at the conquest of Cortes, stacks of dead bodies would accumulate in
overwhelming numbers. Makeshift crematories would hastily be assembled
to burn the dead in mass, reproducing the ancient funeral pyres of
old.
In homes and apartments, citizens would be forced to live like
incarcerated prisoners, afraid to mingle with neighbors, friends, or
even close relatives for fear of risking infection. Rural inhabitants
would fare best, but in the major cities few families would be spared
the affliction. The diseased would be carefully quarantined while
family members burned sheets, towels, clothing, furniture, and anything
else that might have caught an ambient germ.
The lethal virus would take a deadly toll across all ages and races.
But hardest hit would be working adults, forced to expose themselves to
greater risk of infection in order to provide food for their families.
With millions of adults lying dead, the raging disease would create
an
immense class of orphaned children across the land. In a terrible
replay of Western Europe after World War I, an entire generation would
nearly be lost, vanished in just a few months' time. Only a SARS-like
containment of infected travelers, after being alerted by the initial
U.S. outbreaks, would prevent the scourge from decimating other
countries in a similar fashion.
To those infected, the disease would wreak a rapid and horrifying
progression of agony. Following the two-week incubation period, a
burning rash would emerge on the infected after the initial onset of
fever, starting in the mouth and spreading to the face and body. The
stricken would be highly contagious at this stage, where face-to-face
contact, or even shared clothes and bedding, would easily spread the
disease. Over the course of three or four days, the rash would expand
and painfully develop into hard raised bumps. The mass of
horrid-looking skin lesions, produced with the sensation of a hot torch
to the skin, would then gradually dry and scab over. For two to three
more weeks, the afflicted would battle the body-morphing disease until
all of the scabs had fallen away and the last risk of transmission
subsided. All the while, the sick would be forced to fight it alone,
as smallpox has no cure once the virus is unleashed in the body.
The survivors, if lucky, would be left with just the telltale pitted
scars on their skin as a constant reminder of their ordeal. Less
fortunate survivors would end up blind as well. The one-third of
infected persons who lost the fight would die a painful death, as their
lungs and kidneys slowly shut down under the viral onslaught.
But the horror would not end there. For still hidden in the smallpox
outburst was the specter of HIV. Slower acting and less detectable but
all the more deadly, the HIV attributes not only made the chimera virus
resistant to the smallpox vaccine but continued a viral path of
destruction in the surviving victims. Thriving in an already weakened
immune system, the virus would surge through the victims, destroying
and altering cells in a barbaric invasion. While most HIV victims
succumb to its debilitating effects in the course of a decade, the
chimera would attain lethality in just two to three years. Like a
satanic roller coaster, yet another wave of death would surge across
the country, striking down the poor souls who had overcome the initial
bout with smallpox. While the smallpox pandemic would claim a thirty
percent mortality rate, the HIV death rate would hover near ninety
percent. An already shocked and numbed nation would face a death pall
the likes of which had never been seen in its history before.
By the time the chimera ran its course, tens of millions would lie dead
in the U.S." with untold more around the world. Not a family would go
unscathed by its black touch and not a soul would live free from the
fear of a lethal biological shadow in the doorway. Amid the initial
unfolding of the scourge, few would pay concern to political
disturbances around the world. And, on the far side of the globe, when
the old ally of South Korea was overrun by its totalitarian neighbor to
the north there would be little response from the devastated nation
aside from a feeble cry of protest.
The Chinese junk looked like an antiquated relic amid the modern
freighters and containerships swarming about Inchon Harbor. Cussler
carefully threaded the high-sterned sailing vessel through a maze of
midmorning commercial traffic before easing into a small public marina
that was nestled between two large cargo docks. An odd assortment of
beat-up sampans and expensive weekend sailboats encircled the marina as
he motored the teak junk to a transit dock and tied up. He gave a
quick knock on the spare cabin door to wake its slumbering occupants,
then brewed a large pot of coffee in the galley as a marina employee
refilled the junk's fuel tank.
Summer staggered out into the sunshine of the aft deck holding the
dachshund in her arms as Dirk followed a few steps behind, trying to
suppress a yawn. Cussler threw a mug of coffee in their hands, then
ducked belowdecks for a moment before emerging with a hacksaw in his
grip.
"Might be a good idea to off-load those handcuffs before going ashore,"
he grinned.
"I'll be only too happy to dispose of these bracelets," Summer
concurred, rubbing her wrists.
Dirk peered around the neighboring boats, then turned to Cussler.
"Anybody follow us in?" he asked.
"No, I'm quite sure we arrived alone. I kept a keen watch, and
zigzagged our course a few times just to be sure. Nobody seemed intent
on following us. I bet those boys are still cruising up and down the
Han River looking for you two," he laughed.
"I sure hope so," Summer said with a shudder, stroking the small dog's
ears for comfort.
Dirk picked up the hacksaw and began cutting into the shackle on
Summer's left wrist. "You saved our lives back there. Is there
anything we can do to repay you?" he asked while gliding the saw blade
evenly across an edge of the handcuff.
"You don't owe me anything," he replied warmly. "Just stay out of any
more trouble and let the government take care of those hoodlums."
"Can do," Dirk replied. After efficiently sawing through both of
Summer's shackles, he relaxed while she and Cussler took turns cutting
through his handcuffs. When the last shackle fell free, he sat up and
downed the last of his coffee.
"There's a phone in the marina restaurant you can use to call the
American embassy, if you like. Here, take some Korean won. You can
use it to make the call and buy a bowl of kimchi," Cussler said,
passing Summer a few purple-colored bills of the national currency.
"Thanks, Mr. Cussler. And good luck on your voyage," Dirk said,
shaking the man's hand. Summer leaned over and kissed the old sailor
on the cheek. "Your kindness was overwhelming," she gushed, then
patted the dog good-bye.
"You kids take care. Be seeing
you."
Dirk and Summer stood on the dock and waved good-bye as the junk eased
out into the harbor, smiling as Mauser barked a final farewell from the
bow deck. They made their way up a set of well-worn concrete steps and
entered a faded yellow building that was a combination marina office,
sundry store, and restaurant. The walls were draped in the traditional
lobster trap and fishing net motif that sufficed for interior
decorating in a thousand seafood restaurants around the world. Only,
this one smelled like the nets were hung up while still dripping wet
with salt water.
Dirk found a phone on the wall in back and, after several failed
attempts, completed a connection to NUMA headquarters in Washington.
The NUMA operator required only minimal convincing before patching the
call through to Rudi Gunn's home line, despite the late hour on the
East Coast. Gunn had just dropped off to sleep but answered the phone
on the second ring and nearly flew out of bed when he heard Dirk's
voice. After several minutes of animated conversation, Dirk hung up
the phone.
"Well?" Summer asked.
Dirk glanced toward the smelly restaurant with a look of adventure.
"I'm afraid it's time to take the man up and sample some kimchi while
we wait for a ride," he replied, rubbing his stomach with hunger.
The hungry pair downed a Korean breakfast of hot soup, rice, tofu
flavored with dried seaweed, and the omnipresent side dish of fermented
vegetables, kimchi, which nearly blew smoke out of their ears from the
spiciness. As they finished their meal, a bulky pair of U.S. Air Force
security police strode sternly into the restaurant. Summer waved the
two men over and the senior of the two men confirmed their identity.
"I'm First Sergeant Bimson, Fifty-first Fighter Wing Security
Forces. This is Staff Sergeant Rodgers," he continued, nodding to his
partner. "We have orders to escort you to Osan Air Base without
delay."
"The pleasure will be all ours," Summer assured him as they stood and
left the marina restaurant, following the airmen to a government sedan
parked outside.
Though Seoul was actually a shorter distance to Inchon than Osan Air
Base, Gunn had elected to take no chances with their safety, ordering
their transport to the nearest military base. The airmen drove south
from Inchon, winding through mountainous hills and past flooded rice
paddies before entering the sprawling complex of Osan, which started
life as a lone airfield constructed during the Korean War. The modern
base now hosted a large contingent of combat-ready F-16 fighter jets
and A-10 Thunderbolt II attack planes, deployed in the forward defense
of South Korea.
Entering the main gate, they traveled a short distance to the base
hospital, where a fast-talking colonel greeted Dirk and Summer and led
them to a medical examination room. After a brief checkup and
treatment of Dirk's wounds, they were allowed to clean up and then
given a fresh set of clothes. Summer laughed that the baggy military
fatigues provided did nothing for her figure.
"What's our travel situation?" Dirk asked of the colonel. "There's an
Air Mobility Command C-141 bound for McChord Air Force Base leaving in
a few hours that I'm holding a pair of first-class seats on. Your NUMA
people have arranged a government aircraft to transport you from
McChord to Washington, DC, after you arrive. In the meantime, you are
welcome to rest here for a bit, then I'll take you by the officers'
club, where you can grab a hot meal before jumping on that twenty-hour
plane ride stateside."
"Colonel, if we have the time I'd like to contact an in-country Special
Ops unit, preferably Navy, if that's at all possible. And I'd like to
make a phone call to Washington."
The Air Force colonel's face turned up indignantly at Dirk's mention of
the word Navy. "There's only one Navy base in the country and that's
just a small operations support facility in Chinhae near Pusan. I'll
send over one of our Air Force S.O. captains. As I think about it,
there are SEALs and UDTs running in and out of here all the time. He
ought to be able to help you out."
Two hours later, Dirk and Summer climbed aboard a gray Air Force C-141B
Starlifter with a large contingent of GIs headed stateside. As they
settled into their seats in the windowless transport jet, Dirk found an
eye mask and a pair of earplugs in the seat back in front of him.
Donning the sleep aids, he turned to Summer and said, "Please don't
wake me till we're over land. Preferably, land where they don't serve
seaweed for breakfast."
He then pulled down the eye mask, stretched out flat in the seat, and
promptly fell fast asleep.
The fire was minuscule by most arson standards, burning less than
twenty minutes before it was brought under control. Yet the targeted
damage had been carefully calculated with a precise outcome in mind.
It was two in the morning when the fire bells sounded aboard the Sea
Launch Commander, jolting Christiano from a deep sleep in his captain's
cabin. In an instant he was on the bridge, alertly checking the ship's
fire control monitors. A graphic image of the ship showed a single red
light on the ship's lower topside deck.
"Conduit room on the shelter deck, just forward of the launch control
center," reported a dark-haired crewman manning the bridge watch.
"Automated water mist system has been activated."
"Cut all electrical power except for emergency systems to that part of
the ship," Christiano ordered. "Notify the port fire station that we
require assistance."
"Yes, sir. I have two men en route to the conduit room and am awaiting
their report."
While at port, the Commander carried only a skeleton marine crew aboard
around the clock, few of whom had any degree of firefighting training.
A rapidly spreading fire could easily gut the ship before sufficient
help arrived, Christiano knew. The captain looked out a bridge window,
half-expecting to see smoke and flames erupting from the ship but there
were none. The only indication of fire was the acrid odor of burned
electrical components that wafted through his nostrils and the distant
shriek of a port fire truck rumbling toward the pier. His attention
turned toward a handheld radio clipped to the crewman's belt as a deep
voice suddenly rasped through the bridge.
"Briggs here," the radio crackled. "The fire is burning in the conduit
room but does not appear to have spread. The computer hardware bay is
okay, and the FM-200 gas system has been activated there to prevent
combustion. It doesn't look like the fire suppression system was
triggered in the conduit room, but if we can get some extinguishers on
her before she spreads I think we can contain it."
Christiano grabbed the radio. "Do what you can, Briggs, help is on the
way. Bridge out."
Briggs and a fellow mechanic he had pressed into fire duty found a
smoking rage billowing from the conduit room. No bigger than a large
<
br /> walk-in closet, the room housed power connections between the ship's
electrical generator output and the myriad computers aboard the vessel
that supported payload processing and launch operations. Briggs leaned
into the bay and quickly emptied two fire extinguishers, then stood
back a moment to see if the smoke would lessen. A cloud of acrid blue
haze rolled out of the room, the noxious fumes it carried filtered by
Briggs's respirator. His assistant passed him a third fire
extinguisher and this time Briggs burst into the fiery room, directing
the carbon dioxide spray at the remaining flames he could see
flickering through the billows of dark smoke. His extinguisher
empty, he quickly danced out of the room and caught his breath before peering
in again. The room was pitch-black, with the beam of his flashlight
reflecting only smoke. Satisfied that the flames were doused and not
likely to reignite, he stepped into a side hallway and radioed the
bridge.
"The fire is extinguished. Briggs out."
Though the flames were extinguished, the damage had been done. It
would take another two hours before the melted mass of wire, cabling,
and connectors stopped smoldering and the Port of Long Beach Fire
Department declared the ship safe. The pungent smell of an electrical
fire hung over the ship like a cloud, refusing to go away for days.
Danny Stamp arrived at the ship shortly after the fire crew left, the
launch director having been summoned by Christiana Sitting with the
captain in the adjacent launch control center, he shook his head as he
listened to the damage assessment from the Sea Launch Commander's
computer operations manager.
"You couldn't have picked a worse place for a fire to break out," the
Dirk Pitt18-Black Wind Page 39