13 Days to Die

by Matt Miksa

  Wang was just relieved that General Huang hadn’t asked about the reporter. He cursed his contact at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs for taking so long to deliver the American’s dossier.

  After a pair of blundering MSS intelligence officers picked up the reporter at Beijing International, Wang had managed to wrestle away all of their transportation responsibilities. The entire epidemiological investigation team had traveled to the TAR on General Huang’s private jet, under the military’s close watch. Babysitting the American had already consumed considerable resources and attention. President Li’s insistence on media transparency was not only naïve but also unnecessarily risky. The 2PLA didn’t have sufficient time to thoroughly vet the foreigner. He could be anyone.

  Sitting at his computer, Wang entered a pass code—the first of three needed to access his top-secret email. When his in-box finally loaded, he groaned. Nothing from the MFA. He’d follow up with his friend in the morning.

  Alone in the dark office, Wang considered the general’s latest order. Huang’s hostility toward Taipei seemed excessively nostalgic, he thought. Mao Zedong had chased the Nationalists off the mainland seventy years ago. The rebels had built a thriving society on the little island, thanks to American protection, and it drove Beijing mad. Mao had desperately wanted Taiwan back, and a generation later, men like General Huang kept the fantasy alive, clinging to the wistful ambition of China’s founding strongman.

  As far as Wang was concerned, Taiwan was a twenty-two-thousand-square-mile floating turd. An unflushable nuisance. A hostile seizure would bring about a crushing international backlash. And yet, dropping the matter would provoke the ire of prideful mainlanders. Zhongnanhai couldn’t risk losing face with 1.4 billion citizens. So, for decades, Beijing had walked the high wire, careful not to fall on either side of the issue. Meanwhile, cross-strait trade blossomed, cultural and educational exchanges abounded, and each side prospered under the tacit entente. The delicate balance, for all its deficiencies, preserved the peace.

  Or it had until about five months ago.

  When the people of democratic Taiwan elected President Tang Chen-wai, they had sent a strong message to Beijing. Tang had run on a platform of independence, and his fiery calls for Taiwanese sovereignty had ignited his people’s passions. He won by a landslide. Taiwan was primed for change.

  Tang made global headlines with a fervent plea to the United Nations General Assembly: recognize an independent Taiwan, or condemn it to generations of humiliation at the mercy of an oppressive regime. Mere theatrics. China’s veto would squash any such motion. Nevertheless, Tang had broadcast his message loud and clear. He’d walked right up to China’s proverbial tightrope, swinging a sword.

  If Wang leaked Taiwan’s involvement in the epidemic, it would light a fuse, and General Huang had to know the consequences of such a strategy. Why take the risk? Wang thought about his visit to Huang’s quarters earlier that night. His boss had been drinking, but certainly he hadn’t been drunk.

  Huang had Mao on his mind, that much was clear. The general had become increasingly obsessed with the departed chairman, which possibly explained Huang’s erratic temperament. Mao Zedong had thrived on chaos, intentionally inflaming the masses, even when doing so seemed counterintuitive to the Communist cause. Early in his ascendency to power, Mao had encouraged the people to “bombard the headquarters” of his own Party simply to eliminate his more powerful political rivals. Was this General Huang’s strategy too? Did he want to leak patient zero’s identity as a Taiwanese spy to incite public outcry? The disclosure could result in a ruinous backlash against President Li’s administration.

  Whatever the general’s reasons, orders were orders. The leak had to appear to have originated from within the Taiwanese government. Otherwise, the Western press would dismiss it as Chinese propaganda.

  Wang reached under his desk and pressed a button on a console. The button lit up, indicating covert mode. The console scrambled his keystrokes and randomly rerouted his IP address through dummy servers scattered across the Asia-Pacific. With the simple push of a button, Wang became a ghost.

  The lieutenant logged into an anonymous 163.com email account and created a new message. The note would contain a single word, yet its potential impact was immeasurable. Wang attached an image to the email. It was the same photograph of patient zero plastered on the front page of every global newspaper—the unremarkable head shot of a twentysomething Asian man staring blankly into the camera—but Wang’s version wasn’t cropped tight around the man’s face. He attached the full, original image, a photograph of Chang Yingjie’s official Taiwanese government ID. The uncropped image revealed the man’s true name, birthday, and rank as a consul of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Republic of China, Taiwan. The last bit was false. The man actually worked for the National Security Bureau—Taiwan’s civilian intelligence arm—but with minimal investigation, the press would discover he’d been stationed throughout Africa under diplomatic cover. The prototypical résumé of a spy.

  Wang didn’t enter a recipient’s email address. He didn’t intend to send the message. Following the same hackneyed—yet still surprisingly efficient—method employed by Al-Qaeda terrorists, Wang saved the email as a draft and closed the browser. A well-placed asset within President Tang’s administration would log into the same 163.com account the next morning to discover the draft email. The contact would undoubtedly recoil from its bombshell attachment, but the instructions would be unambiguous, as explained by the note’s simple message: Meiti.

  Media.

  CHAPTER

  16

  Dzongsar Village, Tibetan Autonomous Region, People’s Republic of China

  “EX-HUSBAND,” JO CLARIFIED as Amy revved the Jeep’s muscular V8 engine.

  Dr. Sun Ru had first caught Jo’s attention at an academic conference on zoonotic viruses—pathogens that jumped from animals to humans. Ru was a third-year resident in the University of Hong Kong virology department and Jo was a fresh-faced virologist just out of medical school. The two doctors snickered in the back row of the world’s dullest presentation on bovine tuberculosis and eventually ditched the stuffy auditorium for the hotel bar. Five drinks and two years later, they married at an enchanting lake house near Guilin. Jo was elated. The two things she loved most in life, science and Ru, had merged beautifully.

  The wedding bliss faded almost immediately. Long hours in the lab, followed by longer stints in the field, created distance that went beyond the physical. Jo was prepared to make those personal sacrifices for the sake of scientific discovery. Ru was not.

  The couple’s second anniversary approached, and Jo was fourteen hundred miles away in Guangdong Province investigating an outbreak of avian flu. Ru urged her to return home. He’d made a reservation at their favorite restaurant, right on the lake, in Beijing’s Houhai district. Jo refused. She was close to determining the disease’s primary vector—probably a sick duck at a swampy street market. Hundreds had died already. Jo couldn’t just leave. Didn’t Ru understand?

  Nevertheless, guilt overcame her. She’d neglected her husband. Again. There would always be another outbreak, but only one Ru. Jo left her team and hopped a late flight to Beijing. Shortly after midnight, her taxi pulled up to her apartment building. The windows were dark. Ru had probably turned in for the night. As expected, she found him in the bedroom, but he wasn’t asleep. Neither was the twenty-year-old research assistant clawing at his naked back.

  Jo had never loved Ru as much as she loved her job. But he should have confronted her, ended it, moved on. Jo could have forgiven Ru for betraying her trust—everyone had secrets—but she couldn’t stay married to a coward. That was worse. The divorce was swift and final.

  Separation from Ru had been easier than expected. Jo felt liberated from her nagging guilt and immersed herself in her work. Her career soared. The Ministry of Health promoted her to national director of epidemiology before her thirty-third birthday. She’d never felt more fulfilled.
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  Ru, meanwhile, remarried quickly. The moaning research assistant had turned out to be more than a fling. Now, Ru and Jo rarely spoke—she simply had nothing to say—but the two doctors crossed paths professionally from time to time. Every virologist in China was searching for answers to the Blood River virus outbreak. Jo had assumed they’d bump into one another eventually, but she hadn’t known Ru was working inside the Q-Zone. He’d probably wanted it that way.

  * * *

  Amy expertly navigated the Jeep through the waterlogged roadway. The vehicle’s rear tires flung bits of mud in its wake. The storm had passed, and the moon’s blue light painted the midnight sky. Whitewashed buildings glowed shades of indigo with an apocalyptic iridescence. The village appeared completely deserted except for a stray dog resting in a patch of tall grass. The animal lifted its head curiously as the Jeep approached. Its eyes shone in the headlights.

  “Dogs are unaffected by the virus,” Amy pointed out, as if obligated to explain the presence of life.

  “Thanks back there, by the way,” Jo said. “Those guards would’ve turned us away.”

  “They would have done worse than that. Believe me,” Amy said. “Everyone’s had ants in their pants since we went to level three. What were you thinking, bringing an American? At least tell me he’s a doctor. We could use the help.”

  “He’s a writer,” Jo answered.

  “Oh, great. I was just thinking we were short on secretaries in the Q-Zone,” Amy quipped.

  “I’m a journalist—a reporter for the AP,” Olen explained.

  “He’s been cleared by President Li’s office. He’s a little nosy but strong as a bull. Really great for hauling gear. Just try to be nice to him,” Jo said, eliciting a grin from Olen.

  Amy rolled her eyes. “Okeydokey, boss.” She tilted her head toward the back seat but kept her eyes fixed on the road. “Hey, man. I’m Amy Chow, field director and hot zone tour guide. So, as long as you’re in Dzongsar, that makes me the sheriff of your ass. Stay out of the way and we’ll be best buds.”

  Olen bowed his head. “As you wish, Sheriff.”

  The windshield fogged up. Olen cranked his window down to let in a blast of cool air. The breeze smelled sulfurous, the way he imagined hell would smell.

  After winding up a steep slope, they arrived at the base of an enormous structure. Amy threw the Jeep into park. The building looked ancient. Intricate geometric patterns were carved into the colorful trim of its multitiered roofs. The edifice rose regally from the crest of a hill overlooking Dzongsar Village. Olen was awestruck by its magnificence. Amy dismounted from the driver’s seat and rushed toward a stone staircase leading up to the building’s palatial entrance. Olen and Jo scrambled to catch up.

  “What is this place?” Olen asked.

  “We set up shop here last week,” Amy replied. “The lab’s in the main building, and the clinic is in the annex along the western side. The monastery’s isolation from the village made it a perfect choice. Plus, the dormitory has almost two hundred beds.”

  “Monastery?” Olen was confused. “You just seized a sacred religious landmark?”

  “We didn’t seize anything. The monastery is the property of the People’s Republic of China,” Amy answered defensively.

  “What about the monks?” Olen pressed as the group reached the apex of the staircase. “Weren’t they sleeping in the dormitory? Where did they go?”

  Amy didn’t immediately answer, so Olen took a moment to survey the area. The view was spectacular. A light fog flowed down forested hillsides and washed over the ancient village nestled within the valley’s cozy pocket. From this elevated vantage point, Olen could see flames flickering on the far edge of the Q-Zone.

  Amy paused to catch her breath. She pointed to the distant bonfire. “We had to burn the monks’ bodies.” A column of black smoke rose from the fire.

  “How many have died from the infection?” Olen asked.

  “A hundred and eighty-seven,” Amy replied. She pounded her fist against the monastery’s colossal iron doors. The deep bellow resonated through the metal like a macabre moan. “The virus swept through the monastery in about three days. We considered demolishing the place. Fortunately, decontamination was successful, and we moved in.” The entrance creaked open. “We’ve got to hurry. Dr. Sun is in critical condition.”

  Inside, Amy led the group down a dark hallway that spilled into a sprawling foyer. Long plastic sheets draped the walls. A single halogen floodlight attached to a metal tripod reflected orange light off the lofted ceiling. Olen heard the soft hum of a diesel generator. The entire place smelled like bleach.

  Two oblong pods, each about ten feet tall, stood side by side next to a steel table. They looked like alien spacecraft. Each egg-shaped capsule opened in the front by way of a bowed doorway that molded to the container’s curved shape.

  “Decontamination chambers,” Amy explained. “The pods use focused ultraviolet light to eradicate any viral remnants or infected biological material clinging to skin or clothes. No one leaves the provisional laboratory without going through a decon cycle. You’ll see these outside the clinic too. They’re super cozy. Like being in the womb.”

  A stack of powder-blue hospital gowns, individually packaged in milky plastic, lay on the metal table. Next to the gowns were three cardboard boxes containing surgical masks, latex gloves, and goggles. Jo and Amy tore into the packages.

  “This is the best protection we can get without full-body condoms,” Amy remarked.

  “Body condoms?” Olen echoed.

  “That’s what Dr. Chow calls the positive-pressure suits,” Jo explained, with noticeable irritation. She turned back to business. “Remember to double up on gloves. Keep your mask and goggles on at all times once we’re inside the clinic.”

  Amy swiftly tied her shoulder-length hair into a stubby plume on top of her head. “And try not to freak out, okay?”

  The threesome dashed through an open courtyard carved into the heart of the monastery. A handful of laboratory staff whisked across the enclosure, each clad in identical powder-blue gowns, their faces obscured by the same white masks. No one made eye contact, as if even superficial human interaction could transmit the disease.

  Amy led them down a narrow corridor lined with smooth limestone. Thick curtains made of plastic strips partitioned the passageway about every ten feet, creating pockets of musty air. The strips slapped together as the group pushed through. Each section of the hallway felt slightly warmer than the last.

  “The main building connects to the annex through here,” Amy informed. “We have to conserve power, so the generators only feed electricity to the lab, clinic, and staff quarters. It should warm up in a sec.”

  They emerged from the hallway into the clinic’s makeshift lobby. Olen squinted under the bright lights. An assortment of medical equipment emitted a chorus of mechanical beeping. In the center of the space was a simple nurses’ station composed of two tables, an array of plastic bins, and a laptop. Olen had expected the clinic to be buzzing with activity, but the room was eerily calm.

  Then three masked nurses almost tackled Olen to the ground when they burst through a wooden door directly behind him. The women sprinted across the lobby, pushing a gurney carrying a grotesque pulp of black-and-blue flesh. The sick man’s face swelled with purple veins that bulged like spider webs across his cheeks. Black foam collected at the corners of his mouth. Olen had never seen anything so hideous.

  The patient looked like a three-day-old corpse pulled from the Hudson River. Yet somehow the man was alive. His bloodshot eyes, sunken deep into his skull, darted chaotically around the room. He jerked and thrashed while the nurses struggled to restrain him. His violent coughs spattered thick, bloody mucus across the white sheet hanging loosely across his bare torso.

  “He can’t breathe,” one nurse yelled to Amy in English. “His air passages are completely blocked. We tried to intubate, but his throat is too swollen. We’re taking him to the OR for
an emergency tracheotomy.”

  “Copy that,” Amy said. “We’ll need to sedate him or else we’ll slice his carotid. Prepare fifty milliliters of ketamine and meet us in OR three,” Amy ordered the nurse.

  Olen and Jo followed closely as the nurses expertly guided the gurney into an intensely lit operating room.

  “This man must be at least four, five days in from initial infection,” Jo observed.

  “No. He was strong as an ox just twenty-four hours ago,” Amy said.

  The blood drained from Jo’s face. “The virus is mutating faster.”

  Amy nodded.

  “He’s medical staff. Who is he?” Jo asked.

  “You don’t recognize him? Dr. Zhou, it’s Ru.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  Beijing, People’s Republic of China

  WANG SWITCHED OFF covert mode, and the screen flashed back to his in-box. He’d just received a new message. The subject line read, Begin countdown to Haikou heavenly massage. Wang grinned. His MFA contact had a terrible weakness for paid companionship.

  The email had two attachments. The first was a PDF named Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Information Sheet—STONE, KIPTON. The second was a JPEG image file. Wang opened the PDF first and scanned the text.

  Stone was a veteran field reporter, about the same age as Wang. Degree in journalism and media communications from American University. Spoke English, French, and passable German. Parents deceased. Only known family an older sister in Alexandria, Virginia. Recent stints in Egypt, Poland, Sudan, Turkey. Never China. Strange choice, Wang thought. Though no red flags. The journalist seemed fairly mundane. On paper, the man was clean.