It was known that calcium citrate helps the body resist Sr90 by competing with Sr90. This works because bone and bone marrow can only absorb isotopic contaminants at a given rate. Calcium citrate will therefore, reduce Sr90 take up and therefore reduce the total level of contamination. The recommended dosage of calcium citrate was 1000 milligrams daily — adults and children — immediately after an attack, and thereafter 500 milligrams per day for three weeks. In addition to calcium citrate prophylactic doses of vitamin C (ascorbic acid) tended to regulate the production of bone protein and promote the formation of white blood cells. The recommended dosage of Vitamin C was 300 milligrams a day for a month after the first fallout and 100 milligrams daily thereafter for least two months.
After Sr90 the next most dangerous fallout isotopes were iodine131 and iodine133. Radioactive I131 and I133 iodine collects in the thyroid gland in the neck. Adults exposed to these radioactive isotopes of iodine acquire a massively heightened risk of cancer; and because the thyroid gland regulates growth children exposed to these isotopes are likely to be stunted and prone to childhood cancers. It was known that potassium iodide — a daily dose of 130 milligrams taken for at least the first hundred days after an attack — helped to inhibit the build up of I131 and I133 in the thyroid.
Lieutenant-Commander Simon Collingwood completed his brief, didactic review of the situation. He knew exactly what needed to be done and there was nothing to be gained by delaying or attempting in any way, shape or form to finesse the brutality of the decision he was about to make.
Dreadnought’s store of potassium iodide, calcium citrate and vitamin C tablets was sufficient to provide a minimal level of fallout protection to the men he needed to get the boat to sea. He had no surplus to spare for useless hands.
His orders were unambiguous.
‘HMS Dreadnought will make ready for sea with all urgency. CO HMS Dreadnought is hereby empowered to take any measures appropriate to requisition staff and resources to achieve this outcome at the earliest date. Lethal force is hereby authorised against any person, military or civilian who obstructs CO Dreadnought and or, any of his personnel in this work. CO Dreadnought is expressly forbidden to divert resources at his disposal to civilian defence or relief operations….’
Welcome to the brave new world!
The Commanding Officer of HMS Dreadnought cleared his throat.
“We must clear the boat of civilians,” he said resignedly as he rose to his feet and jammed his cap on his head.
Chapter 11
Lieutenant Peter Christopher shut the door of his claustrophobic cabin beneath the bridge and drew up the chair in front of the small, sharp edged plywood counter that served as his desk. His bunk took up most of the rest of the space in the compartment. Hard-edged overhead lockers threatened to brain him if he moved his long, angular frame without extreme due care and attention in any direction.
Talavera was riding relatively easily on her anchors, her bow pointed into the wind and the serried ranks of eight to ten foot waves. Every now and then one of the screws churned and the anchor capstans rattled as the destroyer adjusted her heading. The wind was slipping around to the south and nobody knew if that was a good or a bad thing. As if it mattered. Fallout would be everywhere in time.
Peter was officially off watch but the Old Man had ordered him to take a break on his last round of the ship. No man onboard had conducted himself more calmly than Commander David Penberthy. He’d regularly addressed the crew over the tannoy, and every ninety minutes or so he strolled from stem to stern, patting men on the back, his affable manner and his unruffled presence suggesting that whatever anybody else believed, that not all was lost. His had been an object lesson in grace under pressure.
“You don’t have to try to put your head down, Peter,” the Captain had said, paternally. “I don’t think any of us can do that right now. Just have a few moments to yourself. Stretch your legs. Look in on the wardroom. Have a stiff drink. I need my officers to keep their heads on their shoulders. You can’t take care of your department if you’re not taking care of yourself.”
Peter Christopher had looked into the Wardroom.
Drunk over-stewed coffee.
He’d chatted with the Executive Officer, Hugo Montgommery, who’d just completed his own walk around the ship. Back in his cabin Peter had pulled out a pad of writing paper and begun to write.
Dear Marija,
I don’t know if you will ever receive this letter. I hope with all my heart that you do receive it because then at least, I will know that you have come through today’s madness. I’m not a religious fellow — as I think you know! — but if I was I’d be praying for you and your family and friends. I don’t know if Malta has escaped the fire but if it has then perhaps there is a God after all.
Rather more than by luck than anything else, I suspect, we on Talavera have survived. We were well out at sea running radar trials when the balloon went up. Presently, we are riding on our forward anchors in a hundred feet of water on top of the Dogger Bank out in the middle of the North Sea. The Captain is a seaman of the old school and when the madness began he pointed us out to sea and kept on going for as long as there was fuel in the bunkers. Running away was all we could do. Our magazines are empty, a third of our crew hasn’t come aboard yet and we’re two or three months away from being anywhere near operational. So, anyway, here we are riding on our anchors in the middle of a south westerly gale.
We’re detecting the first fallout clouds but we’re pretty well sealed up and the sick bay took on a full ABC inventory before we sailed. We’ve got enough iodine and calcium citrate tablets to see us through the next six weeks, apparently. Because Talavera is virtually a new build we’ve got brand new filters in the ventilation duct and all the hatches are dogged down as tight as you like. What with one thing and another were sitting as pretty as we could possibly have hoped. We’ve got enough rations onboard — if we stretch them out — to stay at sea ten or eleven days. The only fly in the ointment is that we’re low on bunker oil. We’ll be able to keep power in the ship, pump the bilges and manoeuvre if we have to but it’ll be touch and go if we can make port if we stay out here more than a few days.
Morale onboard is fairly good, probably because the chaps haven’t had much chance to stop to think. The Captain has had us busy closing up the ship, drilling and checking equipment all day. I think the worst thing is not really knowing what’s happened back on land.
The Captain has broadcast that London and targets in East Anglia and further up the East Coast of England have been hit. More than that we don’t know. The only people on the ship who saw anything at all were fellows on the bridge. They reported the night being turned into day several times and a sort of ‘lightning effect’ over the western horizon. The main attack lasted about an hour. After that there were a handful of big flashes in the sky between three and four o’clock, and nothing since. We’d turned off most of our radio and radar kit at that stage in case it got damaged but I don’t think it made any difference. We’ve got equipment failures in several systems because the cack-handed way the yard wired everything it was virtually impossible to tell what had power in it and what didn’t until it was too late. Hopefully, tracing the failures will keep my people busy and stop them worrying about things they can’t do anything about.