Chapter 1
Somewhere in Iraq, 1992.
Drew Walker, a 32-year-old United Nations Weapons Inspector was finding his NBC suit far too hot and tight to work comfortably. Comfort was never designed in this shit of a job. He had already needed to adjust his respirator so it did not sit too tight to his face, allowing him to breath just a little easier at the start of his examination, but this action made the suits function irrelevant.
Drew had been sent into the black bunker with no information on the substance. He took that to mean it was a curiosity rather than a danger, after all, they never normally sent men into a hazard without a full brief on what to expect. His enforced work site was dark, dusty and very hot.
He had been sent in to examine a strange chemical that had spilt out of its metal flask. The odd substance within could not be identified by the normal Mobil robotic machine that did most of the dangerous on-site testing. The electronic hardware onboard was not sensitive enough to identify all the chemical properties, but had identified that this substance could be something to worry about.
So it was left up to manual means and that’s where Drew came into the equation. His job was to make the final analysis, by placing small amounts of the substance in a highly sensitive reader that had been modified from a device designed to sample chemicals in space carried by a satellite. The device relayed its findings back to a mainframe computer sitting in a UN van.
A voice broke into his slow laboured work that had become ever more difficult with every passing moment due to the feeling of sickness that gripped his stomach, and yet he felt a hunger that contradicted his state.
“Good work Drew. You completed the task amazingly quickly.”
The voice belonged to Harry Brogan, his vertically challenged boss, who was monitoring a video link relaying information from a camera located on the top of Drew’s respirator. Brogan was sitting safely in his UN van, packed with technology, flashing lights and technical gadgets.
Brogan knew there was something wrong by the computer screen that showed Walker’s heart beating far too quickly for the safety of his worker. The analysis of the chemical was organic in origin, but showed some very frightening characteristics.
It had the cell structure of a plant, but the dividing capabilities of a frighteningly quick virus. In short, it appeared to be growing very fast after having been exposed to the dry air.
Brogan’s orders were quite explicit from the United Nations and only relayed to him. This gave him the edge over everyone else and enabled him to cloak this operation in secrecy, which was a situation he relished because it allowed him to keep ultimate control. However, he also had a gut feeling that had passed to the hairs on his neck as he continued to read the chemical data obtained.
He had already ordered his white Ford van to be relocated away from the main site, and situated the vehicle at the furthest point away from the bunker, but still within the perimeter fence, on an earlier hunch. His new location was ironically situated next to the silage tanks.
Brogan was no hero. In this business, they tended to help push the fickle daisies up far too quickly for his liking. He brushed his right hand through his ginger hair that gave reference to his Scottish roots, as he contemplated what was going to be the biggest decision of his small life.
He did not like to take chances, especially when it involved his own sordid underhanded existence. Leading by example was not really his thing, yet on this occasion his own gut feeling would play the most important role, even if the feeling was caused by self-preservation.
Harry made up for his shortcomings by being ruthless and divisively stabbing anyone in the back if it meant his rise to the top would be quickened.
He placed his worried frame closer to the heart monitor that now showed Walker’s heart going off the scale, but his words would not betray the truth.
“Out you come now Walker. Good work and super quick. We have a rough indication of the chemical make up. It looks organic, but shouldn’t pose any problems. Keep your suit on, though, we don’t want to break protocol.”
Drew stood up and looked confused. He thought to himself with a frown that pushed against the hot rubber of his mask, mumbling, “Super quick?” He thought he had been in the blackness for hours and said in the privacy of his sore mind, “that prick’s taking the piss again.”
Every bone in Drew’s body seemed to ache. The chemical flask fell out of the beam of light generated by his head torch, cutting through the darkness with surgical sharpness. Even without the light, the chemical still glowed a grainy gold.
He was unaware of any of the chemical’s special qualities. It had not shown to be radioactive and eluded all the other tests that had tried to make a match with dangerous chemical weapons or deadly viruses. He did not have any reason to double check as he set about leaving the bunker and was not aware of the knowledge that Brogan had. A voice snapped.
“Your camera’s not been working. Have you been messing about with it? Drew, you know we need to monitor your every moment.”
Drew knew what he wanted to say. “Stick your camera where the sun doesn’t shine.” The thought however, was confined to the safety of his mind, away from the microphone that monitored his every breath. He carried on in thought as the exit drew a little closer with every laboured step.
“I know why I’ve been given this shit job.” His bully of a chief was aware this was going to be his last task before flying back to the States, “so the little shit gave me this crap.”
A thought transferred into a smile, taking him away from his bullyboy boss with the contemplation of his pending wedding to the girl of his dreams.
He was feeling more unwell with every step that carried him closer to the light of the exit, and his attention was filled with the light that now appeared blurred and uncertain. His view was made more difficult by the condensation that glistened in the protective glass of his eyepieces. He knew there was something seriously wrong with him.
With every passing second, the concentration required to place one foot in front of the other was draining his very being of his life-force. He seemed trapped by the chink of light like a fly, with only one beacon of hope, drawing him ever closer to the medical help that would be waiting outside.
His suit felt sticky with a cold unhealthy sweat as he finally staggered through the large blast proof metal doors that he had entered with a fear that could not be explained by his long experience of working with chemicals. He was just acting on a gut feeling which was shaped by instinct.
He tried to focus on the shape of the three medics assigned to assure his safety. Their main purpose was to decontaminate his suit to prevent a pathogen for infection. The voice came back into his mask.
“Are you ok Drew?”
No amount of washing was going to help him as he choked trying to answer his boss, the words unheard, instead replaced by the splatter of blood that filled his mask with partly clotted thick brown fluid.
His skin started to tighten on his bones and his throat became dry, closing with every breath that he gulped as he dropped to his knees. The last thought he could muster was to make sure he fell on his back in front of the medics.
They were unsure what to do, underlined by their speechless state that could only be broken by instruction.
Harry paused, contemplating his next move, his well-groomed head drew closer to the monitor that showed the disturbing view of Drew convulsing in agony on the baked sand through the medics head cameras.
“Move closer.” He grunted down the intercom, his words relayed straight to their respirators, as he surveyed the screen for information, not taking his eyes off the monitor. He aimed an enquiry to Tom, the fireworks man, happily named because his job was explosives.
“Have you placed all the charges around the bunker? We may need to blow this site.” The man looked at Brogan with a frown on his face, half anticipating the next order and said with his slow Texan drone.
“All the charges have been set, but I was ordered not to destroy anything without American authority sir. They want to ensure we have all the information and samples secure.” Brogan took his concentration away from the screen, his face showing thunder.
“I’m your authority, you prick, and this is a United Nations operation.” With that, he turned his attention back to the screen and spoke into the small mike situated just in front of his face.
“Take his respirator off. We need to find out what’s gone wrong with our containment procedures.”
He was more interested in information than the welfare of his men, which was nothing new. Information is more important than anything when you are dealing with chemicals or viruses that could kill millions, everyone knew that, but Harry seemed to enjoy his job too much and was prone to going over the top.
“He shows no sign of life. His eyes are bulging with blood, and his mask is stuck to his flesh. Can we evacuate the body to a safe zone for further examination?” the medic blurted with worry.
Brogan sneered under his breath, “amateurs”, then looked at his driver, holding his microphone so his words could not be heard by anyone else but his team of hand picked cowards that would do his bidding without question.
“Take us away from this hellhole.” The driver did not need a second invitation and started to pull his van away from the bunker. He took his hand away from the mike and spoke with a chill in his voice.
“Take his fucking mask off, I tell you.”
The medics pulled harder at the respirators. Drew’s face tugged with the force being exerted, the once white youthful skin now matching the black rubber of his mask as it was pulled taut.
Something had to give as the mask tore off. Drew’s face came away with a squelching sound. The medics looked at the respirator, one of them screamed in disbelief, trying to grab his breath thorough the restriction of his own protective mask “ His fucking face has been torn off!”
The mask dropped to the floor, landing next to the body, a wrinkled neck could be seen hardly filling the once tight fitting collar. What was left of the face was draped in long grey hair that stuck to the bloody flesh that was once a face.
“Sir, can you see this, can you bloody see it? What could of caused it?”
Brogan looked at Tom, the firework man, ignoring the medic’s panicked question.
“Are all your men out of there?”
His reply was a nod. He could not stomach to hear his own words, but Brogan’s were clinical.
“Blow it.”
With that, Tom pressed a red button on the top of a controller held in a fat sweaty hand. The van rocked to the huge explosion. No quarter could be given in Brogan’s mind, that whatever caused this to happen needed to remain on site, and for good measure vaporised. His orders had always indicated that anyone left in there was too much of a risk to bring out, and was doomed anyway. He tried to reassure his men.
“They knew the risks and got paid good money for doing it.” Tom sneered back.
“You can tell that to their families, sir.”
