“I hope you’re right,” Shepherd said.
Lightning exploded again. From the intensity of the cracking electricity and the churning blanket of clouds rolling toward them, Frank guessed a rather formidable storm system was driving itself up along the Atlantic. Without any kind of weather service, the best he could do was make a judgment based on his intuition and experience. He didn’t like what either was telling him.
“Let’s start broadcasting an emergency landing request,” Frank said. “Keep it going until we get Lajes to respond.”
“And you want me to do the honors?” Shepherd asked.
“You’ve got clout,” Frank said. “I’m just a glorified taxi driver.”
“I have a feeling Kinsey would disagree with both my rank and title now.”
“Then let’s hope they don’t know about that out here yet.”
“Amen to that,” Shepherd said, adjusting the knob on the radio to a 121.5 MHz frequency. He held his mic near his mouth and depressed the call button. “Lajes Field air traffic controller, Cessna November-niner-niner-eight-charlie-bravo on easterly approach, requesting clearance for an emergency landing.”
The only response was another rolling wave of thunder.
“Keep it going,” Frank said. “We’ve got a long way to go, and I want to hear them talk before we land.”
Shepherd nodded and repeated the message. A rough wind grabbed the Caravan, and the plane dropped several yards. Frank’s stomach lurched, and Rachel gasped—the first sound she’d made in over an hour. They pushed through the turbulence, and the first splashes of rain peppered the windows and windshield.
Again, Shepherd repeated their request for an emergency landing. His words continued, over and over as the storm worsened. Frank wanted to take the plane higher, but with a max altitude of twenty-five thousand feet, there wasn’t much higher he could go. The storm cell seemed to approach a jaw-dropping thirty thousand feet or more. He had no choice but to continue through it. It took every ounce of concentration he had to keep the plane flying straight against the wind. Hail pounded the plane like bullets.
“Oh God, oh God,” Rory chanted, his voice panic-stricken.
Shepherd continued his mantra. “Lajes Field air traffic controller, Cessna November-niner-niner-eight-charlie-bravo on easterly approach, requesting clearance for an emergency landing.” This time the words came out quicker, more desperate.
Again, the plane dropped unexpectedly. The engines whined, and lightning sliced through the air close enough to make Frank’s hair stand on end. Come on, answer, he thought. Please.
Frank wanted to say something to calm his passengers. But no words came to mind. No jokes were funny or even lame enough to ward off the anxiety of flying half-blind through a storm.
Shepherd requested an emergency landing once more, sounding exasperated.
Onward they flew. Frank hadn’t bothered hooking up a gauge to the spare tank to assess the fuel levels. His only method of discerning the remaining fuel was to listen for the sloshing of the liquid within the ugly metal canister. Maybe it was the storm, or maybe it was his growing sense of despair, but it sounded to him like the fuel was almost gone.
“Lajes Field air traffic controller, Cessna November-niner-niner-eight-charlie-bravo on easterly approach, requesting clearance for an emergency landing,” Shepherd said with the same despairing tone as before.
But this time, something broke through the static. Something that sounded impossibly like a human voice.
“Lajes Field air traffic controller, say again,” Shepherd said.
“Civilian aircraft November-niner-niner-eight-charlie-bravo, ident,” a voice called back.
Shepherd looked at Frank quizzically. Frank kept his eyes on the sky before him and reached toward a little button on their plane’s transponder. He pushed it in so the Lajes Field air traffic controller could track their location.
“Thank you, civilian aircraft,” the voice from Lajes said. “Cleared for landing upon arrival.”
Rachel and Rory cheered. Shepherd cracked a smile, but Frank couldn’t believe how easy it had been. “You all put up much more of a fuss when the Hunters wanted to get into Fort Detrick.”
Shepherd’s relief faded. “I recall. You think something’s fishy about this?”
“No telling until we’re on the ground,” Frank said. “And right now, we don’t have much of a choice. We’re going down either way.”
Another five minutes of flying through wind-whipped clouds and rain gave them their first sighting of actual land. Frank spotted the islands first. The bright beacons of the Lajes Field’s runway lights blinked in the distance, showing him the path for landing. They had power! It was such a little thing he had always taken for granted, but he was more thankful than ever for those flashing lights.
“We’re going to make it,” Rory said, as if he still wasn’t sure of what he was seeing.
Frank said nothing. Most aircraft accidents occurred at takeoff or landing, not in the air. The storm had given them a hellish ride, and it would only make the landing worse.
“Everyone hold on tight,” Frank said. “I want you in crash positions just in case. Nothing wrong with the plane, but it’s going to be rough. Got it?”
He received unenthusiastic replies from his passengers.
“Still don’t see any activity down there,” Shepherd said. “I’m not sure what we’re getting ourselves into, but I hope we aren’t in for any surprises.”
“No Skulls, at least,” Frank said. “At least, none that I can see.”
“Nothing yet,” Shepherd said. “Thank God for islands.”
“Thank God the Skulls haven’t learned to swim,” Frank added.
Frank had traveled here before en route to deployment in Afghanistan on a DC-130. He had recalled the lines of USAF A-10s, KC-10As, and KC-135s along with a detachment of USMC F/A-18 Hornets and V-22 Ospreys. He had admired the rows of Portuguese Air Force planes and choppers, along with the constant revolving door of commercial aircraft that had found their way through the Azores Islands crossing the Atlantic. But as they descended toward the base, the only planes on the tarmac bore the red-and-green insignias of the Portuguese Air Force and a few commercial airliners.
“Where are our guys?” Shepherd asked, immediately noticing the lack of a US military presence.
“Bet we are about to find out.” Frank gently pulled back the control column for the main wheels to hit the runway first, then pushed the plane down hard to break the surface tension of the water pooling over the runway. Rachel yelped in surprise. With the flaps up, the plane decelerated. It bucked a little until they slowed to a stop.
You still got it, Battaglia, he thought.
“Lajes tower, Cessna November-niner-niner-eight-charlie-bravo landing complete,” Frank said. “Requesting further instructions.”
“Don’t move,” the controller responded. “We’ll come to you.”
Frank undid his seat belt and looked about the cabin. “Everyone okay?”
Rachel and Rory offered tentative nods. Rain battered the plane and hammered the windows. Another column of lightning split the sky. Several pairs of headlights appeared from a dark hangar. The growl of engines rivaled the din of the storm as military trucks surrounded them. Shapes moved on the tarmac, and spotlights shone into the Caravan’s cabin, blinding Frank when he tried to look out.
A voice boomed through a megaphone. “Open your aircraft!”
Frank shoved open the door. Wind and rain pelted him, threatening to throw him back in. He held his hands palms out.
“Take one step out onto the tarmac. No more. Just one step, or we will fire!”
Frank did as commanded with his hands up. He shivered, and goose bumps popped up along his arms as water drenched him. Shepherd, Rachel, and Rory exited next. It wasn’t long before the shapes silhouetted against the lightning swarmed them. Rough gloved hands peeled back his eyelids and shone flashlights into his pupils. They poked his face and pull
ed up his sleeves.
Then they grabbed Frank’s shoulders and guided him, along with the others, to the back of one of the trucks with half a dozen soldiers. A canvas cover sheltered them from the storm. Before they even sat, the truck took off, its diesel engine gargling. When the vehicle stopped again, a man in black fatigues opened the flap and beckoned them out.
This time, the soldiers moved slower, more relaxed. They helped Frank off the truck and offered hands to Rachel, Rory, and Shepherd. The truck had taken them into one of the hangars, and the door’s hydraulic system groaned as the hangar shut. Pounding rain still echoed against the metal roof of the hangar, and after a soldier offered emergency blankets to the group, another man sauntered toward them.
“Colonel Elias Ronaldo,” he said, offering a hand in turn to each of them. He spoke English with a smooth but perceptible accent. “Welcome to Lajes. It has been some time since we have seen Americans. It is a pleasure to see you all here.”
Shepherd introduced himself first, spelling out his full rank and command, and the others followed.
“Welcome. I am surprised to host a fellow colonel. A US Army garrison commander, too! And even more surprised you have such a meager escort.”
Frank wondered how much they should tell this man. For better or worse, Shepherd made the decision for him.
“Truth is, we’re not here because of me,” Shepherd said. “We’re trying to get our pilot back to his crew.”
“And where is his crew?” Ronaldo asked dubiously.
“Last we checked, Africa.”
At first Ronaldo’s eyes widened in surprise. Then he rubbed his hands together. “Okay, let’s make a deal.”
-39-
Lauren stood frozen at the lab computer. The Huntress rocked slightly, exacerbating the nausea wrapping its tendrils around Lauren’s guts. She refused to believe what she was seeing. It couldn’t be true. Not after all the advancements they had made against the Oni Agent.
They had learned antibiotics could slow its spread, and they had designed an antibody assay that detected it in people. Then the chelation treatment she had developed successfully killed the nanobacteria component of the agent. And now, with the Phoenix Compound, they had a real, viable candidate for the complete eradication of the prions the Oni Agent left behind in its victims’ brains.
“God, no. That...that can’t be right,” Peter said.
Divya’s brown eyes were wide, and she shook her head slowly. “Should I redo the tests again? Is there an error?”
“This is the third goddamn time we ran the tests. I performed some controls on old samples we had, too,” Lauren said, her heart thrashing against her ribcage. It was almost impossible to admit what they were seeing. “Every goddamn person on the ship has contracted the Oni Agent.”
“No, no,” Peter said. “I still don’t believe it.” He held out his hand to display his nails. “Do you see any bony growths? And my eyes?” He peeled back his eyelids. “No red. No bloodshot sclera.”
“Not like Tammy,” Lauren said. “But you’ve got to remember, her immune system is compromised. The levels of Oni Agent in the rest of us haven’t reached the concentration they have in her. It seems like it’s slower in healthy individuals. As if our immune systems are actually battling it.”
“Which means maybe we can stop the agent on our own, right?” Divya asked hopefully.
“Doubt it,” Sean said. “Look, something’s changed here. None of us should have the agent. Navid, Kara, Sadie—hell, even Maggie—shouldn’t have it anymore. Everyone in the med bay, except for Spencer, should be clean. We never even got scratched or bitten. I mean, it doesn’t make sense.”
Something about Sean’s statement struck Lauren. She paced the lab as the others argued about whether the data were accurate or not. Maybe their tests had gotten contaminated. Maybe the antibody assay wasn’t as precise as she had once thought, and it was picking up a different molecule unrelated to the Oni Agent.
She stared into the med bay, where her patients lay in their beds, trusting her to protect them. Every person on this ship—from Dom’s kids to the engineers—relied on her to keep them safe, to make sure all research they performed on dangerous pathogens and toxins never escaped the highly protected laboratory facilities.
Yet somehow, she had failed them.
She gazed at Spencer. He was resting, half of his body still covered in bandages to protect his Drooler-burned skin from infection.
“Spencer,” Lauren muttered, a thought striking her tired brain.
“What was that?” Peter asked.
“Spencer should’ve been the only one receiving treatment for the Oni Agent.”
“Right, we established that,” Peter said, his brow furrowed.
“But he wasn’t bitten or scratched,” Lauren said. “He was sprayed.”
“The acid,” Sean said, collapsing onto a stool.
“Exactly,” Lauren said. “The Drooler’s acidic spit should be far too harsh of an environment for the Oni Agent to survive. Or at least, that’s what I would’ve assumed with any normal virus or bacteria. But somehow a trace amount of the Oni Agent survives in it. From what we observed in Terrence and Spencer, the Oni Agent took much longer to manifest in them. We stopped the initial development of it in plenty of time to keep them both healthy.”
Peter didn’t quite seem to be on board her train of thought. “But—”
“But we actually made it worse,” Sean said, cutting the older surgeon off. “Oh, God. We made it much worse.”
“It’s our worst fear about Ebola come true,” Divya said.
“Explain,” Peter said.
“We always feared Ebola might go airborne,” Divya said. “But most scientists thought the scenario was unlikely. Others asserted that if it did, the virus would probably be much weaker.”
“How lucky,” Peter said sardonically.
Lauren pointed to the results on the computer monitor displaying a positive match for Oni Agent in every crew member and passenger aboard the Huntress. “That scenario may have just played out on our ship.”
“Evolution like that doesn’t just happen so quickly, does it?” Peter asked. But by the look in his eyes, Lauren could see he already knew the answer.
“I’m afraid it can. Hospitals are breeding grounds for antibiotic-resistant bacteria strains. I think we’ve unwittingly done the same thing. The Oni Agent is a perverse result of human medical engineering. Why shouldn’t we expect it to react differently than natural pathogens?” Lauren crossed her arms over her lab coat. She steeled herself for what she was about to say. “If we start investigating it, we would probably find an Oni Agent strain that can live through a Drooler’s acid can also develop a resistance to antibiotics. We might’ve provided the perfect environment to select for these more resilient strains, which are now airborne.”
“I’m willing to bet you’re right,” Sean said. “It’s a weaker form, which aligns with the airborne Ebola theory. But it’s still the Oni Agent. Just, like Oni Agent, Strain Two.”
“We need to treat everyone immediately,” Peter said, already taking off his lab gloves and heading for the patient chamber.
“You’re absolutely right,” Lauren said. “But will this strain still respond to the chelation treatment?”
***
Navid stood in the med bay, clutching a laptop. The crew lined up in the corridor outside, snaking into the bay to receive shots of the chelation treatment from Lauren’s crew. He had almost completed a PhD and had performed research at a world-renowned institution, but now he felt like a child holding a security blanket in his arms as if it could protect him from the reality of the evolving Oni Agent.
He should’ve known it was a possibility. Working in hospital-based labs in Boston, he had grown accustomed to the stories of resistant bacteria strains. Now he was witnessing firsthand the terror that such pathogens could cause. His admiration for Lauren’s team only swelled as he watched them care for their patients. He was a
mere scientist in training, and laboratory work was all he could do. Lauren’s team had each mastered their respective fields, while providing thorough patient care as clinicians.
He wanted to do something, anything to help these people.
But he couldn’t.
Lauren gave a shot to Chao, the last crew member in her line. The communications specialist nodded his thanks before exiting through the hatch. Then Lauren joined Navid.
“This is pretty bad, isn’t it?” he asked.
“It is,” she said with brutal honesty, “which makes your job all the more important.”
“I’m not sure I’m the one you all should be trusting with this.” He opened the laptop, and the monitor sparked to life. It showed his calculations and schematics for ramping up the Phoenix Compound production, along with synthesizing more of the albumin shells that allowed the compound to travel through the blood-brain barrier.
Lauren placed a hand on Navid’s shoulder. “What’s on your mind?”
“I don’t know if I can do this. I mean, you all have decades in the field. You know how to do science, how to treat people. And I haven’t even written my dissertation.”
“Dissertations don’t save lives,” Lauren said. She pointed to the computer screen with the Phoenix Compound data. “This does.” Then she gestured to each of the doctors moving among the patients. “We each have our specialties. But I don’t care if a PhD follows your name or not—on this ship, you are the expert on neurological disease mitigation and treatments.”
Navid wasn’t convinced. “What if I can’t do this? What if I let you down?”
“Everyone did their part searching for the Phoenix Compound using the FoldIt program. But I’ll be damned if I wasn’t surprised when Kara discovered it. And you were the one that helped get the Phoenix Compound out of the computer and into the lab. Now I want you to get it out of the lab and into the patients. If the chelation treatment doesn’t work, people will be waiting on the Phoenix Compound. It may be the only thing that can save us.”
“Understood,” Navid said. “I’ll do my best.”
The Tide (Book 5): Iron Wind Page 25
