Mike Woodhams
Paths of Courage
To my wife, Cindy, for her patience and understanding which enabled this book to be born
PROLOGUE
The man looked out at the calm sea spread before him from the bridge of the freighter as it ploughed through the green waves cleaving them cleanly, occasionally bobbing and rolling gently with each swell that passed under her keel. As it crossed the Tropic of Capricorn in the Indian Ocean, he heard the captain order the transponder, which informed the maritime authorities of the ship’s whereabouts to be turned off, then order a new course that would take the freighter directly south instead of around Africa’s Cape of Good Hope and up into the Atlantic to the Ivory Coast. The new course would now take it directly to an island deep in the southern Indian Ocean. The man stared at the sparkling waters with a mixture of apprehension, excitement and fear at what they were about to accomplish after so many months of planning and preparation.
The Maru Blue, a Libyan-registered freighter, was typical of her type with main superstructure situated well aft. The forward deck was dominated by three large cargo hatches and two V-shaped structures forming masts and boom cranes for lowering cargo into the holds. She had seen better days. The once black hull and white and green superstructure were streaked with brown rust.
Beside Ali bin Rashid stood the freighter’s captain, Javad Moradi. He was checking instruments and quietly issuing orders to the helmsman. A few years older than Rashid, Moradi was tall for an Iranian, had weathered features, an aquiline nose and a thick head of dark, slightly greying hair. The vessel he was now master of had been leased from a Greek shipping company.
“So deep in thought, Major?”
Rashid stumbled from his reverie. “Please. Please, call me Ali.” Now that he was no longer in the army, he hated to be addressed in that way. But no matter where he went, somehow it seemed to follow him. He looked every inch a major with his slim, upright stature, clipped black moustache, dark close-cropped hair and sharp angular features.
“I was just thinking about how close we are now to fulfilling the downfall of the infidel. The day of judgement is within our sights and the victorious end to our Holy War has all but arrived.”
“Yes, it will be the beginning of a glorious Islamic Alliance never before seen. Allahu Akbar,” said the captain.
Rashid thought about the crate in the hold and its deadly contents. “Have you checked whether the crate is well stored?”
“It is safe. Do not worry, Ali.”
“How soon will we reach the island?”
“Depends on the weather, but I would say no more than a week.”
“Can we expect good weather?”
“Not at this time of year. It is winter in the south. The climate on the island is harsh and changes rapidly. It has a reputation of being one of the wildest places on earth. We can expect temperatures anywhere around minus one centigrade to plus five, depending how strong the wind is blowing in from the Antarctic. Fortunately, the seas around the island do not ice over during winter.”
Rashid fell silent for a moment, then asked, “Where exactly is it?”
“On the Kerguelen Plateau, some 2,500 miles southwest of Australia and 900 miles north of the Antarctic. It is uninhabited and very remote; ideal for the planned transfer. The nearest land is the Kerguelen Islands, 270 miles to the north.”
Rashid nodded thoughtfully. “Once we are there our mission to avenge Allah will truly begin.”
1
Captain Grace Seymour entered the small ante-room in Level 2 of the monkey room. She removed her uniform and underwear, slid on her sterile surgical scrub suit and covered her hair with a surgical cap. Nothing was allowed to be worn under the scrub suit. Barefooted, she passed through a small chamber bathed in ultra-violet light and on through a sliding door that led into Level 3. Here she put on a pair of white cotton socks and latex surgical gloves, tore off several strips of tape from a roll on the wall and hung them in a row on the side of the desk. She then proceeded to tape up her ankles and wrists to seal the joints. From a rack she took a blue plastic space suit and struggled into it until she was completely enclosed. After testing the in-built communication system, she put on the air regulator and plugged it into the suit. She was ready to enter the Level 4 air-lock. To her this was always the moment of truth. Invariably at this point a feeling of panic overcame her when she stepped into the stainless-steel decon chamber separating the normal world from a very dangerous one. The door behind her closed and, after a few moments, the one in front of her opened. For a few seconds she held her breath to let the feeling subside before she strode confidently into the hot zone.
The main lab of Porton Down’s animal testing facility was big and L-shaped, and occupied with dozens of people in blue pressurized suits. All surfaces were painted white, while red air-hoses hung coiled from the ceiling. Along one wall stood several freezers containing the virus strains used in various experiments. At the far end of the room a metal door led to where the monkeys were kept. The captain plugged the air-hose into her regulator and felt the familiar blast of cool, dry air fill her suit. Then she headed for the door.
The monkey room contained four banks of cages, with two on each side separated by tent-like structures. The cages held various species of monkey, from marmosets and rhesus to spider and macaques. The cages on one side held healthy animals, whilst those on the other had been infected by an engineered monkeypox virus. The healthy ones leapt about the cages screaming and hooting, whilst those on the other side sat silent and withdrawn. Their eyes watching every move the humans made.
One of the infected monkeys, Monkey B220, a small male rhesus, was ‘going down’ – the terminology used when an animal displayed the classic symptoms: weeping pustules thickly clustered on the face, hands and feet. This indicated he was ready for the latest test vaccine. Seeing this, Captain Seymour felt a pang of guilt at the suffering animal, but she reminded herself that it was for the sake of medical progress. So she took a deep breath and inwardly controlled her emotions. She ordered the removal of the monkey to the lab for detailed examination and injection of a prototype vaccine. The technicians took the monkey and laid the listless body out on a stainless-steel table in preparation for the experiment.
Moments later, as she was about to insert the needle into Monkey B220, a voice entered her earpiece informing her that she was needed in the director’s office without delay.
* * *
Grace swept her long, dark hair away from soft, angular features as she entered the office complex of the Director of Porton Down’s Defence Science Technology Laboratory (DSTL). Displaying her security pass to the guard at the desk, she headed her young, trim figure straight for Major Brian Stanhope’s office, wondering what could be so important to interrupt one of her experiments. Reaching the office she was ushered in by his secretary and was somewhat surprised to see Brigadier John Spencer, Head of Porton’s Weapons Research Establishment (PWRE), with him.
“You’ve met Brigadier Spencer, I understand?” asked the director as he stood to offer Grace a seat in front of his large mahogany desk. The director was a tall, grey-haired man in his late fifties.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, saluting both uniformed men.
“I apologize for having to take you away from your work, but an urgent matter has come to light,” he said, then looked at the brigadier to take over.
Intrigued at what that might be, she sat next to the brigadier. Her brown, almond-shaped eyes stared at him with growing apprehension.