The two Eagles began a left bank and Holland clicked off the autopilot to follow them. They began descending, keeping their speed back as promised in deference to the huge 747.
“You understand what’s happening here?” Holland asked Robb, who seemed excited all of a sudden.
“They’re sneaking us in, of course,” Robb replied.
Holland nodded. “And unless the Brits have approved it, there’s going to be hell to pay.”
In the first class cabin Lee Lancaster had noticed the lights to the left, but couldn’t make them out at first. Finally a light came on illuminating the jets, and Old Glory came into view—as did the Air Force symbol on the fuselage.
Why Eagles? he wondered. There were no U.S. bases left in the Netherlands, and only a few in the U.K. with joint British and American tenants. The Eagles couldn’t make it to Iceland or Canada without a tanker escort, and with no one shooting at them, why was a fighter escort necessary to begin with?
Unless some people had lost their minds at the Pentagon and decided to pull an end run on the British.
Lancaster was nibbling a fingernail and watching the formation as they began banking left. When Flight 66 followed, he knew.
The ambassador covered the distance to the stairway and the cockpit door inside a minute and knocked with as restrained a beat as he could manage.
The door lock was released and he pushed it open and stuck his head inside.
“Captain, Lee Lancaster. Are those fighters taking us into the U.K.?”
Holland turned in his seat slightly and nodded before turning back to the task of holding formation.
Lancaster closed the door behind him and sat on the elevated jump seat behind the center pedestal.
“Did the British approve this?”
Holland began shaking his head in the negative before replying.
Robb beat him to it.
“Doesn’t matter, Mr. Ambassador,” Robb said. “We’re sneaking into Mildenhall cleverly disguised as their wingman, although a bit overfed.”
Lancaster missed the attempt at humor and shook his head, addressing only Holland.
“Do you realize that if we touch down without their permission, we’ll create a major diplomatic incident?”
Holland glanced around at the ambassador again briefly. “What choice do I have? My company ordered us to comply. Why would it be a problem if the Air Force arranged it?”
“Because Mildenhall is a Royal Air Force base, with the U.S. Air Force there as a tenant unit. We don’t own that real estate, and it sounds to me like someone back at the Pentagon is trying to be a hero. You can’t handle diplomatic problems like this without creating fifty more. May I use your satellite phone again?”
“Anytime, sir.”
Lancaster picked up the receiver and began punching in numbers.
“Lee, please,” he said.
Holland had been distracted. He glanced around again. “What? Sir?”
“You call me Lee, I’ll call you James. Okay?”
“Sure, uh, Lee. Thanks.”
“Might as well be less formal. We’re going to be together for quite a while—especially if we land somewhere without permission.”
MILDENHALL AIR BASE, U.K.
The brigadier general running the U.S. Air Force wing at Mildenhall Air Base had been firing off orders for the past twenty minutes with growing concern. He had heard of the crisis two hours before on CNN, but the thought that it could engulf his operation had been unthinkable—until his emergency communications network had corked off. An overly excited three-star general in a command post at the Pentagon had had a single question: Did they have enough chemical warfare gear to handle a 747 and its passengers?
He’d done a quick mental calculation and answered yes. Within ten minutes the chief master sergeant who handled such things delivered an agonized no, but it was too late to back out. While two Eagles were dispatched with special instructions, a huge hangar was being cleared of all aircraft while no fewer than a hundred officers and airmen were told to suit up in chemical warfare gear they’d hardly touched since Desert Storm. The plan, the general had briefed everyone, was to get the 747’s nose as far into the hangar as possible, try to rig a plastic-sealed stairway to the forward door, and use the airplane itself for a holding area until the disease control specialists could give them more guidance. The flight doctor in charge of the base clinic, a full colonel, had been summoned, and had confirmed that all but a special class of viral pathogens could be handled safely.
“Under no circumstances,” the general had warned everyone, “is anyone across the field in the Royal Air Force to be told. This is a U.S. operation only.”
AIR ROUTE TRAFFIC CONTROL CENTER, LONDON
With his supervisor at his elbow, the air traffic controller monitoring the North Sea sector between Amsterdam and Great Britain now hunched over his scope, watching a flight of American F-15 Eagles approach the east coast.
“You’re sure?” the supervisor asked.
“Quite certain. Normally they would have been on the fringe of my radar sector, but I saw the data block drop out—I’d been watching Sixty-six in his holding pattern—then the two Eagles who’d been cleared over to Maastricht Control suddenly changed their clearance back to Mildenhall and I spotted a faint return from Sixty-six in an apparent left turn with the Eagles.”
“You’ve cleared them in?”
“Right, but they’re not alone. The buggers are trying to ferret him in.”
The supervisor stood up with his jaw open. “Unbelievable!”
“What do I do?” the controller asked.
“Well … play along, by all means, while I get someone on the phone.”
The supervisor disappeared into the background muttering the same word over and over again: “Incredible!”
EIGHT
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA—FRIDAY, DECEMBER 22—3 P.M. (2000Z)
Jonathan Roth sat pensively behind his ornate mahogany desk and rubbed his temple with one hand while holding a telephone receiver with the other. He had waved in Mark Hastings minutes before, but Hastings refused to sit. He stood now like a dutiful soldier on the other side of the desk as Roth waited for the White House aide to return to the phone.
“Yes, I’m still here. Who the hell are we reporting to over there? You? The President? The Pentagon? State? Who, for Chrissakes?”
Roth nodded a few times as he picked up a sheet of paper and handed it to Hastings, who could hear the echo of a voice coming from the receiver.
“So State’s handling it, right?” Roth cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Hastings. “For God’s sake, sit down, Mark! You’re making me nervous.”
He turned back to the phone.
“What fight?” he asked. He nodded a few times as the reply came, then scribbled a note before ending the call and turning back to Hastings.
“Well, here is the latest installment. It seems the Pentagon is trying to sneak the aircraft into a base north of London without British permission. The State Department, which claims it knew nothing of this plan, says it was tipped off by one of our ambassadors who happens to be on board. Now, while the assistant secretary of state is tearing up the phone lines trying to reach the President to convince him to order the Air Force to stop their infiltration attempt before they start a small war, all of them are turning to us and demanding we tell them right now how big a threat this virus really is.”
“Good grief,” Hastings said.
“That … would be as appropriate a comment as any, I suppose,” Roth replied. “But the bottom line is, they’re still waiting for us. They want to know how scared everyone should be. So. Given that latest flash, how scared are we, Mark?” Roth leaned forward in his desk chair with an artificial air of expectancy.
“Ah …” Hastings began.
A new voice washed over Mark Hastings from behind.
“Scared as hell, I’m afraid, if it’s anything like a Biosafety Level Fou
r virus!”
Mark turned to see a man of medium build wearing a wrinkled suit with a red tie loosely hanging around an open collar. The voice was tinged with friendliness.
“Sorry for the intrusion, Director Roth, but I was told you needed to see me instantly, if not sooner, and I kinda ran all the way here.”
Jonathan Roth peered at the man’s clothes with obvious disapproval. “So it would appear. And you are …?”
The newcomer entered the room with his hand outstretched. “Oh, sorry, sir. I’m Dr. Rusty Sanders, from downstairs.”
Roth met his handshake reluctantly, then introduced Mark Hastings.
“You’ve been briefed, then?” Hastings asked pleasantly, shaking Sanders’ hand in turn.
Sanders inclined his head toward the door. “Sherry Ellis, I believe her name was, from your department. She filled me in on a secure line.” He looked around at the ornate paneling replete with certificates and plaques.
“Impressive office, sir. Never been in this section before.”
Roth leaned forward testily. “We didn’t ask you here to approve the decor, Doctor. We need answers immediately, and we need answers with impeccable authority.”
Sanders was still looking around as he replied. “Understood, sir. I understand the Germans are telling us this is a flu, but we’re worried that their panicked conduct indicates something worse, maybe even a Level Four. If we have even the slightest reason to suspect something that bad, the highest level of caution and concern is fully justified, which is why I don’t think I’d even want that aircraft back in the U.S.”
Roth sat back hard. “Really?”
Sanders placed both hands on the edge of the desk, still standing, and leaned over slightly. “Yep. But there’s a major problem here.”
“Which is?” Roth asked.
“We don’t know exactly what this virus is, whether it is an influenza, and whether it belongs to any known class. I need to know precisely what the sick research worker went through in terms of symptoms, and whether he has recovered. We need to know how bad a strain it is so we can predict how less healthy people will react. The elderly, for instance. If it’s really bad, what’s the mortality rate? How does it transfer? What properties does this strain have? The Germans probably don’t know, so they’re playing it safe, which is smart. But if I have the correct information, all we know about this is that it seems to have started in a new biological research lab in Bavaria, and the Germans are insisting it’s just a bad strain of the flu while acting like it’s much worse.”
Mark Hastings handed over the single sheet of paper to Rusty Sanders and watched his face for a response.
Sanders whistled faintly as he read. “So the lab worker who exposed the American professor has died, and he’s the second one?”
Roth nodded. “We just received that from Bonn. They claim to have just found out.”
Sanders nodded and handed the page back.
“Okay. We’ve got two dead patients, and a little idea of how fast this flu can progress. We have no electron microscope examinations or samples of the virus itself, we have no classifications, we’re totally in the dark! Then we have one passenger who died on the aircraft who was admittedly exposed to this agent, but whose overt symptoms leading to death could also be those of a simple heart attack. The Germans are talking two-day incubation periods, which is almost unprecedented for a virus. Even the hottest virus needs time to get into the host at the cellular level and replicate itself, and two days isn’t much! But if their statements are correct, this one could rewrite the texts. Bottom line? We don’t know what the Germans encountered, we have no confirmed knowledge that it killed—or infected—the deceased passenger, and until we know what it is, we’ll have no idea what it does … that is, the symptomatology.” Sanders folded his arms as he resumed admiring the walls and began moving toward a large painting of the Old West.
Roth sighed. “Mark, you recommended we treat this like a Level Four until we know otherwise, correct?”
Sanders answered before Hastings could reply. “Mark, if you said that, you’re right.” Sanders turned to Roth. “I’ve been briefed, Director, that this might even be the result of clandestine military research in Germany. But the most frightening potential to me is if we have a combination of a short incubation period and high mortality rate. If these two are present—if this kills within three days, for instance, with a seventy or eighty percent death rate—we’re in terrible danger if it spreads to the general population anywhere in the world.”
“Well? What are the possibilities, Dr. Sanders, what’s the danger level, and what should we do?” Roth asked, irritated at the doctor’s continuing survey of his office.
“The worst case is that this is some sort of mutated viral pathogen and not a flu at all—something that can be transmitted by an airborne medium, survive in that medium for several hours, and produce illness and rapid death within forty-eight hours. The airborne transmission aspect is the scariest, and that’s probably why you called for me. I know the recirculation systems on Boeing, Airbus, and Douglas aircraft.”
“Could they spread it, if it were a worst-case bug?”
Sanders nodded. “If it can be transmitted by air at all, theoretically a jetliner’s recirculation system could spread it if it got past the filters.” He removed his hands from his pockets and sat down in the chair.
“Okay, would everyone on a seven-forty-seven get it? Probably not. Can the air filters on the recirc fans filter out viral pathogens? Some, under certain circumstances, but perhaps not a virulent strain.” He started to get up, then thought better of it and sank back in the chair. “Bottom line, sir? If there is a killer virus on board that aircraft and it can spread by air, we have to assume virtually everyone’s exposed. If it’s highly communicable by air, those not now exposed will soon be exposed, and if it has a high mortality rate, we could lose them all.”
Roth sat back and swiveled his chair toward the window. “That’s exactly what I was afraid of.”
Sanders continued, ticking off a list on his fingers.
“We need an autopsy of the heart attack victim, we need cultures, we need immediate lab animal exposure, we need a biologically safe enclosure, bioisolation suits, and a portable lab. The Army people at Fort Detrick can make this happen. And, just in case—just in case this really is something very, very contagious and deadly along the lines of a true Biosafety Level Four—I’d recommend we do the autopsy somewhere offshore.”
Roth and Hastings looked at each other before Roth replied.
“Such as?”
Sanders spotted a world map on the wall by the window. He sprang to his feet and moved to it, his finger tracing a path up the center of the Atlantic Ocean and stopping on Iceland.
“We have a base here called Keflavík, I believe. Either bring them there or somewhere in Greenland. Somewhere cold and isolated.” Sanders turned to Roth. “Can we do that?”
Roth sighed and shook his head. Mark Hastings filled in the details of the planned landing at Mildenhall, noting the shock on Sanders’ face.
“You’re kidding!” Sanders said. “In Britain? Can you stop them?”
“Why?” Roth asked.
Rusty Sanders gestured to the map. “If there is a lethal pathogen on that aircraft and it can travel by air, we don’t want it anywhere near the damp air of England. Epidemics begin with the exposure of lots of people. There are lots of people in that part of Great Britain, and they all breathe air.”
MILDENHALL AIR BASE, U.K.—8:15 P.M. (2015Z)
The sound of screeching tires of a British staff car reverberated inside the American Air Force Command Post as a curious sergeant stepped to the window and peered over the ledge—amazed to see the British commander in the garish sodium vapor lights as he popped out of the backseat like a jack-in-the-box and dashed from view toward the main entrance below. The sound of heavy boots on metal stair treads could be heard reverberating in the hall.
The sergeant mov
ed to the general’s side and quietly filled him in, just before the clearly upset British commander entered the room and came nose-to-nose with the Air Force brigadier general.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, General?” was the only greeting. “And don’t try to feed me a line of bullshit!”
“Wing Commander Crandall! How nice to see you. Is there a problem?”
“As if you weren’t aware! You’ve got half your bloody base suiting up in chemical gear, you’ve kicked a half-dozen airplanes out of the hangar and off the ramp, and people are being rearranged at the hospital. Having a soiree, are we, General?”
“Now, look—”
“This is still British soil, and my orders are that the seven-forty-seven you’re trying to help will not land here. Is that clear, General?”
“David, my orders are to get it on the ground safely, keep it sealed, and wait for more instructions. We have a humanitarian crisis here. I can’t believe you’d turn them away!”
“I’m not making the decision. Her Majesty’s properly elected government is, and I carry out the orders the military branch is given. It’s as simple as that. I’m sorry the decision seems harsh, but we’ve a few score Britons to see after on this island as well.”
“Lord, David, all they’ve got is a possible exposure to some new strain of flu.”
“You know this personally, do you?”
“Of course not, but—”
“Neither do I, and certainly not well enough to second-guess my orders. I would have thought your knowledge of biological warfare would trigger greater caution, but if this hasn’t worried you, it sure as the devil should have! Now I strongly suggest that you call your Eagles and wave him off.”
The general shook his head. “I can’t do that, David.”
“Unless you want to create a major crisis between our two countries, you jolly well can. After all, the cheek of you people to send a couple of Eagles out to adopt a seven-forty-seven as a pretend wingman is unbelievable. London Center spotted this farce the second it started!”
“We own this airfield jointly, David. We’re under treaties here. If they’re American, we can land whomever we choose.”
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