by G. M. Ford
“Easy,” said the nearest cop. Dropping his gun hand to his side. “Easy.”
50
“On three…you ready?”
Jim watched the officers jockey for position along the rail. Each man trying to find a space where he could get a purchase on the rope and use his strength to haul the guy up the side of the ship. They hunched together in a quivering mass of muscle waiting to explode into action like a bull bucking out of the chute.
Jim kept his distance. When they made the first pull, he leaned over to see what the guy’s reaction would be. Naturally, he looked upward in horror. Eyes wide, teeth bared. And then he loosened his fingers and slid down the rope in what, at the moment, seemed to Jim one of the most pathetic acts of futility he’d ever witnessed. Fifteen feet below the guy’s locked ankles, an orange and white life preserver swung to and fro in the night air. Where did the guy think he was going? Only thing under the life ring was a couple hundred feet of foggy air. “Pull,” ricocheted through the air and another four feet of rope curled onto the deck. “Pull.” And still more line came on board.
When Jim looked down a second time, the kid’s face was transformed. Devoid of the horror he’d exhibited just a minute before, he was looking up, but not at them, with an air of expectation. He was focused on something above them. Something high in the sky. Jim craned his neck and looked up the side of the ship. Nothing but steel, and patches of glittery fog sliding across the dark sky.
The kid shouted something, but Jim could not make out the words. “Pull,” sounded in the night and then the kid let go of the rope. Not to slide, but to fly, as the sleeves of his coveralls began to flutter in the breeze, as the weight of his torso began to pull him backward, arms and legs stretched out at his sides like he was making a snow angel in the clouds.
The sudden lack of resistance sent the officers staggering back against the bulkhead, dumping them in a heaving irregular pile on the deck, leaving Jim Sexton the only one to witness the kid as he floated past the life ring, turned a full somersault in the extended position of a skydiver, and then hit the dock facedown, with a sickening crack such as Jim had never heard before. Jim brought a hand to his mouth and turned away.
Corso waved at the kneeling officer with his free hand. “Don’t,” he screamed as the cop sighted along his arm, looking for any opening that would allow him a head shot at Holmes, who jerked him higher, trying to keep Corso’s head in front of his own as he sidestepped along the deck. The second cop had fanned out to the right in a flanking movement, leaving Holmes vulnerable from both sides. The blade dug harder into Corso’s throat.
“You will tell them?” a voice in his ear.
Corso didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.
“If I let you live…you will tell them what I say?”
Corso managed the smallest of nods. As Holmes began to whisper in his ear, the second cop had made his way to a position nearly parallel to theirs. He held the black automatic in two hands and braced himself to shoot. Corso closed his eyes and waited to die.
And then the pressure of the blade relented, and just in the instant when he was more concerned with being shot than with having his throat cut…he heard the noise…just as he’d imagined it would be…the crackle of cartilage and the sudden rush of arterial air as his throat came open to welcome the night, the warm gush of blood running down over him like a flash flood, cooling as it traveled down inside his suit and across his chest…and then the deck coming up fast beneath him as he dropped to the seat of his pants.
He looked down to find himself covered with blood. Was amazed to find he could look up again and see the cops creeping his way. He touched his throat with disbelieving fingers and found it whole. His mouth fell open. For some unfathomable reason, he stuffed his fingers into his mouth and then looked up to the cop.
Electronic words tumbled from the helmet speaker. “Son of a bitch cut his own throat,” the nearest cop said, in wonder. “How in hell do you muster up the huevos to do that?”
The other cop was on the radio. “Second suspect secured,” was all he said.
Charly Hart limped along behind the scattered knots of dignitaries until he found the chief, standing off to the south side of the yard, with Ben Gardener and a couple of people from Emergency Services. Everything on Pier Eighteen had been moved as far away from the ship as possible, while the CDC team worked at securing the area around where the body had landed. Word so far indicated that the body was hot. Hot as anything they’d ever tested, which undoubtedly explained the intense deliberation with which they now worked the scene. In order to slip Bobby Darling’s lifeless corpse into a hazard bag, they’d been forced to slide a piece of plywood under the remains, as the fall and subsequent impact had jellified the flesh into something more akin to cranberry sauce than human tissue.
The chief noted Charly’s approach, excused himself from the group and walked Charly’s way. “You seem to be having trouble with the concept of a direct order, Detective,” Harry said without a trace of humor.
“Yessir.”
“I hear we got lucky.”
“Yessir. The other two sites test out negative. Not a trace of the virus anywhere except those two sprayers we retrieved.”
“Wish I could say the same.”
“Bad?”
“Not as bad as it could have been…but bad.”
“What about the perps?”
“They’re both down.” The chief nodded at the CDC crew as they sprayed decontaminant over the half acre nearest where the body had landed. “One of them either jumped or fell off the side of the ship, depending on who you ask. The other one cut his own throat up on deck three.” Harry winced and shook his head in disbelief.
“Did they…”
“Sprayed everywhere. Infested everything except the crew areas, which, thank god, they couldn’t get into.”
“What now?”
“We don’t know,” Harry said. “We’re not set up to deal with this many potential carriers.” He jerked a thumb toward the federal contingent. “The brain trust is working on that right now.”
A deep rumble filled the air, and then another, almost in harmony with the first, a throbbing two-part bass, coming from everywhere at once.
“They say Reuben’s gonna be okay,” Charly Hart said.
“That’s what I heard.”
“Probably isn’t gonna be joggin’ anymore, but at least he’ll be able to get around.” Charly waved a hand. “Play with the grandkids, that kind of thing.”
A wet whistle wailed in the stillness. Once, twice and then a third time.
A tugboat. Red and white, Crowley painted across the side, had wedged itself between the Arctic Flower and Pier Eighteen and was slowly but steadily pushing the massive ship’s prow away from the pier. As the bulk of the ship displaced the surrounding air, the fog scattered and it became obvious from the black smoke percolating out of the stacks that the ship’s diesels were running.
As Harry began to move forward at a lope, the Arctic Flower’s running lights suddenly blinked on, all bright and twinkly and cheerful. The Fun Ship grinning in a gruesome parody of the moment at hand.
“What’s this?” Harry wanted to know.
The governor put on his command face. “We’ve decided to deal with it in situ,” he said. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“In situ?”
“We’re keeping everybody on board.”
“For how long?”
“Until it’s over,” the governor said.
51
“STAND CLEAR,” the voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “STAND CLEAR OF ALL SECURITY GATES AND WATERTIGHT DOORS.” And then the horn, like the dive horn on a submarine, bouncing its rough squawk off the steel walls, coming from everywhere at once and nowhere in particular. “STAND CLEAR.” It started over again. “STAND CLEAR OF ALL…”
The cop grabbed Corso by the hand and pulled him to his feet. The maneuver caused Corso to wince, as the sharp pain in his ri
bs returned with a vengeance, turning his vision white, leaving him short of breath and reeling.
And then the shots began. One, two and then a burst of four or five, automatic weapons fire, somewhere up by the center of the ship. “Stay here,” the cop ordered. “I’ll come back for you.”
Another burst of fire rapped around the walls. Corso nodded and massaged his side, trying to pant some air back into his lungs as the cop took off running toward the front of the ship.
To his right, the collapsed form of Roderick Holmes lay sprawled on his back, his big hands loose and comfortable, his dark face serene. Wasn’t till then Corso remembered what he’d promised. He closed his eyes and listened again. Heard the words being whispered in his ear. Second time through, his lips began to form the sounds as if the thoughts were his and not those of the dead man at his feet.
“STAND CLEAR,” scattered his thoughts like leaves. “STAND CLEAR OF ALL SECURITY GATES AND WATERTIGHT DOORS.”
And then the clash of metal on metal began to rumble through the ship like a drumroll. That maximum security lockdown beat. That hydraulic bolt-snapping, greased-door-sliding moment when the steel eyelids come down and all movement ceases.
He could hear shouts from the deck above. A glance over at Safeco Field told him they were moving even before his ears picked up the throb of the engines. Before he could collect his thoughts, he heard his name being called. “Hey, Mr. Corso. Hey.”
Massaging his ribs and moving slowly, Corso made his way over to the starboard rail. The cop who’d promised to come back for him stood sixty feet up the deck, his fingers entwined in the thick mesh of a security gate. A similar gate barred the way, not ten feet in front of Corso’s face.
Corso looked up. What had earlier appeared to be nothing more than stanchions for supporting lifeboats had cleverly morphed into a series of white security gates, some of which now segmented the deck into sections of varying length.
“This is as close to you as I can get,” the cop said. “They got it locked off both ways. Whole center of the ship is crew quarters, so you can’t get through that way either. Everybody’s stuck where they are. Probably trying to keep the cross-contamination down. Keep everybody separate from everybody else.”
“Where we going?” Corso asked.
“No idea.”
“How many people in your area?” Corso asked.
“Sixteen,” said the cop. He managed a weak smile. “Looks like you got the bar all to yourself,” he commented.
“I’ve heard worse ideas,” said Corso, turning away.
The caption read: “Governor of the State of Washington, James F. Doss.” CSPAN, CNN, FOX, MSNBC, ABC, NBC and CBS occupied the alpha camera positions with the rest of the affiliates bringing up the rear in descending order of rank. From where Doss stood, the sea of whirring red lights looked like rats in the darkness. Doss pulled his little half glasses from his inside coat pocket and slipped them onto his nose. He squinted through the lights and made eye contact with the technician at the PE mixer board for long enough to get the okay sign.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “The purpose of this briefing is to fill you in on the situation as it presently stands and perhaps to give you some idea of what you may be able to expect in the coming days. At the conclusion of the briefing, we will take a limited number of questions.” He paused for effect and then went on. “Let me begin by stressing how much more dire this situation could have become had it not been for the stellar efforts of the Department of Homeland Security, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, Georgia, and any number of other agencies without whose efforts we could be looking at disaster today.”
They were all lined up behind the governor, doing their official dais routine. Belder, Klugeman, Pauls, Payton, Helen Stafford, Marty Morningway and a bevy of others.
“Beginning at approximately eight-thirty last evening, three teams of terrorists made their way aboard cruise ships bound for Alaskan waters. Masquerading as maintenance workers, their intention was to infect the crew and passengers of these ships, nearly eight thousand people in all, with a deadly virus and thus instigate a plague of worldwide proportions.” He made a gesture at the crowd behind him. “Without these ladies and gentlemen you see standing before you tonight, they most certainly would have been successful in their mission.”
A smattering of applause ran through the crowd. “I am relieved to report that two of these teams were apprehended before they managed to do any harm whatsoever.”
He paused to let the numbers speak for themselves. “The third group, however, was at least partially successful.”
He took a deep breath. “At this time there are approximately three hundred sixty people on board the Arctic Flower. We believe it is possible that every one of them could potentially be a carrier of this deadly disease.” The numbers rushed through the crowd like a gust of wind. “Faced with such staggering numbers of potential cases…consulting with some of the world’s foremost scientists and health care professionals, we have determined that our best option is treating the victims on board.” He pushed his glasses up and read from a paper in front of him. How many isolation units would be required to treat the victims in a traditional hospital setting…how many more would be required for the people who treated the first wave of victims and the people who then treated them…The numbers brought the crowd to a stunned silence.
“At this moment, we are launching an unprecedented medical treatment and cleanup program aboard the Arctic Flower. If our information is correct, and we believe it is, the incubation period for this virus is between ten and twenty days and the life span of the virus will under no circumstances exceed thirty days.”
The MSNBC section just couldn’t hold it together for another second. “So what you’re saying then, Governor,” someone shouted, “is that you’re going to keep these people on board until you can be sure which of them have the virus and which do not.”
“That’s correct,” the governor said.
This time the roar began to rise from the back of the crowd, where friends and relatives of those on board had found their way to the edges of the gathering.
“You just can’t keep people like that,” someone shouted. “What if somebody wants to be treated by his own doctor?”
Payton from the FBI stepped forward. “Under the provisions of the Patriot Act…”
The crowd buried him in boos.
Soon as they heard over the loudspeaker they were going to get fed, they’d ordered thirteen meals. There were only eleven of them, but they wanted to be sure they had enough food for the long haul. Seemed silly. Like somebody pointed out…nobody ever starved to death on a cruise ship. But what the hell. They were all stuck here together. Majority rules. Thirteen meals. Early on, Jim Sexton had wandered up to the next gate and shot the breeze with a couple of the cleanup guys who were trapped in the next forward section. They had nineteen people, including two women. While the people in Jim’s section had taken the news of their isolation with a certain stoic grace, the group immediately forward had apparently erupted into something a bit more exciting, eliciting a couple of fights and a good deal of general hysteria of the “we’re all gonna die, we’re all gonna die” variety. If the noises heard bouncing around the boat immediately following the announcement were any indication, a great many other people had objected to their enforced quarantine. It had been long after midnight before the shouts had subsided and Jim had been able to get a few hours of fitful sleep.
An awsome array of toiletry articles, new coveralls and new respirators had arrived with breakfast. Along with a nicely written, not too pushy list of do’s and don’ts for “making your stay with us a happy one: Stay in your suit and mask as much as possible. If not, stay in your cabin as much as you can. Stay away from public areas. Shower often.” Things like that.
Most of the people in Jim’s section had taken the suggestions to heart and hadn’t been seen or heard from since, a
pparently preferring to ride out their quarantine in solitary confinement. Things could, after all, have been worse. They had twice as many staterooms as they had people. Each of which was lavishly equipped. Each wired for cable television and phone service. What with three sumptuous meals a day…hell, if you subtracted the specter of agonizing death, most of these people had it better than they’d ever had it before. Sort of an American dream come true…strings attached of course.
Jim had taken more or less the middle ground. The notion of these little spores drifting around bespoiling his lungs with every step kept him in his room the majority of the time. The frank realization that most likely they’d all been in contact with the virus already allowed him a couple of strolls a day through the section of the ship on which they were confined, which explained what he was doing all the way over on the starboard side, poking his nose into every open door, when he discovered the Caravelle Internet Café.
A dozen Compaq computers were spread around a tony little room. “Keep in touch with friends and loved ones,” the sign admonished.
“Yeah, sure,” Jim thought.
One of the first things he’d done, after they’d been apprised of the situation and after they’d picked out staterooms for themselves, was to call Beth. Second thing he’d done was to wish he hadn’t. She’d already been notified by the station and had seen the story of his heroism on TV. Predictably, the heroic part of his present predicament had been lost on Beth, whose sole concern was the precarious nature in which Jim’s actions had left the family. Would the station continue to pay his salary? Would his health benefits still be available? How could he have done something so thoughtless and stupid in the first place? What was he thinking?