Flight to Pandemonium
Edward Murray
Edward Murray
Flight to Pandemonium
2019 First Edition
© 2018 Edward Murray
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without the express written consent of the author, except for brief excerpts to be used in book reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-64370-616-0
The journey to another life…
One hundred years ago, an outbreak of ‘Spanish flu’ bloomed into the Plague of 1918 killing more people than the ongoing Great War. The following spring, the malady faded in remission without explanation. No one knew why because the existence of a virus had yet to be discovered. But what if the illness remained dormant?
Unknown to science, the disease grows pandemic again before the World Health Organization can develop a therapy. Health care workers are left helpless... Small groups of people gathering by chance flee to the wilds of Alaska seeking refuge. But the wheel of fortune hurls them into a cruel, violent, winter of purgatory, until...
Flight to Pandemonium
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I thank my gracious and tenacious editor, Carolyn Erickson. With benefit of her sound guidance, I learned to welcome being pushed to improve my craft.
Biochemist Susan Elliott provided invaluable references to disease pathology.
Pilot David Frey of Warbelow’s Air Ventures provided an enlightening thirty below-zero, mid-winter flight beyond the Arctic Circle and then along the Yukon River.
Excerpts of Carl Orff “O Fortuna” from CARMINA BURANA are used by permission of the Schott Music Corporation, European American Music Distributors Company.
Cover art by Kathy LilyField.
Book layout and design by Red Couch Creative, inc.
Hand sketch perspective by the author, Edward Murray.
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
For Ann, my patient, loving wife and faithful
travel companion.
Flight to Pandemonium
Edward Murray
1
Indira Gandhi International Airport, Delhi
Daredevils Sports Bar, Terminal T3, Early Fall. A tall distinguished man dressed in a government-gray suit, white shirt and dark blue tie entered the bar looking lost. He paused in the subdued light to allow his eyes to adjust from the bright departure lounge to glance about the bar. The slender man looked every bit the erudite Dane described only twenty minutes earlier. Even so, the medical logistics courier remained seated. She looked at her cell phone and compared his face to the image on her screen. Only then did she stand and slowly approach the thickly spectacled man, looked into his eyes and asked, “Are you Arend Vilhem?”
“I’m Doctor Vilhem,” he replied to the woman formally dressed in a business styled saree. Holding up his identification, he asked, “You have a delivery for me?”
“Sorry, but I needed to be certain before I could release this to you.” Without comment, Arend accepted the small stainless steel case he was expecting. When she also offered him a thick manila folder of loose paper, however, he looked at her questioningly.
“Mohinder sends his apologies,” she explained. “He’s become ill this morning and could not meet you himself. He is reluctant to delay your return, so he is providing this reading file. He requests that you review it on your return. Call him tomorrow.”
“Tell him I will call him, and please thank him for his consideration. My schedule won’t allow me to remain here overnight.”
They shook hands and the woman turned to leave and then hesitated. “Oh Doctor, pardon me, but one more thing.” Quietly she said, “I suggest that you remain in the departure lounge. Do not go back through security with that case.” She lowered her voice further and said, “On my way from Mumbai, domestic security insisted on opening the case for inspection until I told them it contained tissue from sick pigs!” The courier rolled her eyes for emphasis.
Arend frowned with concern. “Well, did they open it?”
“I don’t think so. The case was out of my sight for only a few minutes while it passed through screening. I told them they were breaching biohazard custody laws by handling it. They returned the case to me intact.” Without further explanation, the courier left to find her departure gate to Mumbai.
Did biohazard warnings mean nothing to airport security, he wondered? A bright crimson-red warning with the international tri-circle glyph emblazoned the case. Examining the robust seals, Arend concluded that the biohazard case hadn’t been opened.
Without his meeting with fellow pathologist Mohinder Datta, he faced an unexpected layover without even a book to pass the time. The departure lounge was too humid and crowded to spread about loose files.
He remained in the air conditioned bar and welcomed its relief from the oppressive heat. He settled on a tall barstool, moved a nearby stool within reach and placed the small square case on top. A tall, long legged barmaid in a fashionable flowered miniskirt turned after taking an order from the adjacent table and asked, “And you’re having…?”
Surprised by the instant service and the gorgeous presence before him he said impulsively “How ‘bout a B&B,” and then wondered why he had ordered a strong drink he hadn’t had in years. Maybe to quell his sense of anxiety or whatever he was feeling just now. With hours to wait before departure and then many more hours on his flight back to Copenhagen, thought of reading a thick pathology file wasn’t appealing.
The waitress returned and placed his drink on the table. Turning away in the dim light, she stumbled against Arend’s rearranged barstool, tipping the stool and the pathology case into the aisle. She managed to recover her balance but dropped her elaborate serving tray. The polished metal tray clattered against Arend’s case spinning to the floor. Recovering, she glanced up with a shade of annoyance which quickly morphed into a smile.
“So sorry about your grip,” she apologized while picking up the mess. “I should watch more carefully where I’m going. It’s not like this isn’t an airport.”
Arend again marveled at those beautifully sculpted legs. Her broad smile and wink were enthralling but even more so was the way she provocatively sashayed away. No doubt in his mind she was an alluring fellow country-woman. All thought of sick pigs vanished.
Once settled smoothly at altitude in business class on his way to Copenhagen, Arend took a long nap. Back awake, he could see a sea of puffy clouds far below and no further excuse for delay. Duty was calling. He asked for a B&B from the flight attendant and turned attention to the manila pathology file.
A noteworthy disease had been reported in a widespread area of northwestern India. Mohinder’s report related that an unknown virus had infected several of the hundred or more species of bats in the country. The disease spread to an indigenous variety of semi-wild pigs often penned-up for food by forest farmers. The pigs died without explanation with dead bats littering the ground nearby. Mohinder theorized that the pigs had eaten them and acquired the disease. The matter had long gone unreported due to the Hindu prohibition against raising swine or consuming pork, but dirt-poor farmers ignored the mandate, raised the pigs and ate pork nevertheless.
The affliction seemed to be remarkably virulent. Because humans and pigs are similar metabolically, Arend postulated that a mutated strain of virus might readily vector to people. Reading a highlighted portion of the file confirmed his idea. He was startled to learn that several pig farmers had ominously died.
The situation was more serious tha
n explained in his email briefing prior to leaving Copenhagen. Arend resolved to place an urgent call alerting his colleagues at the Surveillance and Response Team as soon as he arrived home.
The thrice hermetically sealed case resting at his feet contained swine and bat tissue, but more troubling, blood serum from afflicted farmers. Had he known, he would have arranged a more cautious method of custody than a hand carried metal case.
From the reports, Arend suspected that the pathogen might be a new strain of Type A influenza, perhaps a new viral mutation. Bats were known to be a reservoir of avian-like influenza. Since bat influenza didn’t normally infect pigs, such a strain might have mutated. The samples needed immediate PCR and serologic testing plus a thorough study of surface antigens. The tests might identify the configuration so the team could then study how to defeat the disease.
Meanwhile, the matter must await his arrival at Copenhagen. He put his seat back and closed his eyes. He had a headache… too much strong drink, no doubt. After fitful sleep, he awoke with a spasm of coughing. He looked at his watch. Half the flight remained. When food service arrived at his row, he felt nauseated.
“Do you have a few saltine crackers instead… and a little ice water?” he asked.
“Here’s your water, and I’ll return with crackers, if we have any,” replied the steward.
Arend tried resting again. His cough became rasping and asthmatic. Was he coming down with that flu himself, he wondered? Stranger things had happened in his career. But no… impossible! Flu symptoms were appearing far too soon and he hadn’t been exposed… unless someone infected handled that case. Mohinder was feeling ill, he remembered. Still… contamination was improbable, and the case was sealed.
Far more likely, something else was afflicting him... just a common respiratory infection made worse by the low cabin pressure at altitude. Feeling dull with an aching back, he stretched against his seat again. His feet touched the case, reminding him of its presence. He was unwilling to trouble anyone by reporting such improbable speculation.
Six hours into the flight, the chief flight attendant notified the captain that many of their passengers were coughing and too discomfited to sleep. “Perhaps we served a tainted meal, but no one has stomach cramps, just coughing. We can’t explain why so many healthy people are having trouble breathing. No one’s in jeopardy, but we should report the matter and seek advice.”
An hour short of their scheduled arrival, the flight attendant answered the flashing intercom from the cockpit. “Yes?” she croaked, prompting a deep cough.
“How are you all coping back there?” asked the captain.
“It’s worse, much worse. Our arrival is going to be unpleasant. Dozens will need to be carried off.” Coughing harshly she added, “The flight crew isn’t going to be much help. We’ve all got whatever is afflicting everyone else.”
“Copenhagen tells us they’ll have medical folks standing by. No one will take us sooner because no one can accommodate so many sick passengers.”
“Well, food isn’t the problem, I’m sure. Everyone is sick, even the infants. The cause has got to be deliberate somehow, but we can’t find anything out of place.” The attendant lowered her voice to a tremulous hush, “Some of these poor people will be in real trouble by the time we arrive.”
The Captain keyed the phone just as he was overcome with a cough. “Yea, well intentional is the consensus, but Copenhagen is still kicking around other possibilities to be ready for us. We’re not in trouble, just sick. I’ll get us there and we’ll be fine.”
“Easy for you to say. You ought to crack open your door and see for yourself.”
“That might be just what someone back there is waiting for.”
As they began their descent to Copenhagen, Arend panted in short, urgent breaths. A jolt of fear shot through him when he coughed pink streaks into his handkerchief. When the flight attendant paused near his row, he called out to her. Panting as well, the woman slowly collapsed to the cabin floor.
Ground control at Copenhagen implemented special procedures and diverted the flight to an arranged quarantine gate. Evacuation of the single aisle A320 presented unexpected problems. No one anticipated that all of the one hundred eighty passengers would need to be carried or wheeled from the plane. Worse, a line of wheelchairs was placed down the entire length of the air bridge reducing its capacity to a single exit aisle. By the time the plane was cleared of passengers, a crew of more than sixty airport personnel was redirected to expedite the evacuation. Shocked by what they saw, many refused to touch sick passengers.
Arend Vilhem fainted as he was wheeled into the terminal. Any explanation for the illness faded into oblivion with him. The attending medical personnel were at a loss to explain such an unprecedented event and feared biological sabotage. An explanation as simple as influenza was never considered nor was any prophylactic measure taken other than cotton breathing masks to protect others from exposure.
The Airbus A320 was pushed to a remote corner of the tarmac. Arend’s steel case and manila file remained undiscovered under the seat. However, a newspaper reporter investigating similar events unfolding in India happened to question airport security officials about the fateful flight. Learning of the Mumbai screeners’ conversation with the medical logistics courier, the reporter located her employer and eventually traced the path of the malady back to the rural farms with their pigs and bats.
Alarm spread urgently. A call from Indian authorities prompted Danish officials to destroy the aircraft. The story and video of the burning Airbus were streamed around the world. Newsroom pundits soon joined bloggers and tweeters in headlining the tragic malady as the Bat Plague.
2
Laurelhurst, Seattle, Early Fall. Mac McCabe was in shape. Anticipating his Alaskan fishing adventure, he had spent the summer months getting his lanky body in condition, hiking vigorously in the streets and mountains surrounding Seattle. His youthful endurance had returned to his middle-aged physique. Running lengthy sprints once again brought on that joyful euphoria.
Heather was pleased with his effort. “Nice bod, lover boy,” she acclaimed, patting his tight butt as he stepped out of the shower. “Can’t keep up with you any longer. Too bad you can’t lose that blue engineer’s suit forever.”
Her praise was all flattery. Heather was fit herself and lived for outdoor activity. Mac ignored her complements and replied, “Well that blue suit got me the invitation to go fishing in Nome. Remember Abel?”
“You mean that Cossack carpenter whose boat yard burned down… and that project you all couldn’t get approved.”
“That’s the man.” But Heather had touched a sensitive nerve. “We handled our part just fine, but the lawyers lost Abel’s waterfront yard in court and burned up his insurance money doing so.” Mac’s wife was an attorney.
Several years earlier Mac applied his civil experience with harbor design to assist Abel Dezhnev in a long and bitter bureaucratic battle. Abel operated a wooden boat repair yard on the Nome waterfront for twenty years serving fishermen, ferries and bargemen who plied the local waters.
One day a welder’s torch set a floor of wood chips aflame in Abel’s boat yard. The intense conflagration consumed his workshops, tools, and well respected livelihood. Despite the total loss, devoted customers encouraged him to rebuild.
Since the yard was located on the ocean shoreline near the confluence with the Snake River, The Alaska Department of Environmental Conservation decided they had prime jurisdiction and authority to issue permits. Mac was called in to provide the necessary civil design for new waterfront boat works. The environmental hearings were acrimonious and drawn out while the established maritime community faithfully supported the project. But local activists wanted a natural beachfront supporting only a new fish hatchery. Approving just the hatchery, the U. S. Environmental Protection Agency filed in feder
al court to suspend all maritime permits. The Seattle judge agreed and referred the case back to planning and zoning. Mac was invited to the gloomy conclave to pick up the pieces. He reported that his firm had nothing of substance to add even if waterfront hearings were renewed.
“Then we’re finished with all this,” decided Abel. “The bureaucrats won. There’s damn little insurance money left anyway. I’ve got to move on.”
In a Seattle bar reminiscing afterwards, Mac apologized. “I guess we’ve only added to your grief. Sorry we couldn’t come through with your permits.”
“No, no. Not so,” Abel replied forcefully. “You’re the only one who asked me what I wanted in all of this. Everyone else just demanded that I pay for the fish hatchery and everything they wanted. Enough of their bile, I say. I’ve already begun my new career.”
“Not boat building, I suppose.”
“No way. My family and I are to be fishing guides. There are salt water guides everywhere. We’re doing inland freshwater trips. I think guiding might work since we’ve been subsistence fishing for years.”
“Fishing has been on my wish list since I’ve been coming here,” replied Mac.
“Tell you what. I’ll give you a deep discount for a two week fall trip into the Seward peninsula… silver salmon and everything else we can catch.”
“Sounds perfect but I’ve no idea when I’ll get two weeks off.”
“Here’s my new card. I’m now Abel Guide Service. Call me when you can take the time off, but I will have rules for living simple. Besides, I’ll have a chance to build a new yurt near Pilgrim hot springs ahead of you.”
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