by Alex Kava
“What about the vaccine?”
“It’s never been proven to be a deterrent let alone a cure. Why risk it not working?”
“How can we afford not to take that risk, sir?”
“You’re thinking like a doctor, Colonel Platt. When you must think like a soldier. Must I remind you your mission is to contain and isolate? You let this virus burn itself out so there’s no possibility of it lying dormant, hidden by the guise of a vaccine that may or may not work.” He avoided looking at Platt when he added, “No one even knows they’re here.”
“We’re talking about the FBI,” Platt said, swallowing hard over a lump that seemed to appear inside his throat. He still couldn’t believe what Janklow was suggesting. Platt was tired. The adrenaline rush had left his body drained and his mind foggy. Perhaps he misunderstood what the commander was proposing.
“The FBI,” Janklow snorted like it made no difference. His chin was back on his chest in his best thinking spot. “FBI—they’re government employees, same as us. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made…” He glanced back at Platt. “For the greater good. In war zones…and hot zones.”
Then he marched to the window and took up his stance, exactly where and how Platt had found him.
Platt waited, hoping if he was patient enough Janklow would retract what he had just suggested. What he was suggesting was that they let the virus run its course inside Ms. Kellerman and her daughter as well as A.D. Cunningham and Agent O’Dell.
In other words, Commander Janklow was proposing they allow them all to crash and bleed out.
CHAPTER
44
Chicago
Saint Francis Hospital
It had been years since Dr. Claire Antonelli had scrubbed up alongside chief of surgery Dr. Jackson Miles. Ever since she started her own private practice her hospital visits were limited to visiting recovering patients and delivering a baby now and then. She wasn’t a surgeon. She recognized her limitations and appreciated her strengths. An exploratory laparotomy was not one of her strengths.
Vera Schroder had not been pleased. Her husband had never had surgery in his life, had never spent a night in the hospital until now.
“Markus takes very good care of himself,” she had told Claire, offering it as further reason that all of this had to be some horrible mistake.
“He has an infection somewhere in his body,” Claire had tried to calmly explain to Vera while right next to them Markus stared out with red eyes and unblinking but droopy eyelids. In just two days his face had taken on an expressionless mask, the facial muscles drooped as if the tissue was disconnecting. There was little indication that he was listening to them. Claire worried that he had already started slipping away.
To make matters worse, Vera answered all the questions, not waiting for her husband. She touched his hand and swept his thin hair from his forehead, not expecting him to respond to the questions or to her touch. Claire had noticed early on that even when Markus had been alert and lucid this was the relationship between the two—Vera did the talking, the gesturing, the patting and caressing while Markus simply stood or sat by.
“There may be an inflammation or an abscess,” Claire had persisted. “Perhaps even a perforation in the intestine that isn’t showing up on our tests.”
“You think it’s cancer, don’t you?” Vera had asked in a whisper.
Claire had never believed in being anything less than straightforward with her patients. She didn’t want to alarm Vera Schroder, but she wouldn’t sugarcoat it, either. She told her they weren’t ruling out anything. They simply needed a better picture of what might be going on inside Markus. Finally Vera had no comeback. She wanted her husband back home. She wanted things back to normal.
Now Claire watched Dr. Miles make the abdominal incision and she hoped they would find an answer, the answer, something that could explain why a perfectly healthy forty-five-year-old man had suddenly turned into a vomiting and feverish zombie.
“We’ll do a checklist,” Dr. Miles said without looking up, his large fingers gentle and confident. “We’ll start with the gallbladder, appendix, pancreas, liver.”
His voice was deep, calm, smooth and reassuring. Claire was reminded of the image she had of him when she was a resident, the image that they all had of him. He was a larger-than-life father figure and even his voice was like that of God’s. If Dr. Jackson Miles couldn’t find what was wrong with Markus Schroder, then no one could.
“Pancreas looks normal,” he continued. “There doesn’t appear to be anything taking a ride on it.”
Claire dabbed sponge laps at the blood while Miles’s surgical nurse, a young Asian man named Urie, readjusted the suction. Blood continued to ooze up. More dabs from Claire. Urie applied clotting gel. Another small, wiry nurse reached up on tiptoe and swiped the sweat from Miles’s brow. He added a hemo clip to the incision. Then he added another.
The incision filled up with blood again.
Usually during surgery the blood vessels the surgeon cuts through will clot up. Additional bleeding can be clamped off or gelled to stop. Periodically the wound and incision need to be suctioned. But that wasn’t the case here. Something was very wrong.
Miles waited for Claire to dab again, but her sponges became soaked with blood faster than she could change them out. Same for Urie. As soon as he would apply more clotting gel, the blood would overtake the application. The other nurse added her hands, dabbing and collecting blood-soaked sponges. Even the anesthesiologist looked ready to jump in.
Miles’s eyes met Claire’s, avoiding the rest of the surgical team. There was a flicker of uncertainty that she had never seen before. Claire found herself thinking, It’s like seeing God worried. Recognizing the alarm in Miles’s face made her stomach take a brief plunge.
Urie suctioned off more blood while Miles tried to pinch off the blood vessels with another clamp. Claire continued to soak sponge laps. Nothing seemed to work. Markus Schroder’s abdomen continue to fill up with blood. Claire couldn’t help thinking it was like scooping sand out of a hole in the beach. As soon as you pulled up a handful the sand walls caved in, filling the hole as quickly as you could dig.
“This isn’t good,” Miles finally said. “Let me cut a piece of tissue then let’s get out of here.”
He did the biopsy quickly, which was amazing to Claire, who could no longer differentiate anything through all the blood. Miles handed the sample off to the nurse. Then he and Claire began closing up, suturing quickly as Urie suctioned and dabbed.
Finally finished, the entire team of six stood back and exchanged looks. No one said anything. Claire could feel the sweat trickle down her back as she watched a stream slide down Miles’s face. At one point his black eyes held Claire’s and there was as much question and concern as there was alarm.
Urie was the one who broke the silence. “That dude’s got some serious problems.”
CHAPTER
45
The Slammer
When the telephone rang this time, Maggie wanted to wave it away. She kept her head bent, her eyes focused on the computer screen. As long as she lived inside that computer screen she didn’t have to remember the room was only sixteen paces wide and fourteen paces deep. She didn’t have to remember that the virus might be silently duplicating itself inside her body. Diving into her work had always helped her push aside her emotions, helped her to compartmentalize the stress, the chaos, the throbbing inside her chest. It would work. It could work, if that stupid phone would stop ringing.
After a half-dozen rings she finally looked up, more annoyed than resolved.
When she saw the woman on the other side of the glass Maggie slid back her chair and stared. Finally she realized she was holding her breath, afraid she was hallucinating. If she attempted to breathe, if she moved, would the image disappear?
She stood up. Took a quick swipe at her eyes, pretending they were tired and not moist with emotion.
This was ridiculous.
; Twenty-four hours in this place and she was already letting it get the best of her. She left the sanctuary of the computer and snatched up the telephone receiver off the wall.
“Hey, kiddo,” Gwen Patterson said with a smile that couldn’t hide her concern.
The petite strawberry-blonde wore a black power suit, her makeup impeccable, never mind that it was Saturday. To the Army scientists that peopled USAMRIID she probably looked like a Wall Street power broker. To Maggie she looked like a lifeline and she found it difficult swallowing, the carefully compartmentalized emotion was now stuck in her throat. She could barely get out a simple response.
“How in the world did you get in here?”
“Are you joking? I’m the psychologist of choice to half the Army colonels in the District.”
Maggie laughed…hard. It felt good. But she knew Gwen wasn’t exactly joking. She did have a client list that included members of congress, senators and even colonels.
“God, it’s good to see you,” Maggie said with a sigh that ended up more a gasp for air. She didn’t care that it sounded needy, not with Gwen, only with Gwen.
“Have you been able to get any sleep?” Gwen put her hand up against the glass as though she could recognize that Maggie needed at least the gesture of a touch. “What about food?”
Maggie smiled.
“Seriously, have you eaten? Is there anything you need?”
Maggie shook her head thinking, ever the mother hen. Gwen Patterson was fifteen years Maggie’s senior and sometimes it showed up in their friendship.
Finally Gwen waved her hand for Maggie to sit down. Gwen sat in the plastic chair on her side of the glass at the same time that Maggie dropped into her own. Again, Maggie wiped at her eyes. Damn it. She would not cry. Funny how four walls behind a steel air-lock door had a way of shoving all your emotions to the edge and then pricking at them over and over again.
“You got my message. You talked to Tully,” Maggie said.
“He should have called me last night.”
“Don’t be too hard on him,” Maggie told her friend. “Cunningham and I missed this one. We should have seen it.”
“Okay, so tell me everything,” Gwen said, sitting back and crossing her legs as if they were back at Old Ebbitt Grill, their favorite hangout, getting ready for one of their chats. “And don’t leave anything out.”
CHAPTER
46
USAMRIID
C
olonel Benjamin Platt couldn’t be sure how long he had been sitting in his own office with the door shut and the lights off. He sat staring out his window, a much smaller version of the commander’s, and he watched the wet gray daylight dissolve into blue twilight. Earlier he had leaned his head back and closed his eyes, waiting and hoping to silence the steady hum inside his brain. He needed to rest his eyes, rest his body and his mind for just a few minutes. The exhaustion played games with him. Pieces of memories kept flicking images on the backside of his eyelids. Ali cuddling the white Westie puppy. Ali in her favorite white summer dress. She looked like a little angel. And just as quickly the image flashed to Ali with mud all over her, a huge grin on her dirt-smudged face and her hands presenting him with the ugliest frog he’d ever seen. “Daddy, look what Digger and I found.”
The sudden tightness in his chest made his eyes fly open. He jerked forward, sitting upright in his chair. His hands clutched the edge of his desk, white-knuckled and fisted like he needed to hang on or else he’d fall.
He’d joined the Army as a means to help pay for medical school. But he believed, he truly believed in every mission. Patriotism was not just a trigger word for him. He respected authority. He understood honor. He appreciated discipline. And he had never disobeyed a direct order. He hadn’t even considered it…not before today.
He got up now and started pacing, his nervous energy sidelining the exhaustion. In one pass by his desk he flipped on a lamp and continued by. He had to stop and think what day it was. How many hours had passed since he and McCathy removed the Kellermans from their home?
Twenty-four hours? Thirty-six hours?
It felt like a week. And then he tried to clear his mind. He needed to focus.
What had Janklow said…exactly? What words had he used?
Janklow had said, “What if?” Platt was certain those were the commander’s exact words.
“What if” did not sound like an order.
When it came right down to it, Platt knew he would be the one held accountable for this mission whether he followed Janklow’s suggestions or recommendations. If all of this ended up in a court-martial it would be Platt’s neck and career, not Janklow’s. The age-old defense “I was only following orders” hadn’t saved any soldiers lately.
Platt needed to make a decision. If he was careful he could override Janklow before the commander even realized it. And if he was smart Platt would to find a way to make it impossible for Janklow to reveal what his original orders—or suggested orders—had been.
Platt tried to remember everything he knew about the vaccine. He knew the report, although it had been almost a year since he had read it. The vaccine had only been tested on macaque monkeys. The most important thing was that it depended on how quickly after exposure the monkeys received the vaccine. Thirty minutes after exposure the vaccine protected ninety percent of the monkeys. Twenty-four hours after exposure there was a fifty-percent survival rate.
The FDA hadn’t approved the vaccine’s use, not yet, except in the case of lab accidents with scientists. Fortunately, accidents with Ebola were rare. Unfortunately, because of that, there wasn’t enough data about the vaccine’s use on humans. Even if Platt decided to use it now, especially on civilians, it would require something called an emergency “compassionate use” permit from the FDA.
He glanced at his watch—a knee-jerk reaction.
He was already looking at thirty-six-plus hours after exposure for two of his patients. Several days for the other two. He couldn’t afford to wait out the time that the FDA would take just to consider his request for emergency use.
Platt stopped his pacing and stood in front of the window, but he paid little attention to the darkness outside, swallowing the last bits and pieces of twilight.
Access to the vaccine wouldn’t be a problem. He had it right here, a couple stories above him. And they had plenty of it available because USAMRIID had been one of the research facilities involved in its development.
He sat back down, the exhaustion weighting him down. He planted his elbows on the desk. He rubbed at his temples and moved his fingers to his eyes. The humming was still there inside his head.
He glanced at his watch again. And then he decided. “What if?” was not a direct order. Janklow had worded it precisely the way he wanted to word it. He wanted to put Platt in the position of making the decision.
His decision.
It was clear to him what he needed to do. And what was also clear was that he would not include, consult or inform McCathy.
CHAPTER
47
The Slammer
Maggie hated the panic that now crept into her friend’s eyes. She had known Gwen Patterson too long for Gwen to use her professional-psychiatrist tricks on her.
“It’s a good sign,” Gwen said, keeping her voice level, her mood optimistic, apparently unaware that her eyes were betraying her. “Colonel Platt said it isn’t showing up in your blood.”
“Yet,” Maggie added. “He said it hasn’t shown up yet.”
“From what I know about these viruses they work quickly.”
“Or they can remain dormant inside a host.”
“You’re strong and healthy. You said you haven’t felt sick.”
“The first symptoms can be subtle, almost like having the flu.”
“You said the little girl didn’t even throw up on you.”
“My sleeve. I think there was some vomit on my sleeve.” Maggie tried to smile as she pulled at the ribbing on her blue hospital gown. �
��I had to exchange my clothes for the Slammer’s latest fashion trend.”
“That’s not enough.” Gwen’s voice hitched. She saw that Maggie noticed. She readjusted herself on the plastic chair. Recrossed her legs, smoothed her skirt, switched the telephone receiver from right ear to left ear as if repositioning herself might make her stronger. “On your sleeve, that’s not enough. It’s passed through blood.”
“Any body fluids,” Maggie corrected.
“Okay, any body fluids. But it’s not airborne.”
“In lab tests it’s displayed a capability—”
“Stop,” Gwen shouted, so suddenly it made Maggie jump.
The panic in Gwen’s eyes threatened to dissolve into tears. Maggie wasn’t sure why she had resorted to sounding like a textbook. She was saying out loud all the frightening things she had learned, tossing them at Gwen because Gwen was her buffer, her crutch. But it was a mistake. It wasn’t fair. She wasn’t used to seeing Gwen like this. She was biting her bottom lip, her free hand a fist in her lap. She had always been Maggie’s mentor, her rock, her advocate. She was the stable, logical, optimistic one of the pair, but it wasn’t right to foist this on her, not now.
Gwen sat back, took a deep breath. Maggie waited, only now realizing that her chest ached. Gwen’s panic was contagious. It crushed against her lungs.
“You’ll be okay,” Gwen said as if reading Maggie’s mind.
Maggie shifted in her chair, suddenly chilled. She tucked the gown around her. The panic had transferred to Maggie, because now Gwen seemed calm, genuinely so this time. Had she slipped and caught herself, realizing she needed to be strong for both of them?
Her eyes held Maggie’s. “Is there anyone you want me to call?”
“I’ve already called you.”