Ken McClure - The Gulf Conspiracy

‘Thank you, I think we are all familiar with the team’s brief,’ interrupted Gardiner. ‘Now let’s be quite clear about this, you seem to be saying that it would be difficult to identify the presence of any extraneous agent as being the cause of any illness?’

‘I think it would be fair to say that,’ agreed Crowe. ‘That, of course, was also part of the... brief... which, naturally, you already know.’

‘Well, thank God for small mercies,’ sighed Gardiner. ‘That at least gives us some leeway. Who knows about this at Porton?’ he asked.

‘No one,’ said Crowe. ‘I told the team to say nothing: I would sort it out.’

‘Good,’ said Gardiner. ‘At least that gives us a chance of containing this incident.’

All eyes turned to him, something he interpreted as accusation on the part of the others. ‘Well, if no one is going to die and there are no specific symptoms to point people in the direction of the Beta Team and indeed to us, it opens up an alternative course of action, don’t you think?’ he snorted.

‘You seem to be suggesting that we deal with this situation by saying and doing nothing, Sir James,’ said one of the others who until this point had been silent. He was Rupert Everley, millionaire property developer and would-be politician who had so far, failed three times as a Tory candidate at elections. A good-looking man in his early forties with boyish features and a mop of swept-back fair hair, Everley seemed, by general agreement, to take more care with his appearance than with what came out of his mouth. Not regarded as an intellectual giant by the others, they were familiar with a range of facial expressions he was prone to adopt, suggesting among themselves that he had practised them in front of a mirror. At the moment he was doing ‘earnest concern’.

‘I take it you have a better idea, Everley?’ said Gardiner. ‘Perhaps you would care to make a public announcement telling everyone that our troops have been inoculated with a contaminated vaccine? Tell them that we haven’t a clue what it’s going to do to them? Then perhaps you can go on to tell them just what it was contaminated with and where it came from and let’s see what the press make of that?’

There was silence in the room. Everley looked crestfallen.

Gardiner stayed on the offensive. ‘Have you even considered the effects of telling thousands of our troops that they have been poisoned on the very eve of their going to war? Christ almighty, man, we might just as well send a congratulations telegram to Baghdad and call the whole bloody thing off.’

‘You’re right, James,’ said Warner. ‘We need cool heads at a time like this.’

‘I suppose when you put it that way,’ conceded Everley.

‘There’s no other way to put it,’ said Gardiner. ‘We must keep this accident a secret.’ Gardiner made a point of establishing eye contact with each man in turn. 'And we are all going to sit here and decide just how we’re going to achieve that.’

Dhahran Airbase

Saudi Arabia

20 Jan 1991

‘Shit, I’m not sure I want to fight alongside anyone who risks that much on a pair of twos, ‘ said Air Force Corporal Neil Anderson, slapping down three of a kind and reaching across the table with both hands to bring in his winnings. ‘Shows a distinct lack of judgement, if you ask me.’

‘Don’t kid yourself, pal, I saw you waver there for a moment,’ retorted fellow corporal, Colin Childs. ‘I bloody near had you, sunshine, and just remember: who dares wins.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ laughed Anderson.

‘Cut the crap and deal.’

Anderson chuckled as he boxed the cards and started dealing. ‘I can feel the force,’ he joked. ‘Lady Luck is not just with me, she’s positively taking her knickers down for me.’

Childs was about to say something in reply when the sudden wail of sirens filled the air and both men rushed from the table to their action stations.

‘Scud coming in!’ yelled Anderson, pointing at the distant night sky as they ran across the dark compound.

‘Where the fuck are the Patriots?’ complained Childs, trying to look around him and run at the same time.

As if in response, the whoosh of an American Patriot interceptor missile, being launched from the perimeter battery, brought a cheer to their lips.

‘Go get that fucker, baby,’ yelled Anderson.

‘Send it right back up Saddam’s arse,’ added Childs.

There were more cheers and from all over the base when the Patriot made contact with the incoming scud, causing it to spiral out of the sky about four hundred metres from the perimeter fence. In the ensuing silence before ground impact, Anderson and Childs threw themselves flat and covered their ears against the anticipated explosion but none came. Instead, the eerie silence continued until the two men became fidgety. Suddenly, bedlam broke out as the NAIADS (chemical and biological weapon detectors) started wailing all over the base like demented banshees.

‘It didn’t explode because it’s a fucking CB attack!’ yelled Anderson as he scrambled to his feet and led the way as both men sprinted over to the clothing store to pull on their protective suits.

‘Jesus fuck, this is really it,’ murmured Anderson, hopping on one leg as he struggled into his suit.

‘Sweet Jesus Christ,’ murmured Childs over and over again as he too struggled with the cumbersome fastenings, his fingers all thumbs as fear knotted his stomach and sent adrenalin coursing through his veins. Both men had done this a hundred times before in training but this was for real and Christ, it felt completely different.

For twenty minutes, both men sat quietly with their thoughts. Bravado and banter were things of the past, not that it was ever possible while wearing respirators. They wondered about their position. There was no way of knowing what was in the air and maybe just on the other side of their visors. Nerve gas? A virus? The plague bacillus? All three perhaps?

Anderson remembered training lectures where the Russian tactic of formulating a ‘mixed load’ for CB weapons had been highlighted as a possible way of countering protective measures against such weapons. He distinctly remembered the instructor pointing out at one stage that Russia and Saddam were big pals. Subconsciously he rubbed the area on his upper arm where he had been vaccinated.

He could see that Childs had his eyes closed. He hadn’t known the man to pray before but conceded that now was as good a time as any to start. His thoughts turned to thinking about his wife Jenny and their two children. Claire, the youngest, had been born by Caesarean section a month premature just the week before he’d left for the Gulf. She had seemed so small and vulnerable, a bit like the way he felt at the moment.

The all-clear sounded and broke the eerie silence. Both men felt weak as adrenalin dissipated and feelings of relief took its place. They got to their feet slowly and started stripping off their protective suits.

‘Must have been a false alarm,’ said Anderson.

‘Tell my bowels that,’ said Childs. ‘Christ, I hate the idea of not being able to see what I’m fighting.’

As they set out to return their protective gear to the storage pods they caught sight of a figure, still wearing his, running across the compound towards them. He was shouting something and waving his arms but his visor was muffling the sound. As he drew nearer, Anderson recognised the man as Gus Maclean, a sergeant and one of the five-man team who operated and maintained the chemical and biological detectors.

‘Put them back on!’ yelled Maclean. ‘It’s not over. There’s gas all over the fucking place. I’m going to find the stupid fucker who sounded the all-clear and remove his balls.’