Lazarus strain chronicle.., p.15
Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 1): The Spread, page 15
part #1 of Lazarus Strain Chronicles Series
“You already have.” With that, Nick left the room.
16.08.19
Doha, Qatar
Half way home, thought Paul. His journey from Bangkok involved a stopover in Doha. Travelling business class, he was spared the trauma of mixing with the common passengers and had been bused from the plane to the specially designed terminal where luxury awaited. Paul was absolutely shattered, another reason why he hated leaving the USA. He was getting slight muscle cramps as well which was worrying him. Most likely he had contracted a case of flu, either from the plane, or the hundreds of hands he had shaken the previous day. When you worked with microorganisms every week, you knew where the dangers were but still had to accept you were generally as susceptible as everyone else.
The social event yesterday evening had actually been a pleasant affair. His speech had gone down better than he had hoped, and his lack of condemnation for the Chinese military actions had put him on the correct footing with the people he had dined with. It was so easy to be a hard arse when you were an external observer looking at events after they had happened. Truth was, he doubted the US military would have handled things any differently.
Paul was an advocate for the use of martial law in national pandemic emergencies. The reasons were clear, humans being an irrational and selfish species at the best of times. Hurl a life killing contagion at them and they would lose all sense of civility. If it came down to their own individual preservation, and personal sacrifice for the greater good, humans would invariably try and save their own skins unless there was the threat of a loaded gun to persuade them otherwise. Which meant people trying to flee quarantine zones, even though they might themselves be infected with the very disease they were trying to flee. Irrational people could not be reasoned with, meaning the only recourse was force of arms and being willing to carry through on any threats you made.
It was a little-known fact that the CDC had plans for such eventualities through their association with the Federal Emergency Management Agency, otherwise known as FEMA. And it had been Paul that had been instrumental in setting up those plans. The apparatus for emergency management in America was huge, bloated and unyielding, governed by egos and fiefdoms. There was, however, one thing in its favour. The Office of President of the United States had the power to pass written orders to the federal government which did not require congressional approval. Known as Executive Orders, many of them were put in place as contingency plans for worst case scenarios. One such Order was Executive Order 13295:
By the authority vested in me as President by the Constitution and the laws of the United States of America, including section 361(b) of the Public Health Service Act (42
U.S.C. 264(b)), it is hereby ordered as follows:
Section 1. Based upon the recommendation of the Secretary of Health and Human Services (the "Secretary"), in consultation with the Surgeon General, and for the purpose of specifying certain communicable diseases for regulations providing for the apprehension, detention, or conditional release of individuals to prevent the introduction, transmission, or spread of suspected communicable diseases, the following communicable diseases are hereby specified pursuant to section 361(b) of the Public Health Service Act:
(a) Cholera; Diphtheria; infectious Tuberculosis; Plague; Smallpox; Yellow Fever; and Viral Haemorrhagic Fevers (Lassa, Marburg, Ebola, Crimean-Congo, South American, and others not yet isolated or named).
(b) Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome (SARS), which is a disease associated with fever and signs and symptoms of pneumonia or other respiratory illness, is transmitted from person to person predominantly by the aerosolized or droplet route, and, if spread in the population, would have severe public health consequences.
Each US State had the authority to declare and enforce quarantine within their borders. The CDC, Paul’s employer, also had the power to detain, medically examine and quarantine anyone they suspected of carrying a communicable disease. This could be done against an individual or a community’s express wishes to the contrary. To add to this, every Sherriff’s department had received equipment, training and funding far in excess of what was needed for everyday law enforcement. With so many communities spread across the Continental United States, it was obvious that the Sherriff’s departments would be an essential tool in the control of potentially infected populations, their local knowledge an essential asset. The powers were even in place to suppress the movement of the population.
Paul was officially the first American to be contaminated by the virus. He would also be the first to present the symptoms within the borders of the USA. He would be directly responsible for the death of tens of thousands of his fellow Americans and would bring the virus deep into the core of the CDC. He would have a far greater impact however.
On his brief stop in Doha, Paul touched three door handles, four buffet tongues as well as shaking hands with three people he knew from his work for the CDC. He also seeded the air-conditioned atmosphere with his virally infused breath. The virus survived well in the conditioned air, sucked up and spread around with startling efficiency. At Doha, he infected dozens of people. Over the two plane journeys combined, he was culpable in the further infection of one hundred and seventeen people. Eighty-seven of those would take connecting flights out of Atlanta, infecting hundreds more. Each of those hundreds would spread the virus amongst their respective communities. Without a single focal point of infection to deal with, the coming apocalypse would be almost impossible to stop.
Think how many people you interact with in a day, and then think how many people those individuals come into contact with. Post office workers, checkout tellers, teachers, doctors, postmen and baristas. Airborne on the droplets of his lungs and transmittable from the moisture on his very body, Paul brought the virus to America. He also, unwittingly, did much worse than that. He brought it to the beating heart of the very organisation designed to stop the spread of the disease.
16.08.19
London, UK
Nick sat on the bench deep within Hyde Park. The air was crisp, the night slowly drawing in. By the time he got home, the sky would be black. Presently it was merely bruised.
The evening streets held no fear for him, even in a city where knife crime had reportedly exploded. Any young thug who was foolish enough to try and mug Nick would find that decision one of the worst they would ever make. A weapon in the hands of youth and inexperience was useless when faced against someone with the ability and the readiness to kill you with his bare hands. Nick’s certainty in the matter was bolstered by the fact he was wearing the latest in protective clothing. Not bulky, allowing for free movement, his legs, torso and arms were protected against knife attacks, secure in the sense that no knife would penetrate the high tech cloth. It didn’t make him invulnerable of course.
Nick knew he didn’t get enough of nature. His off days were spent in the grime and the chaos of the city. Even sat here, the hum of humanity could be heard in the distance, tainting the illusion of nature’s wonders. When on operation, there was no time to take in the scenery, his life often a blur of violence and survival. Then there were the other times, of boredom and surveillance when concentration was key. His line of work was far from that portrayed by James Bond, and he certainly didn’t have the charisma, the inclination or even the energy to try and bed every woman he encountered.
Nick sometimes struggled to know where his life had gone, so moments like this were to be cherished. To find such peace in a city of millions was bliss, and he often came here to sit and think. It helped that this particular bench allowed full 360 vision of the grounds around him meaning it was impossible for someone to sneak up on him here. He felt safe despite his exposure.
He saw Jeff Brazier running towards him, the grace of the man and the power in the body evident for those who knew what to look for. Jeff seemed to be propelled as if he was a force of nature, defiant of the ageing that was already starting to happen in his body. Certainly, he wasn’t someone Nick would want to go against toe to toe. The man’s street fighting techniques were legendary, even in an organisation that prided itself on its training. MI13 did not train classical martial arts, because most of them were deemed useless in real combat. Whilst they were good for teaching discipline and building stamina, for defending oneself, most of them were only really of any use against people using the same technique. Put someone who did Karate, for example, in a rough and tumble street fight, and technique wouldn’t last against brute animal force.
MI13 trained hand to hand street fighting. They taught how to take people down and keep them down. It was a mishmash of different techniques developed over decades. A system of raw power and explosive force, when threatened, a MI13 operative would use overwhelming suppressive attack to bring their opponent down. Jeff was the best Nick had ever seen. So good in fact that he now taught his style of fighting at the Orphanage three months of the year. Rumour had it that the young recruits, saved from the torments of Social Services, had started calling Jeff “John Wick” after the fictional Hollywood assassin. Behind his back of course, and out of complete respect rather than ridicule. You did not ridicule a man like Jeff Braziers. When such a man said something you only needed two words. Yes, and Sir.
Jeff came to a stop at the bench Nick was seated on and sat down next to him. Nick noticed the man was hardly out of breath. In his inside pocket, Nick took out a small silver box and flipped a switch on it. An audio jammer, to stop any prying ears should someone have a directional microphone on them. Unlikely, but you never knew in this day and age, and it was always wise to never assume that “The Other Service” hadn’t been compromised. The day you stopped following your training was the day mistakes started to happen.
“There’s a rumour going around that you never use public transport, that you just run everywhere.”
“Certainly cheaper. And it helps that my place of work has adequate shower facilities.” Jeff turned in his seat to face Nick. “What are we doing here Colonel?”
“I have a concern about this operation.”
“You mean the Yank? I heard about your run in with him.”
“More than that. I don’t trust the man for a second, but there’s something more to this that I can’t put my finger on.”
“So why are you telling me?” Jeff asked.
“Because of all those in the team, you are the one I trust the most. I’ve never worked with Natasha in the field before. And as good as he is, Brodie is a company man through and through. There’s another thing.”
“Go on.”
“I had the face run through the records we have. There was no match.”
“Well, that’s understandable if he isn’t known to us,” Jeff answered.
“No, think about it. An image like that isn’t perfect, there should have been a few false positives at least. But there were none. The only way that could happen is if that face had been completely wiped from the computer records. It has no history. That’s not supposed to be possible. We are talking about a computer network that links MI13 with MI5, MI6 and the Metropolitan police. Hell, it’s even got its tendrils into the systems of the FBI and Interpol, not that they are aware of that you understand.”
“What is your gut telling you?”
“This is not what we are being led to think it is. Campbell tried to spin it to make it look like the Russians or the Chinese were behind this, but I don’t buy that. They aren’t stupid. This isn’t the Cold War anymore. China has already won the economic war. By twenty thirty they will have overtaken America as the biggest economy. And Russia will gain from that immensely. If you look at the scientists who were killed, a lot of them were working on stuff that would have revolutionised healthcare worldwide. That benefits the whole of humanity, not just the west. No, I doubt it’s a foreign power. It also worries me that the Americans are involved. That goes against protocol. Something smells here.”
“I thought the same.”
“Campbell’s involvement in this bothers me, and not because he once threatened to remove my toenails.”
“That’s a bit old school,” Jeff joked. “Mind you, they still think waterboarding is an effective technique.”
“I think we both need to watch him. As long as he behaves himself I’m not going to let him be a problem.”
“And if he doesn’t behave himself?” Jeff was serious now because this was serious stuff.
“Leave him to me. I’ve already warned him what will happen if he crosses the line.” A breeze hit them bringing the distant smell of cooking. Nick looked out at the park. “Something just feels off, as if something big is coming.”
The hooded figure hid behind the large oak. Watching the two men, the figure had already discarded the directional microphone. The Colonel wouldn’t have made such a basic error, which left the figure resorting to lip reading, and that wasn’t easy at this distance, even with the telescopic lens used. The figure missed some of the words, especially when Nick turned to talk to his colleague, but the spy got the gist of what was being said. This was not good. This was not good at all. Things were starting to unravel.
16.08.19
Manchester, UK
Brian stood outside the courthouse relishing his freedom. The jury had come to their conclusion quicker than anyone had expected. Not guilty. What more could he ask for? Fortunately, there was no press here to hound him, obviously because his apparent innocence was a none story to them. Although the chance to take the piss out of the incompetence of the Manchester police force would have held huge temptation, Brian liked to keep his head down. He didn’t like being in the limelight. It was bad for business.
“I’m grateful for all your work on the case,” Brian said to Jessica who was standing next to him. He now viewed her as a sexual being, her talents as a lawyer no longer required.
“That’s OK Mr. Metcalf.”
“You know you can call me Brian, right?”
“I know, but let’s keep things professional.” Jessica stuck her hand out and Brian shook it, perhaps lingering a fraction too long. He didn’t squeeze as he would with a man. Instead, he almost caressed the appendage before letting go. She didn’t flinch, but Brian could tell she was uncomfortable being around him. He didn’t care.
The barrister had already left, triumphant in his victory. Likely he would already be on his way to his private club where the rich wiled away their evenings safe from the trauma of having to interact with the common people.
“Try and keep out of trouble now, Mr. Metcalf. You’ve paid us far too much as it is already.” Brian smiled dryly at that. Although he had won and could reclaim costs from the government, such a reclamation of costs was capped. He was significantly out of pocket and Brian was intent on making someone pay dearly for it. Whilst he knew he could easily make the money back in a matter of months, it rankled him that such things were allowed to happen. The bloody politicians were making it expensive to be a criminal in this country.
“Me, I wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Brian watched as Jessica strode off. He could tell that she probably didn’t have what it took to make it in her chosen field. This was one of the skills he had developed that made him so valuable and so dangerous. Brian could determine what you were made of, could see inside you and spot the flaws and the strengths you probably didn’t even know existed. Jessica was probably too weak, and the last few days she had definitely been preoccupied. Damn, he’d like a piece of that, but he was not one to force himself on a woman. It was clear that she had no interest in him. Oh well, her loss.
The important thing was that he was free. The look on the face of the officer running the case when the not guilty verdict had come through had been priceless. That alone had almost been worth all the hassle. This result was not without its problems. No doubt they would be watching him for the next few weeks like a hawk. The Old Bill didn’t like having egg on their faces, and any false move on his part would be jumped upon savagely. That was fine, he was already planning a holiday. Brian hadn’t booked it of course, there was no point forking out several thousand quid if he was going down for another ten stretch.
Because it was a charge involving violence, Brian had been remanded in custody pending the trial. The month on remand had reaffirmed his commitment to not going back to prison if it could be helped. Back in the day, prison had held no threat for him physically because he had always been at the top of the prison hierarchy, his willingness to use violence and his reputation granting him a level of respect rarely seen amongst prison inmates. Brian had almost been like a celebrity. That’s what doing a ten stretch for armed robbery and assaulting a police officer gave you.
Things were different now. Brian enjoyed his freedom too much. He liked living the high life and the boredom of prison was what he now feared. When he was younger, he didn’t know any better. Fifty years of life experience changes you though. There were still too many things he wanted to achieve, and he couldn’t do any of them serving time. Brian was so close to getting exactly what he wanted in life that he couldn’t have that jeopardised now. He could almost taste the drinks with the little umbrellas in them that would be served to him on the beaches of his choice. This was a financial setback, but his ultimate goal of leaving the damp, moss-ridden rock called Britain was still on course.
With Jessica now out of sight, Brian stood on the roadside and watched as the silver SUV pulled up in front of him. This was a ride he had been expecting and secretly dreading. Brian stepped up, opened the rear door and climbed into the back. What he hadn’t expected was for his boss to be sat in the back of the SUV waiting for him. Brian felt a stab of worry form deep within his core knowing that this could go well, or really, really badly.
“Mr. Clay,” Brian said respectfully. “You didn’t have to come and pick me up personally.” In a one to one fight, Brian could have easily taken him. But Reginald Clay ran one of the most vicious gangs in Manchester. Just looking at him the wrong way could be a death sentence. Whilst Clay had a reputation for violence, he was also wise enough, and rich enough, to get others to do most of his dirty work. Most. There were occasions when he felt the need to roll his sleeves up and do the punishment himself.
