by Alex Ryan
“I was of a similar mind. Anything is possible, of course, but Kashi is so remote. A West African vector causing an outbreak in Hong Kong or Beijing, yes maybe, but Kashi? I would be curious to know if the Civil Aviation Administration of China has records—”
“I’ve already spoken to my counterpart at CAAC on the matter,” he interrupted, “and requested passenger manifests for airline passengers traveling into or connecting through Kashgar who have been in West Africa anytime during the past month. As soon as this information is available, it will be analyzed and forwarded to you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Of course.”
“And if it’s not Ebola, then what?”
“Then you need to be prepared for something worse.”
“Worse than Ebola?” she balked. “What could possibly be worse?”
“A chemical or biological weapon attack. Something weapons grade. Something new; something we haven’t seen before.”
A chill chased down her spine, and her office suddenly felt as cold and still as deep space.
“But I’m not trained for that,” she heard herself say, and then she quickly added, “Forgive me, Director Wong, I misspoke. Whatever the crisis in Kashi, I can manage it with the tools and procedures of the DCER.”
She heard him laugh into the receiver. “No, Dazhong, you have every right to be concerned. Which is why I am not sending you on this assignment alone. You and your CDC team will be part of a multidiscipline, multiministry Quick Reaction Task Force conceived precisely for situations like this. You will be traveling with the Snow Leopard Counterterrorism Commando Unit’s Ninth Squadron—the Ninth SLCU—as well as Major Li Shengkun and his staff from the PLA’s NBC Regiment 54423 in Shenzhen.”
She sat speechless, phone receiver pressed against her ear.
“Dazhong?” she heard him say.
“I’ve never heard of this task force before,” she managed at last.
“That’s because until now, it only existed on paper. I was on the committee that devised it—a tactical contingency for scenarios such as this.”
“I see,” she said. It made sense, perfect sense, but the prospect of teaming with both the army and China’s most elite counterterrorism unit rattled her. She was a civilian. They were not. She was one woman. They were a regiment. For battle, she would be wearing scrubs and a carrying a noncontact thermometer. They would be wearing tactical gear and carrying automatic weapons. It did not take a genius to imagine how this scenario would play out. They would patronize her, marginalize her, undermine her authority at every turn—she knew this because she had played this game before.
She had played it for years . . . with her husband.
“Who is in charge?” she asked. “Of the operation, that is?”
“You are in charge of disease containment and all health- and welfare-related matters. Commander Zhang of the Ninth SLCU is in charge of security and threat prosecution. He has been instructed not to get in your way, just as I am telling you now not to get in his. The situation on the ground in Kizilsu will dictate whether this is a counterterrorism operation or an emergency response to an outbreak. By the time you land in Kashi, we should have a much better picture of the situation.”
“And what about Major Li from Regiment 54423? Where does he fit into this equation?”
“Major Li’s immediate priority is to determine if a chemical or biological agent has been deployed. Our single greatest concern is that some weaponized or biologically modified pathogen has been released as an act of terrorism.”
“I should probably speak with Major Li before I depart,” she said. “Make sure that we are properly equipped. Immunofluorescence assays will need to be performed. Serology tests run. We’ll need the capability to perform PCR amplification and ELISA screening. All this will require special equipment. We’ll also need experienced laboratory technicians, otherwise we’ll be forced to shuttle biosafety level-four samples back and forth between Kashi and Wuhan.”
“All this has already been taken care of. Remember, I was on the committee that developed this contingency plan. Also, I have given great consideration to the lessons you learned in Liberia. The Ebola response protocols you outlined in your final mission report have all been transmitted to the hospital director at the Artux People’s Hospital in Kizilsu.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is your ‘go bag’ packed and ready?”
“Yes.”
“Good, because your plane leaves in one hour. There is a car and a Beijing police escort waiting at the front of the building to take you to the airport.”
“Do I have time to stop by my apartment and say good-bye to my husband?”
“I’m sorry, Dazhong, but there is no time. You may call him, of course, and if he can make it to the airport before your departure, I will make sure that security lets him see you off.”
Dazhong felt a wave of relief and then a twinge of guilt at her gladness that she would not be forced to see her husband and deal with the inevitable conflict that would follow. Perhaps she would wait awhile to call.
“I understand.”
“Good luck, Dr. Chen.”
“Thank you, Director Wong,” she said, and then quickly added, “I won’t let you down.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I chose you.”
Dazhong slumped in her chair, suddenly exhausted. Another separation from her husband was a needed respite, but she worried about the repercussions. Her unexpected departure would make him angry, and his anger would have days, if not weeks, to steep. She exhaled through pursed lips. She didn’t have time to worry about him right now. She had much bigger problems to fret over. The situation in Kizilsu had the makings of something terrible. Something terrifying. Deep inside, she had always considered the possibility of an outbreak in China, but now that it was happening, she felt unprepared.
A tight-lipped, ironic smile spread across her face.
Maybe they would get lucky . . .
Maybe this was just Ebola.
Chapter 4
Artux People’s Hospital
Kizilsu
1325 hours local
The hours crept by.
Nick didn’t know if the room had become stuffy or if he was just becoming claustrophobic in the small space. The locked door and a window too narrow to accommodate escape amplified the feeling of captivity. He was a prisoner of the Artux People’s Hospital until someone in hazmat gear said otherwise.
“There is no air in here,” Yvette said with agitation.
Nick stopped pacing and turned to her. She had a light dapple of sweat on her face and neck. Might she also have a fever? He wiped his own forehead with the back of his hand and felt the dampness there. His throat was dry and sore, and his headache seemed to be getting worse by the minute.
“We’re just feeling claustrophobic and probably a bit dehydrated,” he said, trying to summon a reassuring smile. “Take a couple of deep breaths and the feeling will pass.”
She looked down at her hands, unconvinced. Nick looked out the window and pressed his hands against the wall on either side.
A small army had gathered outside the hospital. The local police, who had secured the entrance initially, were now outnumbered five to one by soldiers dressed in mottled cammie uniforms. Nick noticed that unlike the hospital EMS response team, the soldiers were all wearing CBR respirators designed to protect them from chemical, biological, and radioactive airborne contaminant. In addition to their cammies, kits, and respirators, they carried QBZ-95 automatic assault rifles—a modern, compact 5.8 mm weapon that clearly marked them as military. The weapons had a cool, sci-fi look, an obvious contrast to the Type 81 rifles carried by the policemen, which had more of an old, cold-war vibe to them. Of course, the older rifles used the larger, 7.62 mm rounds that Team guys loved, so it was a toss-up as to which weapon he’d prefer in a firefight. Nick laughed at himself for remembering the details of relatively obscure weapons while still not being ab
le to come up with the name of the antibiotic used to treat anthrax. He guessed that knowledge pounded into you by a SEAL Senior Chief during SQT—the Seal Qualification Training that began immediately after BUD/S—stuck better than medical facts learned from a book.
“It’s like a war zone out there,” Yvette said from beside him. Nick startled at her presence. Apparently, he was losing his SEAL edge. After his first tour in Afghanistan, anyone creeping up behind him risked being on the receiving end of a reflexive elbow to the throat.
“They’re setting up security to keep people out.”
“And in,” Bai pointed out from where he sat cross-legged on the floor.
Right, Nick thought. And in.
Nick remembered the American CDC’s anemic, arm’s-length response to the first Ebola case on US soil in Dallas, Texas, and contrasted it to what he was watching here. The Chinese response was so much more martial and robust, which begged the question—did that bode well or ill for their fate?
The door behind him clicked sharply, making Yvette jump, but then she set her jaw. Bai scrambled to his feet, and Nick turned with arms folded across his chest. The person at the door was protected head to toe by a yellow exposure suit. The tinted faceplate on the helmet made it difficult to discern the gender of the face inside. The self-contained respirator wheezed with each breath. Behind stood a security detail of two men. They wore the same exposure suits but brandished QBZ-95 rifles—combat slung and at the ready, hands on the grip and shooting fingers along the trigger guard.
The leader barked something in Chinese, the voice not settling the gender debate for Nick. Bai walked across the room and away from the door, positioning himself in the corner farthest from Nick and Yvette. The space-suited figure at the door placed a large canvas bag on the floor and slid it into the middle of the room. Instructions were given and the leader awkwardly backed out of the room, accidently bumping into one of the soldiers in the process and almost tumbling to the ground. The other guard shut the door, and Nick saw Yvette flinch at the ominous click of the lock. Nick looked at Bai and raised an eyebrow.
“What did they say?” Yvette asked.
“We are to change into the clothing in the bag.” Bai explained. “We are to remove all our clothing and all personal items, including jewelry,” he said with a nod at Yvette. “We then place our clothing along the wall underneath the window and someone will come back to take us.”
Bai scurried to the center of the room and rummaged through the bag.
“Take us?” Yvette asked, the timbre of her voice indicating she was as angry as she was scared. “What do you mean ‘take us’? Where are they taking us?”
“I don’t know,” Bai said, retreating back to his corner.
Nick grabbed the bag and retrieved the two remaining jumpsuits from inside. The suits opened in the back via a long slit that closed with Velcro patches. The suits reminded him of old-fashioned footy pajamas, except these had integrated gloves and hoods that drew at the face with elastic.
“Where am I supposed to change?” Yvette asked, looking around the small room.
Nick smiled. A few hours ago, she’d been shameless, and now she was modest. Go figure. “We’ll turn our backs,” he promised.
And they did.
A moment later, she was in her baggy suit, the hood pinched in on her cheeks and her clothes, jewelry, and underwear in a pile under the window. Nick pulled off his own clothes. Before even trying the Velcro, he recognized the fit was going to be a problem. The suits were made for Chinese adults, not six-foot-three American former SEALs. His suit pulled tight at his feet and, worse, in other places. He tossed his own clothes onto the pile, everything except for the five-fifty paracord bracelet he wore on his left wrist. The bracelet had been a gift from a teammate in Iraq, and he’d worn it everyday for the past three years. He wasn’t giving it up without a fight.
He thought about sitting down but felt sure the suit would either rip at the seams or emasculate him, so he tried to fold his arms instead, the Velcro popping open in the back at the motion. He started to make a joke but then saw that Yvette had begun to cry and Bai was huddled defensively back in his corner, and he thought better of it.
There was a loud click and the door opened again.
A very small box was handed to Bai with another curt order. Bai pulled a surgical mask from the box and then slid the box over to them.
“Put on,” the suited spaceman said from the door.
Nick pulled out a mask and handed it to Yvette and then fit one over his own mouth and nose.
“How is our friend?” Nick asked. “How is Batur?”
Bai translated Nick’s question, and the spacesuit turned to face Nick.
“Uyghur dead,” the hollow voice said, echoing inside the helmet.
Nick felt his throat tighten. Behind him, Yvette’s sobbing grew louder.
“Come,” the spacesuit ordered and gestured for them to follow.
The two sentries backed away from the door. Nick followed the small, suited figure down the deserted hallway, with Yvette and Bai in trail. Over his shoulder, Nick could see that a security checkpoint had been set up at the glass doors they had entered earlier; plastic sheeting stretched between the floor and ceiling a few feet from the doors, giving only a hazy, translucent view down the hall.
“Where are they taking us?” Yvette whispered.
“Isolation,” Nick answered.
“I thought we were in isolation.”
“No,” he said quietly. “That was keeping us out of the way until they got organized. If I had to guess, they’re taking us to a quarantine ward.”
“Quarantine?” she gasped. “Where the infected people are?”
He nodded. “Probably.”
“But Nick, this suit has gaps in the back,” she said. “It will not protect us.”
“The suit and mask are not for our protection,” he said gravely. “It’s for theirs.”
Chapter 5
Dazhong entered the hospital’s north stairwell and began the trek up to level five. She had e-mailed a comprehensive list of biosafety protocols to the hospital director before leaving Beijing, and to her astonishment, he had implemented the instructions to the letter. His obedience and attention to detail had impressed her. Swift and comprehensive action was the key to containing an outbreak. If they were lucky, this outbreak—caused by whatever insidious scourge this was—would not spread beyond the walls of the hospital.
The north stairwell was designated a “hot zone,” as was the emergency room and all of levels one, two, and three. Level four had a special designation as a quarantine zone for asymptomatic individuals who had been in close contact with infected patients. Levels five through nine were designated clean zones. She had restricted elevator use to emergency situations only, due to the risk of shuttling infected air between the lower and upper floors. The south stairwell was also designated a clean zone, reserved for access to and from the outside world without having to use the main entrance, which was now contaminated from patient admittance since the crisis began.
Her blue coveralls swished as she climbed. The baggy, lightweight material was lined with an impermeable membrane that served as a protective barrier for the wearer against deadly pathogens. Unlike the positive-pressure “space suits” worn by technicians in the BSL-4 labs—with their clean, cool, regulated air—field suits were basically fancy, expensive plastic bags. Within hours of their arrival, Major Li had confiscated all space suits in the building for use by his technicians in the lab. She had fought him on it, but soldiers with guns have a way of trumping civilians. So she had put her Liberia training to immediate use, breaking out the field suits and training everyone on the hospital team on how to dress out and decontaminate.
By design, exposure-suit material does not breathe. Within minutes of donning the suit, the air temperature inside “the blue bag” equalizes with the occupant’s body temperature, making it unbearably hot. In Liberia, where the outside ambient tem
perature was often above thirty degrees Celsius, working a shift in a blue bag bordered on corporal punishment. On one occasion, she had become so overheated and dehydrated that she collapsed from heatstroke two hours into her shift. When she came to, she found herself lying on a cot in the admin tent, hooked up to an IV bag of electrolytes, surrounded by her staff. They each took turns scolding her for pushing herself too hard, and they did not leave her bedside until she ordered them away. She would always remember that day, not because of the heatstroke, but because that was the day she realized she had earned her coworkers loyalty and admiration.
Despite the air-conditioned environment inside the Artux People’s Hospital, she was dripping with perspiration inside her suit. Sweat was beginning to pool inside her rubber gloves and boots; she could feel her hands and the soles of her feet beginning to prune. Her goggles were fogged, making it hard to see. The air inside her M5 antimicrobial mask had gone rank long ago. In fact, the smell of her captive breath was growing more and more nauseating with each passing minute. She was ready to decontaminate and strip off her PPE—her personal protective equipment.
So very, very ready.
By the time she reached the fifth-floor landing, she was panting. Yes, she was young, only thirty-one, but not a particularly robust thirty-one. Long, stressful working hours, perpetual sleep deprivation, and a diet composed primarily of noodles, bings, and caffeinated beverages were beginning to take a toll. Her aversion to exercise didn’t help either. Her husband told her repeatedly that she was too thin, that she needed to eat more nourishing foods. “It’s no mystery why we haven’t conceived a child, Dazhong,” he liked to say. “Look at how you treat your body.” Hopefully, now that she had been promoted to department head for a research track, she would be able to keep more reasonable, regular hours. Also, transferring out of the Office of Disease Control and Emergency Response would mean less travel and more time at home—a double-edged sword as far as she was concerned. She tried hard to be both the professional scientist and the dutiful wife her culture demanded, but maintaining balance was becoming increasingly difficult.
