"Forget Benson." McCabe shoved his hands in his pockets. "He's a self-aggrandizing loudmouth with delusions of grandeur-the last person Williams would be involved with."
Forget him? "What makes you think distributing Yersinia in a subway could kill millions?"
McCabe turned his back on her and focussed on the map. He seemed to be obsessed with it, and Jordan felt like she'd failed some sort of test.
Commander Long was a little more accommodating. "Another Operation Large Coverage experiment," he explained. "In 1966, US Army technicians dropped light bulbs filled with harmless but easily traceable bacteria through ventilating grates and onto the track-beds of New York subways. The air movement of trains spread the bacteria through the tunnels.
"Benson intended using the same method during rush hour. His estimates of hundreds of thousands dead sounds like science fiction, but given Yersinia's incubation period and the number of international flights passing through New York, it could conceivably have infected millions worldwide."
Jordan swallowed against a suddenly dry mouth. "So you're questioning Benson, right?" she asked Brant. "I mean; he's incarcerated?"
"Judge smacked his wrist, ordered him to do two hundred hours of community service, and then set him free." Brant slung his pen across the table in disgust. At Jordon's look of disbelief, he added, "Benson's a model parolee. Yeah, we're interviewing him. The only problem we're having is getting the guy to shut up long enough for agents to ask questions. He's fixated on this Iraqi sleeper thing."
Still stuck on the 'set him free' part, Jordan turned to Long. "Global '95?"
He exchanged looks with Broadwater, who shrugged and said, "No point holding back, now."
Turning to Jordan, Long said, "Based on what we believe North Korea and Iraq have tucked away in their respective biochemical arsenals, the growing economic pressures on North Korea and the Tom and Jerry routine the Iraqi regime is playing with UNSCOM, five months ago the Pentagon staged a war game at the Naval College in Newport, to test our response capabilities in a worst-case scenario."
McCabe had gone back to pacing, and Jordan sensed he felt she was wasting time with questions, but she needed to understand. "Worst case?"
"If they attacked US interests simultaneously," Long explained. "We didn't presume collusion so much as opportunism. North Korea makes a move and Iraq seizes the moment to attack on a different front." Looking decidedly uncomfortable, he added, "The situation fell apart so fast that referees allowed us one 'miracle' each game day. We still lost."
Following the monumental success of the Gulf War, given the technologically superior weaponry now wielded by the US, Jordan couldn't see how that was possible, unless… "They used bioweapons."
"The game scenario assumed that the North Koreans used stealth speedboats mounted with low-tech aerosol sprayers to saturate the DMZ with an unknown organism. Their special forces infiltrated the DMZ through tunnels, but instead of attacking troop, they took out our BIDS-our detector vehicles for BW agents. Even when the game scenario was remodelled, allowing us to recapture our BIDs, there weren't enough of them to confirm what we'd been attacked with. The commanding general ordered our troops to get the hell out. Trouble was, he had neither the firepower to cover a retreat, nor sufficient vehicles to implement it."
"Worse," said Broadwater rubbing her eyes. "Our side couldn't tough it out and wait for transport or reinforcements because the protective suits that we needed were all sitting in an Indiana warehouse. By the end of the war game the total number of troops infected-with anthrax as it turned out-was fifty thousand. And we couldn't mount an offensive against North Korean troops."
"Why not?"
"Picture it, Dr Spinner," Broadwater replied tiredly. "Say that we had our 'miracle', and our troops instantly had sufficient protective gear. We employ South Korean civilians to provide everything from fresh food to water and telecommunications. What are they going to do when they see our guys donning gas masks? Stick around and die or take their families and run? Either way, our ability to supply and reinforce our troops has been eroded to the point where were paralyzed."
"Saddam Hussein sees how easily we've been crippled," Long said. "So he attacks US bases in Saudi Arabia using a bioweapon. It's meant as an act of terror, designed to not so much to kill a substantial number of US troops, but to panic the civilian population. Well, guess what? There were-still are for that matter- no biological sensors in Saudi Arabia. Nor are there sufficient protective suits for US troops much less civilian workers employed by the US, or utility operators including those who work in power stations or water plants. Hell, even the garbage collectors are dead or have fled with their families into the desert. And by now, every one of our available BW defensive materials is on its way to North Korea.
"Meanwhile, back here in the US, Iraqi terrorists unleash anthrax over Norfolk, Virginia and Washington DC, using nothing more than modified crop-dusters. As Major Broadwater pointed out in the initial briefing, a fifty percent initial infection rate from a correctly delivered aerosol is considered acceptable. Doesn't matter whether you're inside, once the stuff gets into air-conditioning systems… Anyway, we decided the Iraqis weren't that efficient and we infected only twenty percent of the population of both cities-one hundred and fifty thousand people-and allowed another twenty percent secondary infection. Problem was, anthrax wasn't diagnosed until our hospital systems had been crippled by the influx of sick and dying people. And as you well know, Dr Spinner, prophylactic antibiotics only work when anthrax is treated early. By the time we'd realize that the US had been attacked, all of our resources, including every available antibiotic, was on its way to North Korea and the Gulf.
"Sure, we retaliated , and Pyong Yang and Baghdad are nuclear slag heaps, but meanwhile two cities, including our central government, the White House and Pentagon are infected with a ninety percent fatal and essentially untreatable disease."
"You said one hundred and fifty thousand initial infection," Jordan corrected.
"Yeah, but we didn't know that until after the event. And we couldn't pick and choose who would be infected. As far as everyone was concerned, the entire population of those cities had been exposed." Shrugging, he added, "'Cause secondary infection meant that by then, the real numbers were closer to three hundred thousand."
Jordan's coffee sat untouched as she listened wide-eyed to the astounding but very realistic scenario.
Long continued, "CNN brings in experts and paints a worst-case scenario. Most people misunderstand the difference between contagion and infection and assume that victims can spread the disease by coughing, even bodily contact. Naturally, hoping they aren't yet infected, everyone in Norfolk and DC try and get out of Dodge. Even if they stay, the services and utilities in both cities have collapsed because maintenance workers are also sick, dying or fleeing. The National Guard is called in, but because they cannot be issued with protective gear-remember it's all on its way to the Gulf and North Korea-"
Feeling sick, Jordan held up her hand. "Okay, okay, I got the picture. If it were something contagious like smallpox-"
"Or a chimera." Wilson tugged a dinner plate-sized Danish from the same box that Susan had eyed longingly. "The same scene would be replicated across the country-and a score of other countries-within weeks."
"Well, then why in hell would anyone think it's necessary to demonstrate a real bioweapon?" Jordan demanded, shaking her head at the offer of a pastry. "Didn't Global '95 prove the point?"
"It was a war game , Dr Spinner." Broadwater reached into the box, and with a 'what-the-hell' expression, pulled out an iced donut. "A theoretical event, the actual results of which are highly classified, because the official outcome was a shit load scarier. But the dead were statistical, not actual. No one saw millions of American bodies bulldozed into makeshift graves-until nobody was left to do the bulldozing-and hell, can't we just build a few more stealth bombers to scare the crap out of Hussein?" She pushed the box across to Jordan. "Go on, en
joy. You only live once."
"We're not saying nobody sat up and took notice," Long continued. "President Clinton and Vice President Gore were honest-to-God freaked out by it, but you try squeezing a dime out of Congress. To them, it's about high-tech offensive wars; against a country, a city, a battalion of troops. Congress and the collective pencil pushers at State just do not believe such weapons could be employed, because the scenario is simply too frightening to contemplate. Whoever arranged this demonstration, if that's what it's meant to be, is going to make it so ugly and so shit-in-your-pants believable, with real, dead people-preferably nuking an entire population-that it terrifies Congress into doing something instead of playing with toy soldiers and plastic tanks in a sand-pit at Norfolk."
-Chapter 12-
Mathew Island
Dispersal: Plus 57 hours
Sturgess examined the distinctive pustules and muttered through his mask, "It can't be chicken pox!" He reached up to rub the sweat from his face, then stopped himself, horrified at how close he'd come to touching his eyes.
With latex covered fingers, Judi gently felt the speckled lesions on Tom Kaleo's stomach and hips. "What about Measles? Or German Measles?"
All of the woman in the village had been vaccinated against both diseases. Every child, too. At least in theory. Could Tom Kaleo have missed one of his shots? The boy had been in Port Vila for three years, but the College was meticulous about keeping the children's vaccinations up to date; they had enough problems with malaria and tuberculosis. But even if Tom had slipped through the cracks, that didn't account for everyone else. In the two hours since the chopper had left, the clinic had filled with people suffering all manner of symptoms. Everything from sore, bloodshot eyes to skin rashes, headaches, aching backs, nosebleeds, nausea, diarrhoea, and temperatures that walked all over Tylenol. It was too rampant to be haemorrhagic dengue, so what the hell was it?
Angered by his own accelerated heart rate and sweating palms, Nate bit down on his lip. He was fast losing control and he knew it. "Not with the other symptoms and a fever this high. It's come on too damned fast!"
"That's what you said three hours ago. Now look at it!" Judi spoke in soft tones, but he could hear the undertone of panic.
During his time in the islands, Nate had seen some horror diseases. Diseases most Westerners considered long dead, like leprosy and terminal syphilis. This-whatever it was-was cutting through the village like a scythe. Tom Kaleo could not possibly have come into contact with so many people and passed the infection on in such a short space of time. Even more puzzling was the complete lack of symptoms in the other passengers, himself included, who had travelled on the same aircraft as Tom.
Assuming, of course, that Tom was the carrier. Warner had seemed fine when he'd left, but what about the other passengers? A relatively common and uncomplicated childhood disease, chicken pox was notoriously disabling in adults. Once you'd contracted it, you were generally immune. Nate turned to Judi and asked, "Have you had chicken pox?"
She nodded. "You?"
"Yeah."
"Well,' she replied cautiously, "that could explanation why we're okay. Rob Warner and Katie have probably had it, too."
"What about the others who arrived with us on the flight? Are they sick?"
"I'll check, but we didn't see them yesterday, or this morning. What do you want me to give Tom?"
The boy's face was taught with pain and his skin was hot to the touch. Tom lifted his hand to scratch the welts but Judi said, "Don't scratch, honey, it'll just make it worse."
"Itches. Back…hurts!" Tom mumbled, half delirious.
"I know." Judi's voice was sympathetic and her eyes full of concern. "We're going to give you something right now."
"Diphenhydramine," said Nate. "Add that to the cocktail and see how he goes. Get everyone to wash their hands in antiseptic and clip their fingernails."
Going outside, Nate pulled off his mask and breathed deeply of the hot, wet air. It is simply not possible. He refused to give name to what he now believed was spreading through the village. He looked down. Beats of sweat dripped from his face onto the grass, mixing with the rainwater. Ali Maow Maalin was the last known natural case. Humans were the only known carrier; it was impossible for the disease to have lain dormant in the human population for fifteen years!
But what if it had lain dormant in the ground itself? Perhaps deep in one of the lava tunnels in some as yet unrecognised non-human carrier?
As had occurred in the Americas, traders and missionaries had subjected the people of Vanuatu to biowarfare and genocide. Blackbirding, a euphemism for slaving, and the deliberate introduction of the dreaded disease had reduced an estimated population of two million in 1773 to less than thirty thousand by the eve of the Second World War. The WHO had declared this same disease dead in 1980. In fact, wasn't it supposed to have been destroyed altogether a few months ago?
But the doubt refused to go away. Could somehow, all of this rain…? It was a preposterous notion, straight out of science fiction. Nate laughed at himself. He was seeing ghosts, phantoms of the single greatest killer mankind had ever known. A pox on you. Besides, given that Tom Kaleo was the index case, there was no possible way so many could have caught it simultaneously and exhibited symptoms this quickly. It had to be an allergic reaction, something in the water maybe. Or just a particularly virulent form of haemorrhagic dengue?
It had to be.
Nate stripped off the green scrubs, tossed them into a bleach-filled bucket near the door, washed his hands, and then went to the cottage. The first thing he noticed was Mike's laptop. He stared at it a moment, then headed for the shower to clear his head.
Standing under a desultory splatter of cold water, he reviewed the chain of events. Tom had come from Port Vila, and dozens of villagers had mobbed him when he'd arrived. Thirty-six hours later, Tom had displayed the first symptoms. About five hours later his grandfather and some of the other bubus and younger pikininis had become symptomatic. That indicated Tom had contracted something in Port Vila days earlier, something highly contagious and airborne, like flu. He wouldn't have become contagious until after the disease had entered his lungs and mucous membranes, which explained why no one else on the flight had contracted it.
Stepping out of the shower, Nate wrapped the towel around his waist and sat down at Warner's computer. The island's single radiotelephone was only operational for an hour in the mornings and late evenings-sometimes. He'd already spoken to Gene Marshall at Vila Base Hospital that morning, asking about the flu outbreak there. Marshall had said nothing about lumbar pain, itchy red rashes forming like circular pustules, and sore eyes. Why would he? Aching joints, sore eyes, and a high fever were normal flu symptoms, and a rash, well, could be the result of anything.
Knowing perfectly well that the hospital director would do nothing, Nate opened the laptop, wrote up a full description of what was happening on Mathew, and, using the satellite link, emailed it to Marshall and the WHO office in Noumea. Then he got onto the CDC web site.
Some time later Judi came looking for him. "What on earth are you doing, Nate?" Her eyes dropped to the skimpy towel draped loosely over his hips.
Conscious of his near-nakedness, he said, "Checking the symptoms and emailing Gene."
"And?" she replied, rubbing her temples.
Mumbling, "Sorry," he grabbed the edges of the towel and went to his room. "What about the other three on the flight?" he called as he dressed.
"Two of them took a canoe to the north side of the island before dawn on Wednesday, to hunt for wild pigs. They came back late this morning. They're fine, but their wives are sick. The third person has a headache, but then so do I." She rubbed her temples again.
A surge of adrenaline tore through Nate. Eyes wide with alarm, he ran out of the bedroom pulling a T-shirt over his head. "Are you sick?"
"It's just the heat and humidity." Judi smiled. "Not drinking enough water-my own fault. So, what did you find on the Internet?"
He was jumping at shadows. "Nothing much." Spying a packet of cookies on the kitchen bench, he realised he was hungry. "Judi, about the sterile procedures, there are a couple of Perspex eyeglasses in the stuff that arrived today. Use them." He opened the packet and offered it to her.
"I think that's a good idea. Whatever else Tom has, I suspect he might also have TB. He began hiccupping a little while ago; swallowed his water too fast, but then he coughed up a few spots of blood." She reached for the cookies, but the packet fell from Nate's hand onto the floor.
"What did you do with the blood?" he demanded, trying to quell a full-blown surge of panic.
Eyes wide, Judi stared at the cookie bag, then up at him. "Changed his sheets of course, then tossed the soiled ones into the bleach tub."
He ran out the door.
Judi stared after him. When she'd seen Nate sitting at the computer, the towel draped low over his slim hips, she remembered his quip about an affair, and the feel of his arm about her shoulder. Nate was a good-looking guy, and a nice one to boot. It had been a while since she'd known any nice guys. He might have been joking but hey! A month down here and you never knew.
The cookies lay scattered at her feet. She was hungry, but the thought of food made her ill. Nate had looked like he was about to be ill, too, when she'd mentioned the blood on Tom's sheets. Biting her lip, Judi sat at the laptop and flicked open the history tab on the web browser. When the first page appeared onscreen, her eyes widened in disbelief. He had to be kidding. Except that the list of symptoms was eerily familiar.
'Smallpox-known as the speckled monster in eighteenth-century England-appeared suddenly and included high fever, chills or rigors, cephalalgia, characteristic dorsal-lumbar pain, myalgias, and prostration. Nausea and vomiting were also common. After two to four days, the fever relented and a rash appeared on the face and inside the-'
The throbbing in Judi's head turned into a full-blown drum orchestra. Smallpox was insane! Besides, the fever was getting worse, not relenting, and what about the red eyes? Tom's eyes were bloodshot and swollen. There was a haemorrhagic form of smallpox, but it was a rare complication, and everyone else was already coming down with Tom's symptoms.
Chimera Page 10
