Deadly Passage

by Lawrence Gold

  ‘‘It’s good to meet you, Andy,’’ said the figure with a hollow, mask-distorted voice.

  ‘‘Barney Adams. I’d know you anywhere.’’

  Barney laughed. ‘‘You had us scared to death.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know whether to kiss you, or punch you out, Barney.’’

  ‘‘Let’s skip the kiss, Andy; the guys may not understand. How are Jesse and Rachel?’’

  Just then, they emerged from the companionway, and waved.

  ‘‘Rachel’s sick, but, so far, she’s not as bad as Nicole. I gave Rachel an antiviral, for what it’s worth.’’

  ‘‘What about you and Jesse?’’

  ‘‘We’re fine. I guess we’re lucky, or the smallpox vaccination we had so many years ago lasted longer than anyone thought.’’

  ‘‘What about your passenger?’’

  ‘‘She’s in bad shape. You’d best get her off, and into your hospital facility. Her sores are open and draining; she’s highly infectious.’’

  ‘‘Wasn’t that their whole idea, Andy?’’

  ‘‘What can you say about the malevolence of fanatics—even homegrown ones—and the evil dogma that incites them?’’

  They helped Jesse off the boat, and brought a wheelchair for Rachel, as she was too weak to walk. Two bulky figures went below, and emerged with Nicole. They placed her on a stretcher, and, with many hands, moved her to the dock.

  ‘‘Where are you taking us?’’ Andy asked.

  ‘‘We’ve converted the Flamingo Lodge into a field hospital, just for you. You’ll be visiting with us for a while.’’

  They placed both Nicole and Rachel into separate, strict, no-contact isolation. They restricted Andy and Jesse to a single suite of rooms.

  An Army Medical Corps full colonel, and two research physicians from the CDC, formed the team leaders. The colonel led the interrogation. ‘‘What was their condition when you recovered Nicole and Ryan from the vessel Adios?’’

  ‘‘Both appeared to be severely dehydrated. I’d guess by clinical parameters that they’d lost three percent of their total body water.’’

  ‘‘Was anything about them unusual? Did anything suggest some other process?’’

  ‘‘The man, Ryan, had temperatures to 100.6 degrees at the beginning, but it increased to 102 degrees. At first, I thought it was dehydration, but I couldn’t buy that with the higher fever. After we corrected the dehydration and they awoke, it became clear that we were dealing with something else.’’

  ‘‘Their symptoms sounded viral?’’

  ‘‘Yes, but totally nonspecific until the onset of the rash.’’

  ‘‘You suspected smallpox at once?’’

  ‘‘Hardly. Smallpox isn’t the first thing you’d think of, today. Later, when the lesions developed and spread in a characteristic pattern, I knew it was smallpox. Can you imagine being trapped with your wife and daughter on a small boat with smallpox?’’

  ‘‘Anything else?’’

  Andy scanned the men. ‘‘Few clinicians have personal experience with smallpox. If I were you, I’d try to find old-timers who know smallpox firsthand. I’d pick their brains to see how this disease matches up with their experience.’’

  ‘‘Thanks, Dr. Reiss,’’ the colonel said. He looked back for a moment with a mild scowl. ‘‘Some others would like a word with you.’’

  ‘‘No problem,’’ Andy said, ‘‘but what do your experts say about giving Rachel the Vaccinia Immune Globulin?’’

  ‘‘They’re not sure, but the consensus is to withhold it for the moment. If she were sicker, they’d give it for sure. Gamma Globulin intravenously has its own set of problems.’’

  ‘‘If she gets sicker,’’ Andy said, ‘‘it may be too late.’’

  ‘‘Take it up with the CDC, Doctor.’’

  After they left, two men entered the room, wearing masks and gloves. One was from the FBI Task Force on Terrorism, and the other was a commander of the Coast Guard’s Criminal Investigation Division.

  The FBI man was stereotypic: well built, and dressed in a dark blue business suit. The commander wore his uniform.

  The FBI agent did all the talking. ‘‘Were you anywhere near Cuba during this trip?’’

  The question shocked Andy.

  How do they know that? What should I say?

  ‘‘Weather forced us to take shelter in a canal off Ensenada San Juan.’’

  ‘‘Who did you meet in Cuba?’’

  ‘‘Meet?’’

  ‘‘Who did you meet? It’s a simple question, Doctor.’’

  ‘‘You mean besides Fidel?’’

  ‘‘This is no laughing matter, Doctor.’’

  ‘‘Tell me about it.’’

  ‘‘Again, Doctor, who did you meet?’’

  ‘‘I met nobody.’’

  ‘‘You’re sure?’’

  ‘‘Would you cut the crap, and tell me what’s this is about?’’

  ‘‘You were transporting terrorists.’’

  ‘‘This is bullshit,’’ Andy said.

  ‘‘You were transporting terrorists carrying a deadly disease into the United States of America. Don’t you find it interesting that a specialist in infectious disease should happen to rescue two terrorists infected with smallpox? That the terrorists originated from Cuba, and you happened to spend several days in a country that hates the United States?’’

  ‘‘What are you implying?’’

  ‘‘What are your political sympathies?’’

  Andy stood. ‘‘Screw you!’’

  ‘‘Sit down, Doctor.’’

  Andy looked at the man as if he were insane. ‘‘Must I justify my political beliefs to you?’’

  ‘‘If you cooperate, this will go a lot easier.’’

  ‘‘I’m a moderate conservative, or better, libertarian. Jesse’s more liberal… that’s not a pejorative, is it?’’

  The FBI agent ignored Andy’s comment.

  ‘‘If you think we have anything to do with this attack—that we subjected ourselves and our daughter to smallpox—then you’re not only nuts, but you’re certifiable.’’

  ‘‘Have you served in the military?’’

  ‘‘Don’t ask questions that you already know the answers to.’’

  ‘‘Are you, or have you ever been, a member of the ACLU?’’

  ‘‘Why don’t you change a word, or so, to ‘are you, or have you ever been, a member of the communist party’? I see that the FBI is channeling Senator Joseph McCarthy.’’

  ‘‘Harsh times call for harsh means, Doctor.’’

  ‘‘Adopting the values of our enemy doesn’t sound like victory, to me. Shouldn’t you be more concerned with the weapons facility that’s producing smallpox, and who knows what other pathogens?’’

  ‘‘Be assured, Doctor, we’re dealing with that problem.’’

  Andy stood. ‘‘Do you have any more questions?’’

  ‘‘Not for the moment. After all, you’re not going anywhere. I may be back for more.’’

  Andy smirked. ‘‘I can’t wait.’’

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  The President stood behind the Resolute Desk. ‘‘We must go public with this smallpox thing. If it comes out from any other source, it will look like we’re stonewalling.’’

  ‘‘Miguel Garcia and the CEF have it,’’ Preston Harding said, ‘‘and it’s all I can do to force them to keep it to themselves. That won’t last; they have their own constituency to please.’’

  A knock on the Oval Office door interrupted them.

  The President’s secretary said, ‘‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but the DCI’s here, and he says it’s urgent.’’

  ‘‘Send him in.’’

  The DCI rushed in. ‘‘We have a communication from Raúl Castro. He wants a high level meeting.’’

  ‘‘It’s about the terrorists and the smallpox, sir,’’ Preston said. ‘‘The Cubans must be shitting their pants.’’

  ‘
‘Bring him to Washington,’’ POTUS said.

  ‘‘I’m sorry, sir,’’ the DCI said, ‘‘but any such meeting must be clandestine, or it won’t happen.’’

  ‘‘What does he suggest?’’ Preston asked.

  ‘‘He wants to meet with you, Mr. Harding, in Cuba. He’ll guarantee your safety.’’

  Harding turned to the President. ‘‘What do you think, sir?’’

  ‘‘Pack your bags, Preston. You know how I feel about our Cuban friends, and you have my utmost confidence.’’

  When Preston Harding’s plane landed at José Marti International Airport, 9 miles southwest of Havana, the ground controllers directed the aircraft to a secure area far from the main terminal.

  After Preston stepped from the plane, they directed him to a pristine black 1957 Cadillac Fleetwood limousine.

  They drove to a private estate in the outskirts of Havana, where Rafael Ochoa introduced himself to Preston.

  ‘‘I’m so happy you decided to accept the President’s invitation,’’ Ochoa said. ‘‘We know a great deal about you, Mr. Harding, and thought you’d be appropriate for a meeting of such sensitivity.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, Colonel Ochoa. I know a good deal about you, too. I hope Señora Ochoa is well.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, Señor. She had her heart set on a relaxed retirement, but…’’

  The door to the library opened, and Raúl Castro entered and extended his hand. ‘‘I want to thank you for coming so soon. Please come in, and have a seat.’’

  ‘‘I was so sorry to hear about your wife.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, Señor. For some men, such a woman is a once-in-a-lifetime blessing.’’

  ‘‘How is your brother, Mr. President?’’

  ‘‘Not well, Señor, but he’s nothing, if not a tough, old bird.’’

  ‘‘How can I help you?’’ Preston asked.

  Castro sat behind his desk with Ochoa at his side. ‘‘I’d like to have your assistance to ensure that this unfortunate situation will not deteriorate.’’

  ‘‘This situation is of your own making, Mr. President.’’

  ‘‘In part, yes, but I assure that our intentions were honorable.’’

  ‘‘Like attacking an unarmed American vessel in International Waters?’’

  Castro coughed with discomfort. ‘‘I’m going to have Colonel Ochoa review the facts leading up to this unfortunate situation. I give you my sacred word that I’ve instructed him to withhold nothing. This situation is far too dangerous for us to be anything but completely candid.’’

  Preston nodded, and turned to Ochoa. ‘‘Colonel?’’

  Ochoa talked for nearly an hour. He outlined every detail of the arrival of the two Americans on Adios, and the meetings with Jorge Lopez and Dr. Baños.

  ‘‘We suspected that Lopez was an Islamic sympathizer, and, to tell you the truth, we thought he might be Al-Qaeda.’’

  ‘‘And you allowed him to function in your country?’’

  ‘‘In spite of what our Cuban friends in Miami say, Señor, Cuban citizens do have rights, and enjoy the full protection of the law.’’

  He went on to tell Preston how they captured Jorge Lopez, and the murder of Dr. Baños. ‘‘By the time we discovered this, Adios had departed, and we feared that their attack on the United States would find its way back to Cuba. It appears that our fear was well-founded. Believe me, Señor, we fully understand the politics in the United States. Many elements would love an excuse to attack Cuba. We need to avoid that at all costs.’’

  ‘‘Why didn’t you notify us? Can you imagine the goodwill that might have generated?’’

  Castro took a deep breath, and shook his head slowly. ‘‘Excuse me, Mr. Harding, but nothing we do regarding the government of the United States ever brings goodwill for Cuba.’’

  Preston smiled.

  ‘‘Additionally, Señor, we carry our own burden. Nobody can describe the Cuban personality as passive. That forces us to try to fix things for ourselves. That’s what Captain Ortiz was trying to do when he approached the sailboat Prophecy. He was under orders to remove the terrorists, and return them to Cuba. We ordered no assault on the American vessel, and we regret our captain’s action. Ortiz and his crew will pay the price for disobeying our orders.’’

  Bullshit, thought Preston. Another example of how superiors hang out the little guys to dry.

  Ochoa picked up an attaché case, and handed it to Preston. ‘‘This information will serve as an apology, and as our gesture of goodwill. We hope we can put this unfortunate episode behind us. Please share this, and discuss it with the President.’’

  ‘‘What’s here?’’

  Ochoa looked at Castro, who nodded. ‘‘Every detail of our surveillance of the terrorists, their meetings, our interrogations of Jorge Lopez, and evidence of Syria’s complicity through use of their diplomatic pouch.’’

  ‘‘It’s not easy for Cubans of our generation to admit mistakes,’’ Castro said. ‘‘It’s especially difficult when those mistakes involve the United States. You’ve not made our lives any easier for close to 50 years, Señor. I’d hoped that, over time, our relations would improve, and I don’t want this situation to interfere with that possibility.’’

  ‘‘We have our own problems, and our own constituents to deal with, Mr. President. I appreciate your candor, and I’ll do my best to present this information in the way you intended.’’

  Castro and Ochoa shook Preston’s hand, and then accompanied him back to the waiting limousine.

  Preston turned to the Cubans, smiled, and patted the Cadillac. ‘‘They just don’t make them like this, anymore.’’

  The driver smiled at Preston. ‘‘It belonged to Meyer Lansky.’’

  Preston shook his head. ‘‘Cuba, like the United States, must learn to take the good with the bad.’’

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Although Flamingo remained at the periphery of Hurricane Agnes, the storm’s movement and its cyclonic winds howled through the makeshift hospital. Violent gusts up to 124 MPH sent anything not nailed down flying through the air.

  They wouldn’t let Andy free to reinforce the dock lines, or place additional fenders and fender boards on Prophecy, but Barney and his men undertook the task, and completed it before the worst of the storm.

  People can’t fathom nature’s raw power, Andy thought. At its extremes, it’s way beyond man’s ability to resist. While Andy and Jesse had survived winds up to 60 or 70 knots in their years at sea, the thought of Prophecy caught in hurricane-strength winds had been their worst nightmare, and now they faced another.

  They sat by Rachel’s bed, as Hurricane Agnes raged through the already-damaged Flamingo. Although sheltered behind strong windows and thick layers of plywood, Andy couldn’t resist a glance at the demon. He moved to a small bathroom window with a slit between protecting boards, and looked out.

  The darkened world had an eerie cast. Dimmed early afternoon light left a hazy, shadowed scene. Flashes of lightning created brilliant seconds-long stark photographic images.

  The storm surge brought the marina’s water level to the top of its walls: at least 16 feet. Andy could see Prophecy bucking and straining against her dock lines. Any additional surge would stretch the lines to their breaking point, and set the boat free. He fought the irrational urge to do something, to save Prophecy, to protect her, an inanimate object, much as he might save his own child. For some, Andy acknowledged, it’s a materialistic concern, and what thing is worth a life? When it came to Prophecy, a friend who had cared for them, listened in silence to his deepest thoughts, and forgave his unkind words when she faltered, or when some part failed, he wouldn’t apologize for his anthropomorphism.

  The howling wind screeched and roared as trees snapped, power poles fell, and metal roofs of small buildings ripped away. The sky flashed as power transformer after transformer popped and flared out, leaving an acrid aroma.

  When the building shook and the roof creaked un
der the stress, he returned to Jesse and Rachel. His fate lay with them.

  After several heated arguments with the CDC people, they permitted Andy and Jesse to remain at Rachel’s bedside. The skin redness had increased, and the first pox erupted on her face. Her temperature was 102.2 degrees, and she was lethargic.

  ‘‘Daddy?’’ She whispered. ‘‘Where’s Mommy?’’

  ‘‘I’m right here, Baby. How are you feeling?’’

  ‘‘I’ve never felt so bad in my life. I’m so tired, my head aches, and the light bothers my eyes.’’

  They sat with her for 20 minutes, when Andy said, ‘‘You stay here, Jesse. I want to talk with the physician in charge.’’

  Lieutenant Commander Seth Pinker was nearing retirement. He’d finished his training in infectious diseases in the late 60s, and had been in administrative positions for the last 15 years. He was friendly and outgoing, but his knowledge did not impress Andy.

  ‘‘I’m concerned about Rachel, Commander.’’

  ‘‘Me too,’’ Pinker said.

  I’d better be diplomatic with this man, thought Andy. It’s easy to rub a bureaucrat the wrong way, and screw yourself up.

  ‘‘Have you discussed our options with your specialists in viral illnesses?’’

  ‘‘We all agree that, at this stage of Rachel’s illness, supportive therapy is all that’s in order.’’

  ‘‘Are you familiar with the data on cidofovir, or Vistide, sir?’’ Andy asked.

  ‘‘I’m familiar with the name, but that’s it.’’

  ‘‘May I ask you a favor, sir?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘Please discuss Vistide with your consultants. It’s a dangerous drug that has caused permanent kidney failure, but if Rachel gets worse, we may need to use it, anyway.’’

  ‘‘Of course, Dr. Reiss.’’

  ‘‘Please call me Andy.’’

  ‘‘I’ll place the calls when I get back to my office. I don’t know if it’s available.’’

  ‘‘It’s available, sir. The DOD, under Donald Rumsfeld, had large amounts stockpiled.’’

  ‘‘Okay, I’ll let you know.’’

  In the White House, Preston Harding sat with the President. ‘‘I believe the Cubans, sir, except for their explanation about the attack on Prophesy. Everything they said rings true, and fits with our intelligence. While there’s no question that Raúl Castro is as dedicated a communist as Fidel, I don’t think he’s as reckless.’’