It took a moment for anyone in The Hague to react. The speed at which their situation kept changing was taking its toll.
Prime Minister Fleury finally nodded. "Yes. But of course."
"I have to get the mission going. If you'll excuse me." Admiral Benson nodded to the president and left.
The President slumped in his chair like a rag doll. Washington was silent, frozen in time.
President Drozdov finally stood up. "If we have no further information, I suggest we adjourn, but keep this line open. May I also suggest we have our health officials in attendance when next we meet?"
The other Presidents nodded numbly. Moscow's screen went gray, then The Hague, then Washington.
Livermore was forgotten.
Jack turned to Launa. "I think we're in trouble."
All the nightmares Launa could not remember crowded around her. All the terrors she had kept at arm’s length for the last month danced at her elbow.
"Wait," she swallowed hard, "wait for the next report." As they turned to leave, it was not yet 0400.
They waited for an elevator in silence. When it came, Judith, Brent and the Rand group got out. Jack and Launa said nothing as they stepped past them. Judith turned in surprise. "Where are you going?"
"To check our gear." Launa's voice came out a harsh whisper.
Judith paled. The elevator door cut off any response.
* * *
They changed to shorts and sandals before going to the horses. The bunker was beneath three levels of parking. The trailers sat on the lowest parking level, just above the bunker.
As Launa exited the elevator, she studied the layout. Two ramps led in and out. They had steel doors. Were they air tight?
The wrangler in charge of the horses was not there, so Jack and Launa bridled them. They and the dogs spent the next two hours taking in the cool California morning air.
After their ride, they fed the animals and rubbed down the horses. A quick check in the bunker showed people biting their nails.
Jack took Dr. Harrison aside. "What's the limitations on the transporter?"
"Volume or weight?"
Launa's temper was too short to waste time on minutia. "Which matters?"
Harrison massaged her forehead with a worried hand. "The energy will encapsulate a cylindrical shape. It is tall enough for your horses, but you should hold their heads down. The dogs will fit at your feet. Weight will be your limiter."
"What is the weight limit?" Jack snapped in exasperation.
"We're up to 4,403.16 pounds." Milo jumped in. "If you want to send less, we'll make adjustments."
"I guess we skip lunch," Launa quipped to cool things down.
Jack pulled out a note pad and hurriedly scribbled some numbers. "The dogs, you, me and three horses come to about thirty-six hundred pounds. I've got eight hundred pounds of gear I want to take."
"We take every ounce we can." Launa was with finality.
Harrison nodded. "I'll bring a scale to the lab. We must be precise."
Again it was hurry up and wait time. They exercised and read Maria's book. The morning went slowly.
At eleven, they collected Brent and Judith for lunch. It was a somber meal. Afterward, Jack stopped by the trailer to have the wrangler take the shoes off the horses.
"I'm not taking iron shod horses to the bronze age."
"Won't it hurt the horses?" Launa liked walking for exercise, but not as a way of life.
"Hooves are like toenails. They won't feel a thing when the shoes come off. As for shoes, horses only need them to walk on hard-surfaced roads. Won't be many where we're going. Besides, I picked horses with solid, fast growing hoofs. They'll have less trouble going bare foot than we will."
Launa, Judith and Brent left Jack with the horses while they went back to the bunker. The communication center was in a world-wide link, but there was nothing, absolutely nothing coming in.
Jack and Launa spent the afternoon practicing hand to hand, quarterstaffs and knife fighting. The short bronze swords of the Kurgans were no bigger than a Bowie knife. A knife fighter's stance seemed the best way to face them.
Their practice worked up a sweat and kept their minds off things they could do nothing about.
Judith and Brent joined them for supper. They had spent their day selecting an exact target date and locale. "We are targeting you to the west of the Danube's mouth,” Brent said softly.
Launa had to listen carefully to hear him.
"I just talked to some Rumanian friends. They've been digging for the last few summers at what they think was the first village attacked by the Kurgans. Last summer they found a large log in what looked like a carpenter's shop. It had been burned. Between carbon dating the charred edges and studying the rings, we think we've got an exact year for you."
Brent leaned forward over his plate. "If you come across such a log, please leave it in its place. It would be most helpful to us archaeologists."
A faint smile played across Brent's lips. He leaned back in his chair before going on. "We think it was the following spring that the next closest town, about ninety miles further west, was burned. Of course," Brent rubbed his reddened eyes, "any of these dates could be off by as much as five years. I wish I could do better by you."
Judith rested a gentle hand on Brent's elbow. "We are recommending a drop zone eighty miles or so further west from there. We are very sure of that terrain and its contours."
Business complete, conversation faltered. No one was very hungry. The pressure of waiting hung heavy.
After dinner, Judith excused herself. "I'd like to phone my daughter one more time.
Brent stood. "The evening looks nice. I think I'll enjoy a walk and my pipe."
Launa watched her two friends go their separate ways. Was there anyone she needed to hear one last time? Which of her divorced parents should she phone? Either mother or father would fill the call with a litany of perceived wrongs. What comfort would she find in their shallow words as she faced what hung over humanity?
Jack put down his napkin. "I brought a small target from the ranch. How about some archery practice?"
Launa remembered their first sessions with bows and they shared a soft smile.
They kept the range short and spent an hour plunking away. Toward the end, they got goofy. Jack tried trick shots in the negative registry, shooting at 60 or 70 degree angles. "Got to practice getting past shield walls."
Launa tried her hand at it and they managed to hit the target a few times. She finished the session feeling loose. The refreshingly cool evening air tip-toed in as the sun sank lower.
Oblivious to humanity's plight, the world showed a vibrant face.
They were pulling the last arrows from the target when a hooter went off somewhere. Moments later, an armed guard ran toward them.
"They're sealing the bunker. You'd better get below," he shouted.
Jack and Launa exchanged glances. There was no need for words. They took one more look at the hills. To the east, another windmill died, slowly winding to a halt. The sky wore the brilliant pastels of the setting sun.
With a long breath, Launa turned and walked back to the underground. Mother earth would receive them. But could she offer them any protection from the twisted toys of her children?
Interlude Three
Bakuza Qwabes raced down the hall, toward the villa's master suite.
Why did he have to be the one to carry this message? Why were there never enough technically trained people among the stalkers? Plenty of warriors, one of them should carry this message.
Out of breath and trembling with the knowledge he carried, Bakuza burst through the door.
The Leader turned away from a wall hung with spears and war clubs. The previous occupant of the villa had been a collector. A lot of good those ancient weapons would do the Stalkers now.
The Leader fixed Bakuza with blazing eyes.
"You have news of our rocket assault?"
"Yes."
The Leader's eyes narrowed at the missing title, but Bakuza had too little breath for extra words.
"Three of those bastard rockets we modified exploded on the launch pad. The plague is spreading on the wind. All of Africa will have it in days."
"What of Europe?" the Leader snapped, eyes burning.
Bakuza snatched breath in gasps. Hadn't the Leader heard a word about Africa? "Nothing. Not a damn thing. Radio intercepts from the fighters they sent to shoot down our missiles say that our warheads all exploded on entry. We didn't hit a fucking thing."
"They lie." The Leader's eyes were hard as marble.
"European radio and television stations say nothing of our attack. They broadcast like any other day."
"They say only what their government tell them to say."
"My leader, I have lived in America. No one tells reporters what to say." Bakuza's exasperation grew by the second as the Leader refused to face what he had let loose. "You botched it. You set the plague free to ravage Africa and didn't touch the Europeans."
His voice rose to a scream as he tried to get some reaction from the Leader.
He got his reaction.
In the blink of an eye the Leader plucked a short Zulu thrusting spear from the wall, whirled and drove it into Qwabes's gut.
Shocked, Bakuza clutched at the spear that impaled him. His gaze traveled along its length, then up to meet the Leader's eyes.
"You can kill the messenger, but you cannot stop the plague."
Bakuza grimaced as the pain seared his gut. "My death will be more pleasant than yours."
The Leader twisted the spear, then yanked it from Qwabes's belly.
Blood gushed over his hands.
Qwabes greeted the darkness gratefully when it came for him.
12
At the elevator, Launa punched the button for the floor their rooms were on. Jack nodded. "I think this calls for a dress uniform. Are we finished with Maria's book on herbs?"
"Hardly."
"Bring it with you."
Fifteen minutes later, showered and in class A's, Jack waited at the elevator. Launa brought the book. With a sanguine smile, Jack took it and punched the up button.
At the garage, Launa held the elevator while Jack trotted over and stored the book in a sack. Hastening back, he punched for the lowest floor as he said, "We'll find weight for that."
They checked into the bunker and took seats. People huddled in small groups. Launa felt no urge to join them.
She sat quietly, slowly letting her eyes rove the room. Occasionally someone would glance their way, but gradually she and Jack formed an island of quiet in the chaos. A part of her was already detaching herself.
She wondered if dying was like this.
As the screens came to life, Judith came to sit beside Launa. Silently the older woman took Launa's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Launa was grateful for the warmth of human touch; a bitter cold was seeping through her veins.
On screen, Launa recognized the American Surgeon General, the first woman to hold the office.
President Lark called the meetings to order. "Admiral Benson, what have you got for us?"
The admiral was in his corner, stooped over fax machines. He picked up a newly arrived message, glanced at it, put it at the bottom of a thick sheaf and walked back to the table.
He stood for a moment, let out a long, tense breath and began. "The agent is fast acting. People downwind from the launch sites are already sick. Children and elderly have died. Panic is spreading in Africa. Rioting has started."
He put one sheet on the table.
"I don't know how far it will spread. Two hours ago we recovered the U-2 we sent over Africa. We now have samples of the virus. It's a pretty nasty bug." He bit the edge of his lip as he studied the next fax.
"Our European flights found virus as low as 30,000 feet. It appears the reentry vehicles also spread it well above that level."
The admiral turned to the Russian screen. "We appreciate your effort with MiG-31's. Several of them have zoomed to 110,000 feet and returned samples. I regret the loss of one of your aircraft. Did you recover the pilot?"
A Soviet Air Marshall shook his head grimly.
"Those samples have been analyzed. The results are disquieting," the Admiral coughed softly. "This is outside my expertise. I think the Surgeon General should take over."
The camera zoomed in on the chief American health official. Two faxes rested on the table in front of her. "Mr. Presidents, I was led to expect an AIDS virus." She pointed at the second fax.
"These are not AIDS. What we have here is, on the surface, appears to be an influenza virus."
"You mean a flu," the American President interrupted. "We're all sweating a bad cold." He glanced around and laughed. Several others joined him in nervous cackles.
The Surgeon General's cold stare ended the levity before it began.
"Mr. President, I said on the surface. I suspect even the sick genius who constructed these vectors found it impossible to keep AIDS alive in the atmosphere or speed up its slow killing pace. However, they did keep the worst aspect of that virus." She glanced at her notes.
"The normal AIDS virus is a hard case, but a wimp, very weak. A few minutes outside a warm body and it is dead. For years, I have thanked a gracious God for that small favor." The Surgeon General pursed her lips.
"Keep it simple, Doctor." Beside Launa, Judith whispered unheard encouragement to the Surgeon General. "Those air heads won't understand you if you go techie on'em."
"On the outside, it is a simple flu, although one we have not seen since 1983. Because of that, I would not expect anyone to have any immunity left against it. Imbedded in it is a complete set of the RNA for Hepatitis E, a new strain of that disease that does nasty things to the liver, but, like AIDS, is hard to catch and slow. We have treatment protocols that usually defeat it before it runs its course.”
She paused for a moment, lips tight and grim. “Unfortunately, this new virus has a section snipped from the AIDS virus. That portion of RNA orders it to immediately begins replicating rapidly." She paused for a moment to stare at her notes.
No one interrupted her this time.
"You correctly called this a flu virus, Mr. President. As such it is carried through the air to a victim's lungs. Once on the lungs, it is able to reproduce itself and be coughed back into the air. While the body is quick to resist such deadly viruses as AIDS and requires a massive influx of infection, it takes a more relaxed attitude toward the less deadly diseases such as the common flu. This virus takes advantage of that false appearance to pass through the blood stream to the liver. There the Hepatitis E enters any cell that is repairing itself. Once there, however, it does not grow slowly as it should but rapidly, like AIDS. This swiftly destroys the host cell and damages other cells that are then infected." She turned to face the President with sorrowful eyes.
"Somebody has taken two slow killers and created one very fast one," she concluded.
She turned again to ponder her papers. The rooms on the hook up were silent as tombs. Her next words could seal them as such.
"The Soviet flights show much of the virus is succumbing to the solar ultraviolet rays at high altitude. We are coming up on a time of high solar activity. Unfortunately, we are not yet there." She shuffled her papers, glanced at a note. "Indeed, the sun has been quite calm the last few days."
"Damn," came from one of the screens.
"I guess we didn't deplete the ozone layer enough," someone quipped bitterly in Livermore.
"Under normal circumstances I'd want time for exhaustive tests, but time is something we don't have." She paused to let the full weight of her words sink in.
In Livermore, the room held its collective breath.
"I would expect this virus to be lethal to humans within two to five days of infection, in some cases less," the Surgeon General said. With those few words, slowly spoken, she pronounced a death warrant for the entire human race.
&nb
sp; "No!" The cry burst from so many lips Launa could not tell where it started. On screen, the Surgeon General sat like an iceberg. Nothing betrayed the emotions she felt.
It was several seconds before the president could formulate a question. "Could they be so few bugs that, you know, we won't, uh?"
At that moment, the Surgeon General was handed another fax. She glanced at it, then motioned the admiral over. For half a minute, the two read. When Benson turned away, his head nodded slowly.
"Mr. President, these are the latest reports from the U-2 and MiG-31 flights. I leave it to the doctor to comment on the concentrations they are finding. However, we now have live virus over France, Germany and the Ukraine as low as 15,000 feet."
The Surgeon General stood up, the only sign of any inner turmoil the nervous rolling of a pen through her fingers. "Mr. President, breathing in a few dozen of these viruses would probably infect your lungs and permit the virus to take hold. In time enough would pass through your blood to begin the process of destroying all liver function. I see no way to avoid death."
At her words, the meetings disintegrated.
It was several minutes before anyone tried to regain order. Launa sat rigidly in her chair, no longer feeling anything. Judith reached again for her, resting a hand on her lap.
It was the European Prime Minister who shouted the question that caught everyone's attention. "What of the present treatments? Will they have any effect on this new strain?"
The American Surgeon General cleared her throat. "My learned colleagues in Europe may have a different opinion. However, based upon our initial evaluation of this strain, I do not believe any of the existing treatments will prove effective. It replicates too rapidly."
"We regretfully concur." A window opened on a European official. "In time, but of course, we could produce new drugs. But no, not for months, maybe a year or more. How long will we have?" His large round eyes pleaded for time.
Lost Dawns: A Short Prequel Novel to the Lost Millinnium Trilogy Page 12
