Plague Ship (A Ballineau/Ross Medical Thriller)

by Goldberg, Leonard

“Any police?”

  “A few fat Mexicans who can be easily bought off.”

  “Perfect.”

  Son of a bitch! Chandler groaned to himself. They were going to wreck the ship and swim ashore, along with the infected rats, just like the doc predicted. And that would spread the disease everywhere. Chandler wanted no part of that, and he wanted no part of a mutiny either. He was a sailor who loved the sea as much as life itself, and he knew that those involved in the mutiny would never sail again under any flag. Screw that!

  He stared down the passageway, a brush in one hand, an empty can of paint in the other. The crewmen stopped talking and eyed him suspiciously. The one with the tattooed arms stepped out and blocked Chandler’s way.

  “Where are you headed?” he asked hoarsely.

  Chandler pointed at the empty can. “I need more paint.”

  The crewman examined the can and moved aside. “Don’t take all day.”

  Chandler continued down the passageway at a slow, even pace. But when he reached the stairwell, he tossed the can and brush away and dashed up the stairs, running as fast as he could.

  ———

  David was having trouble with his survey. There were too many dead, and he had no way of determining whether they had received the various flu vaccines. So far, 203 dead and eighty alive, he thought. And of that eighty, fifty were very sick, twenty moderately ill, and ten with few or no symptoms. He concentrated on the ten who had mild or no disease. Eight of them had received both the regular and swine flu vaccines. So, he calculated, 80 percent of those immunized appeared to be protected by the combination of vaccines. That was an impressive result except for the fact that the number of people studied was far too small to draw any conclusions. Only ten passengers with mild or no disease had been surveyed, and that wasn’t nearly enough. If, for example, the 203 dead had also gotten both vaccines, the total protection rate would have been less than 5 percent, which would be a poor outcome by any measure. Shit! David growled and hoped that the CDC could help him make sense of the numbers.

  He moved on to the next cabin and, after knocking, opened the door. The smell alone told him there was only death within. Peeking into the bedroom, he saw two fully dressed, decaying bodies on the bed, still holding hands. Now there were 205 dead. In the following cabin, he found an elderly man sitting on the sofa across from his dead wife. The couple’s names were Roy and Mary Mitchell.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” David asked.

  The old man shook his head.

  “I’m sorry to bother you with questions,” David went on, “but I need to know if either you or your wife had gotten the regular flu and swine flu shots.”

  “I had both,” the man replied in a monotone. “But she took only the regular flu shot. She was frightened of the swine flu vaccine because it was so new and all.”

  David nodded and walked out, thinking one more passenger protected, one not. He jotted down his observations on the Mitchells.

  He heard footsteps coming down the passageway and turned to see Chandler running toward him at full speed. He wasn’t carrying cans of paint or brushes, and he was waving rather than crying out. David immediately sensed something was terribly wrong.

  “What’s up?” David asked at once.

  “Trouble!” Chandler said between gasps. “Big trouble!”

  “Like what?”

  “Like mutiny!” Chandler hurriedly repeated the conversation he had overheard in the passageway, remembering most of it word for word. “And they’re going to run the ship aground at Cozumel. They’ve got this thing planned down to the last detail, and that includes throwing you into the brig with the mutineer named Tommy.”

  “Are they armed?” David asked.

  “No, and they’re not worried about your shotguns either,” Chandler replied, taking another deep breath. “They’re taking your daughter hostage to prevent you from interfering.”

  David’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Have they already got her?”

  Chandler nodded. “It sounded that way.”

  David’s face reddened as his temper rose to the point of boiling over. My little girl! A sick little girl! And those bastards using her as a hostage! With effort, he suppressed his anger and calmed himself. Then he concentrated on the typical behavior of hostage-takers. Their first order of business was to secure the perimeters. “Did they mention anything about posting guards?”

  Chandler shook his head. “Only that Joe Barrick would be holding a knife to your daughter’s throat.”

  “Who is Joe Barrick?”

  “The big, ugly guy with a scar on his face.”

  David stared out into space for a moment and thought about the two basic tenets of hostage rescue—deception and execution, which were euphemisms for distract and kill. He turned quickly to Chandler. “It’s about to get really messy, so if you want to split, I’ll understand.”

  Chandler shrugged. “I got nowhere in particular to go.”

  “Follow me.”

  They dashed down the passageway and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. David led the way, with shotguns at the ready, not for firing but for threatening. A loud blast would remove the element of surprise, which was essential for a hostage rescue. David tried to keep his brain focused, but a picture of Joe Barrick holding a knife to Kit’s throat stayed in his mind’s eye. God! She must be so frightened! She must be wondering where her dad is. Well, he’s on his way! Then David sent a silent message to Joe Barrick. Want to play hardball, eh? Good! I’ll show you what real hardball is.

  They came to the level of Kit’s cabin and cracked the door that led out to the passageway. Halfway down the corridor, standing outside Kit’s cabin, was a short, stocky guard. He was unarmed but vigilant, constantly looking from one side to the other.

  “Do you recognize the guard?” David asked in a whisper.

  “His name is Poston,” Chandler whispered back.

  “How tough is he?”

  “Plenty. He won’t back down and he doesn’t scare easily.”

  “We’ll see,” David said, his face now stone-cold. He pointed to the paint can and brush that Chandler had discarded earlier. “Pick those up, one in each hand, then walk down the passageway swinging your arms widely. I’ll be at your side and just behind you. He won’t see my face.”

  “But he might see your shotguns.”

  “I’m not taking the shotguns.” David removed his white coat and wrapped the shotguns in it, then knelt down to hide the bundle beneath the stairs. Straightening up, he reached for his hatchet and held it close to his thigh. “All right, go! Walk normally, not too fast, not too slow.”

  The moment the door opened, the guard turned to them, his senses heightened. He kept his eyes on Chandler and watched the paint can and brush swing back and forth in the crewman’s arms. As the pair came closer, he called out, “Where the hell are you going?”

  “To paint crosses on the doors of the dead passengers,” Chandler answered, now less than twenty feet away from the guard. He didn’t slow the pace. “It’s a real shitty job, but I was ordered to do it.”

  “By who?” the guard challenged.

  “The man.”

  “What man?”

  “Me!” David said and slammed the flat side of his hatchet into the guard’s testicles. The guard went down, with a low-pitched, guttural groan, and groped his groin. In an instant, David was on top of the man, pinning him to the floor. Then he waited for the guard’s pain to ease before showing him the sharp edge of the hatchet. “One wrong move and I’ll do a Choi-job on you. I’ll spit your head wide open.”

  Poston’s eyes bulged.

  “You stay real quiet and I might let you live,” David said before looking over to Chandler. “Go into the next cabin and rip the drawstring from the drapes and bring it back.” He watched Chandler hurry away, then came
back to the guard. “I’m going to ask you a few questions. You answer by nodding or shaking your head. Got it?”

  Poston nodded hastily, his eyes still on the hatchet.

  “Is Barrick the only mutineer in the cabin with my daughter?”

  Poston nodded.

  “Are they in the bedroom?”

  Poston shook his head.

  “The sitting room?”

  Poston nodded.

  “With the nanny?”

  Poston nodded again.

  Chandler rushed back in, holding a long piece of sturdy drawstring. “Do you want me to tie him up?”

  “No,” David said. “I want you to pull down his pants.”

  “What?”

  “Pull down his pants and undershorts,” David directed. “Then tie the drawstring securely around his balls.”

  Poston’s face went pale. His eyes seemed to be coming out of his head, but he didn’t resist being undressed.

  “Good,” David approved as the guard’s testicles were roped off. “Now let’s stand him up.”

  With the weak-kneed guard on his feet, David gave Chandler another directive. “Pull on the string, but not too hard.”

  Chandler performed the task and watched as Poston’s scrotum was lifted away from his body.

  “Hold it right there,” David said, then leaned close to Poston’s ear. “You make one wrong move or say one wrong word, and my hatchet will separate you from your private parts. And you’ll have the pleasure of watching your balls roll all the way down the passageway.”

  Chandler gulped. “Do you think there’s a password?”

  “You never know,” David said and pushed Poston in front of the door’s peephole. “Knock on the door and tell Barrick you’ve got to use the head. And remember, if my daughter gets even a scratch, you lose your balls.”

  Poston rapped on the door.

  A moment later a gruff voice answered, “What?”

  “I—I got to use the head,” Poston said.

  “Use the one in the cabin across the passageway,” Barrick barked.

  “Say okay,” David whispered immediately.

  “Okay,” Poston said loudly.

  David, staying away from the peephole, jerked Poston down the passageway and into the next cabin. He shoved the guard onto the floor and asked Chandler, “Do you know how to hogtie?”

  Chandler grinned. “I grew up on a farm in Ohio.”

  “Then hogtie him and gag him,” David said. “And if he starts to squirm or make noise, kick him in the balls again.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Wait,” David said and dashed out of the cabin.

  He positioned himself at the side of the door to Kit’s cabin and listened for sounds from within. He heard only silence. David wished he had a revolver because then he could end everything quickly. Barrick would eventually look through the peephole and the peephole would suddenly darken. One shot into the peephole would go straight through Barrick’s eye and into his brain, and the hostage situation would be ended. But David didn’t have a revolver, and he couldn’t use a shotgun because the blast would be too wide and might hit Kit or Juanita. So he’d have to do it the hard way. A minute passed by, then another minute. David bent down and put his ear to the door again. He heard a rustling sound. Something was moving. Quickly he went back to the side of the door and raised his hatchet.

  “Poston!” Barrick hollered. “Where the hell are you?”

  Ten seconds ticked by before Barrick growled loudly, “Goddamn it!”

  More seconds passed by.

  “Leave the child alone!” Juanita pleaded. “You are frightening her.”

  “Shut up, granny, or I’ll slice an ear off.”

  The door handle turned and the door opened.

  Barrick stepped out, holding Kit in front of him. He had his knife pressed against her throat. He didn’t see the dull edge of the hatchet swinging toward him, but he felt it smash into the front of his skull. The knife dropped from his hand and he went down face first onto the floor. He tried to struggle to his feet, but David kicked him viciously in the chest, breaking ribs. Barrick howled in pain and rolled from side to side. David kicked him again for good measure, this time in the head.

  “Daddy! Daddy!” Kit cried out and ran into his arms. “I’m so scared!”

  “I know, I know,” David said soothingly and hugged her close. “But it’s all over now.”

  “I want to go home, Dad,” Kit said in a little girl’s voice.

  “We’re going to do that soon,” he promised and gently rubbed her back, calming her. “Real soon. But now I want you to go with Juanita. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He glanced over at Juanita, who was glaring at Barrick. “Are you all right?”

  “I am fine,” she said strongly and spat on Barrick. “Pig!”

  “Take Kit and hurry to the elevator,” David told her. “Hold the door open for me. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Juanita grabbed Kit and dashed down the passageway.

  Chandler stuck his head into the cabin. “Do you want me to tie him up too?”

  “No,” David replied. “I want you to check every level until you find my girlfriend, Carolyn. Then both of you scoot up to the bridge. Got it?”

  “Got it!”

  “Go!”

  David walked over to Barrick’s outstretched body. The mutineer was breathing in short gasps, with his arms extended out to the side. He was mumbling words that sounded like, “No more.”

  “A little more,” David said tonelessly. Then he stepped on Barrick’s right hand and ground his heel into the bones, snapping and crushing all the metacarpals. Barrick screamed in agony and jerked his fractured hand away, but his other hand remained exposed. David crushed its metacarpal bones as well, all the while ignoring the deckhand’s shrieks.

  “Let’s see if you can hold a knife to a child’s throat with those hands,” David said and ran for the elevator.

  thirty-eight

  The bridge was uncomfortably hot, and with the sun blazing in through the windows, it was growing even hotter. David gazed around the glass enclosure, thinking they had traded one hostage situation for another. The seven occupants on the bridge were trapped and had no way out. Juanita was sitting on the floor, with Kit asleep in her arms. Jonathan Locke was at the helm, while nearby Chandler was peering at a radar screen. Everyone was stationary, except for the chief radio officer, who was wandering around with little to do since he was now cut off from the communications room. David watched him pace aimlessly and thought the man was like a fish out of water, helpless and doomed. But then again, so are the rest of us. We are just as helpless and just as doomed. David sighed deeply and turned his attention to Carolyn. She was crunching the numbers of their incomplete survey and trying to make sense of them.

  “Any luck?” David asked her.

  Carolyn shook her head. “There are too many blanks that need to be filled in. And I can guarantee you the crew won’t allow us to roam the ship and gather more information from the passengers.”

  “There’s a lot of things the crew won’t be allowing us to do, and that includes letting us continue to set the course for the Grand Atlantic.”

  “Do you think they’ll storm the bridge?” Chandler asked over his shoulder.

  “They don’t have to,” David answered. “The temperature in here will keep rising because they’ve shut off the air conditioning. Soon we’ll become dehydrated, and without any water we’ll grow increasingly weak and unable to put up any resistance. So they can just wait us out.”

  “How long do you think that’ll take?” Chandler asked, with concern.

  “A day,” David estimated. “Two, if we’re lucky.”

  “And then there’s my diabetes,” Locke added. “I require insu
lin injections every six hours, and I can’t get to my supply now.”

  “And we can’t call for help,” the chief radio officer joined in, “because we can’t reach the communications room.”

  “Which puts us at a double disadvantage,” Locke said discouragingly. “Now we don’t have access to the weather forecasts. We could be sailing into another hurricane.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” the chief radio officer told him. “The last weather report from six hours ago called for calm seas except for a thunderstorm brewing along the eastern coast of Florida. We’re presently well clear of that.”

  “Well then, score one point for our side,” Chandler said.

  “Not really,” David countered. “In rough seas, the mutineers would have trouble grounding the ship and swimming ashore. Calm seas make it easier for them.”

  “Shit,” Chandler muttered, then immediately looked over at Juanita and apologized. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  Juanita nodded briefly, accepting the apology.

  David’s eyes drifted back to the expansive bridge, with its rows of consoles and computers and electronic displays. All were useless now, as were his two loaded shotguns. Oh, he could kill the first wave of mutineers, but the remaining ones were mean and desperate enough to kill him in return. And they might decide to kill the others as well and feed them to the sharks, figuring it was in their best interest not to leave any witnesses behind. David concentrated his mind and tried to come up with a doable solution to their problem. He couldn’t give in to the mutineers, because they would eventually start a worldwide pandemic. He couldn’t do that. He just couldn’t. Maybe if—

  There was a loud bang on one of the large metal doors to the bridge. Then another bang, louder yet.

  “What’s that?” Chandler asked, spinning around. “Are they trying to break in?”

  “I don’t think so,” Locke replied. “That door is made of reinforced steel. They could smash it with a sledgehammer and barely cause a dent.”

  For a moment, everything was quiet. Then a voice hollered from behind the door. “Listen up in there! The CDC wants to talk with the doc.”

  “It could be a trap,” Chandler warned immediately.