Unsuspecting Hero Read online

  UNSUSPECTING HERO

  *****

  Roland Ladley

  The first of the Sam Green novels

  *****

  © 2019 Roland Ladley

  The right of Roland Ladley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the copyright holder.

  Typeset for print by Roland Ladley 2019

  "Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do it from religious conviction."

  Pascal

  Prologue

  7°28'52.5" N, 10°02'54.0" W - Liberian Jungle

  Nine months previously

  The rain had stopped but the air was thick with damp, and the drips from the trees fell as if the heavens were still open. If he walked in the middle of the track, one built for a ten-tonne truck but heavily disguised with overgrowth so as to appear unused, he could just about avoid getting wetter still.

  Rain and sweat. A thin, supposedly waterproof jacket clung to his soaking shirt which had moulded itself to his sweat-drenched body. It was not a good combination. And it was made worse by the rucksack he was carrying - currently empty, but soon to be full and heavy. Laden. Weighed down with fear.

  And guilt.

  It made his shoulders hunch and his neck shorten, as if he were escaping into his sodden clothes. But it wasn’t solely the wet that bore down on him. His posture matched his mood - overburdened and scared. In the next hour he would break the confidences of the people who employed him. Shatter his reputation. And turn his friends and family against him.

  I have no choice.

  He had no choice. He didn’t.

  He was doing this for his son.

  Without surgery his teenage boy would be dead in a matter of months. With surgery he had every chance of living a full life. He understood that. Indeed, he knew it within weeks of spotting the symptoms. That was because he, Joseph Tebie, was a doctor. And a good one. An expert in subtropical diseases. Arguably the best in West Africa. He had had papers published and been shortlisted for awards. The culmination of thirty-five years hard graft; training at Guy’s in London, and then half a life working out of the Connaught in Freetown. Yes, he had been kept busy fixing people during the civil war: gunshot wounds; limbs removed with a machete; kids, sick to the point of death with the drugs of war.

  But it was the malignant diseases that haunted his country which drove him. Dengue. Leishmaniasis and malaria. Ebola and onchocerciasis.

  Malaria.

  The cerebral variant had taken his dear brother.

  He had suffered it. As had his wife. Thankfully they were both immune now. And, as a doctor, he could afford prophylactics for his children. And mosquito nets. Thankfully they were reasonably safe. But countless others weren’t.

  And now the resurgence of an old menace: Ebola.

  Vomiting and diarrhoea. Loss of liver and kidney function. Fever and bleeding, both internally and from eyes and the mouth. And death. His recent calculations showed one in four had succumbed this time round in Sierra Leone.

  It was literally a plague. And it was remorselessly killing his people.

  But that wasn’t what was killing his son.

  He’d spotted his son’s illness quickly. And he knew straight away there was nothing he could do about it. Not in Sierra Leone. Or Liberia. Or any of the West African countries. What his boy desperately needed was surgery only three doctors in the world could perform. Two of whom were in the United States. The third was Indian. And he could afford none of them. He couldn’t even get close.

  Until last month

  They had offered everything. Flights, accommodation, the hospital bed, the operating room and the surgeon. Even a Green Card. He would survive. And if he wanted to stay in the US, then they would find a family to look after him as well.

  Everything.

  And that’s what drove him now - trudging behind his colleague, Arthur Wesley, as they made their way to the compound’s gate.

  ‘Keep up!’ Wesley snapped from over his shoulder.

  Joseph shuffled a bit more quickly, but the gap between him and Wesley remained the same.

  Doctor Arthur Wesley. A colleague. Technically his junior.

  But not today. Today he was the man in charge.

  They were in this together. Up to their necks. After several meetings with the thinnish, well-spoken American - with the smart, but casual, clothes, and dark hair and untanned skin - they’d both agreed to do what he’d asked.

  That was now a blur to Joseph. He might as well have been dreaming it. He was on a one-way conveyor belt with no chance of turning. He could see it was wrong. But he also knew once he’d taken the first tranche of money there was no way back.

  My son’s life.

  It drove him. Down the track, flanked by jungle. On the road that looked like it hadn’t been used for a good while, leading to nowhere.

  But it did lead somewhere.

  And Wesley had reached it.

  He was standing by a gate across the road that joined two lines of fences which disappeared left and right into the trees. The gate was a rusty, metal affair with barbed wire on top. There was a sign in English: STRICTLY NO ENTRY. The letters were red and peeling, painted on a fading white, wooden board. On passing, the gate and the accompanying fence looked old, as if it were protecting a disused mine or maybe a forgotten ranch. Not that you’d know. The jungle was thick and heavy, and the track beyond the gate twisted right after a short distance.

  But it wasn’t an old gate. And the gate wasn’t protecting a mine or a ranch. It was just made to look that way.

  If you knew of the facility, or had visited the compound as many times as Joseph, you would have spotted the low-light cameras in the trees. If you knew anything about security, you would have noticed the anti-tamper cabling that, half-hidden, ran the length of the gate and followed the fence into the trees.

  And, even if you chanced across the old path leading to the old gate, you would have thought twice about trying to discover what it was securing ...

  … because, within a few seconds of Wesley arriving at the gate, a man had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He was white. And big. He wore light brown cotton fatigues and a similarly coloured, wide-brimmed jungle hat. There was a belt carrying some tools and other ancillaries. The only visible giveaway that he was a US Marine were his black Mil-Tec, lightweight boots. You might have been more suspicious if you could have seen the slung M4 carbine obscured behind the big man’s back.

  ‘Good evening, Doctors.’ It had started to get dark and the Marine had taken a foot-long Maglite torch from his belt. He was shining it in their faces, flicking from one to the other.

  Joseph blinked instinctively.

  ‘Good evening, Corporal.’ Wesley sounded calm.

  Joseph hoped he wouldn’t have to say anything. He knew his voice would match how he felt - he would either blurt or stutter.

  ‘Usual drill, sirs. Passes, please.’

  Joseph reached for his wallet in his trouser pocket. As he picked out his credit card-sized ID, he fumbled and it fell to the floor.

  Damn!

  He quickly bent down to pick it up, the Marine’s torch following his actions. As he stood, he glanced at Wesley - who was glaring at hi
m. Joseph mouthed, ‘Sorry’. In response Wesley’s glare lost none of its intensity.

  They showed their IDs after which the corporal pressed a button on a remote that he carried on his belt. The gates whirred away from them.

  ‘How long will you be, sirs?’ The Marine asked.

  ‘Not long, Corporal.’ Wesley replied. ‘We have a little bit of unfinished business from last Friday. We have some measurements to take. I reckon, maybe half an hour? Possibly less?’

  Joseph was at Wesley’s side. His eyes switched from the Marine to the path that led into the trees. He wanted to get on. He wanted to get this over with.

  ‘OK, sirs. I’m on duty for the next couple of hours. I’ll be here and log you out when you’ve finished.’

  ‘Thanks, Corporal.’ Wesley nodded before turning and taking off down the track, with Joseph scurrying hard to keep up.

  About 50 metres from the gate the jungle cleared revealing a scruffy patch of land about the size of three tennis courts. In the middle of the clearing was a rectangular, single-storey, block-built building. At one end was a short, newly tarmacked path leading to a grey metal door. Joseph had walked around the building a couple of times. He knew there were no windows and just a further door on the opposite end of the building. The far door led to a skip, besides which was a large, metal-cased incinerator with a short chimney.

  Halfway along the building was a ladder allowing access to the roof. Joseph had not been on top of the building but, in daylight, you could make out a large satellite dish and some cabling.

  Wesley was at the grey door. He presented his pass to a small, chest-height white box. There was a low-volume ping and the door sprung open. He looked set to go in, but instead turned.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  Joseph was now just a few feet from him. The artificial light from inside highlighted his colleague’s cheek bones, but lost itself in his beard to dark greys and yellows. His eyes told a story of commitment - and excitement. Of a prize that was within his grasp. Joseph thought he saw a touch of madness as well, which didn’t surprise him.

  But it did frighten him.

  Joseph nodded. Words wouldn’t come.

  ‘Good. Let’s do this.’

  The laboratory was as they’d left it three nights ago. State-of-the-art equipment sat on gleaming metal tables; the tables standing on an immaculately polished concrete floor. There were large computer screens, which blinked and strobed. Half the wall to their right was occupied with tall, hermetically-sealed glass cases with built-in access gloves. Elsewhere there were test tubes and vials, wires and medical machines. Part of the left wall was plastered with whiteboards, which were covered with scientific scribblings. At the far end of the building were six cages: three on top of three. They were big enough to hold a fully grown chimpanzee. But only just. Five were empty. Their occupants hadn’t made it through the week - instead, they had made it to the incinerator.

  One was occupied. Top-left. There was a sign on the cage. It was impossible to read from this distance, but Joseph knew what it said. He had filled it in ten days ago: Sheba. F. 5.6 yrs. Ebola. And there was a date.

  The monkey was lying down. It gingerly lifted its head to greet the two doctors. But did little more. Joseph knew Sheba would be dead within a couple of days. He grimaced to himself. There was so much more they should be doing.

  ‘Come on Joseph! Here!’

  Whilst Joseph dithered, Wesley was already standing next to two identical tubes, both the size of a fire extinguisher. The pair were attached to a small contraption which had a dial and some metal fins - it looked like a three-quarter-sized, scuba-diving rig. The equipment was Joseph’s. He had designed it. The US military had taken just two months to turn his blueprint into a working prototype. And, impressively, only a month longer to deliver a fully functioning equivalent.

  He slid his backpack off and opened the top.

  Wesley lifted the contraption and initially struggled to get it past the toggle and cord which ran round the top of the sack.

  ‘Careful!’ Joseph spat out a whisper. They really couldn’t afford to drop it.

  Wesley ignored him and pressed on with pushing the equipment into the backpack.

  ‘There.’ He said when he was finished. ‘Put it on.’

  Joseph pulled the cord tight and then flopped the lid of the backpack in place, securing the clips. He then tentatively put the pack on his back.

  He and Wesley were only a couple of feet apart. He stared at the man who had brought intense opportunity and likely immense disaster to his door. Wesley was in it for the glory. His deranged, unhinged smile painted that picture.

  And Joseph hated him …

  … but not enough to stop?

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Wesley’s words squeezed out through the smile. ‘Over there!’

  Joseph hesitated. He feigned movement, and then paused. He had this one opportunity. To stop the madness. To prevent whatever it was the American was going to ask them to do next.

  …

  The impasse lasted maybe a second, but to Joseph it felt a good deal longer.

  Neither of them spoke.

  Then Joseph moved.

  Decision made. His son had played the trump card as Joseph always knew he would.

  Five steps later he was next to the monkey cage and standing over three orange propane cylinders, one of which had an attached hose. One working; two spare.

  He looked at Sheba. She met his gaze and, almost imperceptibly, cocked her head.

  ‘Sorry.’ It was a whisper.

  He turned the handles on both canisters. Hissing became a gush. The smell almost instantly overwhelming.

  Sheba, with monumental effort, clawed herself away from the sound until she was as far from the noise as her cage would allow her.

  ‘Come on!’ A shout from the far corner of the room by the door.

  Joseph didn’t look at the chimp again. Instead he moved quickly down the laboratory until he was beside Wesley.

  ‘Move!’ Wesley shouted.

  He didn’t wait for further instructions. In three strides he was outside of the building, turning to check Wesley was following him.

  And then the finality of it all. The loss of two years’ work and embarking on a journey to hell which was, as yet, unclear to him. Wesley was framed in the door of the lab, his silhouette blocking the light which was trying its best to escape from the building. In one hand he had a paper bin. In the other, a lit torch made from rolled-up documents. He forced the fire into the bin, placing it onto the floor.

  And, as he kicked the bin further into the room, Joseph could have sworn he heard Sheba scream.

  Psychiatrist’s Office, Military Wing, Frimley Park Hospital, Surrey, England

  ‘Well, Sam, you understand that this is the end of our consultations?’ The psychiatrist looked directly at his patient who was sitting on the other side of his desk. She stared straight through him, her face emotionless.

  Sergeant Sam Green remained very still, exactly as she had been at every session since her therapy had begun. Her knees were together and her hands were clasped, resting on her lap. The only thing about her that moved were her eyes which, originally stationary, now darted around the room. Perhaps, he thought, they were looking for answers? Even her voice was level, hiding any feeling. Doctor Allen put that down to her military training. But he knew there was a lot of other stuff going on in her head, much of which he hadn’t been able to access.

  ‘Yes, I know that, sir.’ A flat response. The ‘sir’ almost a polite afterthought.

  The ending hadn’t come unexpectedly. They had talked about it over a number of weeks, of the best way to move forward with her rehabilitation. He had got as far as he could and so, with her agreement, they had decided the next leg of her journey would not be with the Army. Today she would be signed off, discharged from the Services and transferred into the care of the National Health Service. It was a big change, but one he thought was for the best.
Sergeant Green needed a significant event in her world to help her break away from the traumatic and complex memories that confused her mind. To unleash the demons and let them fly.

  ‘Your medical release will be signed today. I believe you have a meeting with your NHS consultant later on this afternoon?’

  Sam glanced behind her at the clock on the wall. ‘At fourteen hundred,’ she confirmed.

  Still emotionless.

  When she looked back at him, he smiled a weak smile. Today was a big day for Sam Green. Her entire existence had been centred on the Army and suddenly she was no longer fit for service. Off to join the civilian world, an event far more terrifying than a battlefield for a lot of his patients. A world that didn’t recognise ‘fourteen hundred’ as a time of day. A complicated place, without boundaries and often without rules. She would have to lead a life devoid of squads and platoons, without instant companionship and constant banter. An amorphous place where self-reliance was challenging and teamwork a rare discovery. He knew he was taking a chance letting her go, but something had to change.

  ‘Before we finish, is there anything else you would like to say, Sam?’ Doctor Allen instinctively looked at his watch. He knew his patient would never run a second over time. Good military training.

  ‘Nothing else to add, sir.’ Again, her tone was distant – her eyes now almost misted over.

  After such trauma it was not unusual for a soldier to close down, to hide from the outside and look within. But Sergeant Sam Green had managed it to the extreme. They had talked, he had advised, but there had always been a wall between them. An effective wall, swiftly constructed by her. And even now, after all the time they had spent together, their goodbye would be brief.

  The clock hit the hour and Sam was on her feet without being asked. She met his gaze.

  ‘Thank you for your honesty and support, doctor.’

  Doctor Allen nodded. ‘Good luck with your next steps, Sam.’