The Gulf Conspiracy Read Free Page A

anaesthetist.
    ‘ I’ll be as quick as I can.’
    Morton’s hand jumped as the air raid warnings went off and he cursed as the needle made an inch long scratch on the patient’s skin.
    ‘ That’s all we need,’ said the anaesthetist. ‘An air raid.’
    ‘ Scud attack,’ said someone else. ‘Listen.’
    In the ensuing pause they listened to the sound of the incoming missile.
    ‘ I think it’s going over,’ said an optimist only a fraction before there was a loud popping sound, which made people look questioningly at each other over their masks.
    ‘ Oh Christ, no explosion means it’s an airburst,’ said the reformed optimist.
    Morton continued sewing his neat line of stitches, as around him, people shuffled to their feet and looked at each other uneasily over their masks. Then the NAIADS went off and loudspeakers started proclaiming: ‘NBC Condition Black. This is not a drill!’ It kept repeating, ‘This is not a drill.’
    ‘ Okay folks, you know what to do,’ said Morton, still concentrating on his work and not looking up. ‘Everyone into their suits please.’
    No one argued but the anaesthetist said, ‘I can’t just walk away. He’ll die.’
    ‘ You might die if you don’t,’ said Morton.
    ‘ I’ll go when you do.’
    Morton smiled under his mask. ‘Fair enough.’ The procedure was all over in seven minutes but it seemed more like seven hours to the two men. ‘Right, you go first and get into your suit,’ said Morton, stripping off his gloves. ‘Bring up a respirator for him as well, and then you can take over while I get into mine. We’ll keep him on the gas for the time being.’
    The anaesthetist needed no second bidding.
    Three hours later and despite the best efforts of Morton and the team, Vehicle Technician Robert Jackson died without ever coming round. Some two hours after that Morton and the anaesthetist started to feel ill. Both men suffered blinding headaches, stomach cramps and prolonged episodes of vomiting throughout the following night.
    ‘ Do they know what it was yet?’ gasped Morton as he found respite for a few minutes after yet another round of vomiting. He asked the question of one of his colleagues who had just wiped the sweat from his face as the sun came up over the base.
    ‘ Unidentified chemical attack is all I could get out of the commandant’s office,’ replied the young doctor.
    ‘ How about the monitoring team?’
    ‘ The technicians are saying it was Sarin but that hasn’t been confirmed.’
    ‘ What does the manual say about that?’
    ‘ The only information I could come up with comes from studies they did on volunteers a while back. According to that, you seem to be exhibiting the effects of low level exposure to the gas.’
    ‘ Christ, I wouldn’t like to find out what high level exposure feels like,’ said Morton. ‘Do we know what the long term effects are?’ he asked.
    ‘ There’s nothing at all in the manual. The official view seems to be that it’s best not to breathe it in the first place.’
    ‘ Who would have thought?’ said Morton before another bout of stomach cramps made him curl up and cry out in pain. When the pain subsided he lay back on the pillow and took a moment or two to steady himself before asking, ‘Surely they must have done follow-up studies on the volunteers?’
    ‘ I think they did.’
    ‘ Well?’
    ‘ You’re not going to believe this; the results are classified.’
    ‘ Oh, I believe it,’ exclaimed Morton. ‘The words piss-up and brewery spring to mind.’
    Both Morton and his colleague had recovered sufficiently by the following day to attend an official briefing on the scud incident. Chemical attack had not been confirmed, the assembly was informed. Contrary to rumour, the cloud in the sky witnessed by many after the missile had disintegrated had been aviation fuel catching fire. Personnel should pay no heed to rumour. There was absolutely no cause for alarm.
    Morton looked at the anaesthetist and