by Bobby Akart
“Like COVID-19, from Dr. Randolph’s initial analysis, it is difficult to distinguish this emerging disease from other viral infections. The symptoms, even if they manifest, which is not always a guarantee, are identical to influenza. To an overworked medical system, even the common cold can be indistinguishable.
“I don’t want to address any conspiracy notions that Dr. Randolph was set up by the President of the United States to obtain cover for the quarantine placed over downtown Las Vegas. I’ll leave that up to Congress to ascertain.
“At this juncture, I’m not even sure we are in a position to take a stand against the cordon sanitaire. The proverbial train has left the station on that one. Do I believe the Nevada governor has overreacted to the information received from Dr. Randolph, or even you, Dr. Reitherman? Yes. Do we have sufficient evidence from our initial investigation to strongly urge him to reconsider? No. For that reason, the first thing I’m going to say is the quarantine can remain in place until we have more facts.”
Dr. Reitherman expected as much. At this point, he was more interested in getting his personnel released and back to work. “May I interrupt?”
She gestured with both hands to continue.
“I would like to increase our personnel on the ground in order to conduct contact tracing. Further, I need to pull our internal EIS scientists to focus on this outbreak. People are being held against their will and deserve a speedy response.”
The deputy director nodded. “Do it. However, I want all personnel decisions to be run by me first. No exceptions. I promise a quick turnaround with my input.”
“Yes.” He glanced over at his boss. “We will.”
She continued. “I will reach out to the governor’s office directly to get our personnel released. The governor has to understand that we can’t help his constituents by locking up the CDC team in a hotel.”
“Thank you, Madam Deputy Director. I’ll let Dr. Randolph know.”
“I’m not finished,” she barked. “Also, please inform Dr. Randolph that she’s to return to Atlanta post haste and that under no circumstances is she to have any conversations with the media. Understood?”
“Is she being sidelined?”
“No, not necessarily. But let’s face it. She’s a lightning rod now. We need her out of the hot zone.”
“Is she confined to the campus?”
“No. She can continue to work on this outbreak. I just want her out of Las Vegas.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The deputy director wasn’t finished. “One more thing, Dr. Reitherman. Keep her on a short leash.”
He gulped for the second time during the meeting. Dr. Harper Randolph wouldn’t stand for any leash, much less a short one.
Chapter Nine
Underground Great Wall
Urumqi, Xinjiang, China
Dr. Zeng and his wife took up residency in a small karez, sleeping among the young people who worked tirelessly to gather information. Within the larger cavern beneath the hospital, a war room of sorts was created for him to work. Information was received from around China, reviewed and cross-checked for accuracy, and then analyzed by Dr. Zeng. Another puzzling message had just come in from Lhasa although this time its encryption was more sophisticated than the first one.
Fangyu stood and retrieved his laptop off a box. He approached his uncle, who had been given his own desk, chair, and laptop computer. An enterprising young woman had even managed to hack into his office computer located on the fifth floor of the hospital above him.
Fangyu opened it and turned it around so his uncle could view the screen. “This is the new message we’ve received from Lhasa. I want you to see it for yourself and let me explain the encryption.”
“Yes, please. It is mixed with gibberish.”
“That is true, but their capabilities have improved. So you know, several of us have compared it to the first message to look for similarities, or common markers. We must be careful to disregard the government’s own disinformation being spread across the social media platforms.”
First, Fangyu showed his uncle a series of photographs from inside the People’s Hospital. One video depicted a body left under a blanket outside the emergency ward entrance. Just inside the doors, a dead man was propped up on a wheelchair, head hanging down and face deathly pale.
The physician who took the video had covered his head with a surgeon’s cap, a mask and dark sunglasses. He turned the camera to himself and spoke, his voice trembling with emotion and tears dripping below the sunglasses.
“I am scared for myself and my coworkers. We have the virus all around us, and on our backs, we have the legal and administrative power of the government.”
He paused for a moment to look around the room where he was hiding, and then he continued. “I vow to continue my efforts to save patients, but I will also continue to provide the truth to anyone who will listen for as long as I am alive. Death doesn’t scare me. Do you think I am afraid of the Communist Party?”
“Very powerful,” commented Dr. Zeng. “How do you know this is the People’s Hospital?”
Fangyu replied, “Our friends in Lhasa recognized the entrance. One of them is a nurse in the hospital. She has studied the portions of the man’s face that are showing and cannot make an identification. However, she did say the room in which he was filming was not part of the hospital.”
“How does she know this?” asked Dr. Zeng.
“The walls,” responded Fangyu. He pointed to the screen. “Do you see the stainless steel? Our contacts say this does not exist in the People’s Hospital.”
“Where, then?”
“We don’t know yet. We are looking for clues.”
“Why don’t you just ask him?”
“We don’t wish to frighten him away, and for now, it is not necessary.”
Dr. Zeng stood from his chair and wandered toward the chalkboard that was created by taking three partial sheets of plywood and painting them with chalkboard paint. The furnishings in the Underground Great Wall were almost always scraps and cast asides from above.
He studied the reported cases and pointed toward Lhasa. The numbers were disproportionately higher than Urumqi.
“The answers are here,” he said as he circled Lhasa several times with his chalk.
“Then we should plan on going to Tibet,” offered Fangyu.
“Not yet, nephew. We must learn more about this doctor who is willing to risk his life to provide us this information. We must determine if there is a connection between him and the helicopter pilot who died.”
“Yes, Uncle. I will work on that personally.”
Dr. Zeng appeared pensive, prompting his nephew to approach him and place his arm around the much shorter man’s shoulders.
“Uncle, there is more to your concern. Am I correct?”
“This is only the beginning. Soon, the CDC will begin the cover-up, and that means doctors and nurses will be put at great risk. I must warn them.”
“We are. Through our posts.”
“It is not enough. I must explain in great detail what I know, and what my experience has been in the last week. Only then will the medical community understand they are at risk.”
“I will help you. With the proper encryption, we can—”
“No!” Dr. Zeng was forceful in his outburst, drawing the attention of the citizen journalists working nearby. “I will not hide any longer. I must tell the truth as I know it, or I will be forever nailed on the pillar of shame.”
Chapter Ten
Gold Palace Hotel
Fremont Street Experience
Downtown Las Vegas, Nevada
Harper and her team were getting antsy. It was after four o’clock that morning and almost an hour since she’d received the cavalry is coming text. She’d tried several times to call the person who’d sent her the message, but the result was always the same—a full voicemail box. Whoever it was, she lamented, needed to get better organized.
“What ha
ppens if we just throw open the doors and bum-rush out of here?” asked Becker as she strode toward the exit with her hands balled up in fists.
Harper was deep in thought, so Becker’s question caught her off guard. “Bum-rush?”
“Yeah, you know. Plow right through those guys and make a run for the casino exits.”
Harper chuckled. Becker had consumed the last of the Diet Cokes, her beverage of choice. They might have been diet, but they were not, however, caffeine-free.
“Are you gonna lead the way?”
Becker bowed up. “I’m not afraid. They’re not going to shoot us.”
“They might,” one of the epidemiologists countered.
Becker stared at the doors separating them from captivity and perceived freedom. “Nah, they won’t. Those guys don’t wanna be here any more than we do. I say we go for it.”
“No, Becker. Let’s give the cavalry, whoever that might be, a chance to—”
Harper’s statement was cut off by the sound of loud talking in the hallway. A hush came over the room, and everyone slowly walked toward the double doors to listen. Several voices could be heard, and then, after a moment in which they were raised, it became silent in the corridor.
Apprehension filled the group as they waited to see what was next. The knob turned on the doors and slowly opened. The burly National Guardsmen were replaced by an unlikely figure—Dr. Wolfgang Boychuck.
“You’re the cavalry?” asked Harper with a smile on her face that stretched from ear to ear.
The Clark County medical examiner returned the smile. He glanced over his shoulder to locate the two guardsmen and then sneakily raised his right index finger to his lips, indicating that Harper should be silent. With a barely discernible whisper, he mouthed the words trust me.
Harper nodded her head in agreement and turned to her team. They all seemed to understand. Her eyes grew wide when several uniformed officers of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department entered the room. They immediately fanned out to encircle the CDC personnel.
An LVMPD sergeant entered the room and took the floor. “Who is Dr. Harper Randolph?”
“I am.” Harper kept it simple.
“Good. I have orders to bring you and your team into the DTAC for questioning,” said the sergeant. DTAC was an acronym for the LVPMD Downtown Area Command. “Now, you can come with us peacefully and bring your gear, or we can do this the hard way. We’ve got plenty of zip cuffs for everyone.” He glanced at his officers, who held up the zip-tie handcuffs for everyone to see.
“Are we under arrest?” asked Harper.
“Not yet. You’re wanted for questioning first. What happens next will be up to the bureau commander and the state attorney. Now, can we expect your cooperation?”
Dr. Boychuck had never averted his eyes from Harper’s. He barely nodded his head, signaling for her to agree.
She didn’t hesitate. “We’ll cooperate. Everyone, please grab your belongings and follow these officers’ instructions.”
There were a few grumbles among the team, but most seemed content with being released from the stuffy conference room regardless of the method.
The police officers organized the group in a two-wide line and surrounded them as they were escorted out of the conference center into the hotel lobby. The perp walk drew the attention of the frantic hotel guests, momentarily distracting them from their own angst.
The police led Harper and Becker, followed by the rest of the team, to the VIP entrance they’d used so many times during their brief time at the Gold Palace. Once outside, a collective deep breath was taken by the epidemiologists. It had been a horrible all-night ordeal. They were also fraught with uncertainty. Harper had a direct relationship with Dr. Boychuck, so she was confident in what he’d instructed her to do. The others were dutifully following her lead.
Harper and Becker were placed in the back of a squad car by themselves while the rest of the team was loaded into white, unmarked vans. They both sat in silence as the caravan of law enforcement vehicles exited the Gold Palace. After a moment, the officer riding in the passenger seat spoke to the driver, a young officer who easily could’ve been a rookie.
“Take a left on Bridger.”
“Why? It’ll be easier to go down to—”
“We gotta make it look good. If they’re paying attention, they’ll wonder why we didn’t head straight for LV Boulevard.”
Harper and Becker looked at one another. Why are they arguing about the route to this DTAC place? What has Dr. Boychuck gotten us into?
Becker was about to ask, but Harper grabbed her left hand and gave it a squeeze. She shook her head vigorously from side to side.
The officer in the passenger seat continued his instructions. “Take a right on Third. The entrance is on Fourth, but it’s one-way northbound.”
They drove several blocks, and then the officer driving pointed to a wide intersection. “If we go left on Coolidge, the next left should bring us right to it.”
Harper and Becker were looking around in all directions in an attempt to determine where the police were taking them. They turned again and passed the parking lot of a Mexican restaurant. The patrol car slowed as the driver checked his side mirror to confirm the rest of the caravan carrying the CDC personnel caught up.
He eased up to a tall concrete building stretching into the sky. An entrance to an underground garage appeared with two steel roll-up gates and several security cameras pointing in all directions.
Becker leaned into Harper. “This is an awfully tall jail.”
Harper grimaced. “I don’t think it’s a jail. With all of the concrete, it looks like one, though.”
The driver pulled the patrol car up to the gate and honked his horn twice. Suddenly, the steel gates clanked as they sprang to life, slowly rolling up into a large curl above the entrance. The officers quickly pulled in and to the end of the ramp, followed by the vans. Seconds later, they exited the car and opened the doors for Harper and Becker.
Harper was the first to emerge, and she allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim fluorescent light. An unmistakable silhouette appeared out of the shadows.
“Mi casa, su casa,” Dr. Boychuck announced. “Welcome to Soho Lofts.”
Chapter Eleven
Soho Lofts
South Las Vegas Blvd. and East Charleston Blvd.
Las Vegas, Nevada
It took two trips for Dr. Wolfgang Boychuck to lead Harper and the rest of the virus hunters team up the freight elevator to the fifteenth floor of Soho Lofts. Located in the heart of the Arts District of Las Vegas, this sixteen-story solid concrete structure rose two hundred twenty feet above Las Vegas Boulevard and was topped with a rooftop swimming pool. The interior hallways were decorated in elegant and modern art deco finishes befitting the glamour of Sin City.
Dr. Boychuck had admonished everyone to stay quiet as they made their way to his top-floor, two-story penthouse unit. Most of his neighbors were well-known gamblers such as Archie Karas, famously known for The Run, a winning streak in which he turned fifty dollars into forty million during the nineties, as well as the usual late-night partiers. Several of the penthouse units were owned by entertainers, including a member of the Blue Man Group, and comedian Terry Fator, who kept guests of the Mirage in stitches.
The weary epidemiologists moved slowly down the dimly lit hallway to the end of the building. They marveled at the minimalist-style décor. Once they entered Dr. Boychuck’s loft, their mouths fell open as they took in the view. His space was eye level to the iconic Stratosphere, now known as the Strat. The floor-to-ceiling windows also allowed a never-ending view of the famed Las Vegas Strip. The Strat was the tallest freestanding observation tower in America. It also contained hotel rooms, a restaurant, and perched atop the structure were amusement thrill rides that slung adrenaline junkies out and over the edge at high speeds.
“This is incredible!” exclaimed one of the epidemiologists.
Several others commented on the
magnificent view as they dropped their gear and immediately wandered to the windows overlooking the Strip.
Becker stood next to Harper and looked around Dr. Boychuck’s loft. “What a mess. Does he really live like this?”
Throughout the open loft, furniture was haphazardly arranged to create seating areas. Multiple dining tables were spread about, all of which contained books, journals, file folders, and the occasional jar full of formaldehyde-soaked critters.
Harper chuckled. “You should see his office. This is just a larger version of it.”
“Well, it makes me nervous,” mumbled Becker as she walked to the window to take in the view.
Harper looked around for their host. He emerged from the front door, juggling four boxes of donuts just delivered by Real Donuts #1, a Las Vegas favorite, in one arm and a large box of brewed coffee in the other. She rushed to assist.
“Dr. Boychuck, let me help you.”
“Yes. Yes. Yes. Please.”
He waddled toward the kitchen island and was about to drop the donuts when Harper took the boxes from him. He immediately smiled and nodded his appreciation.
“Young lady, since we are practically living together now, please call me Woolie. All my friends do.”
“Wolfie?” Harper thought she misunderstood him. She was exhausted. It had been a long, eventful night.
“No, Woolie,” he said with a smile as he spread the donut boxes out and began pulling mismatched coffee mugs out of cupboards, the dishwasher, and from the sink full of dirty dishes. He washed them out and set them next to the box of hot coffee.
Harper glanced toward Becker, who stood in the middle of the loft with her arms folded and a disapproving look. Harper was relieved to notice that the windows were solid-paned glass and not capable of being opened for fear Becker might try to escape Woolie Boychuck’s pandemonium penthouse.
