Playing God

by Douglas Moore

  He opened another bottle.

  “Here’s to you, Howard.”

  Jake watched as the National Guard helicopters moved in and guardsmen in battle fatigues and masks rappelled to the ground on the vine-like ropes. It was quite a surreal scene, one he appreciated more due to the buzz he’d acquired from his fourth beer.

  A curious howler monkey scurried for cover, into the lacy mist rising from the mangroves as the Panama National Guard formed a ring of containment around Jake at a cautious but respectful distance. Jake knew the same precautions would be taking place at the interior site, only on a much larger scale, but it was still a bit disconcerting.

  This was that moment in the movies when someone opened fire and got rid of the potential problem instead of talking. Shoot first, ask questions later.

  “Jesus, I think I’m drunk.”

  The howler monkey screeched his agreement in the distance.

  One of the guardsmen gave a signal, and Jake’s brief flirtation with cinematic paranoia was done for the day.

  Back in the primary hot zone, twin Pratt and Whitney engines roared as the H-76 Eagle set down away from the site of the bonfire, now a smoldering black mound.

  The sun had baked a thin crust over the top surface of the soil, and the powerful rotors kicked up a whirlwind of clay chips and dust. The helicopter dropped its troops who set about offloading their cargo.

  Within moments, the H-76 Eagle helicopter lifted off, heading back to Fort Gullick to resupply, and Major Robert Williams emerged from the dust cloud like an action hero in a movie, something Jake would have appreciated, especially with a few beers in him.

  Robert surveyed the area. The logging camp now looked like a wasteland, unearthly, savagely desecrated and defiled. It oozed dread, as if the earth had opened and released primordial death and destruction.

  Burnt stumps stuck out of the ashen ground. The huge pile of charred debris produced lazy plumes of dark grey smoke that still emitted a nauseating stench which hung in the air like a thick curtain. Robert Williams ignored the smell as best he could and strode toward the scrum of activity where the Panama National Guard maneuvered around the perimeter, strengthening its ring of containment.

  “Where would I find Major Lino Santiago?” Major Williams asked one of the guardsmen.

  The man pointed to a heavy set man already walking toward Robert, accompanied by two others. Santiago was pointing out the perimeters and explaining directives.

  Santiago was short, like a lot of Panamanian men, with a barrel chest that strained his dark blue uniform, which was perfectly pressed with nice, sharp creases. His olive skin was weathered and lined, and a thick shock of hair poked out from under his cap with a heavy dusting of gray through the sides and moustache.

  “Major Santiago? I’m Major Robert Williams and this is Captain Simms,” Robert said, pointing to his aide who had appeared next to him. “We’re with the 7th Special Forces Airborne out of Fort Gullick.”

  The men all shook hands.

  “Fort Gullick. I trained there at the School of the Americas back in the Fifties!”

  Robert smiled, “We’ve hosted a great number of fine personnel at the SOA.”

  Like so many other officers in Central and South America, Lino Santiago attended the infamous School of the Americas. He was a graduate of the Infantry Officers Course, Infantry Tactics and the Advanced Infantry Officers Course, and was therefore well aware that this exchange of pleasantries was nothing more than an exercise in formality.

  Panama had to be seen as strong, capable of asserting its sovereignty with the onset of the Canal Treaty, but the Panamanian major also understood that his men did not have the training or resources for such a sensitive mission. Truthfully, Santiago was more than happy to take a supporting role to the Americans.

  “If you don’t mind, what interest has the Special Forces in a containment area in the middle of our jungle?” the major asked. His accent was strong, but his English was good enough to be understood.

  “I have a personal interest. I requested this operation.”

  Robert’s face was blank, nothing in the dark caverns of his eyes to elaborate. Santiago said nothing, waiting for Robert to continue, and immediately rose several notches in Robert’s mind.

  He appreciated a man who knew when to speak and when to listen.

  “There are two infected men last seen in the jungle northeast of the camp. Have your men come across them?” Robert asked.

  “No.”

  “Good. We’ll let the infectious disease staff handle that.”

  “They’re on their way?”

  “Yes.” Them and every other agency with an acronym.

  Santiago nodded curtly.

  “We’ll support you any way we can, Major.”

  A group from the Seventh were already setting up tents and running razor wire around the logging compound while a second group ran an interior perimeter around the tents and makeshift headquarters. This would provide a secure safe zone for field operations and the infectious disease workers.

  “We are containment only. Anyone who gets too close to the wire is to be turned back.” Williams said.

  Santiago’s eyes narrowed a bit.

  “And if they don’t comply?”

  “We’re not taking any chances on this one. Put them down. We assume from the information provided by the camp’s field doctor and a civilian we now have thirteen dead, plus the two ex-military who managed to make off with the camp radio, heading northeast. They’re presumed dead. That leaves four men, all infected, plus the logging company’s owner.”

  “So anyone who comes too close to the wire and does not turn back, we are to shoot them?” Major Santiago asked.

  “That is correct.”

  Santiago nodded, and Robert breathed a sigh of relief. It was a touchy situation, especially since the U.S. was ordering the Panamanians to fire on their countrymen. Although it was never in doubt as to who would end up in charge, it was always easier when you had an understanding and compliant opposite number.

  Santiago nodded again, this time more slowly, and signaled to Robert with his eyes that he wanted to step away from the group.

  Robert picked up on this and took a few steps away, guiding the Panamanian out of earshot. Santiago lowered his voice.

  “Do we know what we’re dealing with?”

  “The doctor believes it may be smallpox, but….”

  A bitter smile crept across Santiago’s face. It did not reach his eyes. He just looked at Robert until he continued.

  “There are some differences that give cause for concern,” Robert said, caution in his voice.

  “These men were not inoculated?”

  Robert’s eyes shifted around the area.

  “They were.”

  Again, Santiago waited for Robert to continue.

  “We’ll know more when the CDC makes their preliminary report. In the meantime, this is the primary hot zone, Containment Area One. You also have men at Containment Area Two where we have one man uninfected thus far, but as a precaution we need to keep him quarantined.”

  Robert turned, distracted by the arrival of another helicopter in the landing zone. It was a Blackhawk, matte black and menacing like the team who crawled out of it. The three-man team moved with the confident swagger of ex-military. They surveyed the area, one slightly forward and center of the other two. He was a hard-looking guy with a scar on his right cheek from ear to jaw, shaped like the outer line of a crescent moon. It must have been an old injury. The skin was gnarled, bleached white, and contrasted sharply with his tanned face.

  “Excuse me, Major Santiago. Captain Simms will finish going over the logistics with you. He can answer any questions you may have.”

  Other helicopters were beginning to land, expanding the LZ.

  Santiago nodded and turned to Simms, relieved that he wouldn’t be shouldering the entire responsibility on his own.

  Robert walked toward the knot of doctors and researc
hers, past the scarred man and his team, exchanging a knowing glance. Not fooling anyone, Robert thought. He was aware that the CIA was operating in Central and South America but was conflicted by their presence here and now. He didn’t always agree with the actions of his country’s foreign intelligence services, but it wasn’t his place to express such opinions.

  Robert continued to where the doctors had formed into small groups. They were making introductions when Robert stepped in. The men in silver PVC biohazard suits looked like astronauts, their movements slow and robotic in the heavy gear. At least I don’t have to sweat in one of those, he thought.

  Robert briefed the newcomers, explained the quarantine areas, and assigned tents and work areas.

  The group discussed cooperative sharing, chain of command, and strategy. They were organized like the military with rigid, uncompromising rules and protocols, and at this level they all understood their place.

  The four men in biohazard suits broke away to prepare themselves. Each man was equipped with a self-contained breathing apparatus, or SCBA pack strapped to his back, which fed air into the helmet. Two of the four men carried stainless steel cases.

  They were given access to the quarantine area, and shuffled toward the only army tent left standing in the logging camp.

  Outside the perimeter, others from the group readied the decontamination showers and other equipment.

  Four doctors entered the tent, their PVC-covered feet swishing as they glided across the plywood floors. With the exception of a row of three cots lining the back wall, it was bare and sterilized. The logging camp’s field doctor, Bruce Fleming had died a couple of hours ago, and Howard had finished burning any contaminated articles, including the doctor himself and one of the dead loggers.

  The act of burning the bodies of his men had seemed mechanical. Even as he added accelerant, Howard felt strangely detached as if he had been an observer, untouched and unaffected. He realized later he’d been in shock, and on reflection was grateful that he’d shut down. He sensed that he’d been a comfort to Bruce even as the doctor’s mind deteriorated, and ultimately he was at peace with his decision to stay. It was the least he could do.

  “No regrets,” Howard said to the men, his voice a strained whisper. Even though it had been only hours, he felt like he’d aged a dozen years. He didn’t know it, but inside, he was already suffering the first effects of the disease.

  “Are you with the CDC?”

  “EIS, Epidemic Intelligence Service. We’re part of the CDC.” The lead doctor said this as a practiced explanation, as if he was used to people being unaware of the sub-agency.

  “We need to get some blood and tissue samples.”

  Howard nodded and rolled up his sleeve, revealing a nasty sore on his forearm. The EIS doctor looked as startled as his counterpart.

  “I understand you flew in just this morning.”

  Howard looked him in the eye. He could tell what the doctor was getting at.

  “That’s right.”

  The EIS doctors shared a cautious look, their eyes shocked and worried behind their masks. None of them expected to see a lesion that soon.

  The lead turned back to Howard.

  “There were four others, plus yourself?”

  Howard lowered his head.

  “So the others, you…”

  “Yes,” Howard said.

  The doctor nodded.

  “But I took samples from Dr. Fleming before…”

  Howard reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out two vials, which he handed to the surprised doctor.

  “I was a doctor a long time ago.”

  “Tell me something. Why did you stay?”

  Howard shrugged. “They were my men.”

  The doctor looked into the old man’s eyes, which were watery but unwavering,

  “You’re a brave man, Mr. Prentice.”

  “Call me Howard.”

  The doctor injected a syringe into Howard’s arm and extracted two vials of blood, which he placed into the stainless steel case next to the samples Howard had provided from Dr. Fleming.

  “Thank you, Howard.”

  Chapter 3

  At 0:600, containment Area 1 pulsed at a feverish pace. The safe zone had been transformed into a bustling tent city over night.

  The Department of Defense, Federation of American Scientists, the Department of the Army, and the Defense Technical Information Center had all sent representatives.

  Scientists, civilians, and military flooded in, flexing and posturing. The peaceful start Robert had supervised was now gone, leaving in its wake a frenzy of institutional competition. Everyone wanted a piece of the research and of the grant money that was sure to follow.

  Robert cut a path through the narrow alleys snaking through the jungle of tents. He hadn’t been able to talk to Jake yet with the carnival atmosphere, but he was anxious to speak to his old friend. It had been months since they’d seen each other, and in spite of the circumstances, he looked forward to the reunion. Plus, he’d promised an update on Mr. Prentice, who was still quarantined and unlikely to survive.

  The logistics of keeping everyone tucked away, monitoring all the various parties, and guarding the quarantine area was stressful, but Major Santiago and his men had been invaluable in assisting the 7th SFG. Robert was more impressed with him with every passing hour.

  The throaty groan of a diesel generator slaved away, its perpetual drone lost to the background like a heartbeat. A veil of burnt fuel hung in the air as the sun breeched the rugged green horizon of early dawn’s ribbon and lace.

  Robert entered the communications tent situated in the shadow of the growing operations area.

  The tent was dimly lit; cigarette smoke swirled in the blunt light cast by a small desk lamp. The olive green canvas was heavy and blocked out any hint of the new day.

  The lone soldier manning the radio sat smoking, his feet propped up on the table. Robert recognized the tobacco as a Virginia blend, slightly stronger than the usual cigarette, more like that of a cigar.

  “Sir!”

  The soldier jumped to attention, waving smoke out of the space he imagined Robert’s face would be when he entered.

  “Relax, Groves. I just need the radio and some privacy.”

  “Yes sir!

  Sergeant Groves grabbed his smokes and lighter and scrambled out of the tent, glad to be able to take a break.

  Robert sat down at the radio and switched to the pre-assigned channel for Jake’s helicopter.

  “Jake, are you there? Jake, come in!”

  He repeated the call once more and keyed the mike.

  After a moment, Jake’s voice squawked over the tinny speaker.

  “Where the hell else would I be?”

  Robert laughed. Same old Jake.

  “I think these Panamanian guardsmen would shoot me down if I tried to leave!”

  “You’re right, you miserable fuck. Orders are orders.”

  “Thanks for taking care of me, buddy.”

  Jake knew Robert was putting it out like a joke but he also knew it was likely the truth.

  “How are you this morning?”

  “Hung over.”

  Robert laughed. “You got something to drink, you old boozer?”

  “Damn straight. Only way to sit out quarantine, but it’s a sauna out here and the beer’s too goddamn hot. Why don’t you have your boys fly me in some ice?”

  “Where the hell’d you get the beer, anyway?”

  The radio went quiet, and for a moment Robert thought he’d lost the signal. But then Jake’s voice returned, somber and quiet.

  “Did you talk to Howard?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jake waited. Robert knew what he wanted to know.

  “It doesn’t look good, Jake. Even if I could move you here, you wouldn’t be able to see him.”

  There was a long pause, until finally Jake said, “do what you can for him.”

  Robert took a deep breath. He hated what
he had to say next, but there was no way around it.

  “How are you feeling, Jake?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “I hate like hell to ask.”

  “I’m good,” Jake said then paused. “Really. Don’t sweat it.”

  Robert breathed a sigh of relief. They both knew Jake would be checked out, but it was good to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

  “Good. Leslie’s been asking when Uncle Jake is coming back to see her. She hasn’t stopped talking about that last helicopter ride.”

  “She loves flying.”

  “You think?”

  Jake chuckled.

  “I look forward to seeing her, too. June is good?”

  “She’s fine. Worried.”

  There was another long pause.

  “Jesus. This is a fucking nightmare. What the hell is going on?” Jake asked.

  Robert looked over his shoulder, checking to see if Groves was hovering, but the sergeant was still outside.

  “You can probably imagine. It’s a fucking circus, helicopters coming and going yesterday and all through the night, CDC’s already in camp. We’re waiting on results, but Jesus….”

  Robert paused.

  “Come on Robert.”

  “This is some fast shit. Those bastards from the CDC are as cool as they come, and they look scared,” Robert said. “They see you yesterday?”

  “Last night, just before dark. Two moonwalkers stole some blood and lit out of here pretty goddamn quick.”

  “They say anything?”

  “Relax. They said it was unlikely I was infected.”

  “That’s great news.”

  “I gotta tell you, if they’d have said I was, we wouldn’t be talking.”

  Robert wondered whether Jake meant he would have been shot by the National Guardsmen or that he would have fought his way out and flown off, but he said nothing. He suspected the latter.

  “Hey, did you find the guys who took the radio?” Jake asked.

  “Dead.”

  “How many does that leave?”

  “Howard and two others, but it’s not looking good for any of them. I have to go to a briefing, but I’ll keep you in the loop, buddy.”