Pandemic

by Daniel Kalla

  Whitaker shook his head dismissively.

  The President dropped his hands to the table and stared directly into the camera again. “Doctors, you heard the ultimatum. If their ‘army of martyrs’ reached our cities, what would be the fallout?”

  “Mr. President, all U.S. cities are enacting the Emergency Response Plan to Biological Attack as we speak,” Gwen said. “But it takes time to roll out such a complex infrastructure. I don’t think forty-eight hours is enough time.”

  The President furrowed his bushy eyebrows. “Dr. Haldane, I understand you are the world authority on this virus. Your thoughts?”

  Haldane took a deep breath, and composed his thoughts. “Mr. President, we have the advantage of preexisting panic. People are already isolating themselves, which actually helps in a case like this. Also, while highly lethal, this virus is not as contagious as many, so limiting the spread is possible as demonstrated in China, Hong Kong, and now London.” He wet his lips before continuing. “But outside of China, what we’ve seen so far—eighteen hundred infected and four hundred deaths—has been the result of four infected terrorists. If an army of them arrives ... Excuse me, Mr. President, but God help us all.”

  Everyone in the screen lapsed into silence. Finally, the President leaned back in his chair. He looked to his advisors on either side of him. “Ideas?”

  Andrea Home spoke. “The ultimatum said that we had to ‘begin withdrawal’ by the deadline. Our troops in Kuwait and the few left in Saudi are relatively inactive right now. Maybe we could begin by withdrawing them.”

  “We can’t bow to these parasites!” Whitaker slapped the tabletop angrily.

  “I think you misunderstand my point—” Home began.

  Whitaker jabbed a finger at her. “Redeploying one single soldier would be an invitation to any fanatic with a bug or a bomb to hold America hostage. Mark my words. We withdraw from the Arabian Peninsula and it will never end!”

  Hart cleared his throat with a cough. “Aaron makes a good point, Mr. President. Our policy with good reason has been to never negotiate with terrorists.”

  Home’s palms shot up in the air. “I am not proposing negotiations! I am suggesting a stall tactic to make them think we are complying in order to buy us a little more time. Nothing more.”

  The President stared at the table for several seconds before nodding resignedly. “I’m afraid Andrea is right.” He turned to his Defense Secretary. “Start making plans to pull our troops.”

  Whitaker opened his mouth to rebut, but the President cut him off with a sweep of his hand. “That leaves us forty-eight hours to track down these sons of bitches,” the President said. “I authorize you to use any and all means necessary to do just that.” He looked around the faces at the table and then stared directly into the camera. “Am I clear?”

  CHAPTER 28

  HARGEYSA, SOMALIA

  Hazzir Kabaal stood outside the complex in the punishing African midday heat, waiting.

  His expensive desert boots had crusted with dirt and grime and for the first time in his life he had let his beard grow. Realizing that no one in the complex, or all of Somalia, cared about his attire, he had traded his pressed khakis for the more comfortable native robes. He wondered if he would ever again have cause or opportunity to don his favorite handcrafted Italian suits or leather shoes. Not likely, he realized with a twinge of melancholy.

  A cloud of dust streamed down the dirt road and toward him. A block away, the cloud slowed and the dust settled enough to allow the tan-colored truck to emerge from within, allowing Kabaal to see that Abdul Sabri was the sole occupant in the truck.

  Sabri brought the car to a stop directly in front of Kabaal. The driver’s door popped open and Sabri stepped out and then stretched at the side of the road.

  Kabaal walked over to greet him. “Abdul, you are well?”

  “I am,” Sabri said, stifling a yawn. “Your friend is not.”

  “My friend,” Kabaal grunted. “What did Sergeant Eleish have to tell you?”

  Sabri shrugged and then shook his head.

  Kabaal narrowed his gaze. “You were going to talk to him first!”

  “Hard to talk to someone who is leaping out of a building,” Sabri said unapologetically.

  “This is not good, Abdul,” Kabaal said. “So you have no idea who he might have spoken to?”

  Sabri shrugged again. “It’s likely he spoke to someone, though.”

  “Why do you say that?” Kabaal asked.

  “There has been much activity at the mosque.”

  Kabaal felt his hair stand on end. Each word out of Sabri’s mouth raised his level of alarm a notch. “What activity?”

  “The police have arrested the Sheikh and his son,” Sabri said as nonchalantly as if commenting on the weather. “They are rounding up others from the mosque for questioning.”

  Annoyed at his lieutenant’s indifference, Kabaal shook a finger at him. “And this does not concern you?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “For the love of the Prophet, why not?”

  Sabri flashed the widest grin Kabaal had ever seen from him. “It has started, Abu Lahab.”

  “What has?”

  “After the police raided, there was a protest outside the mosque,” Sabri said. “It turned into a riot. In Cairo! The people rose up spontaneously in the streets.”

  “What happened to the rioters?” Kabaal asked.

  “The troops came. Several were killed, the rest arrested.”

  Kabaal frowned at Sabri and shook his head in exasperation. “But this is all good?”

  “If the brothers are willing to stand up to the might of the Egyptian army in Cairo, what do you think will happen in Baghdad, Kabul, Riyadh, and Jakarta?” Sabri drifted a finger from Kabaal to himself. “It’s because of us, Abu Lahab. The Brotherhood! We have empowered the people. Wait until you see what happens when we bring America to its knees.”

  Kabaal considered Sabri’s argument. “I wonder,” he said distantly.

  “There’s nothing to wonder, Abu Lahab. America is weak. With the help of the virus, she will collapse under her own weight like a rotted tree in a storm. And then we will be able to deal with the treacherous infidels who run our governments.” He looked down and nodded, giving Kabaal the impression that he was talking to himself. “And we will start with the worst of the offenders in Egypt. This is what you dreamed of, is it not? Our lands governed by the laws of the Shari’ah. The return of the Caliphate.”

  For the second time in a week, Sabri surprised Kabaal with his passionate outburst. Kabaal realized that Sabri’s normally disinterested exterior was nothing more than a facade. Like the door on a blast furnace, it concealed a raging fire within. And Kabaal was no longer certain that the heat inside could be contained.

  “Abdul, if the American President has any sense at all, he will decide to pull his troops out of our occupied lands,” Kabaal said. “Then the events can unfold as you have described them without the help of the cursed virus.”

  Sabri grunted.

  “You think not, my friend?” Kabaal demanded.

  “They will not—they cannot—negotiate with us,” Sabri said as he walked to the trunk to grab his small knapsack. “We will have to release the infected martyrs upon them.” Sabri slung the pack over his shoulder and started walking toward the door of the complex, but he stopped halfway and turned back to Kabaal. “You are prepared for that eventuality, are you not?”

  There was no deference in Sabri’s tone. Kabaal knew it wasn’t even a question. Before he could respond, Dr. Anwar Aziz burst out of the front door of the complex.

  “There is news,” the fat microbiologist panted, leaning forward to catch his breath.

  “What news?” Kabaal asked.

  “The Americans,” Aziz wheezed. “Come, come. You must see.” He took one last gulp of air and then turned and rushed back into the building.

  Kabaal and Sabri followed the scientist into his ground-floor offi
ce. They crowded around his computer screen. When Aziz tapped the keyboard, a TV news video clip popped up on the screen. Inside the video box, the American President stood at a podium in front of a single microphone. The quality of the image was poor and the action was slightly discordant with the sound, so the President’s mouth and gestures lagged a moment behind his words.

  “Good evening,” he said in a businesslike tone. “No doubt, every one of you is aware of The Brotherhood of One Nation’s threat to dispatch terrorists infected with the Gansu Flu across our country if their demands are not met. Their deadline is less than thirty-six hours hence.

  “After consultation with members of my cabinet, I am announcing that in the next twenty-four hours the United States will begin to withdraw our troops from bases within the Arabian Peninsula.” He cleared his throat. “Once the redeployment from the Gulf States is complete, we will begin a similar process in Afghanistan, to be followed by Iraq and all other sovereign Islamic nations. Such mass troop and equipment transport is a colossal logistic endeavor. However, we will undertake to complete the withdrawals as rapidly as we can in an orderly fashion.”

  The President’s jaw set in a pained expression. “While it is our policy to never negotiate with terrorists, I believe that the extreme circumstances and cataclysmic potential of not cooperating outweigh the principle. While highly regrettable, I believe this option will serve to protect millions of Americans and is the only course of action my conscience allows me to pursue. As your President, I accept full responsibility for this decision.”

  The President offered the camera a long, determined stare before he added, “Good night and God Bless America.” Then he stepped away from the podium.

  Kabaal turned to Aziz, wrapped his arms around the scientist’s flabby midsection, and gave him a congratulatory hug. “God is great!” Kabaal said happily, before releasing Aziz from his grip.

  “Yes, yes, Abu Lahab,” Aziz said. He stumbled a step back and then flushed with a mix of joy and embarrassment. “Well done, Abu Lahab. Well done. Allah be praised.”

  “See, Major, I told you the Americans would see the light!” Kabaal said and turned to Sabri.

  Instead of elation, Kabaal saw the opposite on the ex-army officer’s face. Sabri’s light blue eyes glared at the computer screen and the comer of his lip curled into a snarl. “Can you not see what they are doing?” Sabri asked.

  “Acquiescing to our demands?”

  Sabri snorted. “They are stalling.”

  Aziz dabbed his brow and asked Sabri, “How do you know, Major?”

  “Because, Doctor, it is exactly what I would do if I were in their shoes,” Sabri said. “There is no military consequence of withdrawing troops from Kuwait. None. But it will buy them time to come looking for us.”

  Kabaal ran a hand through his hair. He studied Sabri, guardedly. “Abdul, I am beginning to suspect you had hoped the Americans would turn down our ultimatum.”

  “What I wanted or hoped for is not the point, Hazzir,” Sabri said coolly. “There was no chance they were going to comply in good faith with our demands.”

  “How do you know?” Kabaal’s hands shook in front of him.

  “For David to fell Goliath, he needed a large stone. All that we have slung at the Americans so far are pebbles.”

  “So what are you suggesting?” Kabaal smoothed back his hair. “That we proceed with our threat, even though the President just agreed to our demands in front of the world.”

  Sabri’s eyelids lowered to half-mast. “I suggest we flush out their true motives”

  “How?” “We give the Americans a very specific timetable for troop pullouts. Set in terms of hours—at most days—but definitely not weeks.”

  “Is that realistic, Major?”

  Sabri shrugged. “Do you remember Iraq? If they can invade a country in days, then they can withdraw in the same time.”

  Though Kabaal questioned Sabri’s motives, he could think of no reason not to embrace the suggestion. He nodded. “We will send them another message.”

  “I will make the arrangements.” Sabri said. Then he glanced from Aziz to Kabaal, his face blank but his eyes ablaze. “And I will ready the martyrs.”

  CHAPTER 29

  HARBOURVIEW HOTEL, VANCOUVER CANADA

  Gwen Savard double-checked her temperature. When both readings confirmed she still had not developed a fever, she swept up the small stack of used N95 masks off the desk in front of her and dumped them, with profound satisfaction, into the room’s trashcan.

  The quarantine was officially over.

  Gwen only allowed herself a moment of celebration. The clock was ticking ever louder now. The terrorist’s ultimatum was set to expire in less than twenty-four hours. And Gwen, like everyone else in the American Administration, had no idea how they would react to the President’s televised promise to pull troops from the Arabian Peninsula. So far their only response had been silence.

  Gwen hurried back into the bedroom and tossed the rest of her clothes into her suitcase. Once packed, she sat in front of her computer and scanned through her most recent e-mail, paying attention only to the messages that pertained to the immediate crisis. And only those few she deemed urgent.

  She was about to power off her computer when the musical tone rang, indicating a request for a videoconference. She would have ignored it but for the name of the requestor, which appeared in the comer of the screen.

  With a mouse click, a video window popped open framing most of Isaac Moskor’s head and shoulders inside. He wore a rumpled white lab coat and his white hair stuck out in spears from his head. “Hey, kid, how you doing?” Moskor drawled in his deep Jersey tone.

  She was comforted by the image of her mentor, the same way the sight of her favorite uncle used to buoy her spirits as a child. “Fine, Isaac.” She smiled broadly and swept a hand down her body by way of proof. “Survived my quarantine intact. But you caught me just as I’m about to head back to Washington.”

  Moskor nodded.

  “You all settled in at the CDC?” Gwen asked.

  “Hmmm.” He shrugged his huge shoulders. “I miss cold, dumpy little New Haven. Atlanta is too big for me.” His expression broke into a crooked grin. “Guess I’m just a hick at heart.”

  Gwen offered a quick grin, but she felt too pressed for time not to get down to business. “And your lab?”

  “Amazing what can happen if the government takes an interest in your work” He shook his head. “I spent most of my academic life begging, borrowing, and stealing enough to set up a bare-bones lab. But I come down here and in twenty-four hours I got the Taj Mahal at my disposal.”

  “Nothing you don’t deserve, Isaac,” she said. “Have you begun to run experiments?”

  Moskor nodded. “Yeah, we started with a group of fifty African green monkeys six days ago. Infected all of them with viral-loaded serum, then divided the monkeys in two groups. Twenty-five got twice-a-day doses of A36112. And the control just got standard antiviral drugs.”

  “And?” Gwen leaned forward in her chair.

  But Moskor was immune to the urgency in her tone. “Can’t get used to these videoconferences.” He reached forward and adjusted his camera, making his image shake on Gwen’s screen. “Always feel like I’m on the set of Star Trek. I half expect to see you disappear and Mr. Sulu and Scotty to pop up on the monitor.” He adjusted his camera one more time. “You sure it’s safe to discuss things over this line?”

  “Totally.” Gwen nodded impatiently. “Tell me.”

  “You weren’t exaggerating about this Gansu Flu. Scary bug. Reminds me of what I saw when I toured that lab in Washington running the Ebola experiments.”

  “About the two groups?” Gwen tried to force him back on topic.

  He offered a hint of a smile. “So far, the virus has killed nine of the twenty-five monkeys in the control group.”

  Gwen felt her heart speed up. She knew he was holding back promising news. “And the treated monkeys?”
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  He bit his lip, but his smile grew a touch wider. “So far—and I can’t stress enough how early we’re talking here—in the monkeys treated with A36112, only one has died.”

  Savard leaped out of her chair.

  “Whoa! Where did you go?” Moskor said. “I’m talking to your belt now.”

  Savard sat back down. She felt giddy from the news. She had to clear her throat and fight back the tears. “Isaac, you’ve done it!”

  Moskor blushed slightly and shook his large head. “We—don’t forget Clara and the rest of the team—haven’t done anything yet.”

  Gwen started to speak, but Moskor cut her off with a wave of his big hand. “Kid, I know how promising this looks, but let’s not get way ahead of ourselves. We’re talking about four days of treatment on twenty-five lab monkeys.”

  “But, Isaac, those results are astounding,” Gwen squealed. “One-third dead compared to one in twenty-five. That’s almost unfathomable.”

  “Way too early for that.” Moskor shook his finger. “Some of the monkeys in the treatment group are still pretty damn sick! We don’t know that more won’t die today. We need far bigger numbers and more time before we go concluding anything.”

  Savard shrugged. “Look, Isaac, far as I’m concerned, you can have every African green monkey in the world. But what we don’t have is more time. We might be facing a pandemic tomorrow. I mean, literally, tomorrow”

  Moskor stared at her for several seconds without remarking. Finally, he said, “So you want to go straight to human trials?”

  “No.” Savard shook her head adamantly. “No more trials at all. We need to put this drug into mass production.”

  Moskor’s face crumpled into a series of wrinkles. “Mass production?” he repeated.

  “Today, Isaac,” she said with authority. “If need be, we’ll borrow every pharmaceutical plant in the country to mass-produce this drug.”

  Moskor’s jaw dropped.

  “How hard was it for you to manufacture the pills?” Gwen asked.