Plague Ship (A Ballineau/Ross Medical Thriller)

by Goldberg, Leonard

  David’s anger abruptly boiled over, and he made no effort to control it. He glared up at the sky and shook his fist at God. Don’t you do this! Don’t you dare do this! Goddamn it! Leave her alone and take me instead! Don’t you kill the little girl I love more than anything in this world! Don’t you take Kit from me, like you took Marianne! Don’t you have any mercy, you no-good son of a bitch? Well, don’t you?

  God didn’t answer.

  twenty-five

  The five men on the bridge listened intently to the weather report coming from the National Hurricane Center in Miami. Another storm was brewing in the outer reaches of the Caribbean, and it might be headed their way.

  The voice from the speaker was female, crystal clear and emotionless.

  “The Category 1 hurricane, with winds of eighty miles per hour, will pass over central Cuba in the next forty-eight hours. Its projected course will carry it through the Yucatan Channel and into the Gulf of Mexico, thus avoiding landfall in the southeastern United States. However, a rapidly developing frontal system may cause the hurricane to veer northward and extend its track to the Florida Keys. Further information will be available—”

  Richard Scott switched the speaker off and turned to the acting captain, Jonathan Locke. “How close are we to this hurricane?”

  “On our current southerly course, we’re still in the mid-Atlantic and well east of it,” Locke answered.

  “And from the sound of the weather report, the hurricane will skirt past the Bahamas. Right?”

  “If it continues on its current course, it will. But if it veers toward the eastern seaboard of the United States, the waters around the Bahamas will become very rough and dangerous.”

  “But it may not veer,” Scott argued.

  “It’s a possibility, Mr. Scott,” Locke said evenly. “And at sea, we pay a great deal of attention to the possibilities.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Scott said dismissively. “But let’s talk probabilities. In all likelihood, the Bahamas will be relatively unaffected by this hurricane. Correct?”

  Locke shook his head. “The Bahamas are quite close to Cuba. So the islands will definitely be affected, particularly if the storm takes a more northerly track.”

  “But a Category 1 hurricane is not that powerful. A ship this size can easily withstand eighty-mile-an-hour winds.”

  “No vessel I know of can easily withstand eighty-mile-an-hour winds,” Locke retorted.

  “He’s right,” Robbie Hendricks joined in. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with cutoff sleeves, which gave everyone a full view of the red-rose tattoo over his deltoid area. “That wind force can bang a ship around pretty good.”

  “And keep in mind,” Locke said to Scott, “that as the hurricane reaches the warmer waters of the Caribbean, it will increase in strength and become a Category 2 or 3. Trust me when I tell you that you don’t want to be anywhere near that.”

  “A Category 2 or 3 would eat us up alive,” Robbie agreed. “It’s best to wait until the damn hurricane passes by.”

  “But we’d have to wait another forty-eight hours,” Scott groused.

  “Better safe than sorry,” Robbie said.

  “I guess so.” Scott nodded reluctantly, not pleased with the delay, but having little choice. The more time spent at sea, the more chances things could go awry. He reconsidered his entire plan before giving Locke additional orders. “I have two new directives for you. First, you are to continue on our current southerly course. There is to be no variation. If you attempt to do anything other than what you’re told, Robbie will detect it on the GPS, and you may find yourself swimming in a very rough ocean. Understood?”

  Locke’s shoulders slumped submissively. “I understand.”

  “Second,” Scott went on, “you are to slow your speed so that we reach a point parallel to the middle Bahamas in forty-eight hours. At that time we’ll know which way the hurricane is headed.”

  “Assuming it doesn’t change speed,” Locke stipulated.

  “Let’s assume that,” Scott said. “With that in mind, I have an important question for you. I don’t want any ifs, ands, or buts, just a straight answer. Got it?”

  Locke nodded.

  “Okay,” Scott continued, “here is the question. From the place we’ll be in forty-eight hours, which should be well east of the Bahamas, how long will it take us to reach the larger Bahamian islands?”

  “At full speed?”

  “At full speed.”

  “Ten to twelve hours,” Locke estimated.

  “You’d better be accurate,” Scott warned, then motioned to a third mutineer standing off to the side. “Watch them and make certain no one goes near the communications room.”

  The third mutineer raised his sloping shotgun up to hip level and pointed it at the captain and chief radio operator. He gestured them away from the speaker.

  “Is it really necessary to have that shotgun aimed directly at us?” Locke asked.

  “Yes,” Scott said simply and headed across the bridge at a quick pace.

  Robbie followed him a step behind, appropriate for a second-in-command.

  They went through a door and onto the small deck that fronted the bridge. Night had already set in. The sky was pitch-black, with a billion stars twinkling as far as one could see. Below, the main deck was brightly illuminated with floodlights. A dozen crewmen were milling about, enjoying the bar and pool area.

  Robbie absently scratched his hemorrhoids and asked, “So we’re going to the Bahamas, huh?”

  “If all works out with the weather,” Scott said elusively.

  “Which island?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” Scott lied. “But as soon as we see a clear opening…” He let his voice trail off.

  “Man—oh—man!” Robbie said excitedly. “I never thought I’d be so happy to get my feet on dry land again. And away from this goddamn bird flu.”

  “Two-and-a-half more days and we’ll be ashore.”

  “I wish we could speed it up.”

  “Be patient,” Scott told him. “Like you said earlier, better to be safe than sorry.”

  “You bet,” Robbie nodded his agreement, then glanced down to the area where the lifeboats were located. “I think I should check the lifeboats to make sure they’re okay.”

  “Good idea,” Scott said. “But do it when there’s no crew around.”

  “What difference would that make?”

  “If they see you by the lifeboats, they’ll get overanxious and be more difficult to control.”

  “Right,” Robbie said. “But I don’t think that’ll be a problem because a lot of the crew is catching the flu.”

  “Good.”

  “Why good?”

  “Sick crewmen are less likely to switch sides and revolt against us.”

  “But I thought you wanted a bunch of them in the lifeboats.”

  Scott shook his head. “I just want all the boats in the water. I don’t care how many of the crew or passengers are in them.”

  Robbie looked at him quizzically. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “The coast guard will be distracted by the number of lifeboats in the sea. They won’t be counting heads in each boat.”

  “The Bahamas have a coast guard?”

  “Probably. So the more lifeboats, the better our chances are to slip ashore.”

  “But we’ll still be seen in a big-ass lifeboat.”

  Scott smiled thinly. “There are ways around that, too.”

  On the deck below, they heard a commotion going on. Choi was ordering the crew out of the bar and lounge chairs. Some resisted, but only briefly. Choi kicked the legs out from under one crewman and head-butted another. The crew became silent and moved out without a grumble.

  “Choi is tough as nails,” Robbie commented.

 
; “And some,” Scott said with a nod.

  “He really wants to kill the doctor, you know.”

  “Not yet. Tell him to continue terrorizing Ballineau and keep him off balance.”

  Robbie shrugged. “The doc has already caused a lot of trouble and he can cause more. Why not kill him and get it over with?”

  “Because we need him, if only to talk with the CDC,” Scott explained. “If he’s not around when they call, they’ll become suspicious. They might even attempt to fly in a new doctor.”

  “But the heliport is all messed up,” Robbie reminded.

  “They could still lower someone from a hovering helicopter,” Scott said. “We’ll keep Ballineau alive for now.”

  Robbie gazed down at Choi, who was now staring up at them. Choi waved. Robbie waved back and said, barely moving his lips, “He’s really salivating to kill the doc.”

  “Promise him he can later.” Scott raised his hand in friendship to Choi, not trusting him, not even a little. “Go talk with Choi and emphasize that we need Ballineau alive. And give him this warning. If anything happens to the doctor before I say so, Choi will not be allowed onto a lifeboat. He can stay on this ship and die with the others.”

  “He ain’t going to like it.”

  “Too bad.”

  Robbie gave the matter more thought before saying, “You know when Choi slits the doc’s throat, we could be considered accessories to murder.”

  “Really? And who will testify against us?”

  Robbie smiled. “No one.”

  “Exactly. No one,” Scott said and headed back to the bridge.

  twenty-six

  As Carolyn approached the sick bay, she saw two men running toward her. They were waving their hands frantically and yelling to her, but she couldn’t make out their words. Oh no! Not another emergency! Not now!

  “Are you the nurse?” the larger of the two men asked.

  “Yes,” Carolyn said. She glanced into the sick bay and noticed it was deserted. “What do you need?”

  “Oxygen,” the man said hurriedly. “My wife has chronic lung disease and now she has the flu. She’s having trouble catching her breath.”

  Carolyn thought briefly about the CDC’s let-die list and decided to ignore it. Her mind raced back to the supply of oxygen tanks in the sick bay. There were only two or three small tanks remaining at last count. And now she’d have to give up one of them. “Do you know how to use the oxygen?”

  “No,” the man admitted.

  “Okay,” Carolyn said with a sigh. “I’ll help you set it up. What room are you in?”

  “Four-oh-eight. My name is Sullivan.”

  Carolyn rushed into the sick bay, with Tom Sullivan close behind. The other man, small and slender, followed them in. He held a hand over his mouth to cover a raspy cough.

  “And I need some antibiotics,” he called out.

  “For what?” Carolyn queried.

  “My cough.”

  “Antibiotics won’t help a viral cough.”

  “It won’t hurt either.”

  Carolyn didn’t argue. If he had avian flu, antibiotics weren’t going to matter. He was going to die, with or without them. She entered the examining room, which was now a mess. Trash littered the floor, drawers were open and emptied, and blood-stained masks were strewn everywhere and gave off the stale smell of decay.

  She hurried to a nearby closet and opened it. The shelves were bare except for a few boxes of facial tissues. There were no oxygen tanks, large or small. She knelt to check the bottom shelves. They too were empty.

  “All the oxygen tanks are gone,” Carolyn reported and got to her feet.

  “What the hell do you mean gone ?” Sullivan asked furiously.

  “I mean they’re gone and probably being used by someone else,” Carolyn said.

  Sullivan’s face turned red with rage. “What kind of goddamn ship is this? They don’t even have enough oxygen for the passengers.”

  Carolyn held her hands out and shrugged in a helpless gesture.

  “What about my antibiotics?” the small man inquired.

  “Fuck your antibiotics!” Sullivan roared, his eyes still on Carolyn. “I want some oxygen tanks and I want them now!”

  “Then you’ll have to find them on your own,” Carolyn said, unintimidated.

  “I’ll tear this place apart,” Sullivan threatened.

  “Be my guest,” Carolyn told him. “And if you find any tanks, save one for a very sick little girl.”

  She watched Sullivan dash into the small laboratory and x-ray room, then heard doors slamming shut and drawers being opened and closed. Something fell to the floor and shattered into pieces. Then another door slammed. A moment later Sullivan returned to the examining room.

  “Nothing,” he grumbled and stormed out of the sick bay.

  The smaller man stayed and asked, “Where are the antibiotics?”

  Carolyn pointed to a large drawer under a Formica counter.

  The man quickly opened the drawer and studied it briefly before looking back to Carolyn. “It’s empty.”

  “So I figured.”

  “Well, wh-what should I do?”

  “Hope for the best.”

  The small man nodded slowly, as if accepting an unpleasant fate, and left.

  Carolyn gazed around the sick bay, struck by the drastic changes it had undergone. Hours earlier it was packed with the sick and dying, the air filled with moans and groans and coughs. Now it was empty and still, like a morgue at midnight. And it looked as if it had been plundered by a mob. Panic did that to people, Carolyn thought to herself. When their lives were threatened, they would beg, borrow, buy, or steal anything they believed would help them survive. It was human nature. They did it during hurricanes, earthquakes, and other natural disasters. Such as an outbreak of a deadly disease.

  She brought her mind back to Kit and the oxygen that might keep her alive. The missing tanks could be anywhere, but most likely they were in passengers’ cabins, being used or waiting to be used. There was no way to get them back. Again she glanced about the stripped sick bay. Even the IV fluids and poles were gone. Things were going from bad to worse.

  She heard footsteps in the passageway. One person. Slow steps. She wondered if she would have to tell another patient to return to their cabin and hope for the best.

  Karen Kellerman appeared in the doorway. She nodded briefly to Carolyn, then trudged over to a chair and plopped down wearily. Her eyes and face were puffy with fatigue, any semblance of makeup long gone.

  “Jesus!” she groaned. “What a nightmare! I’ve been going from cabin to cabin, and all I see is the sick and the dying. And I can’t do a damn thing for them.”

  “Welcome to the club,” Carolyn said somberly.

  Karen held up her arms and displayed the splashes of red paint on them. “And you can forget about painting the doors red.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we ran out of red paint,” Karen replied. “But it really doesn’t matter because they’re all going to die anyway.”

  “We might be able to help some if we had any oxygen tanks left to support them.”

  Karen nodded. “I’m afraid I used the last tank on Maggio’s nurse.”

  “Is she bad off?”

  Karen nodded again. “She won’t last the day.”

  “Somehow we’ve got to find another tank or two for Kit,” Carolyn said earnestly. “It may be her only chance to survive.”

  Karen stiffened in her chair. “Oh, no! Not Kit too!”

  “Yeah, and she looks so sick it just breaks your heart,” Carolyn said sadly. “But she’s a strong little girl, and with the right supportive measures, she might survive.”

  “David must be devastated,” Karen said in a whisper.

  “He’s barely hold
ing—” Carolyn stopped in mid-sentence as an idea came to mind. For a moment, she debated whether or not to propose it. Oh hell! Go ahead and say it. “Since Maggio’s nurse is on her deathbed, it wouldn’t be so awful to grab her tank of oxygen for Kit, would it?”

  “Except that the contents of that small tank are probably depleted by now.”

  “Shit!”

  Karen suddenly snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute! Wait a minute!”

  “What?”

  “Maggio’s nurse mumbled something about oxygen tanks in storage when I told her that she was receiving the last one,” Karen said in a rush. “There may be some stored away, but who the hell knows where.”

  “I think I do.” Carolyn reached for the front end of the gurney and rapidly spun it toward the door to the sick bay. “God! Let us be lucky on this!”

  “Do you need some help?” Karen volunteered.

  “I can handle it. You stay put in case more sick people straggle in.”

  Carolyn pushed the gurney down the empty passageway and into a waiting elevator. She pressed the button for the level of the carpenter’s shop, hoping against hope that she’d find the oxygen tanks in the storage spaces David had vaguely described to her. She wondered if the shelves and cabinets were labeled to show what they contained. Without some kind of direction, she’d be lost.

  The elevator came to a stop and Carolyn guided the gurney into a very long, deserted passageway. She looked around the cavernous level and tried to get her bearings. Off to the right was the carpenter’s shop, now dark and silent. In front of her was the laundry room, dim and still. Then she came to the huge storage area that was the size of a city block. David said it reminded him of a giant warehouse. She thought it looked more like a Costco store, with wide aisles and oversized shelves packed with supplies, but with far lower ceilings. And like Costco, neither the aisles or shelves showed any labels. She would have to go about the search blind. Goddamn it!