The Anthrax Mutation (v1.0), page 26
“Take these green flags/’ Thomas interrupted. “And stick them at these points on the big map over there. Then you can get the coordinates from Captain Tarnoff if he’s managed to work them out.”
“I’ll help you do that/’ said Murray, hopping up from his desk.
“You finished that conversation damned quick,” replied the Major.
Murray snatched a handful of markers from the box. “Ouch, damn it. These things have pins in them!”
“It helps them stick in,” said Thomas. “It’s an American idea no doubt.” He finished with his flags and walked over to the teleprinters. He spent a moment reading the reports on each machine. “Three more sightings. And four more deaths. They figure there’re about three hundred in the hospitals in Wolverhampton beyond help. The reports are coming in too fast for Comcent to handle.” He took up another reel. “The outbreak in Slough’s getting worse. It’s spreading to the parents. They’ve closed off the Baylis Park Estate and’re using the girls’ school as a hospital. Somebody’s found a bunch of Scouts in Wilshire—all dead.” He looked at his watch. “I hope those planes are quick about it.”
“It’s getting worse in London, too,” said the Lieutenant. “When I left, ComCent had picked up thirty eight cases in Westminster and that Regent’s Park outbreak is spreading. Lord Tenningly’s with Sir Joseph now trying to figure out what precautions to take. They’ve already sealed off-all the roads.”
“It looks as though today’s the day,” Thomas sighed. “We’ll probably get the worst of the deaths this afternoon.”
“When do we fly?” asked the Captain.
“Wolverhampton run at fifteen hundred. We’ll strike the perimeter and the other bad areas as soon as we get the results.”
“It’ll mean night flying.”
“We’ll have to. We can have the planes fitted with spotlights or something.”
“Flying as low as five hundred feet we’re damned likely to smash into a dozen buildings, Glen.”
“Well, we have to do it,” he snapped. “Every goddam hour counts the way this anthrax is spreading.”
“Do you think it’ll work like you hope?” asked the Lieutenant.
“We’ll know for certain after Wolverhampton. The effects are more or less instantaneous,” Thomas replied. “Either there’re no more cases after the dump or it’s no good.”
“Glen,” began the Captain, twiddling his pencil over his plans. “We’re eighty tons short.”
“What?” he cried. “We’re supposed to have fifty tons over.”
“If the weather reports are correct, we’re going to be short. There’s supposed to be a high northwest wind blowing across the country all day tomorrow—that means we need another fifteen per cent concentrate. Can we get it?”
“Not a chance. It was hard enough squeezing out what we’ve got. You’ll just have to make it stretch.”
“Negative. You know we can’t. Stretch it and you’ll jeopardize the whole country. You’ll just have to leave some areas out until you can get more.”
“Can’t do that, either. If this thing picks up again, it’ll run into the clean areas.”
“Then you better think of something. If that wind doesn’t die down by at least ten knots, we just ain’t gonna make it.”
“What’s your mixture?”
“I’m down to a minimum concentrate now—any more and it’s a risk.”
The Major paced the floor, stopped briefly to check his map, and paced again. He leafed through the Captain’s workings, looked unsatisfied, and snatched the pencil. He was about to write some figures when he thought of something. “You say if we dilute the powder any more it’ll be a risk?”
The Captain nodded slowly.
“But you’re not sure whether or not a more diluted mixture would fail to have effect—you’re not absolutely sure?”
He thought for a moment. “Well, we can’t be sure of anything until we try it. But if we risk it and fail, there’s no more dust around to try again.”
“What about Wolverhampton—how much do you figure you’ll need for them?”
He leafed through his calculations. “About three point five tons straight to twenty dilute.”
“We can try it on Wolverhampton, then,” he began excitedly. “The dusters will be here around fourteen hundred. We’ll rush out two tons pure against the same twenty dilute. If it works, you can cut back your mixture for the rest of the country. If it doesn’t, we can still fly another load up there” and figure out another mix for tomorrow. Worth a try?”
“Anything’s worth a try,” Tarnoff replied. “But if this bacillis is as effective as it appears, I doubt if even the three-five mix would be enough. We’ve got nothing to work from. It’s goddam guesswork.”
“Yea, well you better pray your guesses are pretty good,” he answered, grabbing his cap from the desk. “I’m going up to the tower to see if they’ve got anything on our transports.”
Whitehall. 12:30 Hours
Sir Joseph rolled his Parker in front of his eyes. He was feeling much the same as Lord Tenningly who sat opposite him, and the Home Secretary who was peering out of the window. Parliament was in chaos. Few Members knew exactly what was going on, and the rest merely conjectured. Extremists swore the country would be reduced to a graveyard in forty eight hours, while others were still excited over the inoperable disinfectant idea. Rumors were circulating that the Americans were taking over everything, that their own government was powerless to act, and the entire decontamination program was in the hands of foreigners. The opposition censored every motion, while supporters of the party were cried down whenever they tried to speak. Reports relayed from Comcent were often themselves censored and the general picture grew bleaker and more confusing. No one person held all the facts, and as the terms under which the Americans agreed to assist were classified, no one person knew what was being done, now, when or where, or with what hope of success.
At the onset of the crisis everyone in Parliament had kept quiet about the Prime Minister, but the three days’ absence in the middle of the conflict bred gossip—rumors about insanity, cowardice and death in the crash. Ugly thoughts spread quickly and there were those eager to back up their assertions with proof gleaned from inaccurate sources, from past times or from their own suspicious minds. Members were no longer afraid or hesitant to express their views, and the press were beginning to come round to the fact that something was amiss in Parliamentary circles. They were desperate for a lead to the PM, and they were pulling at straws handed out by panicky politicians, many of whom hoped to make a stand and rid themselves of any responsibility, any guilt. For the most part the press were sensibly reserved, not wanting to increase public alarm, but the scandal sheets of some newspapers went as far as prophecizing imminent doom, backed up by spurious facts and overanxious journalists.
Under the pressure which was increasing by the hour, some Members began to crack and many couldn’t be blamed for the vulgarity of the crisis; the revulsion of what was happening to their people was weighing heavily on their conscience. They had to find escape.
With the advice of the Home Secretary, Lord Tenningly had left Westminister and sought sanctuary with Sir Joseph for it was he who would be the first to hear of the success or failure of the Wolverhampton strike. Deep down inside each of them was the inadmissable shadow of confidence in the American project, but each was frightened to express any hope lest they were proved wrong; or by their very admission turned some unknown spirit against them who might jeopardize the success of the dust. It was far safer to think the worst—any improvement in the situation would come as greater relief. What made things worse, however, was that none of them could share their knowledge of the American attack with Parliament until the results of Wolverhampton were known. If it was a success, Lord Tenningly looked forward to crucifying the opposition and extremists who were at this time making the most of this horrid situation. He would brand them as cowards for their lack of confidence in their own government, and for being the source of ugly unfounded rumors. But if the project was a failure, he knew the party would be nailed before Parliament. Yet the idea of striding into the House and quietly announcing that indeed the crisis was under control, that through the brilliant political bargaining of the party, they had won—this he savoured. It would be the coup-de-grace for his, for the party’s opponents, and by some slight touch of good fortune the country might rally forth to support the party once more. He thought of what the PM might do, what he might be thinking at this time had he not been laying in some deep freeze somewhere in the Midlands. “We have stuck together throughout this ordeal,” he pictured him saying. “We have all suffered, but we have overcome the common enemy. We have proved ourself better than this insidious demon who dared threaten the British people.” No doubt he would have given little thought to the fact that this demon came not by choice, but by being blown sky-high through some careless oversight. “But there will be harder times ahead. We must all work together to put England in her rightful position. The government has suffered disastrous financial losses, our trade has been severely handicapped, but we can and will make up for what we have lost. It has been proven by your very survival of the past few days that if we fight together, we can win, and I ask you once again to pitch in and give your all for the benefit of your families, and for England.” No doubt the late PM’s imagined stroke of verbal genius would be accompanied by waves of applause from the far reaches of his distorted mind. What he would have failed to realize was whether indeed the country wanted to fight on, or, war-weary and deflated, did the people want to sit back and let the government fight on for the betterment of England for a change. He shook his head to think that he had served under this man whom he knew would have once again made himself out to be a hopeless fool in the eyes’ of England and the world. England was gone, he admitted sorrowfully, and if the PM were still around, he would have been the type who was too busy telling everyone how safe the ship was as it sank beneath his feet. He would never notice the water rising above the funnel.
Sir Joseph glanced at his watch, and as he did so there was a gentle buzz from the telephone.
“Hello, Sir Joseph? It’s Thomas. Look, I’ve got a report on the transports. They’re over Manchester and we should have them in sight by fourteen fifteen hours. I figure we can still make Wolverhampton by fifteen hundred or maybe a little after.”
“That’s fine, Glen,” he replied softly. “Let me know when you have a definite time for the strike.”
“Any more news on your end? You sound pretty knocked out.”
“Only bad news, I’m afraid. The government’s in an uproar and no one really knows what’s going on. No one wants to believe anyone who does, either.”
“I suppose you’ll be telling them something after the Wolverhampton show is over.”
“I hope we can make it good news for a change: Lord knows what will happen if you fail.”
“We won’t fail. I’ve got my top men here and if anyone can do it, they can.”
“I wish I could share your confidence, Glen, but I daren’t think anything until all this is over.”
“Well, we should know whether this stuff works by seventeen hundred. I’ll get onto you as soon as we hear.”
“Thanks, Glen. Speak to you later.”
The others looked up at Sir Joseph, hopeful of reassurance. He stared back and shook his head. “Nothing yet, gentlemen. The American transports are over Manchester. We can expect the first air strike on Wolverhampton by mid-afternoon. Major Thomas hopes to have the result a couple of hours after that.”
The Home Secretary pushed himself up and looked around for the sherry. “Is he confident?”
“He sounds confident enough—says he’s got his best men with him.” He lifted the decanter from the desk and pulled out the crystal stopper. “Lord Tenningly?”
He shook his head. “Have they any plans if this dust doesn’t work?”
“If they do, they’re known only to them. But they’re a clever lot and I think if anyone can find a way out of this mess, Major Thomas can.”
“And the English can’t?” Lord Tenningly said curiously.
“If you’ll forgive me for saying it, the English were making a pretty bad show of things under Colonel Combs. If it hadn’t been for some pretty quick thinking by our Special Branch, he might still have been around. You know damn well what Combs was up to, and we all know we were powerless to act. It’s too much for us to handle. We haven’t got the time or money to invest in protection as well as creation of these wretched things. We spend too much already discovering those miserable creatures without developing neutralizers for each one-even if such things could be developed.”
“I suppose you’re right, Willets,” he sighed. “We’re not the country we used to be. I sometimes wonder who the devil I’m working for—the British or the Americans.” He smiled. “ ’There’ll always be an England’ I wish the soppy idiot who wrote that could be around today.”
“It won’t happen in your lifetime, so you needn’t lose sleep over it,” the Home Secretary decided. “Or in mine.”
“And we should leave something behind like all good governments do.”
“Oh, we’ll leave something behind, but it’s not what we like to be remembered for. If we lick this anthrax rubbish today, we’ll have another fight tomorrow. We’ve got to fight like ruddy demons if we don’t want the opposition down our throats. And what about the Continent—they’ll be after us win or lose. Oh, no, this is only the beginning for us. Once that Pandora’s box blew open, our life was cut short—politically anyway. And once we’ve got the lid back on, there’s going to be sixty million people who want to be damn sure we keep it on.” He rose stiffly. “Well, I’m going for lunch. You might just as well cry on your steak as dribble in your sherry, what?”
“That’s what I find so refreshing about you,” said Tenningly. “I’ve always admired your delicate touch. Coming Sir Joseph?”
“I think I’ll have it sent up actually,” he replied from the security of his desk. “I want to be near this phone if anything happens.”
Tenningly nodded. “See you in about an hour then. And do let us know if anything happens.”
“Only if it’s good,” advised the Home Secretary. “I don’t want his dinner spoiled.”
Sir Joseph stared after them. He watched the door close silently, and the gilt knob click into place.
The People
General reaction to the disorder, to the lack of information, to the mysterious disappearance of the PM and Combs’ ill-timed suicide, and to the refusal of the government to commit themselves was varied among the classes as was the reaction to devaluation, the Torrey Canyon, the strikes, or indeed to the last War. Among the workers it gave them something to talk about, to lean over back fences and decide what was the best thing to do. It was an arguing point in pubs and while the workers downed their pints in boisterous dissertation in the public bars, their betters argued politely over gin and bitter lemon on the ’other side’. The cleverer ones preferred to speculate, and when a particular speculation struck an air of imminent danger or rang of clandestine overtones, it spread; and though emanating from no more an official source than a senior clerk or account executive, it circulated with fearful respectability. While the workers sighed of sabotage, revolution and the IRA, others feared a political coup, a takeover from one side or the other. Many just simply believed that somewhere a mistake had been made and where some swallowed their drinks in solemn fear of approaching doom, others were confident that the inconvenience of dodging anthrax-ridden bats would soon pass.
No doubt the crisis led to even greater speculation at Blades, or Simpsons. The word was out of- economic disaster, and the stock market had remained shut. Investors and brokers dreaded the day when it would reopen, and shares were hastily traded and sold behind the market’s back. At one point the highest off-market shares were those of the chemical companies when everyone thought the country’s salvation lay in disinfectant, and ICI and Reckitt would produce more disinfectant in a day that it had in all its germ-killing life. Vast sums of money slipped out of the country and found their way into Swiss accounts, while others who were caught by the squeeze prayed that their particular bank branch was bat-proof. Executives in shipping, in imports and exports, cringed at the quarantine and awoke each morning with a stronger desire to wallow in the wretched anthrax and be done with it. While airline personnel enjoyed the holiday, the bosses of BOAC, BEA and the lesser airlines hung over the computers in masochistic terror, watching the minute by minute calculations of their losses. It seemed for once that the workers were better off, and if the crisis persisted much longer, the working class population would be joined by several thousand more and the waiting list for council accommodation would extend into an ominous unknown.
Among those who suffered most were the people to acquire first hand knowledge of the bats. The public grew frightened of any flying object which resembled in the remotest manner an airborne mouse. Early that morning an elderly lady living alone in her Birmingham council house had just put the kettle on for tea and, waiting for the water to boil, occupied her time with the daily drudgery of cleaning the fire when she heard a scuffling in the chimney. Suddenly something flew at her and she stumbled backwards, covered in coal dust and soot. Contaminated or not, the bat fought with whatever strength it had left, and when she finally died after frantic attempts to rid her scalp of a clawing, chewing terrified bat, it was not from anthrax. When the neighbors found her some days later, her head was covered in dried blood and she was all but bald. There was no sign of the bat—it was the pathologist who determined the manner of death; but the official records demanded that her death should be recorded as one influenced by the disease, if not directly, otherwise.
