by Mara, Wil
A couple that had attended the picnic, Willie and Lorraine Pryce, flew to San Francisco later that night to begin a fifteen-day cruise. They had been chattering about it to anyone at the picnic who would listen. It had been their dream to take a cruise on their honeymoon twelve years earlier, but they hadn’t been able to afford it at the time. When they boarded the first day, they both felt fine. By the second night, however, Willie had begun to feel nauseated. After Lorraine had fallen asleep, he all but crawled into the bathroom—or rather the head, as he understand the nautical term to be—and involuntarily transferred the contents of his stomach into the small porcelain bowl. At first he thought it was seasickness, then rejected the idea on the basis that he had been on his boss’s boat a half dozen times without so much as a stomach flutter. He stayed in the head wrapped in a blanket and curled close to the toilet because he didn’t want to wake his wife during her dream vacation. He threw up three more times before finally drifting off to sleep. He was jarred awake a few hours later by the sound of the door being thrown open. Lorraine stood silhouetted by the gaining sunlight shining in from the row of portholes above their bed and was holding on to the doorway for support. At first Willie thought that look of terror on her face came from waking up and finding him gone. Then he realized she felt as awful as he did. She charged forward and just about made it to the throne in time to copycat his earlier performance. From his ringside seat, he got to see everything in Technicolor clarity, thinking her mouth looked like the end of a fire hose that was discharging water the color of cooked salmon. He put one hand on her back as a gesture of support and used the other for the multiple flushes he knew would be required. After some discussion, the couple decided the culprit had been the cruise’s inaugural dinner from the night before. They then took showers, got dressed, and decided to soldier on. By the time they reached their first port of call, however—Acapulco—the rash had broken out and they were forced to seek medical attention. They were advised to return home by plane and did not argue. Meanwhile, the Sun-class cruiser and its nearly 1,800 passengers—several dozen of whom were now also infected—continued on its way, with scheduled stops in Huatulco, Puntarenas, Fuerte Amador, Cartagena, Aruba, and the Panama Canal Zone.…
* * *
President Obama was one of the few people in the Situation Room not wearing a military uniform. He was seated at the head of the table, and a map of the Middle East was on the screen at the far side. It felt as though he’d seen it a hundred times, and he thought many more presidents would see it in the future.
CIA Director Leon Panetta had delivered the grim news yesterday—the man identified as Abdulaziz Masood was directly connected to the government of Iran. The supporting evidence was overwhelming. There were names, phone numbers, and email addresses on Masood’s hard drive. There was a bank account with several recent transfers from an offshore account known to be controlled by several past Iranian regimes. There were notes and letters found in a hollowed-out cavity behind a piece of molding along the kitchen floor. And there was Masood himself, Syrian-born but a resident of Tehran since 1988. When the clear liquid in Masood’s spray bottle was analyzed, no one was surprised to find it contained the same virus in Masood’s bloodstream.
What FBI and CIA investigators never suspected was that the Iranian connection was apocryphal. In this respect, Masood had done a truly masterful job. He got caught because he wanted to get caught. But any confession that might’ve revealed the truth behind the lie was impossible because Masood lost consciousness in the intensive care unit at Saint Vincent’s less than two hours after he’d been apprehended and died shortly thereafter.
A distraught Obama listened stoically as his military advisers now had a conversation that was inevitable.
Admiral Thomas Teller, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, said, “Iran’s solid-fuel, Sejil-Two surface-to-surface missiles have a range of about twelve hundred miles, Mr. President.” Teller looked more like a suburbanite from the 1950s than a military officer, the type who mowed his lawn every Saturday, then admired it on Sunday while cooking Delmonicos on the barbecue. He was sixty-two, soft-spoken, and on most days, upbeat and congenial. Not today, though.
“The Sejil series is a vast improvement over their Shahabs,” he said, “which are liquid fueled. Sejils are much more accurate.”
“And this is the best asset they’ve got?” Obama asked mechanically.
“Yes, although we’re all but certain they’re actively developing a two-stage rocket. That, of course, would allow for greater range with less fuel consumption.”
“Let’s not focus on what they haven’t got,” the president said.
“No, sir.”
“Let’s just stick to what they’ve got.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If we hit them, can they strike here? The American mainland?”
Teller shook his head, as did the others around the table.
“Not yet, Mr. President. Although I’m sure they’d like to. Chances are they’d strike our allies in the region, including Israel. That would be their way of exacting revenge.”
“And then Israel would strike them,” a female vice admiral commented from the other end of the table.
“And the region would explode in all-out warfare,” added a marine general across from her. “The Middle East conflict everyone’s been expecting for years. It would be a bloodbath.”
“Tom, who else would get involved if we attacked?” Obama asked. “Would Syria?”
“The Syrian ambassador has already made it clear through diplomatic back channels that any strike against Iran would be regarded as an act of war. If it came from Israel, there’s not much doubt they’d stand alongside Iran in that instance. If it came from us—” He put his hands up. “—it’s much harder to say. But they would spin it as a slap to the face of Islam rather than the Iranian government, and that could cause some problems.”
“What about China?”
Teller nodded to one of his subordinates, a lieutenant general named Albright who’d been stationed in the region.
“China’s ties to Iran have increased and strengthened in recent years, as you know, Mr. President,” Jettick said. “As you know, Iran terminated most trade with Japan in the early 2000s, mostly because they didn’t like the fact that Japan had become so friendly with us. So, China became one of their new customers. And thus far, I’m sorry to say, it has worked out nicely for both sides. Iran, for example, is a generous producer of hydrocarbons, and China is a voracious consumer.”
Teller finished with, “As China’s dependency on Iran grows, so will its motivation to feel protective.”
Obama nodded. “Sally, what’s your read on the Secretary General?”
Sally Kramer was the first female African American U.S. Ambassador to the UN, having been confirmed in the Senate by unanimous consent. A graduate of both Stanford and New College, she previously worked in President Clinton’s National Security Council.
“His feeling is that any military action on Iran would have little support from the great majority of our allies. In spite of what appears to be an Iranian-funded attack on our citizenry, no one is eager for more American aggression in the Middle East.”
Several in the room had the same thought at this moment: If we hadn’t invaded Iraq in 2003, we’d have the political cover we needed.…
“And Russia?”
“It’s very hard to gauge Russia’s reaction at this point, Mr. President,” Kramer replied. “There are still active trade relations between them and Iran, but due to Iran’s inability to get their own economy fully stabilized, Russia is becoming more and more dependent upon us and other Western nations. Then again, they continue to provide Iran with most of their airplanes, both domestic and military. So it is a complicated situation. The Cold War is supposedly over, yet Russia keeps trying to delimit American influence in Central Asia, with China’s help, through the Shanghai Cooperative. If we launched a strike against Iran, both Russia and China migh
t very well feel the need to respond.”
Obama nodded gravely. “The opening salvo to World War Three.”
“And yet we can’t do nothing,” General Teller said. “We have to respond in some fashion, sir.”
“I’m aware of that, Tommy.”
“These people planned and carried out an attack on America, on our soil.”
“I know.”
“We’ve got over four thousand dead. Dead bodies are being found all over because no one wants to touch them. American bodies lying dead. The press knows about Masood and is running with the story, fueling public fear and outrage. Our economy is grinding to a halt, which means the global economy is next. And the CDC people can’t stop this thing. We’re speeding toward some kind of Armageddon scenario, and—”
“I know, Tommy.”
The others fell silent as the president closed his eyes and massaged his temples. The tension in the room became asphyxiating.
Obama took a deep breath. “Give me a little time to think it through,” he said softly.
“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”
“Thank you.”
The room emptied swiftly. When everyone else had gone, Obama shook his head and muttered one word to himself. “Dammit…”
* * *
Sitting in the lab’s break room, Cara Porter thought, Kathy and David don’t know what they’re talking about, but Russell and Craig do. They’ve got it right.
“Greg Thomas is going to win the whole freakin’ thing,” Russell said, talking through a mouthful of tuna fish. He always brought his lunch from home, she had come to notice, usually a sandwich wrapped a bit too tightly in clear plastic. A piece of fresh fruit and a little juice box usually completed the meal, all carried in a vintage Van Halen lunchbox, as if he were in the third grade. Porter immediately picked up on the fact that this was part of Russell’s big joke on the world. He was in his early thirties, married with two kids, and was one of the smartest virologists on the team. His unkempt curly hair, thick glasses, and habit of wearing concert T-shirts under the white lab coat that he never kept buttoned made him easy to underestimate. She now believed that was exactly what he wanted.
“He’s the next American Idol, so get used to it.”
“He’s a rocker,” Kathy Chi said. “Rockers are a dime a dozen.” Chi was the other midlevel virologist in the group. She was young, pretty, and single, and the latter was engineered, Porter had come to understand, because “career” came before “marriage” on what Chi called her Life List. She still had a few rungs to climb before she was ready to start targeting handsome young doctors. She sat cross-legged in a distinctly ladylike fashion, leaning slightly forward with her lab coat buttoned to the top, eating sushi. Her skill with chopsticks was something close to amazing. Porter found her bubbly personality a bit of an act, but she couldn’t help admiring Chi’s solemnity where the job was concerned. Like Russell, she was very good.
“He’s the only one in the bunch who plays an instrument,” Russell said emphatically. “Guitar, harmonica, piano, mandolin … Every week he’s out there with something different. What’s your girl play? The lottery?”
“Debbi Dixon has the best voice, and that’s what the show’s about, right? Singing?” Chi looked to the others fiercely, ready to pounce on the first dissenter.
“I think what Russell’s saying is that Greg Thomas is more diverse. He’s a more complete package.” This was Dr. Kevin Little, the bushy-bearded team leader. His easygoing nature and disheveled appearance belied a vast intelligence that bubbled just below the surface. If this was a college setting, he’d be the professor all the students liked, the one who managed to maintain a degree of order that his more hard-assed colleagues found frustratingly evasive. Porter particularly appreciated the way he never spoke to any of them in a condescending manner.
“What good is diversity if you don’t have a phenomenal voice?” Cho argued back. “When I’m listening to an album, I don’t care who’s playing the instruments. I care about the person up front. The singer.”
“Debbi Dixon really does have a terrific voice,” said Nick Orton. He was one of two assistants, the youngest son in a medical family and just a few years out of Stanford. Porter thought he was a bit of a wimp, but a very cute wimp. She kept catching him staring at one part of her anatomy or another. Even though she wanted to lose about two dozen pounds, she knew she was still pretty; Orton’s obvious interest confirmed this. He was as straight and clean-cut as they came, which would’ve turned her off in the past. Now, to her surprise, she had a vague sense of why someone would find this appealing. She gave no hint of her interest, however, as it was always better to be on the receiving end of a one-sided flirtation.
Russell made a face. “Ugh, she sounds like a damn bird.”
“You mean melodic and beautiful?” Chi said.
“No, I mean she squawks. If her register was any higher, it’d disappear to an imperceptible wavelength.” He then added, “Not that I’d mind.”
“What about you, Cara?” Little asked. “Wanna get in on this?”
All eyes turned to her, and for a fleeting moment her stomach tightened. Then it relaxed again, and she intuitively understood why—she liked these people. Yes, Kathy Chi was a little annoying. But not prohibitively so. And the others were actually pretty cool. My God, am I displaying signs of normal socialization? she ruminated, stifling the urge to laugh. Would Michael believe this? Would anyone who knew me?
“I think I’m on shaky diplomatic ground here. Do you guys want me to be politically sensitive, or honest?” The disorganized group response unanimously indicated the latter. “Okay, well, I’m afraid I have to go with Russell and Kevin on this. Sorry, Kathy. Sorry, David. In my mind, the harder the sound, the better. And I’m talking about music when I say that, by the way.” She shot a quick glance at David, whose cheeks, to her great delight, warmed to a bright crimson. The others laughed at this unabashed smuttiness, which also pleased her to no end. They like me.
Now that Porter’s position on the issue was established, the debate began rolling again. She returned to the sidelines as an observer rather than a participant, and after a while she shifted her attention to the last person in the room—a young woman named Cherise, who sat curled up in a chair in one corner, reading a virology textbook while absently nibbling on the fingernail of her left pinkie. Like David, she was one of the lab assistants with a freshly minted undergrad degree. And also like David, she was shy almost to the point of paralysis. While Porter suspected this to be feelings of intimidation and inferiority in David’s case, Cherise’s introversion was due more to external factors. According to the others, she’d had a nightmare childhood courtesy of an alcoholic father and an embittered mother. How she managed to work around it and get into college in the first place, much less pay for it, Porter could not fathom. But she quickly came to admire the girl.
She slid down the bench and said, “Hey, whatcha reading? Anything good?”
Cherise looked up briefly, her eyes glazed with concentration. “The chapter on retroviruses. Converting RNA to DNA and so on.”
“Interesting stuff.”
“It is.”
“Do you have any questions about anything?”
“I’m on the part about structural proteins, and I’m not clear on the protein that makes up the capsids. It’s separate from the virus’s main protein, right?”
“Yes, it’s called a ‘gag’ protein. The name comes from the phrase ‘group-specific antigen.’ Some retroviruses, though not all, have capsid proteins that induce cross-reactive antibodies.”
“And these capsids contain critical enzymes?”
“Yes, but only copies of those enzymes. Spares, you might say—protease, integrase, and reverse transcriptase pol. They’re crucial for the virus’s ability to infect the host cells early in the process.”
Cherise nodded. “Okay, thank you.”
“Sure.”
Porter smiled as Cherise went back to
the book. Teaching, she’d recently discovered through her interactions with both Cherise and David, was a practice she enjoyed. The notion of becoming an educator had struck her as absurd in years past, when the only image she associated with it was of a roomful of screaming, obstinate children. But when she encountered someone like these two—attentive, driven, eager to learn—such a career seemed very satisfying.
Kevin Little checked his watch—a behemoth waterproof thing with a knobby band—and clapped his hands together. “Okay, everybody,” he said, “time to get back to the salt mines. Remember the new cases we heard about this morning.” Eleven more fatalities in the surrounding area, including a family of four found in their home, strangled to death by the mother, who then hanged herself in the garage. Little had a friend on the police force who gave him daily updates, and he used them to keep his team focused. “The sooner we get to the bottom of this, the sooner it all stops.”
The group rose in unison. Little’s choice of metaphor echoed in Porter’s mind as they filed toward the door. Back to the salt mines. Sounds like a Michaelism. Old men and their funny sayings …
“Cara,” Little called out as they went down the hallway, “I have wonderful news. You’ve pulled cage duty this evening.”
The others cackled like monkeys—“cage duty” was the unpleasant task of cleaning out the enclosures occupied by the experiment animals. It was disgusting at best, but unavoidable since budgetary constraints precluded the hiring of a lackey. Until now, Porter had been deeply thankful she hadn’t drawn this card.
While the others continued ogling, her stomach tightened into a hard knot, one that would endure and worsen as the day dragged on. She suddenly felt ill, nearly nauseated. She also felt a dim anger toward the man who had burdened her with this grim assignment.
Regardless, she managed to reply with a hoarse, “Okay,” hoping the rage she felt had no presence in her tone.
ELEVEN
If it’s going to rain, I wish it would just do it, Dennis thought as he stared through the kitchen window again. It had been gray and gloomy for two days, yet not a drop had fallen.