The President stared silently at his acting CIA director for so long Jonathan Roth worried that he’d dropped into some sort of trance.
“Nuclear …?”
Finally the President turned away, shaking his head, and looked at the map for a few seconds before speaking, his voice coming in careful meter with a different tone—a command tone.
“Okay, Jon. You mentioned a desert. That’s a good idea. Find me a spot in an overseas desert somewhere with a long-enough runway. Find me some place we can send in emergency aid, tents, and other facilities to get these people off that airplane and give them a little dignity if … if they’re really doomed.” He turned suddenly, looking Roth in the eye. “Find me a place where we can do as much for them as is humanly possible, without endangering any other population center. Get with State and Defense—get the secretaries out of bed—use the room here and work with your people at Langley by phone. Get me an answer in an hour if you possibly can. Meanwhile, I’m going to talk to the Icelandic ambassador and buy some time.”
Roth nodded as the President swept out the door toward the elevator, then returned, holding on to the doorjamb and leaning into the room at a precarious angle.
“Jon? Find me the most humane way to help these people that preserves all our options.”
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA—6:45 P.M. (2345Z)
Mark Hastings stood in the doorway of the conference room Jonathan Roth had turned into a command post, surprised to find Dr. Rusty Sanders still working away at a rapidly connected computer terminal. Hastings moved quietly behind Sanders, looking at the monitor over his shoulder. A long list of medical terminology was scrolling across the screen—lists of infectious human viruses with detailed descriptions of their symptoms.
“I thought you’d be gone by now,” Hastings said.
Sanders jumped slightly and turned around.
“What? Oh, Mark.” He turned back to the screen and gestured at the data. “This is getting too interesting, and frustrating.” He gestured again. “I’m trying to find a viral pathogen similar to the one our Russian friend described, the one Director Roth is so sure we’re dealing with on Flight Sixty-six. This is without precedent.”
Hastings pulled up a chair next to Sanders and sat down, letting his eyes follow Sanders’ finger on the screen.
“See, this one here, for instance. High fever, delirium, respiratory complications, and numerous chemical imbalances as the body tries to respond—but no coronary involvement.”
Hastings looked from the screen to Sanders. The lopsided tie was gone, which was just as well.
Totally disorganized, but likable … and sharp, Hastings thought.
There was a yellow legal pad in Sanders’ lap covered with notations, and a full cup of coffee, grown cold, sitting next to the computer.
Dedicated and intense too.
Sanders detected the silence and looked at Hastings, who pointed to the screen himself.
“Why are you digging so far into this? We don’t even know which of the Russian doomsday bugs we’re dealing with yet.”
“True,” Sanders said, nodding hastily and moving his chair back slightly. “But, Mark, I … I’m getting the wrong vibrations. I mean, I can’t find any evidence to support the theory that a guy can suddenly keel over and go into coronary arrest or fibrillation and attribute it to a virus—unless this attacks the heart muscle first.”
“You’re talking about the professor, right?”
“Yeah. Exactly.” Sanders sprang to his feet suddenly, startling Hastings. He gestured to the screen again broadly with his left hand.
“I mean, Mark … Mark … the only connection that virus has with Flight Sixty-six is Professor Helms. Without that, we don’t have an infected airplane. If the guy really had a heart attack, it greatly reduces the chances that he was in the contagious stages of a lethal virus.”
Hastings nodded. “Granted, but I’m bothered by one aspect of what you say. Now, I’m not a physician like you, but isn’t it possible for someone like this professor to be suffering from such a virus in an infectious stage, yet have a heart attack that’s purely coincidental … in other words, wholly unconnected with the virus?”
Sanders paced a few feet away and drummed his fingers on the table in thought, then returned and plopped down in the chair again, leaning forward with a questioning expression.
“You trained as a lawyer, Mark? I feel like an expert witness under cross-examination. That’s a good question.”
Hastings laughed. “It’s that obvious?”
Sanders rotated his hands, palms up. “I wouldn’t say, obvious …”
“Yes, you would, Doctor. Yeah, I’m another attorney who hated practicing. But let’s get back to the point. If he had a heart attack, does that logically mean he couldn’t be infected with this … what’d you call it … pathogen?”
“Pathogen is correct. Webster’s defines ‘pathogen’ as the specific cause of a disease. And you’re right. One conclusion does not logically flow from the other. Also, I have to admit that the stress alone of physically dealing with a virus even in early stages could have brought on an attack, provided he already had a heart problem. To that end, I’m trying to get his medical records.” Sanders tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “Did you know I talked to one of the flight attendants on the phone a few minutes ago?”
Hastings shook his head. He was impressed Sanders had figured out the communications.
“The pilots called the head flight attendant up to the cockpit to talk to me. She said the professor was ill when he came on board. One of her crew had to help him to his seat. Yet the initial onset of a heart attack can produce the symptoms she described: high fever, excessive weakness, respiratory difficulties, and nausea—even delirium if the circulatory impairment gets sufficiently severe before the main onset.”
Sanders looked at Hastings and shrugged. “But the Director seems to believe it’s a closed issue.”
Hastings smiled and looked away a second, gauging how much to say. He could tell Sanders was a fireball of energy and curiosity, and obviously the Company trusted him enough to give him a paycheck and a security clearance, but the subtle shades of nuance needed to survive life at Langley seemed to be missing.
“Can I call you Rusty?”
“Sure. I’ve been calling you Mark.”
Mark Hastings nodded and held up an index finger.
“Rusty, a word of advice. Be very, very careful around Jonathan Roth. He’s powerful, connected, and capable, and can and has gotten rid of anyone who rubs him the wrong way. You’d do well to consider him dangerous, but I’m not going to explain that. He’s been in the intelligence business most of his life. He was a field agent for years in Covert Ops, station chief in more places than I can count, and he’s the ranking expert on tracking and interdicting Middle East terrorism. His reputation for sniffing out terrorist organizations before they can strike American interests is legendary around here.”
Sanders nodded. “I know. I’ve read his history. I was astounded when you guys and gals called me up here to brief him. Usually I just write esoteric analytical reports in the basement. Interesting stuff to research, but low level.”
“You’re no slouch yourself, Rusty. You come highly recommended. Just … just be as diplomatic with him as you can.”
“Mark, I appreciate that, but I’m not pulling my punches. He’s rushing to judgment on this, and others could make some pretty serious decisions based on what could be a wrong assumption. I mean, my God, he’s over there briefing the President.”
Hastings cocked his head. “I’m not asking you to pull punches, but you’ve got to have proof, Rusty, to convince this man.”
Sanders nodded and chewed his lip. “I know that, but I’ve also learned to trust my intuition, and it’s screaming at me that we’re rushing to an unsupported conclusion which could lead to other, more frightening conclusions about what to do.”
One of the other analysts in the ro
om, Sherry Ellis, had been talking earnestly on the phone for the previous minute. She replaced the receiver and appeared at Mark Hastings’ side as she smiled at Rusty Sanders.
“Mr. Roth just called from the White House,” she said with a pronounced Southern drawl. “We’re to drop everything else and check out three possible desert landing fields.”
“Can I help?” Sanders asked, getting out of his chair.
“The way you dance around that computer keyboard, Doctor? I wouldn’t let you out of here if you tried. Mark, we’ve got thirty minutes.”
Hastings got to his feet as well, a suspicious look on his face.
“What’s he planning?”
Sherry shook her head and sighed.
“You’re not going to like this, Mark. He needs to find some place in the desert where the President can send them to die. Some place too far from civilization to spread this bug.”
Hastings turned to Sanders. “Didn’t you say we shouldn’t send them to a warm area?”
Rusty Sanders nodded slowly but held up a finger. “A damp, warm area is the worst. A dry, hot desert climate would not be a particular problem, but you see what I mean, Mark? One conclusion leading to another?”
Sherry continued.
“And, fellows, the location’s got to be within ten hours’ flight time of the East Coast, yet remote enough to contain a small nuclear blast.”
The words hit Hastings and Sanders like a physical blow.
“What?!” both men exclaimed simultaneously.
Sherry nodded sternly. “That’s exactly what he said. After they’re all dead, the seven-forty-seven and the bodies will have to be incinerated. A nuclear fireball would be foolproof.”
Sanders turned and paced toward the window. “I don’t believe this! No one’s even got a cold up there and he’s already vaporizing the bodies!” He turned back toward Sherry, glancing at Hastings, who was still standing slack-jawed and stunned.
“My God,” Hastings said, working hard to recover his professional balance. “What … what are the candidate sites, Sherry?”
“The first is a remote airstrip in the Sahara built by the Soviets. Twenty degrees north latitude, eight degrees west longitude. Technically in Mauritania, though I doubt there’s a governmental presence for five hundred miles. There’s another in southern Egypt, and one in southern Algeria. All airfields, all essentially abandoned and in the middle of nowhere. State’s checking on receptivity of the respective nations, the UN is involved, DOD is handling the facilities report and suitability for receiving a large transport as well as airlift from the U.S., and we’re tasked with checking the rest of it. In the meantime, I’m told there are C-15 and C-17 transports being loaded at Dover as we speak, to launch ASAP. They’ll be given their destination in the air.”
Mark Hastings nodded. “We’ll need the latest intelligence on the political situations, governmental stability, insurgency, nomadic threats, military threats, et cetera, for each spot, plus the National Security Agency’s latest satellite shots, and current orbital tracks of available satellites, and which ones we can seize and how soon.”
“That’s all?” Sherry asked sarcastically.
“I suppose,” Hastings replied.
“Wrong!” Sherry said, her index finger raised to eye level. “There’s one other directive. Director Roth was adamant, as you know Director Roth can be. The thundering herd at the Defense Intelligence Agency, he says, is going to try to upstage us on this and present their report to the President before we do. So, we either beat the DIA with the analysis, or you and I, Mark, will share station chief duties in Tierra del Fuego!”
Rusty Sanders looked from Sherry to Mark and back again with an incredulous expression, ignoring their exchange. “The DIA thing. Is … is that what it always comes down to around here? People’s lives are hanging in the balance, and Roth’s worried about interagency competition?”
Mark smiled thinly and patted Rusty on the shoulder as he turned toward the door.
“We could answer that, Doctor, but then we’d have to kill you,” he said, tongue in cheek.
At the door he turned and smiled again.
“Before the DIA did, of course.”
TWELVE
ABOARD FLIGHT 66—FRIDAY, DECEMBER 22—11:45 P.M. (0045Z)
Frigid winds were now howling from the east in icy gusts up to thirty knots and snow showers were blowing sideways, rocking the giant Boeing back and forth every few minutes. The auxiliary power unit was running steadily and the cabin was warm and comfortable, but all Holland could think about was the phone conversation he’d just completed with Dallas.
Earlier, thirty-eight passengers seated in the upper-deck section had been quietly asked to relocate to the main cabin below. All had complied without argument. With Brenda Hopkins—and the four others who’d come into direct contact with Ernest Helms—seated in the forward rows, James Holland had then asked the rest of his crew upstairs for a face-to-face briefing, leaving the cockpit empty for the first time in nine hours.
Holland looked at the now anxious faces of his crew as he leaned against a railing at the front of the cabin. They had taken the first two rows of seats, except for Dick Robb, who was standing to one side of him with his arms folded, saying nothing.
Ambassador Lancaster and Rachael Sherwood had also been asked to come upstairs and were seated in the third row. The increasingly difficult evangelist, Garson Wilson, had jumped up and headed for the stairs to the upper deck too, until an exasperated Barb Rollins, the lead flight attendant, barred his way and ordered him to go back and stay in his seat. He complied, more out of shock at her strong determination than out of any willingness to obey. Sitting heavily in his seat, Wilson glared in her direction, snarling ugly names under his breath as his secretary winced and looked around quickly to see if anyone else had heard.
Holland cleared his throat, stared at the carpet, then tried to look his crew in the eye. He didn’t want to lie to them, but how much to tell was an agony. His emotions were screaming to tell it all, but his instincts held him back.
“Okay, folks, we’re in a strange, unprecedented situation here, but we’re going to get through it just fine. Now, we’re going to need all the strength of character and professionalism we’ve got to keep our passengers encouraged and steady, and having said that, let me tell you the latest word I have from the vice president of Operations.”
Holland paused and forced a smile.
“Folks, the powers that be are telling our company that our passenger was exposed to a particularly serious virus. What we know about this virus is that it can make you pretty sick for a while, but as long as you’ve got enough fluids and rest, you know, most viruses go away in a week or so.”
Holland looked each of the flight attendants in the eye, one by one, then let his eyes wander to Rachael Sherwood, who was watching him closely. She smiled a little flicker of a smile and gave a tiny nod of encouragement.
The vice president’s voice played again in his head. This could be a false alarm. Even if your passenger died from this virus, it might not spread.
Holland looked at Barb Rollins and continued.
“Now, our company is convinced that this is a false alarm and a bureaucratic overreaction, at least to the extent that the reactions from all these countries have been way out of proportion to reality. Our passenger may well have died of a simple heart attack and nothing more. Instead of this virus that has everyone worried, he may have had a simple case of the flu. The doctor who helped Brenda with her heroic CPR efforts confirmed that it seemed like nothing more than a coronary, with a few precursor symptoms, such as the nausea and complaints of dizziness.”
Holland looked around the group once more before continuing. He tried to smile, and hoped the result looked sincere.
“Now, all that nonsense back in London and our abortive attempt to return to Frankfurt, and then our inability to get clearance to land at either Amsterdam or Mildenhall Air Base in Great Britain—all tha
t was merely the by-product of governments scaring each other into hysteria with half-truths and misinformation. There are some really wild rumors, and some have even been broadcast by the media, so even governmental agencies that should know better are reacting by slamming the door in our faces. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you better informed, but things were happening awfully fast, and a two-person cockpit gets really busy.”
James, since we last talked, well … you need to know that the European nations are convinced you’re all contaminated with a virus so lethal, they’re scared to death of you. I think they’re nuts, of course, but we have to work with that. Our government knows it isn’t that bad, but they’ve got diplomatic problems too, and the bottom line is, the White House wants to keep you away from North America until we get this figured out. Political concerns, you understand. If Europe panicked, North America would panic. We’ll just keep you there until everyone’s well, or no one’s gotten sick; then there’s no problem.
Holland looked to the side, through one of the windows, noting the snowflakes streaming by horizontally, almost as if the plane were in flight.
“I know it’s Christmas,” he began. “I know the effect this is having—and going to have—on all of us, even if not a single person gets as much as a cold and we all get home by Christmas Day. We’re going to have some deeply upset passengers, and we’re going to be fighting our own emotions, and to that end, the company wants you to know that we’re going to provide satellite phone calls home for everyone free of charge. You’re included in that. You need to let your loved ones know you’re okay, because the press coverage out there may be frightening to them.”
Pandora's Clock Page 13
