by P. R. Garcia
That evening, the four researchers scoured the list of volunteers. They were amazed not only at the sheer magnitude of experts willing to sacrifice their lives to join their team but the variety of fields. Some were in areas they had never even heard of. To help narrow the field, they developed a hypothesis of how the disease was being spread and how it was crossing species barriers. That enabled them to select specific areas they were weak in. In the end, they decided on six: a marine biologist, a microbiologist, a chemical engineer, a veterinarian specializing in large land predators, a geologist and another infectious disease specialist.
BAD NEWS
“Hello? Can anyone hear me?” came a voice echoing through the quiet halls of the Station. “Is anyone there? Hello? Is this a bad time to call?”
Max ran into the room. There on the computer screen was a mirror-image of himself. An unshaven, rumpled male with shaggy brown hair wearing a stained and wrinkled shirt. Definitely a grad student. He probably wanted to join the team but hadn't thought it through far enough to just crash the party like Max did.
“Oh, good. A person,” said the man. “Are you Dr. Quartermaine?”
“No, I’m Max Stans. Who are you?”
“Can I speak with Dr. Quartermaine?”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“On what you want to talk to him about.”
“I’ve got some information he wanted on how the disease is affecting vultures,” came the reply.
Realizing this might be a major bit of news, Max turned and ran from the room to get Dr. Q. He stopped and returned to the computer. “I’ll go get him. Don’t go anywhere.”
“I won’t,” the young male shouted, as Max ran out of the room. Several minutes later Max returned with Dr. Q and Professor Dilbert.
“Hi. I’m Dr. Q. I understand you have some information for me.”
“I sure do, Dr. Q. My name is Walter Fitzpatrick. I’m a grad student at Harvard. I’ve spent the last year here in Kenya studying the vultures and their effect on the ecosystem. I heard that you wanted to know how the vultures were handling the disease. It just so happens that I had incorporated that into my research the moment the virus hit this area.”
“Actually, it was Max here who wanted the information. How are they handling it?” a very excited doctor asked.
“Better than most,” Walter replied. “Although it is taking its toll on them, they seem to have some immunity to the virus. The other scavengers in the area died anywhere from two to six hours after ingesting a contaminated carcass. The first vulture didn’t die for sixty-three hours. And three that got sick recovered and show no signs now of the disease.”
“Are you sure?” Dr. Q asked, barely able to believe what he just heard.
“Yes, Sir. When I realized they were starting to recover, I banded their wings so I could keep track of them.”
“When did they first get sick?” Max inquired, excitement racing through his body.
“Ten days ago.”
“Ten days?” Max shouted. “That’s unbelievable. And they’re still eating the infected carcasses?”
“They were until this morning.” Walter saw a worried look appear on the screen faces. “Don’t worry, they’re still okay. I captured all three and have them caged, ready to transport to you.” Suddenly the picture began to flutter. The sound of loud pounding could be heard. Then the image corrected itself.
“Sorry, this computer has seen better days. It keeps dying.”
“Walter, can you get to an airport with your vultures?”
“Sorry, Dr. Q. Other than the vultures, I’m about the only thing left alive out here. My crew succumbed to the disease over a week ago. I used up what little gas was left catching the birds this morning.”
“Walter, are you showing any signs of the disease?” a curious Gayle asked.
“Not yet, thankfully. I thought for sure I would since I ran out of latex gloves and have been dissecting the dead animals with bare hands for several days. I must have a natural immunity to the disease like the vultures.”
“Lachlan, he’s even more valuable than the vultures,” Gayle whispered. “We have to get him and those birds.”
“Walter, do you know your coordinates?” Dr. Q asked.
“I think so,” the young man answered. “Latitude is .6124. Longitude is 37.5321. At least that’s where my computer says I am. I’m located just inside the Samburu Reserve.”
“Listen carefully, Walter. It is imperative that both you and those vultures are brought to me. I’m going to have someone come pick you up and take you to our new lab.”
“New lab?”
The doctor didn’t have time to explain why they were getting a new lab. Instead, he gave a brief explanation. “Winter will soon engulf this area. We need to relocate before the first storm, to another secured location more hospitable. Are you okay with getting extracted?”
“Are you kidding? Do you have any idea what it’s like to be the only thing alive on a game reserve? Pretty scary, to say the least.”
“I can imagine. As soon as I make the arrangements, I’ll call you back. What’s your number?” Gayle quickly wrote it down.
Max stepped closer to the screen. “I don’t suppose you know anything about Tasmanian devils, do you?”
“I don’t think they have them here in Africa,” Walter replied, a look of confusion on his face. “You might want to contact someone down under. Talk to you in a few.”
“How could the vultures have become immune to the virus?” an elated Max asked as soon as the screen went blank. “This is unbelievable. They may just hold the cure to this horrible thing.”
Dr. Q called the Admiral right away. Commander Quill answered the call. “Did you need something, Doctor?”
“I need to speak to the Admiral immediately,” Dr. Q stated.
“He’s not available at the moment,” the Commander answered. “But I am sure I can help you with whatever you need.”
“Meaning no disrespect, you cannot,” Dr. Q forcefully stated. “Get the Admiral NOW. And Dr. Flanagan too. Tell them I have a lead on a cure.”
It was about five minutes before the Admiral appeared. He looked tired. Dark circles were beginning to appear beneath his eyes, which were a little glassy. “Admiral, I think you need more sleep,” Dr. Q commented.
“I was up half the night arguing with those assholes in Washington,” the Admiral confessed. “But I think I found you a new lab.”
“Great, but you can tell me about it in a moment,” Dr. Q responded. “Is Dr. Flanagan coming?”
“I’m here, Lachlan,” Dr. Flanagan yelled as she came running into the room, a bathrobe tied around her body and a towel wrapped around her head. “You never change, Brother. You always seem to know when I’m taking a nice leisure shower, don’t you?”
“That’s what brothers are for,” Dr. Q laughed. Then his face became serious. “We have been in touch with a Harvard grad student in Kenya who has three vultures that contracted the LO virus from carcasses and survived. The student himself has been examining the tainted meat without any protection. We believe the vultures and possibly the student may possess a way to combat this disease. It is imperative that they are extracted immediately.”
“Are you sure?” Dr. Flanagan asked, quickly drying her hair with the towel and letting it fall to the floor. “There can be no doubt?”
Dr. Q tilted his head to the side, looking at the amusing hairstyle his sister now had. “Susie, you need to fix your hair.”
“Forget my hair,” she yelled, excited about the news. “Are you sure he’s telling the truth?”
“Yes. I believe him,” Dr. Q replied, trying his best not to laugh. Her messy hair was very distracting.
“While this is great news, it can’t be done,” the Admiral stated. “As you know, all borders are closed. Any plane trying to enter Kenya will be shot down before it can even cross the border.”
“Surely they will make an exception fo
r this extraction,” Dr. Flanagan argued. “It could very easily be the damn cure.”
“They’re not going to trust our word. Would you? Three planes were shot down today as they tried to enter another country. Even our own government shot one down coming from Canada, our neighbor. No one is going to allow us to fly in and get this guy. He’ll have to find another way out.”
“There is no other way, Admiral,” Dr. Q shouted. “If there’s any hope of saving humanity and the rest of this world, it’s there in Kenya. We may never find another animal that survived after being infected. It’s these birds or nothing. Don’t give up, Carl. We can stop this together.”
“Kenya has been hit pretty hard. It is estimated that over half of life there is already gone.”
“That should make the task easier,” Max said. “Fewer people to shot at them.”
The Admiral ignored the comment. “Perhaps if we come in from the ocean and stay low, a small helicopter might reach him. But it’s a gamble. The odds are against the mission being a success.”
“We have to try,” Dr. Q said. “I need him and the birds taken to the new lab that you found.”
“The Pentagon had a secret base quietly tucked away in the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee,” the Admiral answered, a smile finally showing on his face. At least he had one piece of good news. “Has everything you requested: a cleanroom, state-of-the-art lab and living quarters for twenty. Completely self-sufficient with its own power and water source. Even has a greenhouse for growing your own food.”
“Sounds perfect,” Dr. Q said. “So how soon can you pick us up and transport us?”
“I’m waiting to hear back from Captain Willis at the Aussie Station,” the Admiral answered. “He’ll take you out. We’ve got another three day’s work on outfitting the helicopter, so I estimate we would have you on your way by the end of the week.”
“That sounds great,” Dr. Q replied. “We’ll start making arrangements here for extraction. Until tomorrow morning, Dr. Q signing off.”
The Admiral leaned back in his chair. He couldn’t believe how tired he was. He must be getting old. As he went to stand to return to his room, he heard Dr. Flanagan say, “Admiral, your shirt.” The Admiral looked down and saw a single dot of red on his perfectly white shirt. As he watched, another drop appeared, then another. He reached up and wiped his finger under his nose. When he removed it to look at it, he saw his own blood.
“So, it has begun.”
___________
“Mr. President, we’ve heard from Admiral Sanchez. Dr. Q and his team may have a lead on how to stop this bastard in its tracks. Unfortunately, the lead is in Kenya, about five hundred miles inland. We need to send in a special ops team to pick up a Mr. Fitzpatrick and three vultures?”
“Didn’t I just arrange to have four other individuals picked up from various locations around the world at Admiral Sanchez’s insistence? Plus two here in the United States? Doesn’t he realize the national borders are closed, and flying is not allowed?”
“Yes on all accounts, Mr. President. But the Admiral states this one has top priority.”
“Does he want this new one delivered to the same address?”
“Yes, Mr. President. To the secret lab in Tennessee.”
“There’s been no communication with that part of Africa for several days. I can’t request clearance for the ops unit. If I give the clearance for this operation, those volunteering to go must understand that this is a suicide mission. They'll be flying in blind with no government authorization.”
“I am sure they know that, but I will remind them.”
“So, Dr. Quartermaine might really have a possible cure?”
“Not a cure, Mr. President, but a possible lead how to defeat it. At least, that’s what the Admiral said. He reports that these three vultures became ill after eating the virus-stricken carcasses, then miraculously recovered. They’ve been healthy for over ten days now. To date, they are the only known animals to have survived the contamination.”
“A rare commodity, indeed,” the President commented. He knew the odds of finding such animals was almost zero. “Very well, make this our top priority, Tony. And make sure the mission succeeds.” The President paused, looking at the painted concrete walls. “I’d sure like to go outside and see the sky once again before I die. Never did like the idea of being cooped up inside a mountain for months during a crisis. I’d rather take my chances out there with the rest of the people.”
“In that case, Mr. President, you’d probably be dead like the majority of people in Washington.”
“Let’s hope the Admiral is right and Dr. Quartermaine can save some people for me to govern once we get out of this place.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
____________
“Good morning, Sis,” Dr. Q said to his sister’s face now visible on the laptop. “Glad to see you decided to comb your hair this morning. Where’s the Admiral? Sleeping in this morning?”
Dr. Flanagan hesitated for a moment, her eyes instantly filling with tears. “Lachlan, the Admiral passed away at 0-five sixteen this morning.”
“That’s not possible,” a shocked doctor responded. “I just talked to him last night. He was fine. You were with him.”
“Right after our conversation last night, the Admiral started bleeding through his nose. By midnight, it had progressed to his eyes and ears. By 0-two hundred he was unconscious and was draining from every orifice in his body. God Almighty help us. I’ve never seen anything like it. I literally watched the life drain from his body in a matter of hours.”
“Anyone else sick?” the doctor asked.
“Sixty-two at last count.”
“Have you begun to show any signs of infection?” an anxious brother asked.
“Not yet,” Dr. Flanagan replied, her voice a bit shaky. “But I assume it’s just a matter of time. Be honest with me, Lachlan. How long do we have?”
The doctor had no way to candy-coat the bad news. He wanted to tell his baby sister that it was going to be okay, that chances were good she and others would survive. After all, he appeared to be immune to the virus. Maybe she was too. But he knew that was only false hope, a way to somehow justify what was happening. And there was no justification.
“What is your prognosis, Dr. Q?” Commander Quills asked as he entered the room and took a seat next to Susie.
Lachlan knew he owed the Commander and his sister the truth. “Due to the close proximity of the staff, I estimate that the majority of your crew will expire in twenty-six hours. Any with some immunity might last thirty-six, but doubtful.”
“So, in less than two days the U.S.S. Barack Obama will be a ship of corpses,” the Commander sighed. “Not a fitting end for such a fine vessel.”
“No, it isn’t, Commander.”
“You do realize, Dr. Q, that this event will hinder your extraction,” the Commander stated. “I can’t risk bringing you on board and infecting you or your team.”
“Actually, the thought of drifting on a ship of the dead does not appeal to me.”
“And with my crew infected, I don’t have a pilot that can fly you out.”
“Couldn’t another ship rendezvous with us at the airstrip?” Dr. Q asked. “Captain Willis could still fly us there in the helicopter.”
“We haven’t been able to reach the Aussie Station for thirty hours,” Commander Quills answered.
“Lachlan, could they also have become infected?” Dr. Flanagan asked.
“I don’t see how,” Dr. Q said. “They’ve had no contact with the outside world or us. Unless they are the culprits who stole the Stevosaurus, they should be okay. I’m sure it’s just a mechanical malfunction or something like that.”
“I hope you’re right. But, as you know, Captain Willis has been staying at the Station to assist you,” Commander Quills explained. “He was here on the ship just two days ago picking up your supplies. He and Admiral Sanchez met just before he left for the Station.”
> “After the Admiral's death, we have to accept the possibility that Captain Willis was infected," Susie clarified. “He may have unknowingly contracted the disease and carried it back to the Aussie Station.”
“So what are you saying, that they’re dead too?” Dr. Q shouted.
“It appears neither of us has good news for the other,” Susie replied.
Dr. Q put his hand on his forehead and rubbed it. “This situation just keeps getting worse. If you can’t get us another transport and Captain Willis isn’t alive to fly us out, how are we ever going to survive the winter down here? This operation was supplied for a maximum of five weeks, not six to seven months. There is no way we have enough food or fuel to get us through the winter.”
“No, but the Aussie Station does,” Commander Quill reply. “Their biologists had planned on spending the winter there to study the Emperor penguins. They have fuel for the generators and plenty of food. You just have to find a way to get there. Isn’t there still an arctic cat there?”
“Yes, but it’s not operational?”
“Why not?”
“He kind of stripped it for some parts,” the doctor confessed. “Since we can’t go anywhere we didn’t think we’d need it anymore. Apparently, that was a mistake.”
“Apparently,” the Commander agreed. “You’ve still got a few good weeks of weather. You could always try walking it. There should be two thermal tents in the storage area you can use. You might make it.”
“Professor Stevens could never make the trip,” Dr. Q objected.
“No, he would have to be left behind.”
“That’s not an option,” Dr. Q firmly stated. “Either we all go, or none of us do.”
“While a noble gesture, are you willing to sacrifice the human race for one dying professor?” Commander Quill asked. “I am afraid that, at this point in the game, sentimentality is null and void. Your actions must benefit the greater health of our entire race, not just one man your fiancée is fond of.”
He hated to admit it, but the doctor knew the commander spoke the truth. Everything they did had to be for one purpose only – to save the human race. Wishing to change the subject, Dr. Q asked. “What about Mr. Fitzpatrick and my three vultures? Any luck in that department?”