The crowd went silent as it digested the distinct possibility of being ground zero for a pandemic affecting every country on the face of the earth. The men stood stone-faced and tried to hide their fear. Some of the women began to quietly weep.
“This is all bullshit!” Deedee Anderson screeched. “If we’re going to get sick, why not go ashore and right to the hospital?”
“Because there’s no city in the world that has enough hospital beds or isolation wards to look after hundreds and hundreds of very sick, highly contagious patients,” David answered. “So you’ll have to disperse to other cities by car, plane, or train, with family members or with strangers, and you’ll spread the virus. It’ll suddenly show up in ten different places, then twenty, then fifty. Then it will come in waves until it engulfs the entire world.”
“You’re a big expert on this, eh?” Scott growled and moved closer to the lounge chair.
“I’m not, but the CDC is,” David said. “I’m only repeating what they told me.”
“How do we know you’re not embellishing their words?” Scott moved in closer, now just over an arm’s length away.
David watched him carefully and tensed his muscles, readying himself to lunge. “One more step, and it’ll be the last one you take for a long time.”
Scott stared up at David for a moment, then retreated, but only a half-step.
David turned back to the crowd, still keeping Scott in his peripheral vision. “Then there’s the chance that terrorists will learn of the ship and try to take it over. Maybe some Muslim jihadists will decide it’s time to end the world.”
“Where the hell would they go?” the tattooed man asked.
“That’s a good question,” David said, recalling that it was the same one he’d asked Lawrence Lindberg at the CDC. “They could sail to Somalia or Yemen, which are controlled by radicals who would happily start a pandemic.”
“You’re making this up as you go along, aren’t you?” Scott said derisively.
“I’m telling you what could happen,” David snapped. “And only a fool wouldn’t be frightened by it. This isn’t make-believe. This is reality, whether you want to accept it or not.”
“Screw you and your scare tactics!” Scott blurted out. “We’re going to take over this ship and somehow get our phones reconnected.”
God! He’s foolhardy on top of being dangerous. “Really?” David asked tonelessly. “And who will sail the ship? Who will navigate?”
“The crew,” Scott answered promptly. “They’ll do exactly what we tell them to do, if they want to stay healthy.”
Deedee joined in support. “Yeah! They’ll do whatever we tell them to do.”
The crowd murmured their backing of the plan.
Someone at the rear of the large gathering yelled out, “And we’ll head straight back to New York.”
Another voice piped in, “Yeah! The greater New York area has plenty of hospital beds.”
“Let’s do it!” two others shouted.
Scott turned back to David and parted his lips in a hollow smile. “It seems like you’re outnumbered.” He waited for a response and when none was forthcoming, he added, “And if you try to stop us, you’ll get hurt. I promise you that.”
“Kick his ass!” Deedee encouraged.
David eyed Scott’s Adam’s apple. One quick blow, and the larynx would be fractured. A little harder blow, and the larynx would cave in and shut off Scott’s airway altogether. Then a karate chop would shatter the tattooed man’s clavicle. It would be over in seconds, and the crowd would scatter. David flattened out the palms of his hands and prepared to spring at his targets.
Suddenly Rutherford began to shake. The chills grew worse as his fever shot up. Then he coughed up sputum through his N-95 mask. It was streaked with blood.
“Oh, no! God, no!” Rutherford cried, his voice thick with fear.
“Oh, Christ!” a passenger in the first row shrieked. “He’s got the disease! The captain’s got bird flu!”
Rutherford’s knees gave way, and he started to stagger. David rushed over to support him, but it was too late. The captain slowly sank to the deck, his entire body now shaking. The crowd backed away horror-struck, most of them realizing how close they were to the highly contagious virus. The passengers in the rear began to run from the scene. All the others, including Richard Scott, were right behind them.
David grabbed a cushion from a lounge chair and placed it under Rutherford’s head. The captain’s face was flushed with fever, his forehead burning hot.
“The Tamiflu doesn’t work,” Rutherford sputtered between coughing spasms. “It’s the nightmare scenario.”
thirteen
From the foot of the bed in the captain’s quarters, David watched Rutherford transfer command of his ship to the first officer, Jonathan Locke. It was being done in an orderly, prescribed manner, despite the dire consequences. Rutherford was a sea captain to the very end, David thought, the man obviously more concerned about the ship and its crew and passengers than himself.
“So follow these instructions and you will get the Grand Atlantic home safe,” Rutherford was saying. He paused to raise his head off the pillow and cough before continuing on. “You are to depend on Dr. Ballineau for all medical matters. His word, which comes directly from the CDC, will be law. Understood?”
“Aye, sir,” Locke said obediently.
“And be particularly wary of Mr. Scott,” Rutherford warned. “He’s rebellious and rambunctious and, if there is to be a mutiny, he will lead it.”
“I’ll watch him and hopefully be able to reason with him.”
“Good luck,” David murmured to himself, thinking that Scott would intimidate Locke and push him aside in the blink of an eye. The first officer was a thin, quiet man, middle-aged, who wore horn-rimmed glasses and looked more like a college professor than a sea captain. His appearance would not engender confidence among the passengers.
“And always stick to your seafaring instincts,” Rutherford instructed. “No matter what, stick to those instincts. They will serve you well.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Finally,” Rutherford concluded as he lay back on his pillow, now totally exhausted, “you will bury me at sea.”
“But, sir,” Locke argued mildly, “you may pull through.”
“Not very likely,” Rutherford said, accepting his fate. “Remember, at sea, wrapped in a simple cloth.”
David and Locke left the captain’s quarters and headed down a long passageway that led to the bridge. The corridor was clear except for two masked crewmen washing down the walls and doors with disinfectant. A third deckhand was on a ladder mopping the ceiling and ventilation ducts.
“Is it as hopeless as the captain says?” Locke inquired.
“I’m afraid so,” David said honestly.
“And what about burying the captain at sea?” Locke asked. “If his body is loaded with the virus, won’t it infect the ocean’s food chain?”
It was a good question, one that David hadn’t thought of. “I’ll pass it by the CDC.”
And what about Will Harrison and the others who are sure to die? David asked himself. If they can’t be buried at sea, where could the bodies be stored to prevent them from contaminating the entire ship? Perhaps in the food freezers. No! No! Then the food would become—
“I’m concerned about Richard Scott,” Locke broke into David’s thoughts. “How should I deal with him?”
“You don’t have to for now,” David said. “He’ll wait to see if the infection spreads to the whole ship or is limited to just a few.”
“What if is spreads?”
“Then you’ll have your hands full,” David replied. “And, in all likelihood, Scott will encourage the others to take over the ship.”
“We do have firearms, you know,” Locke said, lowering his
voice.
“And how many do you think you’ll have to shoot to put down a mutiny?” David asked. “One? Five? Maybe ten?”
Locke sighed to himself and slowly nodded. “I see your point.”
The men walked through a door and entered the bridge. The three officers at their duty stations straightened their postures, all aware that Locke was now in commend of the ship. But their expressions and eyes told David that, to a man, every one of them wished that Rutherford was still at the helm. Not that it really mattered, David thought darkly. Because, regardless of who was captain, the luxury liner would stay at sea, isolated and quarantined, until the virus problem was solved or everyone aboard was dead.
Locke called out to the officer piloting the Grand Atlantic, “Have we passed the outer reaches of the storm?”
“We’ll be clear within the hour, sir,” came the reply.
“Steady as you go, then.”
Locke led the way out to the narrow deck at the front of the bridge. The air was still so heavy with moisture that the plants around them were dripping wet. David gazed out at the gray, gloomy sky, then down to the expansive deck beneath them. It was deserted and eerily quiet. There were no strollers or joggers or anyone relaxing in lounge chairs. The passengers were frightened, all staying in their cabins away from others who might infect them.
“I feel like I’m captain of a ghost ship,” Locke remarked.
More like a plague ship, David started to say, but held his tongue.
“How long will they remain in their cabins?” Locke wondered aloud.
“Until they know for sure whether the virus is spreading.”
“And then?”
“And then, those who are sick will stay in their cabins because they have no choice, and those who aren’t will take over the Grand Atlantic and try to jump ship.”
Locke looked at David oddly. “But we’re surrounded by a thousand miles of open sea.”
David pointed to the lifeboats that hung along the sides of the ship. “They’ll use those.”
“But they’ll never make shore.”
“Desperate men do desperate things.”
The door to the bridge opened, and an officer stuck his head out. “Excuse me, sir, but Dr. Ballineau is needed urgently in the sick bay.”
David hurried through the bridge and down the passageway to a waiting elevator. The door was open, the elevator deserted except for a deckhand mopping the interior with disinfectant. David motioned the man out and stepped in, then pushed the button for the G level. He was convinced that the washed-down elevator would be less contaminated with the virus than the staircase, which was being used by virtually all passengers because they feared being crowded into a small space with infected people. And their fear was justified, David thought miserably. The high-filtration N-95 masks and Tamiflu were supposed to protect them, but it was now clear that those measures had limited effect at best.
The elevator jerked to a stop and David quickly exited. The passageway was empty except for two people sitting in chairs outside the sick bay. They were an elderly couple dressed in Ohio State warmup outfits. Both looked sick and were coughing up bloody sputum. Neither was wearing a mask.
“Where are your masks?” David asked brusquely.
“We couldn’t keep them on,” the man answered in a hoarse voice. “They were filling up with phlegm and we couldn’t breathe through them.”
“We’ll get you new masks,” David said and wondered how many other people the maskless couple had infected.
The inside of the sick bay looked like an emergency room with mass casualties. A dozen or more people were slumped down in chairs or sprawled out on the floor, all coughing harshly through their blood-stained masks. Two were having shaking chills and had wrapped themselves in woolen blankets. David stepped over a portly man who was lying on his side and gasping for air. It was Sol Wyman. A woman near the wall called out and pleaded for help.
David held up a hand in a gesture of I’ll be with you in a minute, and entered the examining room. Off to his left he saw a scene of overwhelming grief, and it tore at his heart. Marilyn Wyman was sobbing uncontrollably as she rested her head on the chest of her dead son. Will’s face was now pale, and one could see his freckled cheeks, which, along with his tousled hair, made him look like a sleeping little boy. David choked for a moment, then swallowed back his sadness. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Carolyn, who was finishing a phone call, and walked over.
“When did Will die?” he asked.
“About ten minutes ago,” Carolyn whispered, then lowered her voice even more. “Marilyn won’t allow us to cover the boy.”
“Let him stay the way he is,” David said and thought about the terrible grief a parent must feel when they lose a child. It had to be beyond unbearable. “We’ll move the body to her cabin later.”
Carolyn nodded. “And it won’t matter to her or Sol because they’ve both got the disease.”
David nodded back and tried to come up with the logistics of moving the dead boy. It would have to be done on a gurney late at night when everyone was asleep. They’d use an elevator programmed to only stop at the level where Marilyn’s cabin was located. And they’d leave the boy’s head uncovered, for Marilyn’s sake.
The phone rang.
Carolyn answered it and quickly put the caller on hold. “This is spreading like wildfire, David. I’ve already spoken to at least a dozen passengers with the disease, and the calls keep coming.”
The phone rang again and Carolyn ignored it. “How should we handle it?”
David thought for a moment before giving specific instructions. One thing was certain. The sick bay could not accommodate those who were already sick or those who were about to become sick. “Have everybody return to their rooms, even if you have to use wheelchairs and gurneys. For those who call in, get their room numbers and tell them to stay put. Somebody from the medical staff will come by to see them.”
“What about medications?”
“Tylenol or Motrin for fever.”
“And their coughs?”
“There’s nothing we can do for that.”
Carolyn glanced over her shoulder at the coughing patients. Half had their masks up or off, so they could breathe. “They’re taking their masks off because the damn things are filling up with bloody sputum.”
“Then give them new masks.”
“Our supply is running low.”
“I’ll get more,” David said and quickly looked around the sick bay. “Where’s Maggio?”
“Still asleep, I guess.”
“Wake him up,” David directed, then asked, “What about Karen?”
“I tried her room, but there was no answer.”
“And Steiner?”
“He’s with his wife,” Carolyn replied. “She has asthma and is coughing her guts out. He’s not sure if it’s asthma or the avian flu.”
“Shit!”
“Yeah.”
David snapped his fingers suddenly as a thought came to mind. “What about the other ship’s doctor and his nurse-wife? You know, the ones who were so seasick.”
“Now they’re both sick as hell with the bird flu,” Carolyn reported. “His wife is already turning cyanotic.”
“Shit!” David said again, even louder. “This is turning into a full-blown nightmare.”
“And it’s going to get worse,” Carolyn added.
“Hold the fort,” David said, turning for the door. “I’ll be back.”
Before leaving, David stopped by the examining table that held Will Harrison’s body. He gently patted Marilyn’s shoulder and waited for her to look up, then said, “You stay with Will. I’ll return in a little while to be with you.”
Marilyn nodded, and placed her head back on Will’s chest and began sobbing again.
David hurried
out of the sick bay and down the passageway, zooming by more people on their way to the medical facility. Quickly he estimated how many passengers had come down with avian influenza. At least three dozen, he decided, which meant the virus now had an ever-increasing reservoir to thrive and multiply in. The air would soon become so thick with the killer virus that there’d be no escaping it.
As he reached the bank of elevators, the door suddenly opened and Karen Kellerman stepped out.
“David! Thank goodness!” She reached out and grabbed his arm. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
“For what?” David asked quickly.
“Your daughter,” Karen said and, winded, paused to swallow and catch her breath.
“What about her?” David cried out, instantly alarmed. He grasped Karen’s shoulders and shook her. “What about Kit?”
“She’s really frightened,” Karen went on. “She thinks Juanita has the bird flu.”
“Oh Christ!” David groaned.
“Kit ran into me in the passageway and begged me to look at Juanita,” Karen told him. “Apparently she couldn’t find you, and all the phone lines to the sick bay were busy.”
David waited for his heart to stop racing. He was still rattled by just the thought that Kit might be ill with the deadly disease. Thank Goodness Karen was there when she was needed, he told himself. And Kit knew she could turn to Karen for medical help. They had become friends when he and Karen were lovers. Good friends. Kit was so disappointed when the two broke up. Despite repeated questions from Kit, David never told his daughter the real reason why the couple had split apart. He saw no need to. Finally David asked, “Did you examine Juanita?”
Karen nodded. “She’s sick, but I’m not certain it’s the bird flu. There are conflicting signs. She has a cough, but fever is low-grade and she’s had no chills.”
“It sounds viral, though.”
“But that doesn’t make it bird flu.”
“Chances are it is,” David said glumly, recalling that he had given the nanny Motrin for her recurring headaches. And that drug, like all the anti-inflammatory agents, could suppress the early symptoms of flu. Even bird flu. Shit! His mind turned quickly to Kit, who had been in almost constant close contact with Juanita. “Where is Kit now?” he asked in a rush.
Plague Ship (A Ballineau/Ross Medical Thriller) Page 10
