by Tom Clancy
There were only four of them, behind sealed, guarded doors. The Iranian army ran this facility. The doctors were military physicians, and the orderlies all men with battlefield experience. Security was tight, as one would expect. Moudi and the director had cleared security on the first floor, however, and the guard at the post touched the buttons to open the doors into the air lock. These opened with a hiss of hydraulics to reveal a second set, and they could see that smoke from the soldier’s cigarette was sucked into the secure area. Good. The air system was working properly. Both men had a strange prejudice against their own countrymen. It would have been preferable for this entire facility to have been built by foreign engineers—Germans were popular in the Middle East for such things—but Iraq had made that mistake to its sorrow. The orderly Germans kept plans of everything they built, as a result of which so many of their projects had been bombed to dust. And so while a lot of the building’s hardware had been bought elsewhere, the facility had been constructed locally. Their very lives depended on the exact performance of every subsystem here, but that could not be helped now. The inner doors would not open unless the outer ones were locked tight. That worked. The director activated them, and they proceeded.
Sister Jean Baptiste was in the last room on the right. Three medical orderlies were in with her. They’d already cut off all her clothing, revealing a death in progress. The soldiers were repulsed by what they saw, her condition more terrible than any battlefield injury. Quickly, they cleaned off her body, then covered it, respectful of the woman’s modesty as their culture insisted. The director looked at the morphine drip and immediately turned it back by a third.
“We want to keep her alive as long as possible,” he explained.
“The pain from this—”
“Cannot be helped,” he responded coldly. He thought to reproach Moudi, but stopped himself. He was a physician, too, and knew that it was hard to regard one’s patient with harshness. Elderly Caucasian female, he saw, stuporous from the morphine, respiration too slow for his liking. The orderlies attached leads for the electrocardiograph, and he was surprised at how well her heart was working. Good. Blood pressure was low, as expected, and he ordered two units of whole blood to be hung on the IV tree. The more blood the better.
The orderlies were well drilled. Everything that had come in with the patient had already been bagged, then double-bagged. One of their number carried the bundle out of the room and off to the gas-fired incinerator which would leave behind nothing but sterilized ashes. The main issue here was management of the virus. The patient was their culture dish. Previously, such victims had had a few cc’s of blood drawn for analysis, and the patient in due course would die, and the body was either burned or sprayed and buried in chemically treated ground. Not this time. He would have in his control, in due course, the largest quantity of the virus ever seen, and from that he would grow more, all virulent, all powerful. He turned.
“So, Moudi, how did she contract it?”
“She was treating the Index Patient.”
“The Negro boy?” the director asked, standing in the corner.
Moudi nodded. “Yes.”
“What did she do wrong?”
“We never found out. I asked her when she was still lucid. She never gave the boy an injection, and Sister was always very careful with ‘sharps.’ She’s an experienced nurse,” Moudi reported mechanically. He really was too tired to do much of anything but report what he knew, and that, the director thought, was just fine. “She worked with Ebola before, at Kikwit and other places. She taught procedures to staff.”
“Aerosol transmission?” the director asked. It was too much to hope for.
“CDC believes that this is the Ebola Mayinga sub-type. You will recall that this strain is named for a nurse who contracted the disease through unknown means.”
That statement made the director look hard into Moudi’s eyes. “You’re quite sure of what you said?”
“I’m not sure of anything at the moment, but I also interviewed staff at the hospital, and all injections were given to the Index Patient by others, not Sister here. So, yes, this may be a case of aerosol transmission.”
It was a classic case of good news and bad news. So little was known of Ebola Zaire. It was known that the disease could be passed on by blood and other bodily fluids, even by sexual contact—that was almost entirely theoretical, since an Ebola victim was hardly in a position to engage in such practices. It was further believed that the virus fared poorly out of a living host, quick to die in the open. For that reason it was not believed that the disease could be spread through the air in the manner of pneumonia or other common ailments. But at the same time every outbreak of the virus produced cases which could not be explained. The unfortunate nurse Mayinga had given her name to a strain of the disease which had reached out to claim her life through an unknown means. Had she lied about something, or forgotten something, or had she searched her mind and reported the truth, and thus memorialized a sub-type of Ebola which did survive in the air long enough to be transmitted as readily as the common cold? If so, that would make the patient before them the carrier of a biological weapon of such power as to make the entire world shake.
Such a possibility also meant that they were quite literally dicing with Death himself. The smallest mistake could be lethal. Without conscious thought, the director looked upward at the air-conditioning vent. The building had been designed with that very contingency in mind. The incoming air was all clean, sucked in through a vent located at the end of two hundred meters of piping. The air exiting from the “hot” areas passed through a single plenum chamber before leaving the building. There it was subjected to blazingly powerful ultraviolet lights, since that frequency of radiation destroyed viruses with total reliability. The air filters were soaked with chemicals—phenol was one of them to achieve the same end. Only then was it ejected to the outside, where other environmental factors also could be depended upon to deny the disease a chance to survive. The filters—three separate banks of them—were changed with religious precision every twelve hours. The UV lights, five times the number required for the task, were constantly monitored. The Hot Lab was kept at intentionally low ambient air pressure to prevent a leak, and that fact enabled the building to be evaluated for structural integrity. For the rest, he thought, well, that was why they’d all trained so carefully in suit-safety and sharps procedures.
The director, too, was a physician, trained in Paris and London, but it had been years since he’d treated a human patient. Mainly he’d devoted the last decade to molecular biology, most particularly to the study of viruses. He knew as much as any man about them, though that was little enough. He knew how to make them grow, for example, and before him now was a perfect medium, a human being converted by fate into a factory for the deadliest organism known to man. He’d never known her healthy, had never spoken with her, never seen her at work. That was good. Perhaps she had been an effective nurse, as Moudi said, but that was all in the past, and there was little point in getting overly attached to someone who would be dead in three days, four at the most. The longer the better, though, for the factory to do its work, using this human body for its raw material as it turned out its product, turning Allah’s finest creation into His most deadly curse.
For the other question, he’d given the order while Moudi had been showering. Sister Maria Magdalena was taken to another cleanup area, issued clothing, and left to herself. There she had showered in privacy, wondering as she did so what was going on—where was she? She was still too confused to be truly afraid, too disoriented to understand. Like Moudi, she showered long, and the procedure did clear her head somewhat, as she tried to form the right questions to pose. She’d find the doctor in a few minutes to ask what was happening. Yes, that’s what she would do, Maria Magdalena thought as she dressed. There was a comfortable familiarity to the medical garb, and she still had her rosary, taken into the shower with her. It was a metal one rather than the fo
rmal rosary that went along with her religious habit, the same one given to her when she’d taken her final vows more than forty years before. But the metal one was more easily disinfected, and she’d taken the time in the shower to clean it. Outside, dressed, she decided that prayer would be the best preparation for her quest for information, and so she knelt, blessed herself, and began her prayers. She didn’t hear the door open behind her.
The soldier from the security force had his orders. He could have done it a few minutes earlier, but to invade a woman’s privacy while nude and bathing would have been a hateful act, and she wasn’t going anywhere. It pleased him to see that she was praying, her back to him, plainly comfortable and well practiced with her devotions. This was proper. A condemned criminal was invariably given the chance to speak to Allah; to deny that chance was a grave sin. So much the better, he thought, raising his 9mm automatic. She was speaking to her God now ...
... and now she was doing so more directly. He decocked the hammer, holstered his weapon, and called for the two orderlies outside to clean up the mess. He’d killed people before, had participated in firing parties for enemies of the state, and that was duty, sometimes distasteful, but duty nonetheless. This one made him shake his head. This time, he was sure, he’d sent a soul to Allah. How strange to feel good about an execution.
TONY BRETANO HAD flown in on a TRW-owned business jet. It turned out that he hadn’t yet decided to accept the offer from the Lockheed-Martin board, and it was pleasing to Ryan that George Winston’s information was incorrect. It showed that he wasn’t privy to this particular piece of insider information, at least.
“I’ve said ‘no’ before, Mr. President.”
“Twice.” Ryan nodded. “To head ARPA and to be Deputy Secretary for Technology. Your name came up for NRO also, but they never called you about it.”
“So I heard,” Bretano acknowledged. He was a short man, evidently with short-man complex, judging by his combativeness. He spoke with the accent of someone from Manhattan’s Little Italy, despite many years on the West Coast, and that also told Ryan something. He liked to proclaim who and what he was, this despite a pair of degrees from MIT, where he might as easily have adopted a Cambridge accent.
“And you turned the jobs down because it’s a great big clusterfuck over there across the river, right?”
“Too much tail and not enough teeth. If I ran my business that way, the stockholders would lynch me. The Defense bureaucracy—”
“So fix it for me,” Jack suggested.
“Can’t be done.”
“Don’t give me that, Bretano. Anything man can make, he can unmake. If you don’t think you have the stuff to get the job done, fine, tell me that, and you can head back to the coast.”
“Wait a minute—”
Ryan cut him off again.
“No, you wait a minute. You saw what I said on TV, and I’m not going to repeat it. I need to clean up a few things, and I need the right people to do it, and if you don’t have it, fine, I’ll find somebody tough enough to—”
“Tough?” Bretano nearly came off his seat. “Tough? I got news for you, Mister President, my papa sold fruit from a cart on the corner. The world didn’t give me shit!” Then he stopped short when Ryan laughed, and thought a moment before going on. “Not bad,” he said more sedately, in the manner of the corporate chairman he was.
“George Winston says you’re feisty. We haven’t had a halfway decent SecDef in ten years. Good. When I’m wrong, I need people to tell me so. But I don’t think I’m wrong about you.”
“What do you want done?”
“When I pick up the phone, I want things to happen. I want to know that if I have to send kids into harm’s way, they’re properly equipped, properly trained, and properly supported. I want people to be afraid of what we can do. It makes life a lot easier for the State Department,” the President explained. “When I was a little kid in east Baltimore and I saw a cop walking up Monument Street, I knew two things. I knew it wasn’t a good idea to mess with him, and I also knew I could trust him to help me if I needed it.”
“In other words, you want a product that we can deliver whenever we have to.”
“Correct.”
“We’ve drawn down a long way,” Bretano said warily.
“I want you to work with a good team—you pick it—to draw up a force structure that meets our needs. Then I want you to rebuild the Pentagon to deliver it.”
“How much time do I have?”
“I’ll give you two weeks on the first part.”
“Not long enough.”
“Don’t give me that. We study things so much I’m surprised the paper all those things are printed on hasn’t consumed every tree in the country. Hell, I know what the threats are out there, remember? That used to be my business. A month ago we were in a shooting war, sucking air because we were out of assets to use. We got lucky. I don’t want to depend on luck anymore. I want you to clear out the bureaucracy, so if we need to do something it gets done. In fact, I want things done before we have to do them. If we do the job right, nobody’ll be crazy enough to take us on. Question is, are you willing to take it on, Dr. Bretano?”
“It’ll be bloody.”
“My wife’s a doc,” Jack told him.
“Half the job’s getting good intelligence,” Bretano pointed out.
“I know that, too. We’ve already started on CIA. George ought to be okay at Treasury. I’m checking out a list of judges to head Justice. I said it all on TV. I’m putting a team together. I want you on it. I made my way on my own, too. You think two people like us would have got this far anywhere else? Payback time, Bretano.” Ryan leaned back, pleased with himself for the delivery.
There was no fighting it, the executive knew. “When do I start?”
Ryan checked his watch. “Tomorrow morning suit you?”
THE MAINTENANCE CREW showed up just after dawn. The aircraft had a military guard arrayed around it to keep the curious away, though this airport was already more secure than most of its international counterparts because of the Iranian air force presence. The crew foreman’s clipboard told him what had to be done, and the long list of procedures had him curious, but little else. Aircraft of this type always got special treatment, because the people who flew in them deemed themselves the elect of God, or something even higher still. Not that it mattered. He had his procedures, and the advice for extra caution was hardly necessary. His people were always thorough. The aircraft maintenance sheet said that it was time to replace two cockpit instruments, and two replacements were ready, still in the manufacturer’s boxes; those would have to be calibrated after installation. Two other members of his crew would refuel the aircraft and change the engine oil. The rest would work on the cabin under the foreman’s supervision.
They’d scarcely begun when a captain showed up with fresh orders, predictably ones which contradicted the first set. The seats had to be replaced quickly. The G-IV would be taking off in a few hours for another flight. The officer didn’t say where to, and the foreman didn’t care to ask. He told his instrument mechanic to hurry with his assigned task. That was fairly easy in the G-IV with its modular instrument arrangement. A truck appeared with the seats that had been taken out two days earlier, and the cleanup crewmen assisted, manhandling them into place before they could properly begin. The foreman wondered why they’d been removed in the first place, but it wasn’t his place to ask, and the answer would not have made much sense anyway. A pity everyone was in a hurry. It would have been easier to do the cleaning with so much open space. Instead, the fourteen-seat configuration was quickly reestablished, making the aircraft back into a mini-airliner, albeit a very comfortable one. The replacement seating had been dry-cleaned in the hangar as it always was, the ashtrays emptied and swabbed out. The caterer showed up next with food for the galley, and soon the aircraft was overcrowded with workers, each getting in the other’s way, and in the resulting confusion, work was not done properly, but th
at was not the foreman’s fault. Things just accelerated from there. The new flight crew showed up with their charts and flight plans. They found a mechanic lying half on the pilot’s seat and half on the cabin floor, finishing his work on the digital engine instruments. Never patient with mechanics, the pilot merely stood and glared as the man did his work—for his part, the mechanic didn’t care at all what pilots thought. He attached the last connector, wriggled his way free, and ran a test program to make sure it was working properly, without so much as a look at the aviators who would be sure to curse him all the louder if he failed to install the electronics properly. He’d not yet left the area when the co-pilot took his place and ran the same test program again. Leaving the aircraft to get out of the way, the mechanic saw the reason for the rush.
Five of them, standing there on the ramp, looking impatient and important as they stared at the white-painted executive jet, excited about something. The mechanic and everyone else on the crew knew them all by name, they appeared so often on TV. All of them nodded deference to the mullahs and speeded their efforts, as a result of which not everything got done. The cleanup crew was called off the aircraft, and limited their efforts to wiping a few surfaces down after getting all the seats reinstalled. The VIP passengers boarded at once, heading to the after portion of the cabin so that they could confer. The flight crew started up, and the Guards force and the trucks hardly had a chance to withdraw before the G-IV taxied off to the end of the runway.
IN DAMASCUS, THE second member of that small executive fleet touched down, to discover that it had orders to return to Tehran at once. The crew swore, but did as they were told, limiting their time on the ground to a scant forty minutes before lifting off again in their turn for the short hop into Iran.
IT WAS A busy time at PALM BOWL. Something was going on. You could tell that by what wasn’t going on. Traffic on the encrypted channels used by senior Iraqi generals had peaked and zeroed, then peaked again, and zeroed again. At the moment it was back at zero. Back at KKMC in Saudi Arabia, the computers were grinding through solutions to the chip-controlled scrambling systems used on Iraqi tactical radios. It took time in every case. Encryption technology, once the province only of affluent countries, had, with the advent of personal computers, become readily available to the humblest citizen in America and other technically advanced countries, and an unexpected spin-off of that fact was the current availability of highly advanced communications-security apparatus to the humblest nations. Now Malaysia had codes nearly as hard to break as Russia’s—and so did Iraq, courtesy of Americans who worried about having the FBI read their fictitious e-mail adulteries. The encryption systems on tactical radios were necessarily somewhat simpler, and still breakable, but even that required a Cray computer that had been flown to the Saudi Kingdom years earlier. Another factor was that PALM BOWL was in Kuwait, and had indeed been fully financed by the local government, for which courtesy a return courtesy was required. They got to see the “take” from the NSA station. That was only fair, but the NSA and military-intelligence personnel hadn’t been trained to consider what “fair” was. They had their orders, even so.