“No, of course not,” he mumbled thoughtfully. He was thinking of how a milligramme of hydrocyanic acid crept through twelve feet of earth and cement and contaminated the local water supply. He was tiring of the formalities. He thought he might even be tiring of the war game. He wanted to settle down somewhere and write his memoirs, slinging a few bricks at officialdom which forever guaranteed that what might happen never could and usually did. Was it time to get out? Impulsively, he looked at his watch.

  “Tell me, Major. Where are you staying?”

  “At a pub in Chesterly. I leave for London tomorrow to meet up with the rest of our bunch before going home. I think we’re supposed to have a conference with Sir Something Willets.”

  “Sir Joseph Willets, you mean. Yes, damn fine man. Probably the only minister who isn’t corrupted by his own government.”

  “Very few of them left, huh? You’re lucky you’ve got even a few left hanging around. We haven’t got one honest politician in Washington—not since Kennedy anyway.” He shook his head and stubbed his cigarette out in the tin Players’ ashtray. Inside he began to simmer, and he thought maybe now he’d get it off his chest. Obviously, this Colonel wasn’t about to inform Washington he was going around the twist—not knowing what he did. “It’s a damn game to every one of them. They promise their voters paradise and they give ’em hell. And these goodwill tours we have to make—like this one. I get a memo that says I’m to fly to England to visit some of your research outposts and a week later I’m here, leaving my own work uncompleted in the States. You fellows give us the red carpet, show us what you want us to see and we go off smiling. It’s a game, isn’t it Colonel?”

  “It’s a game,” he smiled obligingly. “And I think you’re getting tired of playing it if I may say. All those microscopic creepy-crawlies getting under your skin, what? I know what it’s like. I’ve been dodging Whitehall, too. And nobody likes bureaucracy like the Ministry. Still, like you say, it’s a game.” He paused to offer another cigarette. “Now you consider this research we’re doing. We haven’t got a few hundred thousand million to spend on developing nuclear weapons like you chaps—and once you’ve got the bomb, well, everyone else has it. One bomb is the same as the rest. Granted, yours may be a bit bigger than theirs, and maybe you’ve got a rocket which can deliver the punch a few milliseconds faster, but there’s not much challenge in that. Besides,” he whispered, leaning across the table, “you fellows get to put your bombs on our soil just so long as you get first go at pushing the button. But we get the protection.

  “Anyway, look at this research. There are millions of ways of mutating these organisms, of developing gases, of dispersal methods. No one else but the country working on the stuff knows exactly what they’ve got—and an enemy can’t possibly dream up antidotes for germs they’ve never seen. Look at this plant for example—we’re the only station in England who’s commissioned to develop this bat idea. If it works well, we’ll still be the only base that knows all the ins and outs. And there’s something else. You’re the only chap who knows we’re doing it. You now know more than the blighters in London who gave us the job. You seem surprised?” He sipped his coffee. “We’re all in this together, Major. You came over here to uncover our secrets. We know that. So do you know that we know. It’s that ruddy game again. Guesswork, clues, leads—everything adds up. Put the pieces together and it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce the elementary. So we show you our little project. You aren’t about to cable Moscow, and we’re not about to use Project Dracula against the Americans. Equally, you aren’t about to take over the idea. It was yours once and if you fellows saw any future in it, you would’ve made the most of it. Now we’re got it. Bats—so bloody what, you ask. So why not pigeons or falcons or budgies? It’s just an idea using the best of what nature can give us. We keep it in the family, eh? This policy of reciprocation and all that. Blow the gaff and we blow you.” He smiled again, and it was friendly. “The game Major. Your move.”

  He shrugged and stared at the ashtray. In his mind he saw an enormous chess board with Detrick on one side and Dwarf Hill on the other. He had thought himself either clever or lucky to uncover Project Dracula. Now he knew it was neither. The British had deliberately hung the bait in front of his nose. The results of the project would be very valuable to Detrick—just as the results of defoliage in Vietnam would save McTavish from stomping around the New Forest. International blackmail in a most subtle way.

  “We all have our little projects—lovely little creatures so mutated and cultured that they can destroy us and everybody else in a few minutes. Just as deadly as your bombs but a damnsite cheaper and without the mess. It’s us little countries* way of keeping in the running with you big boys. We don’t know all of what you’re up to any more than you know about us, and we keep just enough secrets to keep you fellows interested. Maybe one fine morning we’ll all wake up dead,” and he stared Thomas in the eye, “but by God we’ll take some other bastards with us if we go.”

  Thomas thought about his absolute sincerity. “You really think you’ll ever use this stuff?”

  “Oh, come now, man,” he laughed. “Look at your men in Asia. Perfect opportunity to test defoliants—and they’re only the appetizers. Stripped the ruddy forests bare and destroyed the rice crops. Trouble was you didn’t reckon how fast everything grows there. And then there’re the harassing agents, CS gas and so on. How much of that have you sprayed around the paddies? Oh, we use it too. Bloody Irish uprising saw to that. Unfortunately, some old dear in Devon caught on and had half the men from Porton in Belfast making sure nobody suffered long term effects. Just our luck a handful of people decided to die that week, and every death was blamed on us. Messed up our research nicely. Not as lucky as you—running Vietnam and all. No problem to get the information out of there.”

  Thomas didn’t like comparing notes, at least not on who made the most of whatever chances there were. He made an obvious effort to calculate the time. His head began to throb and the two cigarettes has given him a foul feeling. “I really think I should be pushing off. I have to ring London.”

  “Certainly, Major. Let one of my men run you back.” He caught sight of the orderly and signalled for his car to be brought around. “I hope we’ve been of some help to you. Maybe some day I’ll get one of those memos and see you at Detrick. It’s about time I got a trip overseas. I like that place, Detrick. Damn fine research going on there. Only wish we had the facilities.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you’re doing so badly here,” he replied, pushing himself from the comfort of his chair. “We have some pretty wild things going on there, too.” “You wait until the results of Project Dracula come out. I’ll see if I can’t smuggle some figures out to you.

  Might find you working on the same thing some day, what?”

  “Sure,” he smiled. “Anyway, thanks for the tour. I’ll see that your boys in London get a letter—compliments to the staff and how interesting it all was.”

  “And you got exactly what you came for, eh? You cynical bastard,” he laughed. “You know the ropes, don’t you?”

  “Most of them. Form five, Code Reference C-118: Correspondence relating to overseas inquiries.”

  They left the canteen and made for the front gate. Thomas noticed Frimley had been transferred from Section Three to the Main Entrance. He smiled as the Major passed. “Enjoy the visit, Sir?”

  “Yes, thank you, Corporal. How’s the wound?”

  “Ruddy horrible, Sir. I feel all weak—like all me blood’s been drained away.”

  “What’s all this then, Frimley?” Wyers demanded loudly. “Blood all gone?”

  “Nothing really, Sir. One of those things from Section Three bit me.”

  “What things—you mean McTavish?”

  “Might just of well of been. One of the bats.”

  “Never mind, Corporal. You can always get a transfusion.”

  “Very kind of you, Sir.” He pulled open the door, “Shall I escort the Major to the car?”

  “No, Corporal. I’ll take him. Stand easy.”

  He saluted, “Yes, Sir.”

  “One of our younger chaps,” Wyers began. “The youngest, I think. Must have a damn fine record if they’re going to give a twenty year old a post up here. Must be in the family.” He pulled the car door open and nodded as the Major shook his hand. “Give my best to Sir Joseph, will you?”

  “Shall do. Thank you very much, Colonel. I hope to see you Stateside.”

  The Colonel slammed the door and the car swung away down the narrow road towards the checkpoint.

  “Where to, Major?” the driver asked.

  “Fox and Pheasant, Chesterly, Lieutenant.”

  “Lootenant,” he laughed. “Haven’t been called that in a long time. I forgot you Americans have a different name for everything.”

  “I always thought it was you guys who changed it all.”

  “Yes. But we were here first, remember? Did you enjoy your rounds?”

  “Rounds?” He leant back into the heavy leather upholstery and gazed out at the miles of electrified fencing.

  “Rounds, Sir. You know—the visit.”

  “Oh, yes, very much indeed. I found it quite interest-mg.” ^

  “Did you see our zoo, Sir?” At the gate he handed over a pink slip of paper and passed through. “All those rotten black things. It’s all over about poor Frimley. He hasn’t been half given the fright of his life. Got old McTavish looking out the comer of his eye, too.”

  “I thought you fellows were supposed to be so damned keen on security.”

  “We are. All of us know who’s coming, what they look like and how much they’re being told. No secrets let out of the bag, eh?”

  “No, no loose cats, Lieutenant. I guess that’s a pretty good way as any.”

  The driver grew silent and the Major was content to look upon the sea pounding against the coast a few hundred feet below. Travelling downhill, they turned sharply into Stumford where he could just make out the buildings of the research base perched high above the village. He wondered just what did the people think of it all—whether they gave a damn, but it was obvious that they weren’t interested in him or in the official car, at least they paid no attention. It seemed to the Major that Dwarf _ Hill was invisible to the people, that familiarity had smoothed over any rough edges which may have been present in the village when the military took over the hill. But it was a small village, insignificant in any contribution to the country and any ill-feelings or presentiments the townsfolk bore would be meaningless. They had chosen the site well. The Army knew what it was doing even if Stumford didn’t. The Major smiled. In America they had erected chemical and biological research bases wherever they damn well pleased. Detrick was in the middle of a small city. If anyone dared squawk, they were promptly sat upon by Washington. The United States Government had a swift and effective way of keeping people quiet. Back taxes, shop licenses, fines, minor offenses—everyday people were prone to everyday mistakes. But in the face of the government, these mistakes were exactly what they needed. It was a kind of blackmail, but what is blackmail in the face of National Security? How refined and civilized England seemed as he sat there in the Bentley and watched the English seaside countryside pass gently by. He thought it incredible that he had just left one of the most sinister and machiavellian creations of current society, carefully tucked away from the public scrutiny. War and the bomb and deadly micro-organisms seemed so far away.

  Stumford. 19:15 Hours

  Captain McRoberts was drinking alone tonight, primarily because McTavish was working late with his bats. He looked over the regulars at the Nag’s “Head, but saw no one with whom he could engage in an argument—for that was exactly what he wanted most. It had been a rotten day. Having foreigners poking about was bad enough, but when the orders came through that a Major Glen Thomas was to have free run of the place and be witness to the biggest thing Dwarf Hill had ever developed, it was just too bloody much for him. As he settled back against the bar and sloshed the beer around in his pint, he cursed the Ministry for using the plant as a showpiece and cursed the yank for coming. Thank God, he thought, that there wouldn’t be any more special visits for several weeks and even they might be cancelled if Project Dracula were a particular success. This .made him speculate and he began to hope the ugly black creatures might cooperate enough to prolong the experiments. He’d wish everyone of the blighters a fate worse than McTavish if they didn’t.

  It was a stirring at the door which first drew him from his speculation. Someone was pointing towards a dog which seemed to have managed a few too many when his master’s attention was elsewhere, but then he noticed something else about it, something which froze the blood in his veins. With a shaking hand he deposited his glass on the counter and pushed away the stool, ignoring the thump as it fell to the floor. Dazed and unbelieving, he elbowed through several of those who had gathered around the animal and stopped a few feet away. His skin had turned white and clammy and his eyes were large with fear as he turned around to face the onlookers.

  “Get back,” he choked in a measured tone. “Get back or you’ll all be killed.”

  The dog stopped whimpering and collapsed. It trembled convulsively, twitched its legs and head, and died. But its forelegs and neck seemed unusually swollen, its eyes were glazed and even to those who knew nothing of what it was, the animal’s death seemed evil and frightening. The Captain turned again from the dog and faced the crowd who had by now become uneasily quiet. He forced himself to keep calm—not to sound panicked, but it was no good. Even he was trembling and unsure under the realization of what this was.

  “Get back. I warn you—get back away from here.”

  The people stared back at him and a few shuffled towards the rear of the pub.

  “Look!” someone screamed. “My God, what is it?”

  The Captain whirled about. He watched as a man staggered from the doorway, clutching his throat. His neck and forearms were enormous purplish lumps, covered in swelling, pustules some of which had burst open and dribbled a black slime along the puffy flesh. His eyes were wild, crazed and before he crashed to the floor, his fingernails ripped open the infected flesh around his throat and dark pus covered his already stained shirt and jacket. He trembled once, opened his mouth as if to scream, jerked crazily to one side and passed out, probably dead.

  Two women had already fainted and someone was being sick in the comer. The Captain couldn’t tear his gaze away from the grotesque figure and stood frozen to the floor while around him the customers fled in panic. Some trampled the dog underfoot in their flight, others elbowed the Captain back and forth until he found himself up against the doorframe, staring into the night. He was mumbling something.

  “Stop, come back. You mustn’t go. Please come back.” But even if anyone could hear him, no one was about to stop. Then he noticed a dim glow from somewhere near the hilltop. Others too had noticed it and were watching it from the street. “It’s on fire,” he announced suddenly. “My God, the bloody thing’s on fire.” He began to run, but before he crossed the street he saw a huge fireball light the sky and moments later a thunderous explosion ripped through the village, shattering windows and blowing open locked doors. Bits of debris began to fall about the street and people scattered for shelter. McRoberts knew what would happen next. He had been told what to do if it did happen. Years of training, of instinct, took command and he forced his eyes away from the inferno and pushed himself in a frenzied run towards his car, shoving aside the people and stumbling over the curb. He snatched something from under the front seat and ran back to the pub. Quickly he tore open the felco zip and pulled at the thin plastic coverall. In a moment he was safely covered in its milky-white screen and he slipped his gas mask over his head. He wondered about the wind and he tried to discern a tree not far away, but he saw it was too late. At the far end of town a group of people collapsed almost as one. They convulsed, clawing at their lungs and twitching uncontrollably. Almost immediately people around him began gasping, trembling and falling to the pavement. He pushed past them, across the street. He knew there was a telephone kiosk around the next corner—or the one after it—and he must reach it. He felt dying men and women clutching, tearing at his legs and ankles, and half-crazed with fear and panic, he kicked them away. He felt tears trickling down his cheeks and the lens of his mask fogged. He rubbed his sleeve over the glass, but the mist was on the inside. Sweat rolled across his forehead over -the top of his mask and down the sides of his face beneath the plastic hood. He could hear hundreds of muffled cries. He saw the street as one seething mass of fallen people, convulsing and wretching. He saw others tumble out of doorways, or fall from windows as they looked out to see what was happening.

  Nearing the first comer, he caught sight of two young boys emerging from a hallway. He leapt over the pavement and threw himself into them, pushing them back into the house. A light beamed above them as they lay together on the floor, scrambling to get free of each other’s grip. The Captain was first up. He held both boys to the floor, but he had been too late. He saw their faces grimace almost at the same moment as they struggled to fill their lungs. One was trying to claw at his throat as if ripping open his trachea would let in more air. Then he lost control of his hands and they flopped uselessly at his side. Tears dribbled down their terror-stricken faces, and saliva drooled from their mouths. They made sickening choking sobs, unable to cough and bring up the saliva which was pouring into their lungs. In a moment the Captain felt no resistance to his hold on the boys. They were dead. As he tried to raise himself he noticed a bulge in their trousers and he suddenly felt sick. He wanted to wretch—he could feel it building up inside him, but he forced himself to swallow it down and staggered to the door. Outside was another boy lying on the curb in a broken lump. He had fallen from somewhere above and he looked imploringly at the Captain, his eyes begging for mercy. He twitched once and died.

 

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