“Thank you for coming this morning,” Chan said politely. “You are well?”
“I am well.” The North Korean officer studied him, his entire body giving the impression of a coiled spring. There was an energy about him that Chan found deeply disturbing, something that went beyond the normal coarse spirit one would expect after years of combat. No, there was something deeply wrong about this man, the commander of the southern forces. A dark, brutal streak of wrongness, something that made him glory in and take personal pleasure in the pain he caused his enemies. It went beyond simple pride in his unit and in his performance, beyond that of the warriors. It was darkness.
Chan offered both food and drink, and settled into the polite inquiries that were the normal preliminaries, even with the military, to serious discussions. The Korean refused both, responded to Chan’s first few questions abruptly, and then suddenly stood. “We don’t have time for this. I understand that you consider me a barbarian, a man completely without manners. I also know that you have dealt with us long enough to understand that here I am not considered so.” He bowed ever so slightly, softening the harsh words. “There is not much time. When can we expect our shipments to arrive?”
Chan kept his face impassive. There was an art to telling lies, and no one was better at it than he was. “That will depend on your own progress. You will also pardon my bluntness, but I do not see that your forces are yet ready for them.”
The Korean general started to protest, and Chan cut him off. “With my own eyes I have seen the problems. Until they are corrected, I cannot authorize further assistance.”
“We are in the positions you ordered.”
“Suggested. I do not order your troops.”
The Korean waved away the distinction. “We are at our staging areas, ready to move forward. Everything, as you well know, is predicated on your country providing the weapons as agreed. And it was you, if I recall, who insisted that there would be no problems, that we could trust you and your people.” The Korean lifted one eyebrow, a sardonic expression on his face. “So far, your words mean nothing.”
The arrogance. The sheer unthinking arrogance. He has been to China. He knows that compared to this squabbling little strip of land, China is so far advanced. And yet he presumes to talk to me as an equal, to demand — demand — answers of me.
Chan let the silence stretch out, waiting for the other man to become uncomfortable. He wouldn’t, though — he never did. He operated on a different plane from anyone Chan had ever dealt with, one grounded in the concrete rather than in the abstract. Political promises meant nothing to him, nor did solemn oaths of assistance and friendship. In the Korean’s mind, a friend was someone who showed up with ammunition or weapons. When Chan followed through on his part of the bargain, the Chinese would become a very, very special friend — but not until then.
“Two weeks,” Chan said, reaching a decision. “Fourteen days to improve your security forces, to make arrangements for the secure transport of these weapons. And for those components that you yourself are to supply to be here, waiting.”
“The components are ready.”
“Since when?”
“Since now. I received a call this morning before leaving my quarters.”
Yes. Two weeks. That had been the right decision. The security, the transport, none of that really mattered. What mattered was that the delicate assemblies that China was providing had to be housed in casings uniquely identifiable as Korean.
“And the submarines?” the Korean continued. “The repairs you promised would be completed have not been done. Under the circumstances, I will not authorize any more of your forces to enter our country. Not until all of our submarines are seaworthy.”
“Had the problems been dealt with early on,” Chan responded mildly, “your own technicians could have dealt with them.”
The Korean waved aside the objection. “Events have not permitted our forces to linger in port. Nor have your requirements.”
Time for this to end. “Two weeks, then,” Chan said, standing to indicate that the meeting was over. “I assure you that—”
The Korean reached across a desk and grabbed him by the throat before Chan realized what was happening. Black eyes, so black they were almost blue, stared into Chan’s dark brown ones. The Korean did not speak.
My God, he’s growling. It can’t be — but he is.
Chan considered struggling or trying to call on his mediocre martial arts skills, but quickly dismissed the idea. There was no dignity in trying. The Korean was a warrior, one of the physical types. Chan’s spirit was no less warlike, but his skills were in different areas. He dealt in strategy, the intricate maneuvering of people behind the scenes, the positioning of forces to create maximum dismay, the careful intrigues that preceded and accompanied bloodshed between nations.
Chan stood still, unflinching, never taking his gaze from the other. He let his eyes speak for him. Not today, my friend. Perhaps not tomorrow. But know, know with complete certainty, that you’ll pay for this. In time. My time.
Some part of his message must have gotten through. The Korean did not quail, but Chan saw a grudging respect in his eyes. Abruptly, he released the Chinese strategist. Chan caught himself before he staggered, maintaining his balance on the balls of his feet.
The Korean turned and stalked out of the room.
Once he was alone, Chan slid back into his chair, willing his muscles to relax, waiting while the adrenaline seeped out of his system. The Korean would pay for this. He would pay.
SIX
USS United States
1330 local (GMT +3)
The two doctors stood before Admiral Jette and Captain Arnot, waiting for a reaction. Both the captain and the admiral seemed frozen, as though to react to the news was to make it even more real that it might be. Finally, the captain cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Just how sure are you that this is what you think it is?” He avoided saying the names that ran like a litany of doom through his mind: black plague, Ebola, hemorrhagic fever.
Dr. Evan Bender, a captain and the senior medical officer on board United States, pursed his lips. “We’re not certain of anything at this point, Captain. The lab reports are inconclusive, not surprising with what we have to work with on board. It will take a full culture in level-four containment facilities to make sure.” He glanced over at the younger doctor to his side, Dr. Marcia Henning, and said, “And that could take a few days, couldn’t it?”
Dr. Henning was one of the more junior doctors aboard, but she had completed a one-semester work project with the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, and was the closest thing the ship had to an infectious disease specialist. “Maybe just forty-eight hours,” she said, “although it could be longer, depending on what they think they’re looking for. And if it’s a new strain that hasn’t been identified yet and this is the first time it’s popped up, some mutated organism of some sort — well, it could be longer. They’ll try to sequence the DNA and see if they can find out what family of diseases it belongs to first.”
“Until then,” Dr. Bender put in, “the first course of action for us is full isolation procedures. It could be that our young Marine is just suffering from a nasty case of the flu. But until we know more…” He spread his hands in front of him, palms up, and a look of helplessness spread across his face. “I can’t recommend we take any chances with this, sir. The potential for disaster…” Again, he left the sentence unfinished.
The captain, although he appeared to be looking at the doctors, was in reality mentally replaying a seminar from the Naval War College. The seminar had been part of an intelligence briefing, highly classified, restricted on a need-to-know basis. Every man and woman in the room had been headed for command. The intelligence officer from the CIA had seemed peculiarly uneasy, and with an unerring instinct born of years of command, the captain and everyone else in the room had known that he was holding something back. The CIA, they understood, had been extremely reluctan
t to provide any information on the topic of biochemical warfare, at least not at a level of specificity that would do anyone any good. Sure, there were plenty of unclassified briefings around, tons of material to study. But getting someone to put their ass on the line and say yes, this is something every one of you is going to face within the next few months — well, that was something else entirely.
The CIA officer had declined to give his name, introducing himself as Jim. He had sharply cut features, darkly tanned with a slight sunburn on his nose, eyes that had seen too much that he could never tell. Still, once Jim had gotten started, the captain had appreciated his no-nonsense manner.
“There is a good possibility,” he had begun, “that one of you will face the possibility that a biochemical weapon has been used against you. Better than a possibility — I would go so far as to say an eighty-percent chance.” He paused to let that sink in.
Around him, the captain had heard the sharp intakes of breath. Putting a number to the threat made it real.
Eighty percent. For some reason, it had floated through his mind that presidential elections often reflected a voter turnout about a third of that.
Jim punched a button on his remote control, and the computer threw up a map of the world, some areas shaded in red. “These are the areas in which biochemical weapons are being developed — particularly biological agents. Some of them are quite primitive, and in our estimation the countries or groups involved are incapable of actually deploying the weapons. That doesn’t mean they can’t sell the warheads to a third party or make them available on the international arms market.”
Our new friend Jim has the look of someone who ought to be out in the field. Wonder how he got tapped to do this presentation. Maybe an injury — maybe he screwed up somehow and got yanked back to a desk?
The slides went on and on, describing what particular forms of death were being developed in each region, the availability of delivery systems, political estimates of which groups were intending to actually use the weapons. Only occasionally were Jim’s comments modified by, “We believe,” or, “We estimate.” More often, the data was accompanied by hard numbers, specific statistics, and projections even more frightening for their banality. Finally, when Jim opened the floor to questions, the captain asked, “So what do we do?”
Jim studied him for a moment, his gaze flat. “Arnot — deployed in four months to the Middle East.” It was not a question, but the captain nodded in response anyway. “There will be a precruise briefing that will answer most of your questions, Captain. In general, you must be prepared to react immediately to any unexplained outbreak of illness, particularly if it comes aboard following a shore deployment in one of these areas. Absent hard laboratory evidence to the contrary, you must — I repeat, must — assume that the patient has been infected with a contagious biological weapon.” Jim’s eyes bored into Arnot’s, seeking confirmation that the captain understood what he was saying. “Prior to deployment, your medical staff will be briefed as well. You’ll have some additional equipment aboard that will help them refine their analysis and diagnosis, as well as extra supplies of antibiotics, other supplies necessary to provide symptomatic treatment and life support.”
“Guess we all better get our flu shots,” someone in the back of the room muttered uneasily.
“You’ll be getting more than that,” Jim said, his gaze still fixed on Captain Arnot. “There are a number of vaccines in development now. Whether enough will be available prior to deployment is still questionable.”
“FDA-approved?” a medical officer headed for command of Balboa Naval Hospital asked.
“In some cases,” Jim said, and waited for the inevitable reaction of groans and complaints to subside. “Yes, we all know what happened with the anthrax vaccine. The court cases when sailors refused to take it, claiming it was dangerous. The problems in the manufacture, complaints about the series of shots. That will not be an issue.”
Jim stopped suddenly, as though he had said more than he intended to.
“Why?” the medical officer asked.
“We think the legal precedents have been set at this point,” Jim continued, his voice unconvincing. “And our studies showed that most sailors will prefer the protection of the vaccine to any unsubstantiated and undocumented potential side effects. There are the procedures in place to deal with that possibility, too.”
They’re not going to tell them. The thought shot through Arnot like a comet. They’ll tell them it’s a flu vaccine, some sort of booster — or just include whatever they’re testing out and not tell anybody. A wave of anger, then a shameful surge of relief. Yes, it was terribly wrong — but he wouldn’t know about it, would he? Even the captain of the ship would not be told, if that was what they were planning. And if he didn’t know, he wouldn’t have to deal with the possible protests.
Now, as he stared at the two medical officers standing tall in front of his desk, the captain’s doubts resurfaced. Had they been vaccinated against some form of biochem weapon in the last routine flu shot? If so, against what? And was there any way to find out — hell, could he even ask questions about the possibility? — without violating the nondisclosure agreement he’d signed prior to the CIA briefing?
He glanced over at the admiral, wondering if he had attended a similar CIA briefing. He’d try to find out later, if he could.
The admiral was still silent, although his face had gone pale. He stared at the two medical officers wide-eyed, and the captain was surprised to see a tiny tremor in his right hand. And that color — even as he watched, the admiral seemed to go a shade paler.
“Admiral?” he asked. “Do you have any guidance on this?”
The admiral turned to stare at him as though he didn’t recognize Arnot. Then, in a rush, color came flooding back to his face. “I suggest we arrange for evacuation of those men involved to shore. They’re better equipped to deal with this than we are. There are — how many, forty-eight? — potential victims and we don’t even know what we’re dealing with. The ship doesn’t have the resources to run a full isolation ward. It will interfere with our mission.”
“Losing those men and women if this turns out to be just the flu will interfere, too,” Arnot said.
“Damn it all, Arnot, are you paying attention?” The admiral pointed at the senior doctor, and now Arnot could clearly see the quiver in the admiral’s finger. “Do you know how many people the black plague wiped out in Europe? Do know how contagious this ship is? I’m not having it on my ship — I’m not having it.” The admiral’s voice was slightly higher, his words tumbling over each other. “What about the air wing? We start losing pilots right and left, what good are we?”
Arnot and the doctors stared at him, consternation on their faces for a moment before they all settled back into professional Naval officer expressions. “Planning evacuation is premature,” the senior doctor said shortly. “Once we have some preliminary lab results back, then we might consider—”
“No. I’m not taking the risk. I want an evacuation plan on my desk in twenty minutes.” The admiral shot up from his seat and rose to his full height. “Now move.” The admiral turned and stomped out of the room, his back stiff.
When he was gone, Arnot turned back to the doctors, and let out an involuntary sigh. “I’ll talk to him. How soon do you think you’ll know something else?”
“Twelve hours, Captain,” the younger doctor said. “I started cultures as best I can — but I can’t do any DNA sequencing here. We’re running a couple of tests to determine if it’s a normal variant of some sort of flu. But even if it is, we can’t be absolutely certain that it hasn’t been genetically altered in some way. Mostly we’re going to have to monitor the kid, treat his symptoms, and provide life-function support. If he’s got something truly nasty, he’s going to get worse fast, given how fast it came on initially after the possible exposure.”
“What about evacuation?” the captain asked. “The plans I saw said we could do it.”
“Yes, we do have contingency plans,” the senior medical officer said. “But in the case of a possible biological-warfare outbreak, we have to get permission from Fifth Fleet and from JCS. There’s some question in my mind whether they’re going to want anyone off the ship at all. They may prefer to fly in additional experts and treatment equipment.”
“Quarantine us,” the captain said. The doctor nodded. “You think that’s what they’ll do?”
“I do.” This time, it was the younger medical officer who answered. “The first priority with any epidemic is to contain the spread.”
Epidemic. Quarantine. Dear God.
“I’ll talk to the admiral, make sure he understands the procedural requirements for evacuation. In the meantime, I’ll let you get back to your patient. I don’t need to tell you that I want to be informed of any change in his condition and any preliminary lab results.” Both officers nodded.
Alone in the conference room, the captain relaxed for a moment, and let a wave of despair sweep through him. He allowed himself approximately fifteen seconds to feel the crushing burden of command, then resolutely put it aside in that compartment of his mind dedicated to dealing with such fears. He scribbled a few notes on a notepad, then took a deep breath and went to see the admiral.
Fifteen minutes later, he left the admiral’s cabin in a foul mood. As he’d suspected, Admiral Jette had changed his mind when he’d learned evacuation would require requesting permission from Fifth Fleet. Arnot had pointed out that evacuation might be devastating to the morale of the medical department, since they’d had extensive training and additional resources supplied to deal with such a contingency. Without coming right out and saying it, he’d led the admiral to conclude that an immediate request for an evacuation might reflect on the admiral’s ability to rely on his own resources. Admiral Jette had not needed any prompting to remember when the promotion board to two stars met.
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