Katie sneezed, dislodging most of chimera-laden dust from her nostrils. Using a wad of paper to blow her nose, she removed the rest, and flushed them down the toilet.
"This is the final boarding call for all passengers on United Airlines flight 706 to Los Angeles. Would all passengers please make their way to Gate Seven."
Michael Warner cursed and logged out of the web browser. He was sitting in one of the hard plastic chairs in the boarding lounge, trying to access his email. By the look if the email box, Nate was using the account just fine, but the connection here was so goddamned slow that he'd been unable to open any messages. Nate's email addressed to him was probably to assure him that his computer was in good hands. As to the emails from his office, well, he couldn't get back to the States any faster, so there was no point worrying about Mt Rainer.
"Ready?"
He looked up and did a double take. "Wow!" Katie looked amazing.
"I've never travelled business class before." Her ears reddened.
"Well," he said, standing and taking her carryon in his other hand. "I don't have much choice. I can't fit into a coach class seat."
Once they were airborne and the seatbelt sign had winked out, Mike stood and pulled out his carryon from the overhead locker. "I'm gonna get cleaned up and changed."
Like Katie's, Mike Warner's shirt was harbouring ash-borne chimera particles. The lightweight jacket he'd worn during the helicopter and Air Pacific flights had inadvertently protected the microorganism.
Despite his height, Warner had become adept at freshening up in aircraft toilets. He stripped off his clothes, releasing the ash into the air. A few specks settled in his hair and beard, but the rest promptly vanished into the air conditioning system and circulated throughout the aircraft. Using a warm cloth to wash himself, he took the time to trim his beard, shave his neck and comb his unruly hair. He splashed on a little cologne. The chimera either died on contact with the alcohol, or joined the other particles in the air-conditioning system.
Before Warner had even left the toilet to return to his seat, three cabin crew and eighteen passengers had breathed in lethal quantities of the virus.
-Chapter 16-
Quantico
Dispersal: Plus 63 hours
"I'm surprised he was issued a visa." Giovanni picked up her third cup of black coffee in one hand and a fourth donut in the other.
Brant unbuttoned his coat and pulled his tie to one side. "What's his name again?"
"Sturgess, Dr Nathaniel Sturgess. He's a New Zealander," replied Jordan.
"Why surprised?" Brant asked Giovanni.
Brushing a few crumbs off her notepad, the librarian said, "There's no love lost between the French and New Zealand governments. Little incident with the Rainbow Warrior ."
"Nate is based in Noumea," Jordan added. "He works for the WHO. He speaks French and Bislama-the local language-and travels regularly between the two countries."
"That explains it then," Giovanni mumbled around mouthfuls. Staring at the computer screen, she added, "Says here he has an impeccable reputation. Doesn't seem the panicky type, and if he's managed to become best buddies with the French, he's obviously politically savvy."
From the other side of the situation room, Broadwater waved a hand to get Brant's attention. "I have a Dr Gene Marshall from Port Vila on the line," she called.
Brant nodded for Broadwater to put Marshall on the speakerphone. Jordan and the agents nearby, including McCabe, gathered around Broadwater to listen.
"Look, I explained all this to your colleague!" came the aggravated voice from the speakerphone.
"Dr Jake Arnold from the CDC?" Broadwater said.
"Yes!" Marshall said. "Aren't you with the CDC?"
"USAMRIID," replied Broadwater.
" What? This is ridiculous," Marshall retorted. "Sturgess had no authority to call anyone. I'm in the middle of the French Ambassador's dinner party. The Minister for Health is here, and I can assure you, the only outbreak we have on Mathew Island-and everywhere else-is haemorrhagic dengue. I'm not trying to understate the problem. It's just that we know what it is and we have a handle on it. Sturgess is not competent to be alone down there. He's grossly overreacting."
"Have you seen the photos Dr Sturgess sent with the email?" Jordan asked him.
"To whom am I speaking now?" Marshall demanded imperiously.
"Dr Jordan Spinner."
"You with the army too? Don't you people have better things to do? I've told you and I've told the CDC, this is dengue ! I'm tired of Sturgess' holier-than-thou attitude. The man arrives here acting like some goddamned Dr Schweitzer, pandering to the locals. He infantilizes them by encouraging them to use their bloody useless so-called custom medicine instead of proper pharmaceuticals-and now it's backfired on him!"
" Mi stap wok long FBI. Yu lukim ol fotos wea Nate I bin sendem ?" Jordan demanded. She didn't know Marshall personally, but she knew his type. The silence from the other end of the telephone confirmed it. He was running the only hospital in the capital, but couldn't speak a word of the language.
"Who the hell are you?" Marshall finally spluttered.
"I told you, Dr Jordan Spinner. I work for the FBI. Have you seen Nate's photos?"
"No! What photos? How the bloody hell could Sturgess have emailed you photos? He doesn't even have…" Marshall paused, then snapped, "No, I haven't."
"Then I'd suggest you rethink your position, Doctor ."
"Exactly what are you implying?" Marshall's tone turned belligerent. "That this is Ebola? You cannot possibly make such a ridiculous and unsubstantiated allegation!"
"Then have you analyzed the blood sample that Nate sent you?"
"Of course not!" Marshall's voice turned whiney. "We only have two lab technicians and they're backlogged. I told Sturgess I'd have them tested for malaria sometime tomorrow."
"You mean you aren't forwarding them as he requested?"
"We're perfectly capable of checking for dengue. Besides, the CDC's been whingeing about the Kikwit outbreak stretching its resources to the limit. Why are you so suddenly interested in us? And how is it that you speak the language?"
"Dr Marshall," said Broadwater. "Under the circumstances we strongly recommend that you do not open those samples." She went on to explain the exact way she wanted them packaged and transported. "And we'd also like blood and stool samples from the vulcanologist, the Peace Corps nurse and the helicopter pilot. Until we can ascertain the nature of this outbreak, we agree with Dr Sturgess' assessment of quarantining Mathew Island, and would further recommend isolating anyone who has been there recently."
"Can't help you," Marshall replied smugly. "Mike Warner and Katie Wood left for Nadi, Fiji hours ago."
McCabe was standing beside Jordan, and she felt him stiffen. Broadwater's eyes widened, and a ripple of fear rode across the room. People began muttering to one another until Brant's hand shot up in a silencing gesture. He opened his mouth to speak, but two technicians were already on it, pulling up flight schedules on their computers.
"Their names are Katie Wood and Michael Warner," Giovanni called to the techs.
"All right," Broadwater continued, speaking to Marshall in a carefully modulated voice. "What hotel are they staying in Nadi?"
"How the hell should I know?"
"Try the big resort hotels closest to Nadi airport, first." Giovanni was bringing up what Jordan though looked like credit card details on her computer screen.
"That's fine, Doctor," Broadwater said to Marshall. "Meanwhile, you will need to isolate the pilot of the helicopter and all passengers inbound from Mathew Island over the-"
"Hey, hey, hey!" Marshall interrupted. "You people don't have the authority to go ordering a quarantine. You don't even have blood samples. Anyway, what you're asking is impossible. The local airline doesn't keep tabs of ni-Vanuatu movements between islands. Half the time passengers don't even have tickets, they just pay the airline clerk on the ground."
"He's telling the
truth," Jordan muttered. "But the airline could backtrack most movements if he asked."
"Well can you at least try?" Broadwater said through clenched teeth.
"Not until we know what this is," Marshall snapped back. "Now if you'll excuse me, my dinner is getting cold."
Through the speakerphone they could hear the telephone being slammed down. "He hung up." Broadwater pulled the receiver from her ear and stared at it, incredulous. "I don't believe it. He hung up on me!"
"Check all outbound flights from Fiji to the continental US," Brant was saying to the technicians. "Meanwhile, has anyone made direct contact with Sturgess?"
"We're in contact with Dr Warner's Seattle team," replied an agent from across the room. "We've emailed Sturgess and requested he contact us."
Broadwater stood and held up a cautious hand. "Before we go any further, if this is a natural outbreak, the WHO and the appropriate French organizations need to be notified."
"Most everyone are in Brussels doing a post mortem on the Kikwit Ebola outbreak," said Jordan. "Besides, Vanuatu does get some very weird, very nasty bugs."
"You've seen these photos, right?" Commander Long held up a printed page.
Jordan took it. The image quality was good enough to make out the detail of individual pustules. Apart from the fact that the blisters were much larger, it was like an old textbook photo of haemorrhagic smallpox. Knowing that McCabe was staring at her, into her, she consciously schooled her expression. "It could be haemorrhagic dengue."
"Or chicken pox," Wilson quipped sarcastically. "The six foot chicken from hell."
"All I'm suggesting is that you can't just assume this is it !" Jordan said. "We cry wolf without hard evidence and-"
"Dr Spinner is right," McCabe interrupted.
Surprised to get support from such an unexpected quarter, Jordan studied him. The man was a walking enigma.
Brant considered for a moment, then called in a loud voice, "Okay, people, we treat this as a possible BW attack." To Wilson, he said, "Dave, place whatever resources you have in Christchurch on a Level 2 standby alert-no details as yet. You and you-" He turned to another pair of agents. "Full background checks, including the American citizens in transit, Warner and the nurse, Katie Wood. McCabe, assist Dr Spinner in tracking Wood and Warner's movements during the time they were in Vila. Major Broadwater, we need an action plan to deal with flights that have recently departed from Fiji and Vanuatu; you know what to do. That includes issuing an alert to the Australian and New Zealand authorities of a possible quarantine problem in Vanuatu.
"The haemorrhagic dengue outbreaks in Vila may be masking the spread of this thing," Broadwater said.
"What about the State Department?" asked Wilson. "We'll need access to Mathew Island-"
"That's my job," Brant cut in. "I'll be briefing AD Reynold in a few minutes. Once you contact Christchurch, find out where an aircraft capable of deploying this thing could have originated, then we'll start backtracking. Check all flight schedules, commercial and private, and I want records of all shipping in the area. You know the routine. All right, people, get cracking. And keep emailing Sturgess. We need to know what's happening on that island."
-Chapter 17-
Mathew Island
Dispersal: Plus 66 hours
Following his aborted conversation with Marshall, Nate spent a few precious moments getting a grip on his temper. The CDC wouldn't dismiss the images so lightly. Kikwit had made them very nervous.
Carefully dressing in surgical scrubs, he returned to the clinic. All six beds and three cots were occupied. On the floor, another dozen villagers lay on scraps of cheap, colourful cloth that they'd spread over woven mats. Worried family members crowded the clinic, wiping victims' faces and mouths with thin wads of towel.
He'd issued carers with surgical masks and latex gloves, but across the room, Tom Kaleo's mother patted away the blood and slime from the erupting pustules around the boys nose, then used the same rag to mop her own tear-filled eyes. Nate's stomach tightened.
Outside, the situation was just as bad. Coleman lights hanging on the eaves cast harsh shadows across the veranda. Mothers sat with babies at their breast, vainly trying to ease their fretful crying. Younger children lay where they could, tossing in their sleep or whimpering in pain. Those free of symptoms sat or stood in huddled groups under the cold pools of turbid light, instinctually drawing close in the face of something they did not understand. They were waiting for him to give them medicine for those they'd left at home, the ones too ill to move.
Ebola amplified in a hospital setting. So did smallpox. The impossibility of his task suddenly hit Nate like a sledgehammer. God help us, this thing is orders of magnitude more contagious than Ebola-or even smallpox. It was then that he had some inkling of the truth, but he banished the notion as absurd, pulp fiction.
Although few chimera particles remained on Mathew Island, the volcanic ash clouds and subsequent rain had boosted the anticipated infection rate of fifty percent. Two thirds of the one hundred and fifty villagers now had the disease. Such a level of saturation was not necessary in a modern city. Even five percent initial infection would trigger panic, disrupt essential services, rapidly decimate the economy and, finally, tear the social fabric asunder. What small, remote villages lacked in sophisticated medical and emergency services they made up for in resilience and fortitude. Everyone was a friend, relative or neighbour. The sick and orphaned were never left to fend for themselves. Ironically, it was this compassion that now amplified the disease. Now in its second day, the virus continued its onslaught throughout the body. Fluid and mucus collected in the lungs and nasal passages, and whenever victims coughed, sneezed, or expectorated, they inadvertently spread hundreds of newly replicated chimera particles into the air.
An average person takes in ten litres of air every minute. In the warm, dark, unventilated huts and overcrowded clinic, the chimera quickly found new hosts. Those wearing surgical masks were hardly better off, for the tiny viral particles slipped through gauze as easily as mosquitoes pass through a razor wire fence.
Back inside the clinic, Nate went to check on Tom Kaleo. Countless fluid-filled pustules now covered the boy's body. His bright young brain had swollen, cutting off its own blood supply. In an attempt to force blood into his brain, Tom's body had elevated his blood pressure by almost two hundred percent in a process known as the Cushing reflex. This was now causing Tom to haemorrhage from his nose, eyes, and gums. Even his fingernails were bleeding. Each healthy cell was invaded by a viral nightmare that replicated, then burst outwards. Every minute, millions of miniature bomblets were exploding inside Tom's body, sending yet more viral particles to destroy the remaining healthy tissue.
Without warning, Tom's mouth opened wide, and he cried out-and Nate paled with horror. Inside the boy's mouth, where the pustules had joined together, the skin had sloughed off and burst apart. Tom lashed out with his hand, inadvertently rubbing the heads off hundreds of pustules across his stomach. The skin simply fell away, revealing raw flesh beneath-which instantly began to haemorrhage. Nate glanced down the bed. Amidst the bloody diarrhoea and vomit that stained the sheets, were dark brown, granulated spots. Tom Kaleo's skin was not the only thing sloughing; so were his organs. His body had literally begun to digest itself.
Elsewhere in the ward, similar viral meltdowns were occurring in the other victims as lungs and livers, hearts and kidneys transformed into liquefied viral mush. Nate almost succumbed to the instinct to bolt, when a sudden movement caught his attention. Judi had been collecting the soiled sheets from someone else's bed. Now she staggered and thrust her hand over her mouth. Before he could reach her, she'd pulled down the surgical mask and began to vomit.
Blood curdling screams came from behind Nate. He whipped around. Every one of Tom's cries spewed a shower of viral-filled blood, directly from the boy's lungs. His limbs began thrashing uncontrollably, peeling skin off the lesions and tossing billions more viral-splatters about the ro
om. It was as if the virus knew that Tom was dying and was seeking a way out if his body and into-
Something bumped into Nate. Nerves taut, he recoiled, and spun around. Judi was crumpled on the floor, sucking in great lungs-full of air between heaves. "What the hell are you doing?" he yelled at her.
Her eyes lifted to his, and he saw not only abject terror on her face, but also petechiae. Shaking with terror, Nate gasped, "Jesus, no!"
" No! " screamed Emma Kaleo.
Tom's body arched into an impossible, backward angle, then he collapsed onto the bed and lay still. Wailing, begging him not to be dead, Emma threw herself across her son's corpse. One of Tom's sisters flung herself over his pustule-covered legs, exposing yet more viral particles. His father, already showing symptoms of the same illness, beat at his head as if to drive out his anguish. In the next bed, Tom's older sister barely noticed; she was unconscious.
Acknowledging death, the ward burst into noise and life. People crowded around Tom, grasping him, demonstrating their sorrow loudly. The masks, the gowns and gloves, were nothing but hindrances now, so they pulled them off.
"Don't touch him!" Nate screamed, trying to force his way through the crowds. "You'll get sick too." Faces appeared through the open windows to the veranda. Grief and fear stared back at him.
Although Tom's heart had stopped pumping, the puncture wounds on his arms-where Nate had earlier tried to place a drip-and the hundreds of pox-like lesions continued to exude blood and discoloured fluid. Where the skin had peeled away, red lumps oozed from Tom' raw flesh. His eyes, nose, and mouth quickly became dark burgundy pools amongst a landscape of grotesquely weeping pustules. Then his bowels relaxed. Faecal matter, mostly digested blood and muscle tissue, spilled onto the bed, and dripped to floor. Billions upon billions of hot viral particles continued their relentless invasion of the clinic.
Tom's aunt screamed at the smell and feel of wet heat across her arms. Her revulsion was not at the faeces but at seeing her nephew's chest flayed open, his skin hanging loosely across her limbs.
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