by Bonnie Doran
“About twenty, but the number keeps climbing. A few have been moved to the ship’s hospital.” The assistant frowned. The captain turned to her with a grim expression. “Dr. Graves told me she’d contacted the CDC. They think it’s the same strain that broke out in Denver.”
Chet’s guts turned to ice.
“Will they quarantine the ship?”
The captain stopped his pacing and faced her. “We still have five days at sea. Maybe it will blow over by then.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“So do I, Eleanor. So do I. The last thing we need is a panic on board.”
After they strolled past him, Chet stood, folded his blanket, and stepped to the railing. He stared at leaden sky, somber sea. He’d become a Typhoid Mary who infected others. He’d carried the disease on board, in spite of his use of gloves and face mask, but hadn’t displayed any symptoms. His cold had been just that—a cold. Apparently, he was immune to this particular strain. He’d intended to spread the disease to his father and ultimately to the seminar attendees, but he hadn’t counted on this.
****
That evening, Chet wore a sports shirt and tie for dinner. He arrived in the grand foyer early to hear Sandy play harp, but the string quartet was playing instead. He worried she’d caught the flu. He asked one of the violin players, but none of the musicians knew. He ordered a martini at the bar, listened while he finished his drink, and walked into the dining room. Not as many people as usual, or they were late.
He greeted the newlyweds at his table who were already immersed in conversation. The young bride’s hand seemed glued to her husband’s. “What do you think of all this sickness that’s going around?” she asked. “I’m worried.”
Chet shrugged. “Why? It’s only a bug. Lots of people get bugs.”
“Yes, but not like this. I went down to the clinic just to get something for seasickness, and it looked like half the ship was there. Some of them were admitted to the hospital. I didn’t know they had a hospital.”
The husband leaned toward him. “Didn’t you say you worked in the health field?”
Chet sipped his water. What had he used as a cover story? “Yeah. Medicare billing.”
The other tablemates came. The discussion drifted to other subjects such as the evening’s menu. Chet’s mind wandered. What had he been thinking? He had worked with influenza before. He knew how deadly it could be. And this one was the worst. The people here didn’t deserve the punishment he’d meted out to his father.
He studied his plate. He’d been so full of hate, so cocky, that he didn’t think of the innocent bystanders—like that Asian busboy at the hotel—who’d pay for his little prank. Little? Yeah, right.
He wondered again about Sandy’s absence and said a little prayer for her health before he could stop himself. His mouth tightened. Probably all that religious brainwashing during his youth.
His father would have been so proud.
31
Dan and Shorty relaxed in the Space Center’s lounge during a rare break in training. Dan picked up the Houston Herald from the coffee table, set down his mug, and stared at the lead story.
“President Urges Calm”
Washington, DC (AP)—In an address to the nation yesterday, President Benchley pleaded with the public to remain calm during the recent flu outbreak.
“I am confident the American people will face this challenge as we’ve faced all challenges: with purposeful resolve and concern for our fellow citizens,” the President said in a televised broadcast from the Oval Office.
“Our best scientists are working on a preventive vaccine, and we will mass produce it as soon as it’s developed.”
Americans have reacted with everything from stoic fatalism to religious rhetoric about the end of the world. Some have barricaded themselves in their homes as they did during the polio scare of the 1950’s.
People are mobbing grocery stores across the nation as supplies of face masks and hand sanitizers run short.
Other countries have not reported any outbreaks yet, but the World Health Organization declared a state of medical emergency in anticipation of a pandemic.
An unnamed source at the CDC revealed the current form of influenza could be a return of H1N1 but would not say whether they had identified the strain.
H1N1 was first discovered during World War I and dubbed Spanish flu. It was responsible for millions of deaths.
Dan’s jaw dropped. Millions dead? This report could cause a panic. The reporter apparently considered sensationalism more important than public safety. His blood pressure rose. He continued to read.
A milder strain of H1N1 appeared in 2010 but has not been seen since that time.
Development of a new vaccine could take up to a month plus additional time to manufacture and distribute it worldwide.
The public is urged to use face masks while in public, wash hands often, resist touching their faces, and stay at home if they suspect they’ve caught the flu.
Symptoms include fever, cough, sore throat, runny or stuffy nose, body aches, headache, chills, and fatigue. A significant number of people also develop diarrhea and vomiting. Anyone experiencing these symptoms should see their physician.
Dan handed the paper to Shorty. “Can you believe this?”
Shorty shook his head. “I always thought the media was manic, but this…this is unprofessional. And dangerous. I wonder how long it’ll take for people to start a run on banks.”
Dan nodded. The herd instinct of humankind always amazed him. People had a habit of panicking at the slightest thing, like cattle stampeding at a wind-blown Stetson. He smiled at the Joe-inspired expression.
Looking at his watch, Shorty tossed the Herald on the table. “We’d better get going. We’ve got a meeting with Steve in ten minutes, and you know what a stickler he is for punctuality.”
“Yes, sir.” Dan grinned at his commander’s frown. Besides not liking his nickname—which didn’t fit his six-foot-four frame—Shorty didn’t like formalities. He only stuck with protocol because that’s the way it was done.
They strode to Steve’s office and arrived with a minute to spare. Dan combed his hair and smoothed the wrinkles of his jumpsuit. Charlie walked out with a worried frown. Not a good sign.
They knocked on the director’s open door and entered. Bookcases lined the walls, interspersed with diplomas and citations. Various mementos from space shuttle missions gleamed from their places of honor.
Steve sat behind his walnut desk, the surface bare except for a laptop. Another man turned from the window. The cloudy sky behind him framed his bulk with a halo.
The tense atmosphere startled the hornets in Dan’s stomach. Neither of the men looked happy. Great.
The flight director gestured toward the stranger. “This is Alan Hunt, Director of the CDC.”
“Call me Alan.” He shook hands with the astronauts.
“Dan, Sheldon, sit down.” Steve motioned toward brown leather chairs. Dan sat on the edge of his seat and waited for the bad-news bomb to fall. His mind raced with questions. Why was the CDC director here? Didn’t he have better things to do, such as managing a flu outbreak?
Their boss started without preamble. “You know the situation on ISS. We’d hoped they could buy us more time, but our additional measures haven’t been as successful as we’d hoped.”
Dan steeled himself for the next announcement.
“We estimate the crew will run out of oxygen in four days.”
“We won’t make it, will we?” Dan’s heart plummeted. Launch time was T minus ninety-six hours but, they’d be in orbit for a day and a half before they could dock. Larry was gone. Now six more would die—Frank, Jasper, Hildi…Hildi. His throat tightened into a knot.
“You’ll launch on Sunday.”
Impossible. How could NASA shave another forty-eight hours from the launch schedule? He voiced his confusion. “But the launch crew can’t possibly—”
“Let me worry about t
he launch crew.” Steve’s pencil splintered. “Valiant will be ready. Question is, will you?”
Shorty answered as commander. “Yes, sir.”
Steve locked eyes with Dan. “Are you ready for docking manually? We can’t risk the auto pilot after the problems Frank had. We also want you ready to abort if the repair to the ring doesn’t hold.”
All Dan could do was nod. Six lives depended on them. If they failed, their fellow astronauts and possibly the future of the space program would die. Congress would pull the plug permanently. Along with the moon mission. His moon mission.
His mind wandered to Frank, his long-estranged friend. If they failed, Dan would never have the chance to patch things up between them. And he’d never have the chance to tell Hildi how he felt. Except at their memorial services.
The rescue attempt would not, could not fail.
Steve flashed a rare smile. “You’re good men. I told Charlie you were up to the task.” He gazed at Dan and Shorty. “We have something else you’ll need to deal with. You’ve probably figured it out by now.”
Shorty finished the director’s thought. “We’ll be overloaded. We’ll barely have enough fuel to get back.”
“Correct. And that’s with stripping every redundant system we can reach. You’ll have one chance to get it right.”
Steve stared at each of them in turn. “Whatever the station crew cobbles together to fix the port, it’ll be as delicate as a robin’s egg. So I ask you again, gentlemen. Can you handle this mission?”
“Yes, sir.” Shorty and Dan spoke as one.
Dan had often bragged that he could pilot any spacecraft in his sleep. He’d now have to prove it. Me and my big mouth.
“One more thing. Have you been following the news?”
“Some.” Dan wasn’t sure which outlandish story Steve referred to.
“The flu.”
“Oh, that.” Dan snorted. “The media blows everything out of proportion.”
“In this case, they haven’t.” Alan spoke as he paced. He treaded the path in the carpet already worn from Steve’s signature cowboy boots.
Now Dan was really confused. “What does that have to do with us?”
Alan approached them. “Gentlemen, we have a big favor to ask. The welfare of our country and even our world may depend on it.”
Cut the melodramatics and get to the point. Dan immediately regretted his impatience. Everyone was under stress, and this man had to be carrying Mount Rainier on his shoulders.
“The CDC feels the only hope is to take a sample of the virus to the station and see what Dr. Hildebrandt can do. Weightlessness may help in the development of a vaccine, and she’s the second most qualified vaccinologist.”
“Second most qualified?” Shorty caught the phrase that flew past Dan.
“Yes. The best qualified person is Dr. Chet Hildebrandt, Hildi’s brother. Unfortunately…”Alan swallowed. “Unfortunately, I gave him an extended leave of absence before this virus hit. Now we can’t find him. I’ve contacted the FBI for their assistance in discovering his whereabouts.”
Chet. Dan’s blood pressure rose. Dan had never met the man, but Hildi’s friend Francine described him as an antisocial microbe.
“So let me get this straight.” Shorty stood and confronted Alan eyeball to eyeball. “You want us to carry a sample of this deadly virus to the station?”
“It’ll be perfectly safe.” Alan stopped his pacing. “It’ll be packed in a secure vial. We’ll provide biocontainment suits and other equipment for use on the station.”
So that’s where some of the extra weight would come from. Not life-saving oxygen and water, but stuff to pull the CDC’s fat out of the fire.
Steve must have read his mind. “You willing to take on the extra risk?”
Dan glanced at Shorty, who answered for both of them. “Yes, sir.”
Steve leaned back in his chair, fiddling with a new pencil. “Good, because otherwise I would have ordered you.”
Dan smirked. “Sir, we risk our backsides every time we perch on those tons of explosives you call a rocket.”
Steve’s gaze intensified. “This part of your mission is top secret. I’ve ordered extra security at the center and at the Cape.”
Director Hunt nodded. “We can’t let the public know about this, or we’ll have crackpots creating havoc. Do either of you read the tabloids?”
Dan and Shorty shook their heads.
“Never mind.” Hunt chuckled. “Their investigative reporters have vivid imaginations. They should be novelists.”
“That’s all.” Steve stood and dismissed them with a wave of his hand.
Dan and Shorty rose. Dan almost saluted, feeling he’d just been given orders to the front line.
Dan and Shorty trudged through the halls. Dan’s thoughts kept returning to their concentrated training, an army march now bumped up to double time. He’d wanted the Valiant assignment, but not under these conditions.
Shorty glanced at him. “Worried?”
Dan nodded, not trusting his voice. It seemed a little tight every time he thought of Hildi.
“Me, too. Lunch?”
Dan smiled. Shorty never skipped a meal. Dan wasn’t hungry, but food would probably help bolster his lagging stamina. They matched strides to the cafeteria. A couple of MPs with rifles passed them in the hallway.
Shorty whispered, “Dan, why do you think they want to keep this under wraps? It’s not exactly a military secret. Is it?” At the food line, Shorty grabbed a plate and filled it with brisket, mashed potatoes, corn, and salad.
Dan took smaller portions of everything, plus a roll and extra barbeque sauce. “I don’t know. Maybe even the CDC doesn’t know where it came from. It’s not the strain they expected, I can tell you that.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking—that it’s some sort of terrorist plot?”
Dan’s mind flew to other attempts and successes in hurting the U.S. The anthrax scare, the Underwear Bomber, 9/11…He looked over his shoulder at the MPs. “I don’t know. One thing’s for sure, they’re not taking any chances. We’ve never had a sabotage attempt at launch, but anything could happen with enough hatred for fuel.”
They found an empty table and sat. Shorty folded his hands instead of attacking his food. “Maybe you’d better say grace. We could use some.”
Dan gave thanks audibly for the food and silently for his friend’s rare acknowledgement of God. The simple gesture reminded Dan that God was still in control, no matter how dire the circumstances appeared.
“Do you think Hildi can find a cure for this thing?” Shorty stabbed his brisket and stuffed a hefty portion into his mouth.
“Vaccine, Shorty. There’s no cure for a virus.”
Shorty sighed. “I just wish all these emergencies weren’t piled up at once. I feel like a rabbit hopping around on three venti cappuccinos. We’ll be lucky to get a few hours’ sleep between now and Sunday.”
“If they didn’t think we could do it, they wouldn’t have asked.” Dan kept his doubts of Valiant’s readiness to himself. He picked at the rest of his food, which lodged in his craw in a hard lump. He threw his napkin on the table.
“Ready to hit it again?” Shorty gave a lopsided grin.
Dan prayed the word hit wouldn’t describe his docking attempt.
32
Worth looked up as the day nurse—Annie?—poked her head into the room. He used to be really good with names, but the flu befuddled his brain.
“And we pray for Laura. Give her the strength she needs. Amen.” George concluded his prayer.
Annie cleared her throat. “Morning,” she said. She had a beautiful smile, but sleeplessness rimmed her eyes.
“Morning yourself,” Worth rasped.
“Mind if I crash the party?”
“Not at all.” Worth gripped his wife’s hand. “I presume you’ve met my wife, Laura?”
Annie nodded. Worth cringed. Of course she knew Laura. “And our friends, George and Betty
?”
“Hi.” Annie shook their hands.
“We just stopped by for a minute.” Betty held out her arms for Laura’s embrace and hugged her like a mom would her skinned-knee child. “I know, dear, I know.” Laura sniffled as they broke apart.
Betty reached around Laura and squeezed Worth’s hand. She took George by the arm. “We’ll be back later. We wanted to see Carol Hardesty before we go. She’ll be leaving the hospital today, and we promised to pray with her.”
A puzzled frown crossed Annie’s face. She didn’t seem to know how to react to their prayers. She turned to Worth. “Can I get you anything?”
His brain wouldn’t provide the words at first. Glancing at Laura’s tear-stained face, he determined to keep his voice upbeat. It still came out as a grumble. “A decent night’s sleep?”
A harrumph erupted from his wife, who’d returned to his bedside. “Don’t mind him. He’s usually this cantankerous.”
Worth raised a weak arm in a gesture of protest but nearly knocked the IV loose.
“Enough of that, Mr. Hildebrandt.” Annie adjusted the IV.
“Worth, please.” He croaked the words.
Annie put her hands on her hips. “Well, if you’re so cantankerous, are you going to let me take your vitals?”
“Go ahead.” Worth was rather proud of his Eeyore voice. “Everyone else does.”
As she placed a new IV bag on the hook and scanned the pulse ox, Worth sighed. He knew the medical terminology all too well from ministering to dying friends.
Annie pursed her lips. Worth didn’t need her reaction to know his oxygen numbers were declining, even though they’d elevated his head to help him breathe. Well, he guessed it helped him breathe. It certainly didn’t help him sleep.
“Are you in pain?”
“Not really. Just tired and achy.”
“Use the call button if you need anything.” Annie turned to leave.
“Uh, Worth was saying he hadn’t seen the other nurse—Cindy?—lately.” Laura’s voice was the smooth contralto Worth loved.
“She has the flu.” Annie’s flat tone of voice told Worth she was far more worried than she would admit.