Ken McClure - Crisis

Apart from an occasional click from the instrument as it received natural radiation from the atmosphere the pointer hovered quietly on the base line. Bannerman pushed his hood back a little so as not to miss any sounds coming from the small speaker in the side of the instrument. Suddenly he heard a loud rasping sound, but it came from behind him. He turned round to see an inflatable boat, its bow bouncing over the waves, coming straight for the shore. Its outboard engine was buzzing angrily.

As he watched, Bannerman grew alarmed when he realized that he was the object of attention for the men on board. The three of them jumped out into the shallows below him and waded quickly to the shore to start running towards him. They were carrying automatic weapons. He soon found himself being gripped firmly on both sides by the arms.

‘What’s your game, then?’ demanded the third man who stood in front of him with sea-water dripping from his oilskins.

‘I think I might ask the same of you,’ said Bannerman, with more courage than he felt. ‘I am on Inverladdie Farm property and I have permission to be here.’

‘A smartarse, eh?’ sneered the man. ‘Let’s get him back.’

Bannerman protested loudly but he was manhandled down to the beach and forced into the boat. Once on the move, he sat quietly. The sound of the engine and the heavy sea made conversation impossible and, for the moment, there was no place else to go. He looked at the three men who seemed to be doing their best to ignore him. All were dressed in the same weatherproof uniforms with a badge above their left breast which said, SECURITY. Their boots were of the commando type which laced up well above their ankles. They sat with the butts of their automatic rifles on the wooden floor of the boat.

The boat traced a large circle out of Inverladdie territory and round to the back of the power station where it was brought in to a small bay. The man at the tiller left it to the last moment to cut the engine, with the result that the boat coasted on to the shingle by virtue of its own momentum and slid to a halt on the shore.

‘Get out!’ rasped the first man out to Bannerman.

Bannerman complied, introducing an air of resigned lethargy to his movements in an attempt to salvage his dignity.

‘Move!’ another man ordered, punctuating his request with the muzzle of his weapon in Bannerman’s back.

Bannerman was marched up the beach and through the gates of the station. He was directed into a long, low building and put in a room devoid of furnishings, save for a table and two chairs. One of the armed men remained in the room with him until a new face appeared. The newcomer was in his thirties, clean shaven and dressed in a dark suit with what looked to be a college tie. Judging from the stiffening of his guard when the man entered, Bannerman guessed that the new man might be in charge of security.

The man seated himself opposite Bannerman at the table and said, ‘Name?’

‘Who wants to know?’ replied Bannerman.

The man leaned across the table and said, ‘Me.’

‘And who are you?’ said Bannerman, evenly.

The man stared at Bannerman for a moment then brought out an ID wallet and put it down on the table in front of him.

Bannerman looked down at it and read that the bearer was ‘C. J. Mitchell, Head of Security.’

‘I’m Bannerman.’

‘First name?’

‘Ian.’

‘Well, Ian Bannerman,’ said Mitchell sitting back in his chair. ‘You are in trouble.’

‘One of us is,’ replied Bannerman.

Mitchell sized up Bannerman in silence for a few moments before saying, ‘What were you doing at the fence?’

‘I was on Inverladdie Farm property. I had permission to be there and what I was doing is none of your business.’

‘Is that where you left the Citroen?’ asked Mitchell.

‘What Citroen?’ asked Bannerman.

The 2CV with “Save the Whales” in the back window and “Nuclear Power No Thanks” along the back bumper. That’s what all you buggers drive isn’t it?’

‘Who exactly are “all us buggers”?’ asked Bannerman.

‘The club,’ Mitchell sneered. “The lentil eaters, the organic turnip heads, the gay, vegan, lesbian, whale saving, league against nuclear power brigade.’

‘Oh I see, you thought I was trying to blow up the station,’ said Bannerman, making the notion sound so ridiculous that Mitchell’s mouth quivered in anger. ‘I’ll ask you again, what were you doing by the fence?’

‘And I’ll tell you again, it’s none of your business,’ said Bannerman meeting the security man’s eyes with a level stare.

The impasse was broken by one of the men from the boat coming in and placing Bannerman’s Geiger counter on the table. ‘He had this with him, sir,’ the man announced before leaving.

‘Well, well, well,’ purred the security man. ‘What do you know, the boys’ own radiation monitoring kit. Just what the hell did you hope to find?’

‘‘I didn’t hope to find anything,’ replied Bannerman. ‘I wanted to know if there had been any leakage of radioactive material to the west of the station.’

The security man seemed intrigued. He leaned towards Bannerman and asked, ‘Why?’

‘That’s my business.’

‘Your business?’ said Mitchell, putting a different inflection on the word.

‘Yes.’

‘A journalist? Is that it? A crusading investigative journalist. Isn’t that what you scaremongering busy-bodies call yourselves? Is that it Bannerman?’

‘You really have a problem don’t you,’ said Bannerman, quietly. ‘Have you ever thought about a career more suited to your personality, say, lighthouse keeper in the Arctic Ocean?’

Without warning, Mitchell swung his fist at Bannerman and caught him high on his left cheek bone. The force of the blow knocked him backwards and his chair toppled over to send him sprawling to the floor.

Bannerman sat up slowly holding his hand to his face and breathing erratically, partly through surprise and partly through shock. Mitchell got up to stand over him. ‘Wait outside,’ he rasped to the guard by the door. The man, who Bannerman could see was uneasy about what he was witnessing, complied immediately.

‘What now?’ asked Bannerman. ‘Electrodes on my testicles?’

‘You lot make me sick,’ sneered Mitchell. ‘Get up.’

Bannerman got to his feet. He had recovered from the blow and was holding his temper firmly in check. He said, ‘I’d like to see the station manager please.’

‘He’s a busy man,’ said Mitchell.

‘So am I,’ said Bannerman. He enunciated every syllable with arctic coldness. ‘I am Dr Ian Bannerman, consultant pathologist at St Luke’s Hospital London, currently investigating the deaths of three local men at the request of the Medical Research Council and Her Majesty’s Government.’

Mitchell looked as if he was about to lay an egg. His eyes suggested his brain was asking his ears for a recap on what they’d just heard. ‘ID?’ he croaked.

Bannerman showed him identification.

Mitchell looked down at the table surface as if it were to blame for everything. ‘Why didn’t you say so in the first place?’

‘Because I didn’t choose to,’ snapped Bannerman. ‘I was on private property when your men abducted me and brought me here. I pointed this out to them at the time and to you when I got here but you took no notice. Now get me the station manager.’

Mitchell left the room and Bannerman lit a cigarette. His fingers were trembling slightly.

Some ten minutes passed before the door opened and Bannerman was politely invited to follow one of the security men. He had suddenly become ‘sir’. He was taken to the main building of the power station and then by elevator to the top floor where he was shown into the station manager’s office. Mitchell was with the manager and Bannerman could see that the man had been fully briefed about what had happened.