Oblivious to the icy blast of wind that blew open the door to the hut, ignoring the chills and the beginnings of a fever she could feel pulsing through her body, she waited patiently for the people in protective suits to arrive. But when they did appear, framed in the doorway, it was still a shock. In the clear, sub-zero air of the Arctic morning, she could see six human figures wearing full PPE as they approached the hut, clad in shiny grey chem-bio spacesuits, their faces concealed behind black respirators. Two were carrying assault rifles, a precaution she thought totally unnecessary. Why? What did they think she was going to do to them? Two more had stretchers. Chris Coppinger ventured out a few paces beyond the door of the hut to greet them, but was met immediately by a shouted command in English.

‘Get down! Do not move!’

She saw him hesitate, then raise his arms and drop slowly to his knees. One of the men had his weapon trained on her kneeling colleague. This was surely absurd. Then came another shout.

‘On the ground! Stay exactly where you are!’

Things happened in a blur after that. Sheila Mackenzie had expected to be treated with care and sensitivity, like the vulnerable patient she was. Instead, she felt more like a captive animal in a lab. Two figures wearing protective suits advanced towards her, ignoring the medical details she was trying to give them, and then they forcefully laid her on a stretcher and bound her arms tightly across her chest. Next, one placed a breathing apparatus over her mouth and nose, covering them completely, with a tube connected to a cylinder that in turn was attached to the stretcher. Her relief quickly gave way to feelings of helplessness and rage as they carried her, half jogging, towards the waiting helicopter. Unable to raise her head, she had no idea what was happening to her colleague, Chris, or to the dead man back in the hut. And why weren’t they treating her immediately? Because this headache was rapidly becoming unbearable. Nobody spoke to her.