Deputy Director Jonathan Roth entered the small, secure conference room as he usually did: peering suspiciously over the top of his half-frame glasses and clutching an overstuffed folder covered with classified markings. With his bow tie and his slightly gaunt, six-foot-two-inch frame, he looked—one long-departed underling had once written—like an expatriate Oxford don reduced to the role of intimidating prep school freshmen in the colonies.
Roth laid the folder at the head of the mahogany table and surveyed the room with no hint of a smile. He hated being rousted out of a productive afternoon by a crisis in which the Company wasn’t even on center stage. Yet he had no choice. The order to involve the CIA had come from the Situation Room at the White House as a direct result of the State Department’s hitting the panic button.
Roth motioned wordlessly toward the chairs, and the three men and one woman—including two analysts pressed into service during the previous hour—sat down as the door was shut and the CONFERENCE IN PROGRESS sign illuminated. His prime area was terrorism and the Middle East, but with the Director in the hospital in a coma and not expected to recover, the watch was his.
“I’ve been told,” Roth began, removing his glasses, “that you have all been briefed about this airliner, Quantum Sixty-six. Is that correct?”
They all nodded, and several exchanged small glances. Roth was known as difficult to please—everyone at Langley had his or her own favorite story about hapless employees drawing the fury of his imperious contempt for small shortcomings.
“Very well,” he said. “What we need to find out within the next sixty minutes is the following. One, exactly what type of influenza, or viral agent, are we dealing with? And two, precisely how hot, or dangerous, is it? And three, what are the technical parameters of this flu—if it is a flu—in terms of incubation period, pathology, symptomatology, infectious potential, et cetera.”
They all scribbled notes as Roth raised a finger.
“In addition, I want to know who the ranking expert is in the country on such a strain, and I want to know whether we have anyone here at Langley who knows whether an influenza virus like this can be spread by the air-conditioning system of a jetliner.”
A dark-haired man with the square-jawed features of an NFL linebacker raised an index finger and Roth nodded in his direction.
“You’re speaking for the group, I take it, Mark?” Roth said.
“Yes, sir,” Mark Hastings replied.
On his left side, an analyst significantly junior to Hastings smiled inwardly but commanded himself to keep a poker face. Showtime again, he thought. Everyone knew Hastings was a trusted clandestine operative for Roth when it came to internal projects. So why the charade?
“Here’s what we have so far,” Hastings was saying. “The person believed to have been exposed is the same passenger who died aboard the flight nearly two hours ago, supposedly from a heart attack; an American professor named Helms. The German Health Ministry was informed early this morning, their time, that two days ago this man Helms unwittingly came into contact with a quarantined German citizen in the contagious stages of a dangerous strain of what they’re calling a human influenza virus. According to what they’ll tell us, it was an employee of a biological testing lab belonging to Hauptmann Pharmaceutical who had been isolated with a bad case of flu. He became delirious and left the building, and exposed this man Helms when he tried to break into the professor’s rental car. Helms is an American college professor. Or was. When Professor Helms left the scene, Hauptmann triggered a nationwide government-backed search for him. Helms slipped through their net, however, and turned up ill on Flight Sixty-six—and then had a heart attack.”
Roth leaned forward. “That’s not believable! They’re going berserk over a flu? They isolated a worker with flu, and he got away?”
Hastings was shaking his head and smiling. “We don’t believe a word of it either, sir, but that’s still the official line.”
“What about the heart attack? Was it really that, or did this professor die from this so-called flu?”
Hastings shook his head. “We don’t know. The professor’s body is still on the plane, but the Germans insist that this flu may be able to bring on a heart attack. We won’t know until we can run an autopsy.”
Jon Roth leaned back in his chair and scratched his chin before looking back at the members of the group, one by one.
“What if something lethal got away from that lab? What do they do there? Do we know?”
One of the analysts explained that the facility was just coming on-line to do research in antibiotics and vaccines.
“Which means they would be fooling around with live cultures and live viruses,” Roth said.
“Yes, sir”—Mark nodded—“but they were just starting up. The facility really hasn’t formally opened, but when it does, they’ll be equipped, we’re told, for up to full Level Four pathogen research.”
Roth nodded silently and leveled a finger at the others.
“You are all aware of what a Level Four pathogen is?”
All except one nodded.
“A highly infectious human disease, usually viral, which has a high mortality rate and virtually no cure, vaccine, or treatment,” Roth added.
“Like the Ebola Zaire, or the Marburg viruses,” Mark said.
Jon Roth nodded again. “If they were gearing up for such research, it’s possible that something frightening could have gotten away from them.” Roth looked at Hastings. “Could this be a military bug, Mark? Did it get loose from some lab that they want to hide from us?”
Hastings hesitated, this time looking Roth squarely in the eye.
“There’s no way to know yet. We’re querying all the sources we can think of. They could be holding back, but then, Hauptmann could be lying to the German officials as well.”
“Your best guess?” Roth asked.
Hastings looked at the others. They had held a quick caucus before Jon Roth’s arrival. Hastings was de facto spokesman now as he turned back to the deputy director.
“We do indeed think something got away from them, and I think the German government suspects it but doesn’t really know. Was it the German military doing prohibited research?” Mark shook his head and raised his hands palms up. “I can tell you the German health officials are scared out of their minds. Their reactions indicate they really do believe it’s far more serious than a simple flu.”
He pushed a small stack of papers across the table marked SECRET. “In terms of major epidemics—or worldwide pandemics—this was prepared last year, based on the Ebola Reston scare, and in anticipation of some breakout of a Level Four pathogen someday in the future. This was prepared by our Army specialists. It’s scary as hell!”
“Do we have a name for this so-called new flu strain?” Roth asked quietly as he leafed through the report.
“Not a clue, sir. We need to twist their arms for the straight story, and get some idea what this really is and where it came from. So far, they’ve just tried to contain it. No one over there’s had time to think about what to do if they can’t contain it. It’s time to confront them with that.”
Roth nodded. “But they turned around and refused to let the aircraft come back into Germany. Why?”
Hastings nodded. “We think”—he glanced around, visually polling the rest of the group—“we think that’s evidence of how scared they are. That was undoubtedly a political decision made in Bonn by someone high up, and now, by refusing reentry, they’ve managed to scare all the other European member nations as well.”
“Which is why,” Roth finished, “that plane is still circling over the North Sea with nowhere to go.”
“Sir,” Hastings added, “let me reemphasize that the German Health Ministry over there—a man named Zeitner to be precise—is telling us they believe the incubation period of this so-called flu bug is between forty-eight and sixty hours. That’s bizarre. That’s almost unheard of speed for a virus! If Professor Helms is any example—if it
was this virus that killed him and not a heart attack—then it’s important to remember that only fifty-one hours elapsed from time of exposure to his death aboard Flight Sixty-six.”
Roth put down the report, removed his glasses again, and rubbed his eyes. “All right. How about the question of the aircraft cabin? Even if this professor was contaminated and infectious, does that necessarily mean those not touching him would get it?” Roth dropped his hand to the table and looked back at Hastings.
“We can’t answer that yet, sir, but we do have an expert right here on staff, and we’re trying to locate him. He’s an ex-FAA doc by the name of Sanders, uh”—Hastings consulted his notes—“Rusty Sanders. Got himself booted out of the FAA a few years ago by going public with worries about jetliner air-conditioning systems recirculating airborne viruses.”
“The FAA fires him for insubordination, so, of course, we hire him.” Roth smirked and shook his head in mock wonder.
“He knows his stuff, Mr. Roth,” Hastings said.
“He’d better,” Roth replied. “He damn well better.”
ABOARD FLIGHT 66—8:45 P.M. (1945Z)
James Holland picked up the interphone handset and hesitated over the button that would tie him into the public address system. His mind raced through the possibilities of what to tell them now. An hour before, as Ambassador Lancaster had huddled over the satellite phone and held a hot poker to the backside of the State Department in Washington, Holland had tried to be truthful—to a point. It was true, he had told them, that the passenger with the heart attack had not made it. No, they were not now planning to return to Frankfurt. And yes, they were in a holding pattern over the North Sea. The reason, he had told them, was an international diplomatic brouhaha involving what to do about a death from unknown causes over international waters. Holland could hear the expressions of anger from the passengers on the upper deck through the cockpit door as he spoke. Bureaucratic nonsense was keeping them in limbo while the diplomats tried to sort out where to go. They had burned too much fuel to continue to Kennedy, he told them.
But he had said nothing of the flu virus or quarantines.
Now, it was unavoidable. Two hundred forty-four passengers were beginning to demand action.
Holland pressed the PA button and raised the handset to his mouth.
“Folks, this is Captain Holland.”
He glanced at Dick Robb. He’d told Robb what he was going to do, and Robb hadn’t objected. In fact, he’d hardly reacted. Holland pressed the PA button:
“I apologize for keeping you in suspense, and I again deeply apologize for this unprecedented delay. I … our situation here needs some straight-talk explanation. Please listen carefully and bear with me. I didn’t tell you the whole story a while ago because, frankly, I wasn’t sure I believed it myself. There is a diplomatic brouhaha in progress, as I told you before, but it’s not because of someone’s dying over international waters.
“After we left Frankfurt, the German government notified us, and all other European nations, that one passenger who boarded this aircraft with us in Frankfurt had been exposed to a new strain of the flu, but did not know it. So, what that means, I’m sorry to have to tell you, is that we’re facing a potential quarantine. All of us. For how long—whether days or hours—I do not know.
“Please understand that this is not my choice. Your pilots have been trying unsuccessfully for the last hour to get landing clearance first in London, then Frankfurt, and then Amsterdam. Now our State Department is involved and searching for the best place to bring us down. We’ve already burned too much gas flying around at low altitude to continue on to New York without refueling, so we will be landing somewhere fairly shortly.
“Personally, I suspect this is a monstrous overreaction. But the inescapable fact is that just about every government down there believes that all of us may now be exposed to this mystery strain, and as long as they believe that, we’re essentially at the mercy of their decisions.”
Holland paused and organized his thoughts while he kept the PA button depressed. In the cabin below, virtually no one was speaking as they all strained to hear the next words. Wide eyes and worried looks painted every face, and in the corner of the 2L door alcove, Brenda Hopkins felt for the fold-out flight attendant seat and slid into it, her heart pounding. The memory of Ernest Helms’s mouth surrounded by hers became a mockery now. Was he the sick passenger? Whatever he had, she would get it for certain.
Holland’s voice rang through the cabin again:
“Here’s the point, folks. Exactly how the health authorities below are going to want to proceed with this—whether we’re looking at a three- or four-day quarantine or some such—I do not know. I’m well aware that many of you have critical schedules, and none of you wants to be delayed over Christmas by something like this, but until we can sort this out, I’m afraid we’re just going to have to be patient.
“I’m also well aware that all of us are vitally interested in staying healthy, and that you’ll want to know a lot more—as I do—about this mystery malady, and whether it’s really a threat or not. As of this moment, I can’t answer those questions, but I promise to keep you informed. In the meantime, in return for my being completely frank with you about this, I hope, and in fact I expect, that all of you will refrain from panic or overreaction or groundless speculation.”
The interphone chimes began ringing almost immediately as the cabin exploded with worried voices, with people getting to their feet in various stages of shock and upset. The flight attendants were checking in from all over the aircraft to relay the passengers’ many anxious questions. The roar from below was audible in the cockpit.
Holland punched on the PA again:
“This is Captain Holland again. Folks, please don’t batter my flight attendants with questions they can’t answer. Since I haven’t had time to brief them, they don’t know anything more than you know. And flight attendants, I want all of you to please check in on interphone for a quick briefing.”
He held the handset to his ear and waited for all the flight attendant stations, the upper deck, and the crew rest loft above the rear galley to check in.
“Okay, everyone,” he said. “I’ve told the passengers everything, except this: It was Helms who was exposed to the flu, but no one knows if the heart attack was related. Someone else may get sick while we’re up here. If you see anyone showing signs of illness, quietly let me know. I’ll want to get them apart from the rest of the passengers as quickly as possible.”
“Where to, Captain?” The question came from three flight attendants at once.
“The crew rest loft. That would isolate them completely. Enlist the help of that Swiss doctor. First, of course, make sure they’re really ill with valid symptoms.”
“Captain, this … this is Brenda at two-left. I’ve been horribly exposed. So has Dr. Turnheir, the Swiss physician. We both gave Professor Helms mouth-to-mouth …”
James Holland heard her frightened voice trail off.
“Brenda, we don’t even know if it’s really dangerous,” he said. “But … perhaps we’d better get the professor’s body to the crew rest loft and confine those who’ve, ah, handled him there too.”
“With him, in the loft?” Brenda asked.
Barb Rollins chimed in. “James, the loft’s okay for the body, but let’s just isolate Brenda and the doctor on the upper deck.”
Holland was nodding, unseen. “Absolutely, Barb. Good suggestion. Brenda, I’ll be back to talk to you as soon as I know anything about this bug, but keep in mind that it’s probably all a false alarm.”
The satellite phone rang in the cockpit at the same moment that Dick Robb spotted airborne lights approaching from the west.
Holland pulled the handset to his ear.
“Sixty-six? Dallas Operations.”
“This is Sixty-six,” Holland said.
“Okay, we’ve got a solution, I think, Captain. The diplomats have gotten the Air Force involved, and they�
�re sending a couple of fighters out to escort you to Mildenhall Air Base.”
Holland hesitated. What appeared to be a pair of fighters were off his left wing, and he reached up to flip on the wing illumination lights. They were F-15 Eagles, and unlike the Dutch F-16s, which had flown with them for a while, he could see the U.S. Air Force markings.
“Mildenhall is in the U.K., right?” Holland asked, knowing very well the base sat less than a hundred miles north of London.
“I think so,” Operations confirmed. “Anyway, you’re supposed to contact them on one-twenty-four-point-five-five. The fighters, I mean.”
“They’re already here. But have the British relented about our landing on their soil?”
There was a pause on the line from Dallas.
“Apparently, Captain. Just follow their instructions. The Air Force will take care of you and the passengers at Mildenhall.”
“Are we looking at a quarantine or what?”
Holland could hear voices at the other end of the connection before the dispatcher returned the handset to his face. “Ah, we don’t know what they’re planning. We just want to get you on the ground. Contact us as soon as you’re there.”
Holland thanked him and replaced the receiver, glad that Robb had been listening in through the interphone panel.
Robb nodded and dialed in the frequency. “Sixty-six is up one-twenty-four-point-five-five,” Robb transmitted.
“Roger, Sixty-six, this is Fox One, off your left wing on a handheld radio. Turn off your transponder now, please, and follow us. You are now to answer only to the call Fox Three. Understand, sir?”
“Roger,” Robb replied. “I take it our hosts are not in agreement with this visit?”
There was silence from the fighters and Robb regretted saying it. These fellows were flyers acting on orders, just like himself.
“Ah … our commander is ready for you, sir. Now, please stay on this frequency and do not talk to any air traffic control facility. We’re going to start a left turn and begin descending. We’ll keep it slow and smooth for you, so just stay on my wing.”
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