White Plague

by James Abel

  Beneath my feet the Wilmington pushed north toward our rendezvous, through whitecaps. The orange copter shuddered, veered away and safely up as if it were a conscious being, reconsidering the wisdom of being here, then suddenly and swiftly it set down in the center of the white circle on deck, and began powering down.

  The Wilmington’s flight crew ran forward and lashed down the Dolphin, placing chocks against the wheels. The door slid open and two figures climbed out, wearing Mustang suits, zip-up orange float apparatus that would have kept them alive, kept them from freezing to death, for about three minutes in the icy Arctic water had the copter plunged into the sea.

  From the V-shaped build of the taller figure, I saw it was Eddie, and as he leaned back into the copter and spoke with the pilot, the second passenger exited and pulled a small attaché case from inside. The person—it had to be my sub expert—was small as a boy, a moon-suited figure the size of a thirteen-year-old forced into big brother’s Day-Glo-colored hand-me-downs. Then the helmet came off and long silver hair spilled out, falling past the shoulders.

  The woman’s hair seemed to catch light, hold and improve it. It wasn’t gray, wasn’t dry and aged, no, it was too filled with vibrancy, as if a teenager had dyed her hair silver for a party. The small elfin white face scanned the deck and then with clear purpose she strode toward me, as if she knew who I was, as if they’d shown her a photo.

  “You’re Colonel Rush.” It sounded more like an accusation than a fact.

  She had a low, direct voice, and judging from the movements beneath the bulky suit, I guessed she had the build of a teenager. Her face, close-up, put her somewhere in her early thirties; Icelandic clear, perfect skin, burned pink from wind, eyes the color of ice in a crevasse, voice a surprising Ozark lilt as she extended a slim, ungloved hand, and gave a shake that seemed firmer than the small, slender fingers would have implied.

  “Dr. Karen Vleska. Electric Boat,” she said, naming her company.

  She’d just flown four thousand miles after being roused from bed at 2 A.M., tossed about like a bug in wind, ordered onto an alien ship in the Arctic, and although the urgency of the job came through, she seemed no more surprised or ill at ease than if she’d walked into a diner on Broadway and West Ninetieth Street in New York. She seemed a pro.

  “Glad you’re here,” I told our sub expert.

  We had to shout over the gusting wind. The eyes looking up—probing me—were keen and direct, and even though there was anger there, I experienced a shiver of the sort I’d not experienced in a long time, a sensation which I’d thought I would not feel again.

  The landing pad smelled of diesel fuel. Communications antennas rose up forward of where I stood. Fire-fighting equipment was stored around me, reachable fast. Safety nets had been extended off the pad on all sides, to catch any hapless traveler or crew member who fell off. And I could see the top of the ship’s big A-frame winch below and behind the pad. The rear deck usually functioned as a research platform for scientists—doing dredging for samples, or buoy work, measuring currents, listening to whales—so down there were also rolls of thick cables necessary for hauling coring pipes or sample nets from the bottom of Arctic seas.

  Man and woman meet amid the technical equipment of an icebreaker. A musky whiff of perfume came to me over the odors of sea and fuel.

  “Crew error,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Just wait. That’s what it’ll turn out to be, not toxic release from any material we put on that sub,” she said. “If they’re sick, it’s not because of us, let’s get that straight. We run tests, Colonel, hundreds of tests, on every piece of fabric, rubber, composite, electronics, anything you can think of. We burn them and freeze them. We mix the chemicals. If a fire started, if they’re sick from it, it’ll turn out to be crew error. That’s what causes most accidents.”

  “You seem pretty sure,” I said, taken aback, and off balance because of my fierce reaction to her.

  “The Miami caught fire in ’88,” she said, naming a U.S. sub accident in Kittery, Maine. “An angry yard worker did it, set the blaze on a bunk. He was working too hard, he said. He wanted a break. Four hundred million dollars in damage and at first they blamed equipment. The Russian Kursk, ’03, a hundred and eighteen dead, caused by a misfiring during practice with a torpedo, probably started from propellant believed to be new liquid fuel. We don’t use that stuff. Want more examples?”

  I realized I was still holding her hand. I let go.

  “Dr. Vleska,” I asked with some irritation, “are you the company lawyer? Because I thought they sent me an engineer, to figure things out, not to fight.”

  She looked about to snap back, then stopped, seemed to reconsider the surroundings, and her frown turned into something more self-aware and clearly embarrassed.

  I couldn’t help thinking, She’s lovely.

  I said, “Why don’t we save the blame and concentrate on trying to get those people safe.”

  She took a deep breath. Her whole body seemed to ease up. “Of course,” she said wryly. “Look, they woke me up. Said get on a plane. They wouldn’t tell me why at first. Everything’s a secret, even when they need you. Then some of your guys said some pretty angry things, before we even got the story. Accusations. I guess that made me hot.”

  “Apology accepted,” I said.

  She smiled. “I didn’t say it was an apology. I said I didn’t want to take it out on you.” She laughed. “Oh, God. I hate planes. Truth is, I’m scared of them. I don’t mind going down four miles in a mini-sub, enclosed space, dark, cold, I love it, but put me up in the air in a Boeing 737 and I need Valium. It got to me. I could use sleep.”

  I liked the shoulders, the loose easy movements and the smell, and the feminine way her hands wove exclamation marks. She said, “Sub accidents are so horrible. Then everyone points fingers. Now I just did it. I promise to start over and be more coherent after I close my eyes for a bit.”

  I told her, “No need to start over. We’re good.”

  She turned away and swayed through the steel roll-up door into the copter hangar, where a crewman met and escorted her away to her cabin. The wind flipped her long hair. Jesus, I thought.

  I pushed it away. Now my partner and best friend, Major Eddie Nakamura, stood before me, a welcome sight: jet-black hair from his Japanese dad, with one white streak, greenish eyes from his Irish mom, a surfer’s weathered skin, lightness in his movements from three types of hand-to-hand combat training, grinning the idiotic way only a best friend would after watching my exchange with Dr. Vleska.

  “Your type, Number One,” said Eddie.

  “Eddie, you’re Samurai, not Jewish mother.”

  “She’s even better looking with the flight suit off. Lives in Alameda, but long-distance relationships are a good way to start.”

  “This isn’t the time.”

  He grinned. His easygoing outer nature is deceptive. He’s actually one of the most dangerous people I’ve ever met. “It’s always the time, Uno. And to you, it’s never the time. I’ve been telling you for two years, as your physician I advise you to get a life. Watch movies. Get laid. Eat something besides PowerBars. She’s divorced. Clever midair interrogation revealed a boyfriend—a company lawyer—but as I am a trained truth-finder, I have ascertained that he is but a piece of lint to be brushed away by your firm hand.”

  Eddie sang the title of the old Cole Porter tune, softly, over the hissing wind, “Tonight I love you morrre.”

  “Eddie, can it. Did you find out anything else about the sickness? Symptoms?”

  We clomped forward, into the gigantic copter hangar, amid our crates, a basketball court, stairs to labs, and then onto the spray-slick outer deck on our way to the suite, which Eddie would share to make more room for survivors, hopefully. His luggage would come later.

  Eddie said, “Before I answer, Colonel U
no, get any sleep lately?”

  “Plenty.”

  “No, huh? Eat anything in, say, the last eighteen hours?”

  He always knew when I was lying. “I had a Mars bar on the flight.”

  “Well, then I’m sure you’re firing on all cylinders! It’s important that the boss keep himself tip-top, so he can make good decisions that affect us all!”

  We ducked through a hatch and bar-locked the door behind us. The passageways were white, utterly clean. I was in a blue Coast Guard parka, CG stocking hat, and Thermolite gloves. Eddie—shed of his mustang suit—wore an olive-drab parka with fur hood, and thick-soled rubber boots.

  “Eddie,” I repeated warningly. “Symptoms?”

  He sighed. “No new transmissions, but we went back and pieced together a little more that the director didn’t know when you spoke. There was an early reference to bleeding.”

  “What kind and how much?”

  “Nose, ears, mouth. Several crew members had it.”

  “Did they work together? Eat together? Any idea what started it?”

  Eddie blew out air. “Sorry.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Fever. Chest pain. Purple spots on the skin.”

  I stopped outside a room labeled SCIENCE LOUNGE. Inside I saw a comfortable space filled with cushioned chairs, computer terminals, and lockable cabinets with books inside. It had to be a library.

  I said, frowning, “Petechial hemorrhages?” These occur when there are capillary breaks near the outer skin, creating discolored patches. AIDS victims get them. Mold victims can, too. Toxic poisons, even some common cleaning fluids, if ingested, can trigger eruptions.

  I said, thinking out loud, “The sub was out at sea for weeks. I can’t see someone intentionally introducing something on board that late in a cruise. They’d be trapped with everyone else. It has to be an accident.”

  “Never say ‘has to,’” Eddie said. “Could be viral, hell, some insecticides cause those symptoms. I wish I knew more, like if they sprayed that sub for pests recently. Rats. Roaches. The Navy insisted they only spray in dry dock, and no one boards for twenty-four hours after that. But who knows? You’re underwater. An infestation breaks out. Someone decides to spray . . .” he said, testing a theory out loud.

  We were thinking as a team, but one lacking information. “Food poisoning?” I said.

  “Won’t give you the skin marks.”

  “Carbon monoxide.”

  “Won’t cause marks or bleeding. But marks have been known to happen with chaetomium,” he said, naming a black mold found in the Tropics, in dirt, in plants, and in one recent case, a disgustingly ill-cleaned Nashville college fraternity bathroom.

  I shook my head. “You don’t get bleeding with that.”

  “The Montana was in Indonesia before heading for the Arctic. Who knows what fucking bug came aboard inside a sailor, or skittered on from a dock.”

  “Eddie, if something got on in Indonesia, it would have erupted earlier.”

  Eddie looked frustrated. “Unless we’re dealing with something new. Or intentional. Look, those guys in the sub didn’t even mention sickness until the fourth or fifth SOS. They were concerned about the fire. And nobody in D.C. asked about it. Nobody linked the two. Everyone assumed the sickness was a plain old cold at first, you know subs, everyone shares colds, but then the hemorrhaging started, and by then it was too late to ask about it because the transmissions stopped.”

  We fell silent. It was all frustrating speculation until we reached the sub.

  I told Eddie, “We might need to seal the ventilation system on this ship if it turns out to be a pathogen.”

  “Get some sleep,” he said.

  “The director said the fire could have released something toxic, in a new material. I’d say we need to talk to Dr. Vleska.”

  “She does seem defensive, but I must say, cutely so. By the way, as it’s my duty to report important issues to you, I must inform you that she is a sea kayaker who likes jazz and Mexican food. You won’t be bored by her. She has strong opinions.”

  “I have one. It’s that you should shut up.”

  I knew Eddie was right about sleep, knew that staying up too long could cause me to make a mistake. I couldn’t do that. I just couldn’t. And if there was something toxic in that sub, if I had to lead Marines inside . . .

  No, not again. I don’t want to do this again.

  We headed toward our cabin.

  Then suddenly alarms went off all over the ship.

  SIX

  The emergency announcement blared again as we hurried toward the bridge. Three figures in white fire retardant suits burst from a hatch and lumbered past us, heading aft. Clear polycarbonite shields protected their faces. One person wielded a fire ax and the others carried canisters of fire retardant on their backs.

  A calm male voice announced over the intercom, “Smoke in the aviation office.”

  The bridge would be the control center in an emergency. But we were new here and the corridors a maze. We rushed past cabins with name tags outside identifying berthing for officers. Infirmary. Electrical workshop. We pushed through a door accessing a steel stairwell that rose, switching back at each deck, and took us hopefully toward the bridge. I heard boots pounding on steel below. A woman shouted, “Move it, Robb! You dead or what?”

  As we reached the next level up, the intercom came to life again. “Man overboard, port side!”

  Eddie and I halted, looked at each other, stunned at this new emergency. Then we understood and Eddie’s face broke into a smile. We burst out laughing at the same time.

  “A drill,” I said, my heartbeat slowing.

  Sure enough, as we stood there, tension draining away, the voice added a third disaster.

  “Smoke in the bow thruster room!”

  Eddie grinned. “Bad luck ship, all these problems only two hours from shore.”

  “I needed a laugh,” I said.

  The truth sank in. The drills addressed real possibilities. They underscored our ship’s position as lone U.S. nautical presence within a thousand miles. Were a disaster to befall us, any scenario for which the crew was drilling, there would be no second icebreaker to send after us. We would be as vulnerable as the crew of the submarine we were on our way to try to save.

  “Eddie, let’s get someone to show us around.”

  Eddie and I followed Captain DeBlieu through a maze of steel stairways and decks. He’d left his usual bridge staff in charge of guiding the ship in so-far ice-free waters. He wanted to stay close to us to find out more about what we planned to do. As we headed for the engine room, I mentally reviewed my situation.

  Two Marine squads who don’t trust me. One State Department Assistant Deputy Secretary who should not be here. One ice expert who grew up in a communist country. And a crew that has not been vetted for high-security situations. All it takes is one person who’s pissed off because they lost a promotion, or a friend died, or they need money for a car, vacation, trip to Vegas . . . Or they’ve decided, in the twisted compartments of their brain, that Al-Qaeda is right.

  The ship was a marvel of complexity, a floating city of steel; but clearly it had been designed for research. Rescue missions, yes. Warfare, no.

  “The Wilmington was built as a compromise,” DeBlieu told Eddie and me as we made our way aft from the mess, where Eddie had insisted I fortify myself with some caloric intake. The bacon-on-wheat sandwich, generously proportioned, smelled mouthwatering, and the caffeine rush from the mug of heavily sugared Maxwell House sharpened my thinking.

  “Our rounder prow,” DeBlieu said, “optimizes ramming. We sacrificed maneuverability. There’s no miracle formula to getting through ice, gentlemen. You slug through or back up and ram it. You try again. If the ice gets too thick, you stop.”

  Eddie said, “Sounds like the Marine
s, except for the stopping part.”

  DeBlieu explained, “Congress only allocated enough money to keep one icebreaker running at the moment. The other two are under repair. NOAA—the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration—assigns our missions, except during the annual summer cruise when State takes over. By the way, I hear you met Secretary Sachs.”

  “We had a friendly chat,” I said.

  DeBlieu allowed himself a smile, clearly familiar with Sachs’s friendliness.

  I need to plan. Within hours, these peaceful-looking decks might be transformed into a field hospital, a launch point for combat, platform for Arctic war.

  From outside, the ship had looked impressive, but in a boxy, cruise ship way; its prow more rounded than sharp, as it would have been the case with a Naval ship built for speed, fighting, and evasion.

  The superstructure was an enormous white box, top-heavy, crowned by the bridge, the icebreaker a maze of twelve levels. Inside four upper levels, humans slept, ate, or relaxed, and layouts were similar; with two long passageways running along port and starboard sides, lined with bunk rooms, individual ones for senior officers, group cabins for other crew below, then supply rooms, lounges for crew and scientists, and various mechanical shops.

  Passageways held regular caches of fire-fighting equipment, and to go fore to aft, we had to continually pass through watertight steel hatches, unlatching steel levers and locking them behind us once we passed.

  “Main control on the bridge. Propulsion’s diesel electric. Horsepower’s 30,000 max. We can carry 1.2 million gallons of fuel. Length, 420 feet. Aft area is mostly for science. We’ve got labs there as good as those at Harvard, freezers for sediment samples, whale samples.”

  Well, that’s one good point, I thought. If we’ve got to analyze a disease or toxin, we’ll have labs.