The Aurora Journals Read online

  THE AURORA JOURNALS

  The Story of Dr. Pip Lawrence

  Part One

  The Story of Dr. Pip Lawrence, is a prelude companion series to the Aurora Conspiracy series, allowing us an exciting glimpse into the history behind our heroine’s extra-ordinary abilities, from the perspective of her grandfather.

  Part One, uncovers the truth behind the family's lineage and how they became entangled in government controversy and intrigue. In a race to protect those he loves, Pip is forced to comply with the dubious commands of more than one powerful international group. Can he devise a plan to circumvent their hold over him?

  The four-part series will be made available to those in my readers group without charge, then released for sale shortly after. I take privacy seriously, and you can leave the group any time you wish.

  The first novel in the Aurora Conspiracy series, The Aurora Mandate, will be released soon. For more information, please visit www.samnash.org

  How would you prevent the government from weaponising your mind?

  When a mild-mannered lab technician exhibits extraordinary gifts, she becomes vulnerable to exploitation by a secret military terror cell. To compound her anguish, she uncovers evidence to suggest that her neuro-scientist husband is manipulating her as part of a government weaponry experiment.

  A fast paced, action packed science fiction conspiracy thriller you won’t want to miss.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2018 by Sam Nash All rights reserved.

  No part of this book, or any portion thereof, may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher or author.

  Cover art supplied by Carantoc Publishing

  First release 2018

  ISBN 978-1-9999960-0-0

  Carantoc Publishing Ltd.

  www.carantocpublishing.com

  Please note that this product was created by a British author. Except for slang and dialogue, spelling and grammar is corrected to British English. There are also scenes which may offend more sensitive readers. It is not deemed suitable for children.

  Monday July 23rd 1990 - Brighton, England.

  I awoke, but in waking was still in dream. Dawn invaded with its unwelcome ally once again, a dark scene of pain and torment that left the bile of regret. It has been some time since my last forewarning of tragedy, but this one will haunt me until it comes to pass. I have no idea how long this vision will take to fully play out, but I do know that many will suffer as a result.

  I saw burning flesh and young skin eaten by corrosive vapour. I saw stout men wither and collapse. Deformed children cradled in the arms of weakened mothers. And courtroom battles debated and lost. So strong, so vehement were their convictions, I wept.

  My day did not improve. I struggled through my patient list of skin rashes, coughs and depressives to come home to the news report that Saddam Hussein has moved thirty-thousand military personnel to the Kuwait border. In response, the US Naval forces are on alert. The BBC claim that urgent talks are to take place in neighbouring Saudi Arabia, but I fear that events have escalated too far for a resolution.

  I returned to my bed, as sombre as I left it this morning. Perhaps a good night’s sleep will restore my faith in mankind.

  Tuesday 24th July 1990

  I thought there had been a murder. My son rang me in desperation, begging me to drive over to their house in Hove. The noise in the background was deafening. Lily had finally lost all patience with David. By the time I arrived, I could see from the open front door that she was hurling half the china from her wedding list, across the dining room at him. As tempting as it was to interfere, I held my tongue and sneaked in.

  Poor Mary was sitting on the stairs, peeking between the spindles of the banisters, sobbing her little heart out. She saw me, then jumped up, clinging her arms around my neck, tears streaming down her pudgy red face. “Wanna get doughnuts from the pier?” I whispered into the tangled mess of her hair.

  “Can we have ice cream too, Grampy?”

  I nodded. She ran up the stairs to get Mubbs, the ubiquitous teddy, while I lined up her welly boots and raincoat. David signed the thumbs up to me, then dodged another projectile from his hysterical wife. He knew she was unstable when he married her, but I could not reason with him. She had pierced his heart with a barb so twisted that no amount of disgorging could release him. In her defence, he is no picnic to live with either, and that is a hard fact for a father to admit.

  I strapped my darling girl into the passenger seat of the Volvo, and drove along the coastal road into town. The wind had picked up and salt spray lashed the promenade beyond the high tide mark. We parked by the Grand Hotel, put up our hoods, and marched through the puddles to the pier. Just a few foolhardy tourists and a desperate mime act, sheltered on the leeward side of the windbreak.

  Fortified with sticky carbs, Mary made a beeline for the amusement arcade. I broke a tenner at the change booth, and followed her to the grab machine. Right in the centre of the heaped-up toys, was a creature that can only be described as a psychedelic possum. Mary’s eyes almost popped out of her head. It was love at first sight. Mubbs fell from the crook of her arm onto the dirty lino floor. She jiggled with excitement as I fed the machine my coins and crouched down next to her teddy. Balancing on my knee, she reached up to the controls and levered them this way and that, lacking finesse. The time ran out, sending the grab hand into retreat. “You do it, Grampy. I want…that one.” That’s when I knew I would not see any change from my tenner.

  By the fifth attempt, my hands were cramping and Mary was kicking her boots against the machine base. I looked around to see if multicoloured marsupials were for sale elsewhere, but to no avail. The sixth attempt came and went in a flash. I had enough cash on me for one more go. Mary glared up through the glass, while I sub-consciously twisted my shoulders in unison with the mechanical claw. I nudged the controls with caution, lining up with the creature’s tail. I could see the time ticking away on the digital countdown at the back of the machine. Pressing the grab button, I chanted please, please, please, inside my head, as the claw lowered and dragged its metal fingers over the possum, then lifted. Mary was ecstatic, clapping and jumping up and down, until the toy slipped from the claw and landed softly on its stuffed friends beneath.

  If I had not have seen it for myself, I would never have believed it possible. Her former elation morphed into a tantrum of monumental proportions. She kicked out her little feet and pounded on the metal casing of the machine. “It’s not fair!” she screamed. How could I explain to a four-year-old that amusement games are never fair? No amount of persuasion or soothing would console her.

  After the frantic wailing, she became very still. The balled-up temper funnelling through her narrowed eyes and hands that gripped the corner of the base. Within seconds, the machine emitted a strange buzzing sound, the digital game clock reset itself to zero then shut off entirely. Electric blue sparks, shot from the claw and armature. “Oh, Mary, I think it’s broken.” I said, steeling myself for more histrionics, inherited from her mother.

  Reaching up on tip-toe, Mary grabbed at the levers. “No Grampy, it’s still working…see?” Her tantrum ceased, the fury gone.

  “But that’s impossible.” I tested the controls. The claw moved. The digital signs and coloured lights were all extinguished.

  “You can get my toy now.” She said, peering up at the dangling mechanism. And sure enough, I retrieved her marsupial on
my first attempt.

  Giving Percy the rainbow possum, a crushing hug, Mary walked out of the arcade a happy little girl. I scooped up a dejected Mubbs from the floor and trailed after her, still in shock. Had Mary shorted the circuits in that machine? How did it still work with no electronic control? It was not the first outburst I had witnessed from little Miss Lawrence, but never before had I seen such a directed force. My heart sank at the thought. If this is the beginning of what I think it might be, we are all in for a very rocky ride.

  On our return to David’s house, we found him packing the last of his equipment into his cases, surrounded by sharp debris and stacked folders. “Where’s Lily?” I asked, already knowing the response. David sighed and pointed upwards. She had taken to their bedroom and locked the door.

  He knelt down to address his pensive daughter. “Mary, sweetheart. I have to go on another lecture tour for a while. I will telephone you as often as I can, to tell you how much I love you.” He kissed her forehead, then both cheeks. “Be good while I’m away, won’t you?”

  Mary nodded, and then turned to help pack the snakes of electric cables into his suitcase. David stood up and grasped my arm. “Can you take care of Mary tonight, Dad? I’m sure that Lily will come to her senses by the morning.” His frown looked less convinced by his words. I agreed, but warned him that leaving a fractured marriage mid fight, was courting further trouble. He just gestured towards the stacks of bespoke electronics around him. “I have no other choice.”

  I packed a few essentials in a wheeled suitcase with a picture of a pony printed on its flanks, then waited for Mary to choose which of her stuffed friends would be joining her for the night. After much deliberation, Rainbow Percy received hearty kisses and then found himself wedged beneath the handle of the case. I took a second look, back into Mary’s room, and then grabbed Mubbs.

  After a protracted round of farewells, we set off. I stopped the Volvo at an ATM machine, and then bought a posy of violets from a nearby florist. It’s only a minor detour to the cemetery from there. I felt the need to reconnect. Mary was so well behaved, happy to grub about in the wet grass, tidying away the dead flowers and positioning the posy central to the granite headstone. I wish my Minnie had lived long enough to meet her granddaughter. They are so much alike. We stayed as long as I could bear the pull of sorrow tearing at my insides, then headed for home.

  Thank God, I had stocked up on frozen pizzas during my last shop. Mary wolfed down three slices and almost two scoops of Neapolitan, before settling down in front of a Disney video until bath time. It was then, I got a phone call from the Under-Secretary of Defence. The Health Minister had given her my name. A time-sensitive issue, apparently, only I would do. I explained that I had retrained and was now a GP, but that failed to dissuade her. She said that their former chief immunologist was involved in a fatal accident and that I was required to report first thing in the morning to GCHQ Porton Down. I didn’t see that coming.

  Wednesday 25th July 1990

  Mary was not happy about the early start. She fought me tooth and nail getting dressed, then flicked her cereal all over the kitchen floor as payback. I rang Lily twice before we left, but she wasn’t picking up. Mary would not settle in the car until I had strapped both Percy and Mubbs into the backseat. Why is it kids choose to play up when time is a limiting factor? I just got her into the passenger seat when I heard the phone going in the house. I ran back, unlocked the door, and then stretched the cable to its fullest length so I could eye-ball Mary and talk at the same time. Would you credit it? The bloody locum hadn’t arrived to cover for me. Thankfully, Doc Wildman agreed to squeeze my patients onto his list till the locum got there - must remember to get him a bottle of something to say thanks.

  I have to admit, I broke the speed limit more than once in my dash over to David’s place. I knocked, rang the bell and shouted through the letterbox, but either she had gone to stay at a friend’s house, or Lily was deliberately ignoring me. There was no other option but to take Mary with me.

  ‘A’ roads all the way to Winchester and ‘B’ roads from there to Porton, What a nightmare. The owner of every tractor and horsebox from Brighton to Timbuktu, picked today to travel. I think Mary sensed my growing frustration. She sat with her feet resting against the glovebox, singing along tunelessly to Radio One all the way. It was only when we reached the green light at the gated barrier that she got fidgety and said she needed a wee.

  I gave my name and contact reference to the armed guard with the clipboard, who ticked his paper, then glared at my passenger. His colleague peered in at Percy and Mubbs and chuckled.

  “Your passenger’s name, sir?” He asked, without a single glimmer of mirth.

  “Mary Lawrence. I understand your concerns, officer,” I pleaded, “but I was called here on an emergency and I was unable to secure childcare.”

  His face a picture of indifference. “This is extremely irregular, sir. I suggest you withdraw and obtain the correct dispensation for your ward before attempting to gain entry.”

  “I can assure you, I have no desire to be here, but the Defence Secretary requested my immediate presence. Can you phone through and ask on my behalf, please?”

  “This really is no place for a child, sir. Neither is it suitable for possums and bears.” Still, his face did not crack.

  “Then on your head be it, when the MoD discover that you turned me away.” That seemed to stir him from impassivity. He nodded to his colleague who strutted to the hut and made a telephone call. Mary was crossing and re-crossing her legs, her face screwed up in an effort to hold in the contents of her bladder.

  Eventually, they allowed us into the compound. I drove through the gates and past officers armed with sub-machine guns. Unsettling signs adorned every razor wire topped fence, labelling the scorched farmland as a hazardous area. I parked in a reserved bay, near to the Public Health building.

  We were met at the front entrance by a nice lady, who seemed utterly charmed by Mary. She introduced herself as Denise, then whisked Mary away into the nearest cloakroom, while I hung my visitor’s badge around my neck and began suiting up in the Haz gear. The look on Mary’s face was a picture when she saw her old Grampy, head to toe in blue plastic overalls and respiratory mask.

  Denise assured me that she would find a patient young person to sit with Mary in the staff room, while I reviewed their study protocols. It was only a formality, of course. Their work is exemplary. Another box ticking exercise before the real job began. After reviewing their equipment set up and procedures, I quizzed the lead practitioner for the study, then walked through to the animal room.

  I have never been able to reconcile the need to use animals with my love for them. When you look into a rhesus macaque’s eyes, you see more than despair. There is a level of pity that transcends species, a deep-seated sorrow for the loss of humanity. No other animal would treat another creature in so heinous a fashion.

  Formalities completed, I decontaminated and followed the team into the staff room. Mary was sitting on the carpet, adding biro moustaches and devil horns to the actors from the brochure. Denise, made me a coffee and I sat gingerly on the edge of the banquet seating. “So, what is this really all about?” I said in hushed tones to the temporary team leader, Ian. “I can see no fault in your experimental protocols. Why is the Defence Secretary ordering a review of practices?”

  Denise piped up. “Quite simply because he didn’t like the answers we arrived at following the tests.” Ian glared her into silence for her comment.

  I lowered my voice further still. “What was the directive?”

  The immunologist avoided eye contact. Something had clearly frightened him into reticence. He swallowed hard, then whispered. “To bulk load troops with multiple vaccines against bioweapon attack, within twenty-four hours of deployment.”

  I could not conceal my shock. They seem to wait for the full ramifications to filter through my mind, watching my expression change from
disbelief to incredulity, then finally to resignation. I had experienced impossible directives from on high before. I knew full well, the united strength the MoD possessed, and the irrefutable backing given to them by the cabinet ministers. “How many vaccines?”

  The technician and immunologist exchanged a look that told me to prepare myself for the answer. Denise leaned in and said, “twenty-eight.”

  I was speechless. All I could do was breathe. In my mind’s eye, I envisioned twenty-eight pathogens swarming through a bloodstream, outnumbering the white blood cells, immune systems failing in a Blitzkrieg of viral overload. I came to my senses. “Are they all licenced?” Another uncomfortable round of looks ensued.

  Ian shook his head, “two experimental.”

  “Dear God…” was all I could say. I looked down at Mary. She had finished colouring in the official brochure and was doodling on a copy of yesterday’s newspaper. The broadsheet photograph showed convoys of US Naval ships manoeuvring in the Persian Gulf. The US and our government, are gearing up for war.

  My thoughts drifted to the impromptu lecture tour that my son had been called out on, with his multitude of gadgets and their classified usage. I recalled his apprehension during his lengthy goodbyes to his daughter. His flapping about, looking for his passport and anti-malarial medication. Was he on his way to Jeddah as part of a covert surveillance mission for Saddam’s negotiations? If only he could level with Lily about his real job. It might save his marriage.

  I snapped back to the matter at hand. “And what findings did the former chief immunologist present?”

  Ian dropped his gaze to his restless hands. He picked at the edges of his nails until a sizeable flap could be bitten off. “He reported the truth.” And then quieter still, he said. “That it is an extremely inadvisable vaccine schedule.”