Only Wrong Once

by Jenifer Ruff

  Around the conference table expressions grew more solemn.

  Quinn continued, keeping his voice calm and in check, even though the urge to hurry, hurry, hurry threatened to choke him. “Four human carriers have been deliberately infected to disperse this weaponized hemorrhagic fever.”

  “Excuse me, Agent Trayor, how do you know there are four carriers? Where are they?” the Secretary of State asked.

  “To the best of our knowledge, there are four. Two of them, both U.S. citizens, have been positively linked. They were each discovered today. Deceased. One in Boston, one in LA. The CDC is working to control an outbreak, but the risk of spread from those two, at this point, is low.”

  “And why is it low?” The National Security Advisor looked puzzled.

  “E.C.1 is highly contagious, but not until symptoms develop. The onset of symptoms, in the case of the two deceased men, was so sudden and violent, they weren’t able to spread the virus before they died.”

  “And the other two?”

  Quinn wasn’t sure who posed the question. “The FBI is working to identify and locate them now. Ideally, we will find them incapacitated but still alive so they can be questioned. We believe the exposure target is the Panthers football game in Charlotte at thirteen-hundred hours tomorrow and that the infected individuals are somewhere in the stadium’s vicinity. Facing the possibility of a nation-wide epidemic with unprecedented public health and economic impact, we can’t overemphasize the importance of locating these individuals.”

  “How are we doing that?” the Secretary of State asked. “We certainly don’t have much time.”

  “Less than an hour ago, my team developed a profile and identified a list of matching candidates. Field agents and the HRT have been deployed to personally screen each of them in Charlotte.”

  “And if we don’t find them?” the National Security Advisor said.

  The FEMA Director answered. “Defense agencies are currently working together to establish our contingency plan.”

  “When will we notify local law enforcement and the public?” asked the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  “It’s imperative this information remains classified for now. If the carriers are alive, they are isolated. If word gets out about our search, and about the other two dead patients, we’ve provided motivation for them to start spreading the disease immediately,” Quinn said.

  “What about your field agents? If they’re outfitted, won’t they be noticed and cause a panic?” the Joint Chief of Staff asked, looking at the FBI director and the Attorney General.

  The FBI Director spoke. “The field agents are not wearing protective suits, precisely to avoid a panic situation. They have the gear with them and will use their judgment about when and if to put it on. The HRT team will take additional precautions if they believe the suspect they were sent to apprehend is infected.”

  “There are plenty of groups who would do this, but who could do it?” said the President, looking around his conference room table.

  Madeline spoke up. “Mr. President, Ebola is stored in numerous biological labs across the world – from pharmaceutical companies to universities. Even the simplest biotech facility has the ability to harvest and alter the virus, if they have a skilled virologist.”

  “So, we don’t know who is responsible?” The President puckered his lips and stared at Quinn through squinted eyes.

  “The defense agencies are all working together to determine responsibility. We suspect ISIS. We suspect the attack is retribution for the death of Anwar Al-Bahil who was killed by the U.S. military on November 6th last year. But no one has claimed responsibility yet. And that’s good. If the information stays classified, whoever is responsible doesn’t know two of the infected men are dead and we’ve discovered their bodies. As long as they don’t know, we have more time to find the terr…I mean, carriers.”

  “What about shutting down the Panthers game?” the Secretary of Health and Human Services asked.

  “Quinn and I worked this out earlier today,” said the Governor. “If we haven’t located the infected men by ten am tomorrow, I’ll shut the game down and declare a state of emergency. It would be a last-minute call and would coincide with alerting the media.”

  “Prior to that time, we will not be notifying anyone at the venue, including the NFL board and local law enforcement. Inciting a panic situation could be more detrimental, at least in the short term, than the threat of contagion. The infected carrier would likely find another location: a mall, an airport, anywhere with crowds of people,” added Quinn.

  Several people had differing opinions as to how long they should wait before alerting the public. The DHS Cabinet member prevailed. He said, “If the carrier isn’t located by eleven am, we’ll alter the scope of the mission to alerting and protecting the public. The Governor will mobilize a state response and prepare the hospitals.”

  Images of what might happen flashed through Quinn’s mind—uncontrollable panic, irrational behavior, stampedes. His stomach tightened.

  “What about shutting down all of Sunday’s NFL games as a precaution? And how do you know there aren’t more carriers?” said the Secretary again.

  Quinn answered. “We’re pursuing every lead to find out. At this time, we have no evidence of additional carriers. We are certain tomorrow’s Panther game in Charlotte is a target. I’ll provide an update as soon as we hear something from the agents in Charlotte.”

  The President closed his eyes for a brief second. “How fast can we formulate a public health response?”

  “We’re implementing an emergency front-line training protocol to make sure first responders have the necessary training and equipment,” said the FEMA director. “All reserve hospital workers and EMTs may be needed.”

  The governor spoke. “I’ve already activated the hospital disaster plan for North Carolina. I’ve called it an emergency training drill. If necessary, tomorrow morning we’ll have isolation tents set up in Charlotte, on the location of a former NBA arena. We’ve already started, again, under the auspices of an emergency drill. The tents look like a giant outdoor market and shouldn’t cause alarm.”

  Madeline’s composed image filled the screen on Quinn’s wall. “The CDC has a highly experienced hemorrhagic fever response team on their way to Charlotte.”

  “What about vaccinations?” the President asked. “Don’t we have Ebola vaccinations now?”

  Madeline answered. “The vaccinations are still in testing stages, but E.C.1 is new, altered. Our current vaccinations might reduce the severity of the disease, but would not prevent contraction. We’re working on altering the vaccine, but it still needs to be tested and manufactured on a large scale. So, for the short-term, vaccination is not an option.”

  “How is our stockpile of PPE?” The Attorney General looked to Madeline and then the FEMA Director.

  Madeline answered. “I conferred with the other government agencies on this. It’s not at the level required if the attack is carried out. For all medical personnel, we’ll need level four gear, head to toe covering, face shields, and respirators. No skin can be exposed because decontamination will require chlorine spray. We have enough for primary care givers and it can be delivered in less than 24 hours. It takes twenty full-time staff to care for one patient with advanced hemorrhagic fever. If the disease spreads, we’re going to have a severe shortage of PPE and caregivers. And the emotional toll an outbreak will take on primary caregivers should not be underestimated. It’s difficult to be mentally and psychologically prepared for the amount of suffering they could witness.”

  “What about body bags? Storage for corpses?” said the Attorney General.

  “We can discuss that after the call,” said the FEMA director, without looking up.

  The CIA Director glanced at a notebook in front of him. “What is the incubation period for the disease?”

  “With a known hemorrhagic virus, it could be between two and twenty-one days, depending on the individu
al. Again, this virus has been altered,” Madeline said.

  “That’s not an answer.” The CIA Director shook his head.

  “We don’t have the data to provide an exact number. We only have two victims to study, both were dead when we discovered them, and we don’t know when they were infected,” Madeline said.

  “Why don’t you have the information yet?” The Secretary of Health and Human Services frowned.

  “Bottom line. We don’t know,” Quinn said, jumping in.

  The President cleared his throat. “If and when the Governor declares a state of emergency, I’ll address the nation at the same time. I’ll initiate the Pandemic Plan and authorize travel restrictions, along with military deployment and media control. We’ll have to deploy the National Guard, won’t we?”

  Nods all around the table.

  “This is unprecedented territory.” The Secretary of State clasped his hands. “We’re used to restrictions to keep people out, not keep them in.”

  “The only way we avoid a national disaster is to find the remaining ticket holders before the morning,” the FBI director said, stating the obvious.

  “I hope we find them alive,” said the Attorney General.

  “And believe me, when we find them, they’re going to wish they were dead.” The President slammed his fist on the table.

  Holly paced around the empty house, her anger intensifying.

  Where the hell is he?

  She glared at the numbers on the wall clock. They were supposed to board a red eye to Spain in a few hours. Her bags were packed, but Quinn still wasn’t home and he hadn’t done a thing to prepare for the trip. Holly clenched her fists. A tingling feeling built inside her nose until she sneezed with so much force it rattled her brain.

  She had already left Quinn several messages and texts, each one angrier than the last. Running out of patience, she called his assistant

  “Quinn Traynor’s office,” Jayla answered, sounding rushed.

  “This is Holly Traynor. I need to speak with my husband. Do you know where he is?”

  “He’s busy right now, but I will make certain he gets your message.”

  “We’re supposed to be on a flight to Spain tonight and I need to know if he’s going to come home in time. He never came home yesterday. I’m starting to wonder if he’s even alive.”

  “Oh, no. I’m so sorry. None of us made it home yesterday. But Quinn is fine, Mrs. Traynor. He’s not able to talk right now. He’s in the secure briefing room. I’ll make sure he gets your message.”

  A slight growl escaped Holly’s throat. She pressed the “end call” button as hard as she could, wishing for a more satisfying way to disconnect and convey her frustration. “Damn it!” She stormed into the kitchen. Leaning heavily on the counter, she opened one of her canisters, selected a pill, and stared at it in her open palm. So much power contained in something so tiny. She easily remembered why she started taking them. They made her loneliness ache less. They made Quinn’s perpetual absence more bearable. But right now, she wanted to hang on to her anger, it’s magnitude felt critical, essential to surviving the next few hours. She made a fist around the pill. Maybe she wouldn’t take one after all. But…she also felt like crap. She opened her palm, tossed the pill into her open mouth, and swallowed.

  Why had she allowed herself to believe she could count on him this time? If she hadn’t raised her expectations, she wouldn’t be in this position, feeling hurt, foolish, and betrayed. “He’s not going to ruin this for me. I don’t need him. I’m going to Spain no matter what,” she said aloud.

  Her eyes itched. She stomped to the bathroom, and fished around in the cabinet for the antihistamines. After finding the bottle and swallowing yet another pill, she returned to the bedroom and sat down to think about her next move.

  Stephanie was on the verge of bursting into the briefing room when Jayla stopped her, just in time.

  “Quinn is briefing the National Security Council. Including the President.”

  “Ooh.” Stephanie raised her eyebrows. “Okay.”

  “It shouldn’t take long.”

  “I’ll wait.” Stephanie repeatedly ran her hand over the top of her head and down her ponytail, fidgeting until the door opened. She began speaking immediately. “We did more research on the A list candidates. One person rose to the top. He’s a banker and lives in Charlotte. I already sent his name to Rashid, who accessed his computer—” Stephanie’s eyes darted away for an instant. “Obviously, we didn’t have time for approvals.”

  “I don’t care.” Quinn shook his head. “It’s fine.”

  “He found recent searches about the Islamic State in the man’s browsing history.”

  “Damn. Let me see what you have.”

  She handed Quinn a piece of paper. “We didn’t write up anything formal.”

  “Because we don’t have time for formalities.”

  “There’s his name and address.” Stephanie pointed.

  Quinn picked up his phone. “I’ll tell the Hostage Rescue Team.”

  “Please let this one be alive, so we can find out if there are others.” Stephanie lifted her gaze toward the ceiling.

  Quinn nodded to her as the HRT answered his direct call.

  Stephanie returned to the work room.

  “We’re down to the last few names,” Rick said.

  “We should all take a break while they confirm the banker is our guy,” Ken intertwined his fingers and pressed his hands forward, away from his chest.

  “We need to keep going through the list. Just in case,” Stephanie said, raising her voice. Her nerves were frayed. Rick appeared to be holding up the best, which Stephanie attributed to his youth.

  “In case we’re all wrong about the number one suspect? The guy who fits all the criteria? Whose search history reeks with ISIS?” Ken said.

  “Yes. Besides, he’s only one guy and we need two,” Stephanie said, her voice harsher than she intended. “Oh, God, I’m beginning to sound like an angry, exhausted mother. Sorry, Ken.” She closed her eyes and gently rubbed them.

  Ken let his head drop backward as far as it would go. “No prob. Take a break.”

  “We’re all tired, Ken. We’re all really, really, tired. Wired. Can you just move on to the next name, please?” She glanced over at Rashid, who was still working at a feverish pace. She wanted him to see her eye roll, but he was too busy concentrating.

  The sun in Los Angeles dipped into the horizon. At the same time, just a few miles from uptown Charlotte, moonlit darkness provided some cover for the mission. The unsuspecting Charlotte neighborhood was still and quiet until a breeze stirred crispy brown leaves into the air and four men wearing biohazard suits approached a row of high-end condominiums.

  From their headquarters, Quinn, Stephanie, Ken, Jayla, and Rick watched the HRT in action. They had a larger-than-life birds’ eye view on the wall monitor, streaming from an unarmed predator drone. Hundreds of other defense agency employees were watching the same feed around the country. Quinn took a deep breath and wrapped his hand around his chin.

  “They’re wearing full protective suits,” said Ken. “I thought they weren’t going to. Anyone could step outside to walk a dog or something. What are they thinking? We’re screwed if the media catches wind of this before they get him. All-out panic. And the terrorists will head to plan B.”

  “We know,” said Stephanie. “But if this is the guy, they need to be protected.”

  “This better be him,” said Ken. “How can it not be?” He sat down and bounced his knee before standing up again.

  With the speed and choreography of a well-rehearsed performance, the HRT surrounded one condo and stopped, poised to burst through the doors. With their bodies fully covered, they looked like a band of Martians. One of them backed up against the neighbor’s door and kicked two pumpkins out of the way.

  Quinn thought—pumpkins—something about the pumpkins rolling down the stone steps.

  Then—Oh, no! Holly.
>
  Our vacation.

  Oh Shit.

  He grabbed his personal phone from his pocket and typed a text message.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Los Angeles

  November 5th

  Holly’s head throbbed like her temples were being pushed out from the inside. She moaned and fell back to sleep. Finally, the urge to pee forced her awake. She rubbed her eyes and pressed her fingers against the sides of her head.

  “Quinn?”

  Silence.

  Where is he? Where is my husband? She looked at the clock. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Her flight to Spain would be boarding before she reached the airport. She grabbed her phone, a shaky tremor running through her entire body. Intense anger could do that for sure, but she also needed to eat and probably, on top of everything else that was going wrong, she was coming down with a cold.

  Quinn had left two text messages.

  I’m so sorry. I’ll explain later. I’ll change our flights and we’ll go a few days later.

  Please forgive me. I’m so sorry.

  She yelled at her phone, “Fuck you, Quinn!” and threw it down.

  Rage coursed through her. Her suitcase, packed for their trip, remained at the door where she had placed it. She grabbed the suitcase and tossed it on its side. Snatching the zipper and yanking it down, she pulled out the contents, item by item, flinging them behind her. Her new hat—wouldn’t wear it in LA. Her sexy new lingerie—what a joke it turned out to be, carefully choosing those. Her new walking shoes. Two bottles of pills. The rattling sound they made hitting the wall only fueled her fury.

  How could Quinn do this to her? How could he? And how could she have allowed him to disappoint her once again? She stood up with her hands on her hips, legs spread wide, only slightly distracted by an episode of dizziness. To hell with him! She was done with Quinn. So done!