The Viral Epiphany

by Richard McSheehy

  “I don’t know, Harry. I’ve found that Charlie’s instincts are usually pretty good. He’s been around a long time, and let’s face it, Ireland’s not exactly on the cutting edge of technology.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. But that’s not really true. Ireland has a huge pharmaceutical industry. It goes way back to the days of the Celtic Tiger.”

  “Celtic Tiger? What are you talking about, Harry? Look, let’s hold off on that for a little while, OK? I want to talk to some other people first. Meanwhile, keep up your search for a vaccine. I have a lot of faith in you people down there.”

  President Cranston hung up and then dialed the number for General Baker at Omega headquarters. “General Baker,” he said, skipping any pleasantries, “I’m calling to get an independent assessment of our progress on fighting the disease. How do your analysts see things?”

  “It’s not good, Mr. President. Of course, up here in Alaska and deep underground, we’re not in any danger, but there doesn’t seem to be any progress in slowing the disease. We are projecting that the next hot spot will be San Francisco now. We’re developing mathematical models of how the spread of the disease accelerates once a certain number of people have contracted it. It’s sort of like how a fire gets going slowly and then really takes off, you know?”

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  “Yes, sir. Well, San Francisco has a lot in common with Honolulu – lots of Asian connections. We think that’s why the spread of the disease is really starting to pick up there. Let me see…” he picked up a set of papers and found the one he was looking for, “There were five thousand deaths in San Francisco last week. Given that number, factoring in the population density, and using the disease propagation coefficient we have determined, it looks like there will be over ten thousand deaths this week there. The numbers go up very fast after that. There’ll be thirty thousand the week after,” he said without a trace of emotion.

  President Cranston rubbed his forehead while he thought about what he had heard. Then he simply said, “What then?”

  “Somewhere along the line there will be mass panic. People will bail out of the city any way they can. The army won’t be able to stop them.”

  “And that will happen in the other cities too?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s only a matter of time. That’s what we predict. Right now the rural areas are pretty much OK because the disease is mostly in the cities. However, that will change unless something is done. It could happen very soon.”

  “How soon?” the President asked.

  “We can’t be sure. Perhaps within a week, certainly within two.”

  “I see. Look, General, I need to think about this. I’ll get back to you. OK?”

  “Yes, sir,” General Baker said. The President hung up the phone and looked over at Grace. She was sleeping soundly again. The bottle of tranquilizer tablets at the bedside was nearly empty. He stood up and walked out of the room, quietly closed the door and walked back to the control room.

  President Cranston sat down heavily in the chair reserved for him. We’re going to lose, he said to himself, there’s only one thing left to do.

  Then, without warning, a terrified voice suddenly shouted over the public address system, “Corpsman, corpsman! Report at once to the torpedo room. Man down with heavy bleeding! Repeat – heavy bleeding! Hurry!…Oh my God! Please hurry!”

  Thirty-One

  Charles Goodfellow slept peacefully in the underground command post’s Presidential Suite, secure in the knowledge that this relic of the Cold War was probably the safest place in America. It was entirely self-sufficient with its own water and food supply, plus a sophisticated air filtration system. Furthermore, having been built to withstand a nuclear explosion, he knew it would be a safe haven in any eventuality.

  He had elected to spend the night inside the West Virginia bunker on a trial basis, but by the time he had climbed into bed he had decided that all of the support personnel, the contractors who operated the equipment that kept the command post functioning, should move in too. Otherwise, if they went home at night, there was simply too much chance that one of them might bring the disease into the complex. He would tell them in the morning.

  At precisely 7 a.m. he was awakened by a soft Mozart Sonata that began playing from the ceiling speakers. A false window, built into the east wall in the Presidential bedroom, began to glow with warm, artificial sunlight that seemed to filter in through the frosted glass windowpanes. Two minutes later the music changed to a cheery rendition of Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah, performed by the Marine Corps Band. Charles rolled out of bed looking forward to the new day. He took a leisurely shower and shaved and then he chose his clothes carefully for the day. He planned to make another important televised announcement to the nation at eleven a.m.

  Shortly after 7:30 a.m. he walked into the dining area, expecting that his breakfast would be ready. The cooks had been told to arrive no later than 6 a.m. However, there was no one in the dining area and the kitchen was eerily quiet.

  “Hello!” he called out, but there was no answer. He waited a few moments and then walked into the center of the kitchen, muttering a curse under his breath. There was no one there, and he reluctantly made himself a bowl of cold cereal. He would have a stern talk with the head cook when he arrived at nine o’clock. Changes would have to be made.

  Charles thought about the next phase of his plans for the country while he finished his cereal. He would divide the country into two basic types of areas: green or safe zones and red, unsafe zones. The red zones would be those where an incidence of the disease had occurred. He would then create buffer zones or quarantine zones around the red zones. A procedure would then be created whereby low risk people in red zones could migrate to green zones after spending an appropriate amount of time in the quarantine zone. A corresponding process would also be created to move people deemed to be high risk from the green zones to the red zones. These people would obviously bypass the quarantine zones. Yes, that’ll work, he said to himself. The question is where do we start? New York City? Maybe…sure…why not?

  He started a pot of coffee, and a few minutes later, holding a cup of steaming hot Maxwell House in his hand, he walked into the control room and sat at the main console. All of the equipment was still running from last night, but, like the kitchen and the dining area, there was no one else there but him.

  He switched the television screen to the East-West News channel and watched the images flow across the screen as the reporter described the scenes:

  “Here is some amazing footage of a huge explosion in Boston. It looks like the gas storage facility has blown up, and the flames must be two hundred feet high! It’s much like the facility explosion we just saw in Chicago… Here’s a clip we just received from our affiliate in Los Angeles.” The commentator paused as the footage showed flames towering over the city’s silhouette. “There’s no other way to put it – Los Angeles is burning. These scenes we are watching have been repeated over and over again during the night as the country has reacted in violent protest to the Draconian locality card measures imposed by UNAPS yesterday.”

  The reporter stopped talking and held her earpiece more tightly to her ear. “I’m sorry. We are just getting fresh reports from San Antonio where a major firefight has been underway between U.S. Army troops and civilians. It’s being reported that there are heavy casualties on both sides. The civilians are apparently heavily armed with assault rifles, shotguns, semi-automatic pistols, and many other types of guns. There are even reports of civilian forces launching rockets at the soldiers, although these reports have not been confirmed.”

  “What?” Charles shouted angrily, although there was no one there to hear him. He changed the channel to another station, but the pictures were the same. All channels were carrying the same story. America was in rebellion.

  “We interrupt our coverage to bring you an important announcement from Admiral Walter Mason, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

  Admi
ral Mason, wearing his full dress uniform, appeared on the screen. “My fellow citizens, I have an extremely important announcement for everyone. As of this moment, all prior edicts and orders issued by UNAPS or Mr. Charles Goodfellow are hereby cancelled! The requirement to carry locality cards is revoked. A warrant has just been issued for the immediate arrest of Mr. Goodfellow. Rest assured he will be brought to justice!

  All citizens are now free to resume normal activities. I have ordered all U.S. troops to cease firing and to return to their bases immediately. Our cities are being destroyed by senseless acts of violence and civil warfare while we still face a real danger from Asian Fever. I ask you to put down your weapons and return to your homes.

  At this time I have not been able to contact our civilian leaders and therefore, until our civilian leadership is able to reassert itself, and, I believe in accordance with the Constitution of our country, I am now in charge. I will be speaking with you in the near future, until then, once again, please cease firing and return to your homes. Take care and God bless.”

  Charles turned off the television and looked around in panic. Under arrest? Me? No! - I can’t let that happen! Not now – they’re not going to put me in some filthy prison with this disease everywhere! That would be a death sentence! I know…

  He stood up and quickly crossed the room to the facility access control panel. The panel showed the status of the identity card readers, the glass entry doors, and the metallic blast doors. These huge, solid steel doors were designed and built to withstand the force of a nuclear explosion, and when they were closed, the entrance to the bunker was protected by an impenetrable shield. The two massive doors were each twenty feet high, twenty feet wide and two feet thick. Installed in 1959, and tested once a year ever since, they moved on a heavy-duty railroad track with two diesel locomotive engines powering the closing mechanism.

  Charles quickly pushed the button labeled Blast Doors - Close. A warning claxon immediately sounded and a loud grinding noise could be heard coming from the entrance. He ran towards the door and looked out at the parking lot, but there was no one there. He stood and watched as the doors slowly moved along the rails. He could hear the generators revving up as the wheels began to incur resistance, perhaps from rust, perhaps from some accumulated misalignment of the rails. The door motion slowed slightly and Charles became anxious as they continued to slow, and then they stopped. They weren’t even halfway closed. Suddenly, the resistance vanished and the doors began moving again, this time more quickly. A minute later they had closed tightly shut. It was the first time they had been closed in twenty years because, although an annual closing test was on the list of scheduled maintenance tasks, the site support contractor had convinced the administrators that there was a risk of damaging the aging system with such a test and the resulting repair costs would have been very expensive.

  Charles smiled as the doors clicked shut and the self-locking mechanism engaged. He would be safe here now until President Cranston returned, at which time he would certainly be exonerated or pardoned of any charges of wrongdoing. He walked over to the lounge and turned on the television. Might as well make myself comfortable now, he chuckled to himself, let’s watch Mason try to contend with the situation!

  No sooner had he sat in the armchair than the lights flickered once and then twice. He looked up at the overhead lights and waited, but nothing happened. Then a moment later the power went off and the facility was plunged into complete blackness. The hair on his arms stood up and his heart began to beat wildly. A second later the lights came on again. He took a deep breath and then he heard a woman’s recorded voice softly announce over the public address system, “Your attention please. A main power outage has occurred. Battery backup power is now in operation. Battery power will last twenty-four hours. Thank you.”

  Charles immediately jumped from his seat and ran to the door control console. “Damn,” he said, “I’d better get those doors open now!”

  He pushed the Blast Doors –Open button and waited, but nothing happened. He looked up at the computer monitor status indicator and read the message on the screen: ILLEGAL REQUEST – BUTTON INACTIVE DURING BATTERY POWER CONDITIONS. Charles sat down and began to think. Twenty-four hours…what is the chance that someone will get here in the next twenty-fours hours? Maybe I should call someone…but who?

  Over the years, as the facility had aged, many cost saving measures had been taken on maintenance related issues, particularly after the Cold War had ended and the probability of nuclear war seemed to be remote. One of the cost saving measures that had been taken was that the routine replacement of the rechargeable batteries had been cancelled. The batteries that were supplying power were over fifteen years old. They supplied the full power requirements for the entire facility for about fifteen minutes, and then the lights began to dim.

  What the hell’s going on? Charles thought as he looked at the computer display. A minute later the computer abruptly shut down.

  “Oh, shit,” he said.

  Seconds later the last faint glimmer of light in the bunker vanished, and Charles was alone with only the sound of his breathing.

  Thirty-Two

  The young medical corpsman immediately turned from his patient with the ankle sprain, grabbed an emergency first aid kit, and ran down the passageway to the torpedo room of the Seawolf. Less than ten seconds later, he stepped into the torpedo room and then abruptly stopped as he viewed at the scene in front of him in disbelief. One of the sailors was lying on the floor beside his duty station, his head turned sideways at an awkward angle as it rested against the bottom of the equipment console. His unseeing eyes seemed to be looking directly at the corpsman with a mixed expression of incomprehension and fear. Whatever had happened to him had been very swift. His control panel was covered in bright red blood, as was his clothing and shoes. A large puddle of blood had accumulated on the floor beside him. Two other sailors who also worked in the torpedo room were standing immobile several steps away, their faces pale with fear.

  “Seal the doors,” the corpsman said as he walked in, but the two stunned men didn’t move. Their friend and fellow sailor had seemed fine five minutes ago. Then, without warning he had suddenly collapsed over his controls while blood started pumping from his mouth and nose. There were even trickles of blood coming from his ears and the corners of his eyes. He had never said a word.

  “Seal the doors!” the corpsman shouted again at the two sailors. It was then, as they both realized the implications of the situation that horror replaced the fear that had been on their faces. The corpsman could see that they wanted nothing more than to run away, but that, of course, was one of the disadvantages of life on a submarine. There was no place to run. He turned around and closed the watertight door behind him and locked it. Then he motioned to them to do the same to the door behind them. “There’s no place to go, men,” he said softly, “You might as well close that door. I’ll call the Captain.” He saw a look of resignation pass over their faces, “Go ahead,” he said, “close it and lock it.”

  The two sailors did as they were told and then turned back to face the corpsman who had now put on a communications headset. “Captain, torpedo room on comm. net three. Captain, torpedo room, comm. net three.”

  Seconds later the corpsman heard the captain’s voice in his headset, “Go ahead, this is the Captain.”

  “Sir, Corpsman Daniels speaking, we have a dead sailor in the torpedo room. There’s blood everywhere.”

  “What happened?”

  “There’s no sign of any injury. I suspect Asian Fever, sir. I’ve closed the watertight doors to the compartment, but I don’t think it will do much to prevent the spread of the disease on the boat.”

  “Understand,” the Captain replied and then he slowly took off the headset and set it on the console. He closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids with his thumb and forefinger for a few seconds; then he looked up. The crewmen were looking at him expectantly.

  “Carry on,
men.” He said, with no further explanation. He left the control room, walked down the passageway to the President’s stateroom and knocked on the door. Seconds later the President opened it.

  “I heard the announcement on the P.A.” the President said quietly, “What happened? Did someone get hurt?”

  “No sir. May I come in?”

  “Certainly,” the President opened the door wider and the Captain entered the room as the President closed the door behind him. Grace was sitting up on the bed, but she only nodded to the Captain when he came in

  “It looks like one of our sailors has just died of Asian Fever,” he said very quietly.

  “What?” President Cranston gasped. “How could that happen? How could one of the crew get the disease? You’ve been at sea for months!”

  The Captain hesitated for a second before answering, “Sir, I gave the crew liberty in New London. He must have contracted it there.”

  “Liberty! Who told you to give them liberty?” the President almost shouted. His face began to turn slightly red. “You should have asked permission!”

  “I’m sorry, sir. It’s standard practice, no permission is required.” The President stared at him for several seconds, furious. Then his anger began to die down as he realized there was nothing that could be done now. His anger was soon replaced by a growing fear as a new realization came to him.

  “There may be others on the boat with the disease!” the President said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It could be spreading everywhere now, couldn’t it?” The Captain didn’t answer him directly but only nodded slightly. The President looked back at Grace who was listening intently but showing no emotion. “But maybe not, maybe he’s the only one,” the President said hopefully. “We need to get rid of the body right away! It could contaminate us!”

  “Sir, what do you mean?” the Captain said.

  “Captain, don’t you see? It could contaminate the boat. We need an immediate burial at sea!”