for missing loved ones. Despite the warnings and potential danger to themselves, hundreds of people had still travelled from far away and were searching the hospitals. It was impossible for the hospitals to keep on top of all the patients. Many of the victims were brought to the hospital in a dreadful physical condition, so identification was becoming a real issue, and many came with no documentation on them at all. It was becoming a logistical nightmare to keep track of who was who, and where anyone was. So now, many days after the initial incident, adding to the chaos, there were hundreds of visitors, each demanding answers, each desperate for news on lost loved ones. Sadly, however, it was rare for someone to find the person for whom they were looking. News spread, of course, of those rare reunions, and hope rose in the others still searching. Some visitors just walked around the hospital, going where they shouldn't, often dropping in on rooms at the worst possible times and often seeing something they would later wish they hadn't, but it did not stop their pursuit for information, for news, for any hope.
On a few occasions, the visitors showed genuine concern for the nurses, asking how they were coping. You could tell those who knew what they were talking about and understood what it was like in a hospital when trauma hit, though even they were just after news.
Alison was walking around, taking note of the situation around her, and saw one of her young nurses being given a hard time by two male visitors. As she went over, the guys spotted her coming and turned to her.
“Can I help you,” she asked them; the young nurse grateful for the rescue, and quickly made her escape.
“Yes, we are looking for a colleague of ours,” the taller guy said. A strong accent came through, though it wasn't clear if he was trying to hide it or emphasise it. “He was a reporter with our paper, we thought we lost the whole team, but apparently he's survived. Do you know if he's here or not?”
Alison looked at them both and trusted her instincts.
“Look, I'm sorry, but I don't think we can help you. We have over three thousand patients here, most of them are serious, and we have no idea of who most of them are. I am not aware of any journalists here; maybe you should check another hospital?”
They both looked noticeably agitated by her reply and her unwillingness to help. But since they were getting nowhere, they thanked her and turned away, walking back out of the main doors, before stopping, now out of sight, to work out what they were going to do next.
Alison, meanwhile, went to find the young nurse who had been talking with them before she intervened. She didn't have to go far before she came across her.
“Nina, can I have a word?” she asked, pulling her to one side, as a trolley was being moved down the busy corridor. “Those two men, what did they say to you?”
“Same as the rest. They were looking for a relative of theirs, a guy in his thirties named John Westlake. They had a photo, but I knew nothing about him, and then you came over.”
“Thanks, Nina. Leave this one with me,” she said and continued on her way.
During her next coffee break, Alison took time to go and find Lorna, to have a catch-up, but also talk about the day's events. Seeing her on her way out for some fresh air, they walked together and talked. Eventually, the conversation turned to Lorna's unique patient.
“Talking of John, there were two guys in here today looking for him. Said they worked for him and had heard he might have survived.”
“How did they hear that?” Lorna said. “I thought nothing had been released about him because it was best his family assumed he was dead?”
“Yeah, that's what I understood too. They were South African, I could recognise that accent anywhere, but something didn't sit right with me about them both. They first told Nina that he was a relative before I arrived, and then they talked to me about working with him.”
“Seems strange. Did you say anything?”
“No,” Alison replied. “That sixth sense us nurses have in these moments. You know what I mean when what they are saying doesn't fit with what we are seeing and reading from their body language. There's no way they could have known he was here, or alive if they were with the paper. Not unless someone has been talking.”
“Okay, leave this one with me, Alison. Thanks for letting me know. I'll take it to the team monitoring this all and see what they have to say.”
“Thanks. So,” Alison said, changing the subject, “how are you bearing up since you heard about James?” She knew it was a hard subject but they had talked briefly once, the other day, and Lorna was handling things quite well, even then.
“I've not had the time to process things if I'm honest. You know how it is here, too much to do.” That was an understatement if ever she heard one. Alison nodded but didn't comment. No comment was needed. They were both in the same place, unable to talk about what was happening, barely coping themselves.
Lorna continued:
“Yesterday would have been our anniversary, so that br
ought a few things home, in their own way.” Alison looked to Lorna, a tear in her own eye already but nothing showing on Lorna's face.
“One month ago I was as happy as I had ever been. And now......” Lorna didn't know how to finish the sentence, so Alison spoke for them both.
“Now, girl, life just sucks.”
They both looked at each other, weighed down for a moment with the seriousness of it all, before each one smiled, almost at the same time, as if to say that's right, we'll just have to shrug it off and carry on regardless.
They looked out over the fields, the trees that once stood so tall, their autumn colours so bright, now just adding to the scene of despair. Beyond them, the fires still burned, the skyline filled with towers of thick black smoke, the distant sky itself a dense mass of smoke and fumes. Darkness was covering them as if to symbolise what was also hiding their emotions. It was a cloud that would not be quickly moved. They stood next to each other for what seemed like ages, not saying anything, just watching, looking, thinking their own quiet thoughts. After some time, Alison put her arm around the shoulders of Lorna and spoke softly:
