“What about military doctors and nurses?” the President queried. “They could be ordered to go on board.”
Church shook his head. “We need ICU doctors and nurses who are specialists in critical care. The military doesn’t have enough qualified people to fill the bill.”
The President gave Church a prolonged stare. “So we’re just going to let those people die?”
“The vast majority will die regardless of what we do,” Church said bluntly.
“Couldn’t some be saved by sending out medical personnel?” the President pressed.
“A small percentage perhaps,” Church replied in a clinical tone. “But we’d be risking the lives of a lot of doctors and nurses to do it. It’s not a very good trade-off, Mr. President.”
“So we’re damned if we send help, and we’re damned if we don’t?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
The President started circling the Oval Office again, searching for an answer to the dilemma. He moved past his desk and by the door to the Rose Garden before stopping in his tracks. Abruptly he narrowed his eyes and turned back to the group. “Is there any way to decontaminate the Grand Atlantic?”
“Not without destroying the people aboard,” Lindberg answered.
The President stepped in closer to the director for global quarantine before saying, “Spell that out for me.”
“Well, sir, if you incinerate the ship with all its passengers, the decontamination would be absolute and complete.”
“Incinerate!” the President’s voice went up an octave. “Like a nuclear explosion? Is that what the hell you’re saying?”
“It was never a serious consideration, Mr. President.”
“I hope not.”
But it was a serious consideration and had been discussed at length. Scientifically it was a viable option. Politically it was not. None of the advisors thought it wise to mention this.
“I need answers,” the President commanded. “Workable answers.”
“I’m not sure there are any,” Lindberg said candidly. “Despite our best efforts, we seem to find ourselves between a rock and a hard place.”
“That’s a place I don’t like to be in,” the President said.
“Yes, sir.”
The room went silent. All the advisors were concentrating on the insoluble problem, a few pausing to thank God they weren’t aboard the Grand Atlantic.
The President straightened his tie and buttoned his coat. It was a signal the meeting was over.
The advisors stood.
“Should—should we meet again, sir?” Church asked hesitantly.
The President nodded. “As soon as you come up with a way to save those people and decontaminate the ship.”
“But, Mr. President,” Church blurted out. “You’re asking for the impossible.”
“Yes,” the President said, “I am. So you gather all the resources you need and do the impossible.”
“But, Mr. President—”
The President ended the discussion with a wave and stepped into his small, private study next to the Oval Office. Closing the door behind him, he reached into his desk for a cigarette and lit it.
Screw the M&M’s, he thought and, inhaling deeply, concentrated on the terrible dilemma he was facing.
twenty-three
David leaned against the wall outside the carpenter’s shop and tried to catch his breath, all the while watching the door to the staircase. He expected Choi to burst through any moment, knife in hand, ready to kill. Seconds passed. Then more seconds. Then minutes. Still, there was no Choi. Where the hell is he? David asked himself as he glanced around the expansive lower level, which contained the carpenter’s shop, giant storage spaces, and a huge laundry room that was lined with oversized washing and drying machines. The entire area seemed deserted. It was a good place to kill and an even better place to hide a body. So where was Choi?
David pushed off from the wall but kept a wary eye on the staircase door. He’d been lucky to escape with his life. He had spotted Choi closing in on him in the passageway near the sick bay and had raced for the stairs. Choi came after him and was only a half-flight behind and could have easily thrown a knife into David’s back. But he didn’t. Why? There were two possible answers. Either Choi wanted to play cat and mouse and terrorize him for a while, or he had orders from Richard Scott not to kill the doctor yet. David favored the second possibility because, at least for now, he was still a valuable commodity.
Ahead David saw the carpenter’s shop, its door wide open, the sound of a pounding hammer coming from within. He tried to pick up the pace, but his legs wouldn’t let him. The wave of fatigue was coming back and it was more intense than before. Racing down the stairs had used up the last of his energy, and his legs now felt like dead weights. Each step became an effort.
He entered the carpenter’s shop and saw Harry Heins nailing two pieces of wood together. David assumed the man was Harry Heins because that was the name on the plaque by the door. And the guy looked like a carpenter, with his short gray hair, stocky build, and tattooed arms as big as telephone poles.
“Have you got a minute, Harry?” David called out.
“Sure, doc,” Harry said and stopped hammering. “What can I do for you?”
“I need a man of your talent to make me some splints.”
“For what?”
“A broken arm.”
“Upper or lower?”
“Wrist.”
Harry nodded slowly before asking, “Big or little person?”
“Say five feet, maybe a hundred pounds.”
“Like a young teenager?”
“Right.”
“A foot long should do it then, eh?”
“Perhaps a few inches more,” David approximated.
Harry reached for an unfinished wooden slat and showed it to David. “I could give you this, but it won’t work worth a damn.”
“How do you know that?” David asked.
“Experience,” Harry said easily. “A while back I served on a merchant ship and we had seamen with broken arms all the time. At first, we used just plain old slats like this for splints, but they never really worked. They’d slip and slide even when they were taped in place. And they were damn uncomfortable too.”
“So what did you do?”
Harry picked up a thicker slat of wood and fingered its center. “I took a piece like this and scooped out the middle. Kind of made a big groove in which a man could rest his broken arm.”
David nodded, aware that he was dealing with a real craftsman who was accustomed to producing quality goods. “Then add some cotton padding and tape the arm in place.”
“You’ve got it, doc.”
“How long will it take to make a splint like that?”
Harry gave that some thought. He began moving his lips as if he were counting. “Well, I’ve got to chisel out the groove and sand it down, then put in some notches for the tape, then maybe add a light coat of quick-drying varnish to smooth everything out. I’ll have it done in an hour and a half or so.”
“Good,” David said, now noticing a cot against the far wall. It had a small pillow and a brown, army-issue, woolen blanket. David fought his fatigue as he stifled a yawn, his eyes fixed on the bed. “Do you mind if I doze on your cot while I wait?”
“Fine with me, but you should know I’ll be making some noise while I work.”
“Just wake me when you’re done,” David said, then added as a precaution, “and if Choi or anyone else comes looking for me, give me a shout.”
“I’ll keep an eye out.”
David moved to the cot and reminded himself not to get under the blanket. That would cause him to sleep deeper and be drowsier when he awoke. An hour-and-a-half sleep would barely be adequate, but he could manage on it. And he’d have Harr
y Heins watching his back, just in case Choi suddenly showed up.
“I’ve got some ear plugs if you want them,” Harry offered from across the shop.
“Don’t need them.”
As David was about to drop onto the cot, his gaze went to the wall off to the side. It had wooden pegs and slots for a wide assortment of tools. Saws. Chisels. Wrenches. Hammers. Screwdrivers. Everything was orderly and clean. Lower down was a first-aid kit, but it was the item next to it that drew David’s attention. A hatchet! A small, well-used hatchet!
Quickly he glanced over his shoulder. The carpenter was occupied, measuring out a slat of wood. David inched over to the wall and pretended to be examining the first-aid kit. Then he stepped in front of the hatchet and deftly removed it from its peg. Pausing for a moment, he casually turned and held the hatchet behind his back. Then, in a single motion, he slipped the wooden handle of the hatchet under the belt of his pants and covered it with his short white coat.
“Everything all right, doc?” Harry yelled over.
“Perfect.”
And the hatchet was perfect. It was the prefect weapon to counter Choi’s knife. It was longer and stronger and could inflict far more damage than a knife. And now it would be he, not Choi, who would pick the place for their final encounter. David already had a plan in mind. He would outwit Choi, then kill him.
With that thought, David lay atop the woolen blanket on the cot. He pressed his head onto the pillow and was instantly asleep.
twenty-four
David knew something was wrong the moment he stepped into his cabin. Carolyn’s face was drawn and worried, her eyes teary red. She tried to speak, but the words seemed to stick in her throat.
“What’s wrong?” David asked.
“Kit,” Carolyn uttered.
“What about her?” David demanded.
“I think she’s got the bird flu,” Carolyn said and fought her tears. “She looks so sick.”
David forced himself to breathe. “Does she have fever and chills, like the others?”
“Her temperature is a hundred and two,” Carolyn said, nodding slowly. “The chills are coming and going.”
David started for the bedroom, but Carolyn grabbed his arm. “I moved her back into the suite with Juanita.”
David sprinted out and into the cabin across the passageway. From the sitting room, he could hear the loud, continuous coughing. Juanita’s cough was coarse and raspy, Kit’s high-pitched, almost a squeal. A little girl’s cough. David braced himself and entered the bedroom. His heart sank.
Kit looked deathly ill. Her face was flushed with fever, her forehead covered with beads of perspiration that plastered her raven hair to the underlying skin. She was moaning between her weak, wet coughs. Oh, no! David shrieked to himself. God, no!
He reached out and gently stroked her arm. It felt hot, hotter than 102º. “Hi, sweetheart,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Hi, Dad,” she said and licked at her parched lips.
“How are you feeling?”
“Not so good,” Kit licked her lips again and asked, “Can I have some water?”
“Sure.” David leaned over to the lamp table for a small plastic bottle of water. He held her head up while she gulped down mouthful after mouthful. “Better?” he asked and waited for her to nod before easing her back to her pillow. Then her cough started again.
“I can’t stop coughing, Dad,” Kit complained weakly.
“It’s that nasty, old virus,” David downplayed it, his expression even although his heart was breaking. “It makes you feel really yucky.”
“Is it the same virus that Will had?” Kit asked.
“I guess so.”
“But I don’t have it as bad as Will did, do I?”
“No way!” David lied. “He was really, really sick. And remember, he actually touched that bird with the disease and you didn’t.”
Kit nodded, apparently satisfied with the explanation. She swallowed back a cough and asked, “You’re not going to get sick too, are you, Dad?”
“Not me,” David replied promptly. “I’ve got myself well protected.”
“Good.” Kit slowly closed her eyes and dozed off. She didn’t bother to reach for her favorite teddy bear.
David looked away as his tears welled up. She’s so sick and she can only think of me. Just like her mother Marianne when she was dying with leukemia. He rubbed at his eyes briefly. Then, gathering himself, he took out his stethoscope and listened to Kit’s chest. He heard rhonchi and rales, but no wheezes that would indicate airway obstruction. But he knew the wheezes would come later, along with the purplish complexion that signified oxygen deprivation.
“I will look after the Little One,” Juanita said hoarsely from her bed. “She is my responsibility.”
“You’re too sick,” David told her.
“Do not tell me what I can and can’t do,” Juanita argued and propped herself up on an elbow. She tried to raise up farther, but her strength gave out and she dropped back down on her pillow. “I will attend to her later, when I have the energy.”
“Yes,” David agreed sadly. “When you have the energy.”
He kissed Kit’s forehead and walked back into the sitting room. Carolyn was worriedly pacing the floor, head down, hands clasped in front of her. She spun around and stared at him, as if trying to read his expression.
“Tell me I was wrong,” she pleaded. “Please tell me I was wrong.”
David shook his head. “You were right. She has the bird flu.”
“Oh, Lord!”
“He isn’t aboard the Grand Atlantic,” David muttered.
“What are we going to do?”
“Everything we can.”
With effort, David pushed aside his alarm and anxiety. For the moment, he compartmentalized his worries and focused on the enemy he was facing and how to defeat it. Except this wasn’t some mutineer or terrorist he could kill—it was an invisible, deadly virus that wanted to take his daughter from him. It was an indestructible foe. But still, think clinically! Think about what’s needed to keep Kit alive! Quickly he made a mental list of things to be done, then turned to Carolyn.
“Do we have any of those small oxygen tanks left in the sick bay?” he asked hastily.
“A few,” Carolyn answered.
“Get as many as you can and bring them back to this cabin,” David instructed. “What about those transparent air-flow masks that are used for asthmatics?”
“We have plenty.”
“We’ll need those too,” David went on, “as well as a goodly supply of bronchodilators and antibiotics.”
“I should also grab some IV setups and fluids, in case Kit can’t take fluids orally.”
“Right,” David agreed, and reminded himself to check with the CDC on the status of the ventilators that were supposedly en route.
“What if other people see me grabbing all this equipment?”
“Tell them it’s for a very sick patient.”
Kit started coughing again, and it disrupted David’s concentration. The compartmentalization of his alarm and fear evaporated, and those emotions came to the front of his brain again. If Kit becomes as sick as the others, she’ll die, he thought gloomily. Her only chance to survive is ashore in an ICU at some medical center. But we can’t get ashore unless I strike a deal with Richard Scott. He’s in control of everything. He calls the shots. I’d have to beg.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Carolyn broke the silence.
“What?”
“Getting Kit ashore.”
David stared at her, stunned. “How did you know that?”
“Because I was thinking the same thing.”
“And?”
“You won’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“Because
you’re you,” Carolyn said. “Your type doesn’t run from anybody or anything.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“You won’t do it,” Carolyn said again, then flicked her wrist at the idea. “Now let’s get this show on the road and keep Kit going.”
David nodded firmly, convinced beyond a doubt that Carolyn was every bit as strong as he was. She also knew how to compartmentalize problems and worries, which was the real test of one’s mental toughness. He gave her a quick hug and said, “I’ll stay with Kit while you run down to the sick bay for all the equipment. How many trips do you figure it will take?”
“One,” Carolyn told him. “I’ll pack everything onto a gurney.”
“What about the IV poles?”
“We won’t need them. We can attach the bags of fluid to the hooks over the beds.”
“What hooks?”
“The ones that hold the paintings.”
David shook his head admiringly. “Is there anything else I haven’t thought of?”
“Probably,” Carolyn said and headed for the door. “I’ll let you know when it comes to mind.”
David watched the door close, thinking how fortunate he was to have Carolyn at his side. She was an excellent ER nurse, with years of critical-care experience, and that made her worth a dozen doctors who rarely left their offices. For a moment his spirits were buoyed, but then he came back to the stark reality that he had a terribly ill child who was infected with a killer virus. And chances were, all the supportive measures in the world weren’t going to save her.
David stepped out onto the balcony and breathed in the fresh ocean air. The sea was becoming choppy again, with whitecaps and whirls coming up from the south. He gazed into the distant twilight and saw no ships, then up at the sky and saw no planes or birds. They were as alone as alone could be. Suddenly the silence was interrupted by Kit’s high-pitched coughs. She coughed over and over again, and now seemed to be having trouble catching her breath. David hastily turned to reenter the cabin, but then Kit’s coughing subsided and he heard her raspy respirations return to normal. But that lasted only briefly. Then the harsh coughing started again.
Plague Ship (A Ballineau/Ross Medical Thriller) Page 18
