The Anthrax Mutation (v1.0), page 18
A small single engined outboard had been fighting the sea for several hours and the occupants were cold and wet. As it bobbed its way shoreward, several villagers gathered to warn it off in the accepted method, but the engine’s unsteady staccato muted any verbal warnings. When the craft struggled to within a hundred yards of shore, the locals sent up a barrage of sticks and stones, bottles and anything else near at hand. But the boat pushed onward. Realizing, however, that they were hardly welcome, a young woman stood up in the boat, clutching her baby and shouted. The father was leaning forward in the bow with his hands cupped about his lips in a vain effort to explain their plight. Their son manned the engine, trying desperately to force more speed out of her before the petrol was consumed. Now, within a couple of hundred feet of shore, the villagers grew angry and resentful. One grabbed his shotgun, aimed, and pulled both triggers simultaneously. The mother and child were peppered with shot and blown overboard by the blast. The father’s face was perforated with a dozen holes as he fell backwards and landed face up on the floorboards. The terrified boy leapt forward, waving his arms frantically, but before he could utter a word, another roar from ashore blew him back ten feet across the water, his right arm and shoulder ripped clean away.
News of the shooting spread quickly along the coast. The elimination of one family seemed to justify the elimination of others. They were enemies. They carried with them a deadly killer and so they had to be destroyed. The rocks and abusive language gave way to volleys of shotgun blasts. Youngsters lined the shore with .22’s and pellet rifles. Families in smaller crafts were wiped out in a single round and other boats simply blew up. It became a game. There was even a point system. Slowly, the police came round to the troubled situation and began to inform the Navy.
Whitehall. 16:00 Hours
Colonel Combs, Admiral Downing-Wright and Air Marshall Coff stood around a large table map decorated with red lines and tiny colored flags. Combs was especially pleased. It reminded him of the War Office, and the feeling of battle; of pitting wits against the enemy. It stimulated his imagination. Little did he care that the tiny flags he poked about with his stick were troops of men who were rapidly growing tired of playing the pawns on the chessboard of Great Britain. Combs had reshuffled the Bases, and put them back again when air reconaissance advised him that the original Bases were better. The perimeter line had been adjusted again and again, sometimes only because Comb’s recollection of the scenery appealed to him more than the practicality of deployment.
“This then,” he began, “is the situation at present. Most of the roads are occupied as planned. Ships of the Navy are positioned in the Channel here, here and here, and ten patrol vessels have been diverted to the Irish Sea. The Air Force are now flying spraying aircraft in dummy runs. I should think we’ll be ready by nightfall.”
“We’ll be ready,” said Coff. “But will the disinfectant?”
“I don’t know, really,” he replied offhandedly. “There are three companies working on it now, but last reports have it that they were no closer to neutralizing the phenol. Should have left it up to Porton.”
The door opened. “The teleprinters are ready, Sir. Can we rig up now?”
Colonel Combs looked away from his maps. “Yes, certainly. And have you my phones yet?”
“We hope to have them working by six, Sir.”
“Good,” He returned to his maps. “I’ve had communications duplicate their receiving printers in here so we have the progress reports as soon as they come in. Saves Chadwell running back and forth. The phones will give us linkups with our field operations. Damned if I’m running into Comcent every time I want to know what’s going on.”
Admiral Downing-Wright was wondering who was in charge of his ships when Sir Joseph pushed in behind the workmen.
“There you are, Colonel Combs. Lord Tenningly wants a plot on your map of the sightings and your troop deployment by five. He’s coming round in half an hour for a conference.” He looked at Coff. “He wants you to arrange for him to survey the perimeter track at first light tomorrow.”
“Where from?”
“Heathrow, I think. That’s if they’ve got that mess cleared up. We’re waiting for clearance now.”
Colonel Combs was searching a drawer beneath the . table. “I’ll need some more markers. Can you get me some?”
Sir Joseph nodded. “I’ll have Martin send some up. Get what you want off him.”
Chadwell suddenly appeared looking pale and worried. Murray followed him in. “More trouble, Sir. Lots of it.”
“Bats?”
“Bats and a massacre in the Irish Sea.”
“A what in the Irish Sea?”
“A massacre. People—murdered. Shot dead.”
Sir Joseph turned to the Admiral. “I thought you had that area sorted out.”
“We had—or so I thought,” he replied, leaning over the map. “Combs had placed eight destroyer markers in the Irish Sea Zone, and I had twenty patrol boats in the Channel keeping our people from France. Then I find out that Combs’ markers were in theory—not in actual position.”
Combs blushed. It was rare for him to err.
“I’ve sent some ships in there, though, so whatever happened should be dealt with by now.”
“Then what’s all this about murder?” Sir Joseph asked.
“They’re firing on anyone who comes near the. shore.” Chadwell explained. “There’re boats and bodies all over the place.”
Colonel Combs stared at Coff. “You better get some air support in there. Try to head them back or something.”
“Aren’t the police doing anything?”
“They are now, but it’s a bit late.”
Murray was shaking his head. “Whole bloody country’s gone mad.”
Sir Joseph glanced at the map. “Colonel Combs, I want a detachment of your own men flown to Ireland. Whip them off the line if you have to.”
“We’ve still got some regiments in Belfast. I’ll start with them.” He looked at the two remaining blocks in his hand, shook them, and dumped them in the Irish Sea.
“That’s not all,” Chadwell spouted, moving nearer the map. “It’s the perimeter track.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Combs demanded indignantly. “Not good enough or something?”
“Comcent has just had two sightings. One here at Wrexham and one at Wellingborough, here. That one at Wrexham put your perimeter about thirty miles below the mark.”
“Are they sure?” asked Sir Joseph. “Has anyone confirmed it?”
“The Wrexham sighting is confirmed. No report on the other one.”
Sir Joseph stared at Combs who was looking mournfully at his map. He frowned. “That means pushing Caernavon out to Llandudno and raising the line to Flint.”
“And what if another bat decides that’s not high enough?” asked Murray. “Exactly how far can you push this line?”
“As far as we need to,” Combs snapped. “Unless you’ve thought of something else.”
“I have—or at least a modification.”
Combs glowered at him. It better be good. “Well, we’re all waiting.”
Murray moved closer to the map. He looked over it carefully. “Can I have some markers?”
“We haven’t any more,” the Colonel replied.
“Then I’ll use these,” he said picking up a handful of perimeter markers. Combs looked ready to burst. Murray began placing the markers where the bats had been found nearest the line. “If you see, gentlemen, these bats have begun to form a sort of a pattern. They have somehow homed in on London and Birmingham—with a few scattered exceptions. If they were somehow programmed or guided to seek out large cities—or if they prefer large cities for some reason known only to them— then this is where your concentration of men should be.”
“Conjecture,” the Colonel retorted. “Pure guesswork.” “Then what is this red line, Colonel?”
“Damned careful planning, that’s what it is. It’s based on Sir Godfrey’s findings. He says these bats will land anywhere as soon as that time mechanism goes off.” Murray continued. “If we assume that all of these time mechanisms have worked and therefore all the bats which have escaped are down, it is merely a question of time before each is discovered. Even if my guess that these bats are homing in on cities is wrong, the bulk of the sightings thus far have been in the populated areas. Naturally—where there is a greater concentration of people, there are going to be more discoveries. If we wait another day or so, we’re going to know exactly where the greatest number lies. At least we can assume where they are. If they wander above your perimeter line, you can send in more troops as needed.”
“I thought we decided against this sector by sector attack,” said the Admiral. “I prefer the Colonel’s idea.”
“No one is suggesting a sector search and destroy. I am trying to say wait until we know where these things are before you chaps go hell bent for leather across the country. Suppose, just suppose, you get halfway through your march and a bat turns up beyond your perimeter. You’re going to have to retrace your steps and begin all over again.”
“Nonsense,” said the Colonel. “We’ll just send a detachment of men back up and treat that particular area.”
“Wouldn’t it be simpler to wait a day or two before your men are too firmly encamped? You have to wait for the disinfectant, anyway.”
“The disinfectant could be ready at any time. We could commence operations tonight if we had the stuff.” Chadwell interrupted. “Why not have two lines—two perimeters?”
“Two perimeters?” asked Combs incredulously.
“One roughly where it is now, and another say halfway in. Better yet, stagger your men in say fifty mile lines.”
“Mr. Chadwell,” Comb’s began patiently. “We are speaking of the British Army not the combined Allied forces. It’s hard enough stretching the perimeter line without having two.”
Murray thought. “Suppose we do both. Suppose we have one perimeter of broken arcs about fifty to a hundred miles apart. Look, set a perimeter of fifty miles across from Caernarvon or Flint. Set the next fifty mile perimeter from Montgomery to Kidderminister. Then one above Birmingham and another above Wellingborough. Then one at Southend working towards London, and one in the Buckinghamshire to Surrey area working towards Lands End. As the perimeter troops from behind reach the areas cleared by those ahead, they can be airlifted to the front—sort of leap frogging as it were;”
“Sounds reasonable,” Sir Joseph decided, looking down at Murray’s explanation. “This way the troops could back track if necessary if a bat were found behind the lines.”
“What about it, Colonel?” Chadwell asked. “It wouldn’t take too much to reorganize your men.”
“I say it sounds good,” said the Admiral, poking some of the markers about. “If this idea of the bats homing in on cities is correct, the troops would be in a much better position to concentrate their attack.”
The Colonel sighed in disapproval. “It’s going to stretch our men, but I’ll try it. I’ll arrange a meeting with the Heads of Staff in an hour.”
“Don’t forget Lord Tenningly,” Sir Joseph reminded him as he walked towards the door. “I’ll stall for as much time as you need.”
Murray looked at Chadwell and grinned. “Let’s find the Major.”
The slow drizzle which had begun to fall the previous night had changed to a heavy rain and the wind around Trafalgar Square whipped Lord Nelson and his lions. Groups of pigeons huddled beneath the statues and none took notice of the occasional passerby. Umbrellas were blown away as the wind grew stronger and from the North came reports of gales, of heavier rainfalls and severe weather. Along the perimeter track the troops took shelter in the farms and homes near their bases as rain and wind lashed their hastily erected camps. But it was just a storm, thought the Major from his vantage overlooking Whitehall, and it would soon pass. He took one final look at the pavements awash with rain, at the few people who struggled against the elements, and returned to Sir Joseph’s desk. Chewing the end of his pen, he thumbed through the afternoon’s work. He had plotted the perimeter area, estimated the manpower involved, charted the land to be disinfected, found out how much would be dealt with by ground forces and how much by air, and put it all together. From it he drew one conclusion, that the plan could not possibly work. There were twenty-seven confirmed sightings of bats and for this the military were going to cover an area half the size of England and most of Wales. And there was this ever increasing pattern Murray had mentioned. He glanced at another pile of papers, copies from Comcent. France was under quarantine and Germany was screaming murder over one bat. There were undertones of economic disaster if England was stuck for the bill—for the vast quantities of disinfectant and manpower France had already begun to assemble. He smiled inwardly when he heard that East Germany had cordoned off fifty square miles of land encircling the only bat to tread on her soil—she was in a state of panic. Moscow had already issued a statement decrying the careless use of chemical and biological research and Washington had countered it with an ineffectual these-things-must-happen. He admitted to himself that there was little else any government could say in defense of the disaster, but he felt that America could have offered something a bit better.
He laid down his pen and took up reading his notes again. His mind wandered. Michael and Ralph and the choir robes flashed across his vision—and the puppy. Other nameless, faceless people with blackened arms and necks, swelling pustules and dried blood, appeared. He could see youngsters writhing in pain while parents looked on in terror and shock. He saw children standing over their parents who lay stricken on floors and streets while all around hundreds of bats swarmed, fell, rose again and fled. Another face appeared: The Captain was crawling towards him, his arms and face puffing up like enormous black balloons. His hands were outstretched as if to grab him. Then he saw a gas—a cloud of mist descending upon Stumford. He saw the villagers running about and convulsing helplessly on the streets. He wanted to help, warn them, but his voice was gone. The mist grew heavier and the people faded. He turned away and saw a bicycle. It was travelling towards the mist. He ran, but his feet were like elastic. His legs were numb and useless. He saw a face, a boy, and his heart beat faster. He was crawling and shouting. He began to choke. He called again, but he was coughing too much. He flailed about as if in a quagmire, and he was sinking, and the bicycle was nearly into the mist. He was shouting again, and suddenly he could run. He ran faster after the bicycle, calling, screaming, waving, and still the rider rode on. He felt something on his shoulder and he whipped around.
“Bad dreams, Major?” asked Sir Joseph. “I expect I’ll have mine soon enough.”
He sat up and wiped his forehead.
“Here,” said Murray, pushing a glass towards him. “Drink this.”
The Major swallowed, felt the burning in his throat and stomach. He shook his head. “Like a little boy, huh?”
“Like all of us,” Sir Joseph replied. “I’ve got some news to cheer you up. This storm has forced your men down at Manchester and they won’t make Ruislip until tomorrow morning. I’m taking you and the lad up to my place for the night and I’ll drop you at the Base on my way into London in the morning. Give you a chance to rest up—forget about all this for awhile if you can.”
“That’s about the best news I’ve had since this whole damn business began. Christ, you know it’s just like a nightmare. I was dreaming about all these people—and the kids we saw in Beckington. Then you wake up, and you’re still in the middle of it all.”
Murray finished pouring out the glasses and refilled the Major’s. “You’re lucky. You can call it a day if you like. We’re stuck with it.”
“Lucky, Murray?” He shook his head and stared at the blotter, “If I could pull out of this thing now, I’d be the first one in line. We’re all in this together, ole buddy, and in it to the end.”
“You’re bloody mad, but I always suspected it in you Yanks. Anyway, I’ve put my brainwave before the committee in there like I said I would and we’ve changed the plan.”
He looked up.
“They found two more bats. Both just outside Combs’ famous perry track and that knocked a hole in the old bucket. I figured it would be better to stagger the perimeter and move things around a bit. Here, picture a row of sound waves crossing the country from Northwest to Southeast. Chop the waves up, throw out a few, and you’ve got my idea. That way the troops have forward and rear lines and can backtrack a lot easier if more of these little dears are found behind them.”
“So the disinfectant idea is still go?”
“You don’t sound encouraged.”
“I’m not,” he said flatly. “There’s something about disinfecting a few thousand square miles of England that rings of something like ridiculous.” He raised his hand as if prepared to stop an objection. “Now don’t get me wrong, but there’s got to be a better way.”
“Well, first you’ve got to think of one—then you’ve got to convince iron pants in there that it’s better than his perimeter.”
“Custer’s last stand.”
“What?”
“Forget it,” Thomas replied, pushing himself away from the desk. “Is it still raining?”
“Raining?” Murray laughed. “If those bats had webbed feet, they’d be swimming out of the country. And it’s supposed to get worse. If this disinfectant comes through tonight, they figure they’ll have to change the dilution formula.”
Sir Joseph, pulling some papers from his safe and stuffing them into an overfilled case, turned from what he was doing. “The chaps at Met seem to think it’s going to be bad at the perimeter—flooding and all that. I won’t envy those lads tomorrow if they have to move out.” “They’re used to it by now,” Murray said. “Combs has been shuffling them about all day.”
