by Hank Parker
The man’s wife came into the living room. The noise had pulled her away from her computer, where she had been reading about the latest progress on containing the disease epidemic. “What is that?” she asked her husband.
“Probably a dog,” he said. “Must have gotten away from the animal control people.” He didn’t want to say coyote. He didn’t want to alarm his daughter any more.
“Go get her, Dad,” his daughter said. “Please? Maybe she’s hurt.”
“That’s not a good idea,” he said, wondering how his daughter had concluded that the animal was female. “It could be diseased.”
“But you can’t just leave her out there alone! Couldn’t you just put her in the shed? We could put a fence around the door. That way we could get food and water to her. Please, Dad.”
“She’s right, dear,” said the wife. “The dog might be wounded. We can’t just leave her out there to die.”
The man looked at his daughter. Her lips were trembling. Maybe it was a dog. And it could be hurt. It would be cruel to ignore it, but if it was a coyote, it might be vicious. Probably hungry—since its prey had likely been wiped out—and diseased. If he went out there he’d better have some protection. In case. Boots. Heavy clothing. A weapon. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll go out the back door. Stay here at the window. When I signal, hit the floodlights.”
Before leaving the house, the man detoured down the cellar stairs. He found an old pair of sturdy work boots, canvas coveralls, a thick denim jacket, and leather shooting gloves with the forefingers cut out. He slid a large trunk away from a wall. Behind the trunk was a small door with a padlock. He unlocked the door and retrieved a twelve-guage Remington shotgun and a box of shells. He’d had the gun since he was a teenager. It was a gift from his father, who thought a shared deer-hunting experience would help them bond. That hadn’t happened, but he’d kept the gun. He popped two shells into the shotgun chambers, pocketed the rest, dressed in the protective gear, and headed back up the stairs.
Before opening the back door, he listened carefully. He heard another howl, coming from the front of the house. He hoped his wife and daughter would see the animal and perhaps distract it as he approached from the other side. He quietly opened the door and stepped outside.
The night was pitch-black. Not even the sliver of a moon. He remembered it had been clouding up at sunset, but at least it wasn’t raining. He crept around the side of the house, stepping carefully to avoid any noises that would give him away. Chances were he’d only find a wounded dog, but any wounded animal could be dangerous.
He reached the far corner of the house, stopped, and peered around. Nothing. He stayed still and listened for several minutes. The howling had stopped. Where was the creature? A slight noise behind him. He turned quickly, in time to see a dark shape hurtling through the air.
The man had no time to raise his gun, let alone fire off a shot. The animal was on him, snarling and growling. The man tried to cover his head with his arms. The animal’s momentum drove him backward and he fell heavily, with the beast on top of him. This was one big coyote, the man thought as he sought to defend himself. Had to be over seventy-five pounds. Sharp teeth pierced his denim jacket and penetrated his forearm. He pounded on the animal’s head with his other arm. Too late, he realized that he had left his throat exposed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AUGUST 26, MORNING
LANCASTER COUNTY
Dr. Emily Rausch willed herself to relax as the Pennsylvania Hospital ambulance rolled along Route 30, lights flashing, siren wailing.
She’d received a call shortly after arriving at work that morning. An Amish couple had been found dead by their sons in their rural home in Andrews Bridge in Lancaster County. The couple had apparently died a couple of weeks before, or more. The sons had just discovered them and were waiting at the house. Based on the description of the bodies, Emily had activated the hospital’s biohazard response team and dispatched another ambulance to pick up the bodies. Her ambulance would bring the sons to the hospital—assuming they consented.
The ambulance slowed, pulled into a long dirt lane, and approached a white frame house with a covered porch and an old-fashioned windmill in the yard. Emily could see several people standing outside the house. Sure hope the local authorities followed my instructions, she thought. No one should enter the house until she got there. “Stop here,” she told the driver. “We suit up before going any farther.”
Dressed in protective gear with full face masks and respirators, Emily and her four-person team exited the ambulance and stiffly walked toward the waiting group. “Has anyone been inside?” she asked.
“Just the sons,” said a uniformed police officer. “They’re the ones who called it in. They’re waiting over by the shed.” The policeman pointed toward a small, rickety building about fifty yards from the house where two middle-aged men were standing with arms folded, staring warily at the emergency responders. “They live over in Lancaster City,” the policeman added. “Didn’t see much of their parents from what I heard.”
Emily turned to one of her teammates. “Get the sons into the ambulance,” she told them. “They’ll have been exposed.” She headed toward the house, followed by the other team members.
Emily Rausch was no stranger to the odor of death, but the stench that greeted her—even through the biohazard suit—was unlike anything she’d ever smelled before. There was none of the normal, vaguely sweet aroma of the deceased that sometimes reminded her of mushrooms growing in dark, damp places. That smell had life in it, even in death—the organic smell of bacteria and other decomposing organisms that thrived on what was left of the former life that nurtured them. But the odor in this house was devoid of life.
The bodies were close together in the bedroom, dressed in nightclothes, skin stretched tight across the facial bones, hands shrunken and curled like claws. The man lay on the floor, his back propped up against the bed. His wife lay in a fetal position on the edge of the mattress, her arm draped over the bed, her hand in contact with her husband’s head. A dark stain had spread from her gaping mouth onto the sheets. A darker stain soiled her nightdress below her waist. The front of the man’s nightshirt was similarly discolored, and dried blood coated his nostrils and jaw.
Emily quickly examined the bodies and noted extensive discoloration of the skin and dried blood around every orifice. An autopsy would confirm it, but there was no doubt in her mind. This was Kandahar.
She doled out instructions to her coworkers and exited the house, noting that the second ambulance had arrived. She resisted the urge to pull off her face mask and take in deep drafts of fresh air. That would have to wait. She issued instructions to the ambulance that would serve as a hearse and walked to the ambulance she’d arrived in.
The Amish couple’s sons were seated in the back, dressed in protective gear. Emily could see the fear in their faces—and anger. This would take her best diplomatic skills.
“I know how hard this is for you,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” She let her words sink in and then continued. “I know you’re wondering why you’re in here, suited up.” She looked back and forth between the two men. The fear was still there, but the expressions had softened. “We believe your parents were exposed to a rare virus,” she said. “There’s been an outbreak in this area. Unfortunately, it’s quite contagious. That’s the reason for the hazmat suits.” She waited for a response. Both men remained quiet. They know they’ve been exposed too, she thought. They probably figure they’re doomed.
“Chances are you’ll both be fine,” she told them. “But you should be closely observed for a few days. In case. If you show any symptoms, we can treat you right away. With your permission, we’ll take you up to Penn Hospital.” Emily watched as one of the men turned toward the other and made eye contact. Were they going to refuse to deal with hospitals? Please, Emily pleaded silently. Please don’t make this harde
r than it already is. But then the man turned back to her and nodded slightly. Relieved, she reached to open the back door of the ambulance. She needed to call Frank Hoffman. Then she’d give the driver the green light to head immediately to Philadelphia. “I’ll be right back,” she told the men. The least she could do was sit with them on the ride to the hospital.
* * *
As his gaze swept over his surroundings, taking in details that most people never noticed, Omar was virtually certain that only one other person in the world knew that he had just arrived in the Philippines. But he was experienced enough to know that assumptions could be dangerous. Assumptions could get you killed. Vigilance, caution, and preparation, lots of preparation, kept you alive, allowed you to get the job done right.
He had a big job ahead of him, and not much time. He’d need to find a safe house in Manila, a place to lie low until he proceeded to the next destination, a place where he wouldn’t need a credit card that could be traced, where questions wouldn’t be asked. He had plenty of cash and money could buy almost anything, including silence, especially in an impoverished area like the Philippines. And if money didn’t work, there were always other, more persuasive incentives.
He needed a cell phone, one of those temporary, prepaid ones, untraceable, available at almost any chain pharmacy. He’d need another passport, to replace the one he’d flown over on that was in the name of a guy who looked somewhat like him. From what he knew about the Philippines, expert forgeries should be easy to come by. He made it a practice to never use a passport more than once. With today’s technologies it didn’t take long for the spooks to put two and two together.
He needed local support. He’d have to learn everything he could about the sleeper cell here and vet the most promising candidates. Doctor Vector had tried to insist that the job could be done with a skeleton crew, in fact had only given him a phone number to call. But Vector knew nothing about this kind of work. You needed a team, a team you could trust, to carry out an operation of this magnitude and complexity. He’d have to work quickly to recruit the right people from the local sleeper cell, as he was due at his next destination in three days. But the candidates would all have one thing in common. They’d all be fanatical believers who would willingly give their lives for the cause.
Finally, he’d need a disguise.
He pulled a ball cap down over his eyes and hailed a passing cab, which reminded him that he’d also need his own car. Taxi drivers were observant, and they talked. A car would be easy to come by in the city itself, where, unlike here at the airport, security cameras were few and far between. As he bent to enter the cab’s backseat he tightened his grip on his backpack—his only luggage. The pack would never leave him. Never, that is, until he successfully delivered its contents.
Omar directed the cabdriver to drop him off in Manila’s Santa Cruz district. They soon arrived at a heavily populated area, crowded with small shops and shantylike houses. Omar told the driver to stop, handed him some pesos, and quickly exited the cab. As the taxi drove off he darted into a narrow alley and entered a small store, where he picked out and paid for new slacks and a T-shirt, another ball cap, and a pair of sunglasses. He ducked into a changing room and emerged seconds later, leaving his old clothes behind. Good enough for now, he told himself. He could be a bit more creative later.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
AUGUST 27
THE BARN
At 8:00 a.m. Curt Kennedy approached the entrance to the maximum containment laboratory and saw that Mariah was already there. She smiled and gave him a little wave.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he said.
“Very funny,” said Mariah.
Their task was to retrieve from the secure freezer room a pure isolate of Kandahar virus that had come from the dead soldier’s blood and get it to a CDC microbiologist who would try to develop a vaccine for the virus. Hoffman had said they’d intended to do this after the infected soldier’s death several years ago but couldn’t get the funding then. Now a vaccine was an immediate priority and it seemed that money was no object.
They suited up and entered the secure area. Kennedy consulted a diagram on the wall that showed the layout of the spaces. He pointed toward the main corridor. “Third door on the left. Believe it or not, Hoffman gave me both keys.”
“I thought he had to be there whenever the room was opened,” said Mariah.
“That’s what he told us the other day. But he said he had an out-of-town meeting today, that he’d make an exception for me.”
As they approached the freezer room a bulky, moon-suited figure passed by them in the corridor and quickly exited the MCL.
“Wonder who that was,” said Mariah. “Not even a wave.”
“I swear he came out of the freezer room,” Kennedy said, frowning.
“How could that be?” Mariah asked. “There’s only one second key and you’re carrying it.”
He inserted his keys and opened the door. A single chest freezer stood against the far wall. He walked over, punched in some numbers on a pad on the freezer, and opened it. The temperature was set to minus eighty Celsius, the optimum level for long-term storage of virus cultures. But the gauge read minus seventy. Why was it warmer in there than it should have been? Kennedy saw a box with inserts holding a number of small vials, picked out a vial, and read the label: Kandahar, Afg. A date was inscribed below. Only about half of the inserts held a vial. There was no sign of an inventory, so there was no way to tell if anything was missing. He looked for a log-in sheet, but didn’t see one.
“Let’s go,” he said to Mariah. She looked startled but didn’t question him. They exited the lab and he led the way to the shower rooms.
“Shower out quickly,” he said. “I’ll meet you outside.”
Soon they stood together outside the MCL. “I don’t know what’s going on,” said Kennedy. “I’m pretty sure that the guy who passed us in there had been in the freezer room—and in the freezer. It was warm enough that it seemed like someone had just opened it. And he looked like he was carrying something.”
“So what are we going to do?” asked Mariah.
“Try to follow him,” said Kennedy. “He can’t be far ahead unless he didn’t bother to shower out.” He started to move, knowing there was no time to waste, but then stopped and turned back to Mariah. His gut was telling him this could be a dangerous situation.
“Look, I’ll go ahead,” he told her. “I’ll give you a ring later.”
Mariah shook her head. “I’ll go with you,” she said firmly.
Kennedy hesitated for just a second. He couldn’t take the time to argue and Mariah seemed determined. Maybe he was overreacting. He told himself that he’d minimize the risk to her, pursue the guy carefully, stay far enough back that they wouldn’t arouse the man’s suspicions. “Okay,” he said. “But we’ll have to move quickly.”
They both heard a noise—the sound of footsteps ahead of them.
Kennedy took off running, with Mariah close behind. They came to a T at the end of the corridor and heard a door banging shut to the left. When they burst through it, they were facing a parking lot. Kennedy heard the sound of an engine and saw a dark sedan pulling away.
“Come on!” he shouted, yanking keys out of his pocket as he broke into a run again. They sprinted to a pickup truck and jumped in. Kennedy fired the ignition and pulled quickly out of the parking space. The sedan was about a hundred yards ahead, moving fast, approaching the exit from the Barn property, where a plainclothes security guard sat inside a small shed. He had a sliver of hope that the guard would detain the speeding sedan, but he doubted that would happen. He’d been arguing for better security at the Barn, but the powers that be hadn’t taken him seriously.
The car blew past the gate and turned right onto Route One. Kennedy pressed down on the truck’s gas pedal, intending to follow close behind. He cursed
under his breath at the sight of the guard, now in the middle of the exit lane, waving him over. So now he decides to do his job. Kennedy pulled to a stop, rolled down the window, flashed an ID card, and pointed ahead. “I’m after that vehicle. Official government business.” Without waiting for an answer, he accelerated and turned onto Route One. There was no sign of the sedan. Kennedy hoped that it would be delayed by a stoplight. Traffic was light this time of day.
After a few minutes, he saw the car waiting at a red light. He slowed the truck, timing his approach so that he passed through the light a couple of hundred yards behind the sedan after the light turned green. He kept pace for an entire half hour, remaining far enough back so that it wouldn’t be apparent that he was following. They drove through Delaware County and into Chester County. Mariah was silent in the passenger seat. He glanced over at her. She doesn’t look scared, Kennedy thought.
When he turned his eyes back to the road again, the sedan was gone.
* * *
Two National Guard soldiers wearing white Tyvek protective suits walked slowly down the length of a long, shallow trench in the middle of a large farm field near Andrews Bridge, Pennsylvania. They wore asbestos gloves and full-face, multipurpose respirators, and carried flamethrowers. Tangled, stiff carcasses of Holstein dairy cows, piled two or three deep, filled the trench. Every few seconds long streams of flame issued from the barrels of the flamethrowers and ignited the corpses. Black, oily smoke plumed from the trench and stained the blue sky with ragged, dark streaks. Farther up the trench, bulldozers pushed more dead cattle into the depression.
A lean, graying man in green coveralls watched the activity from a vantage point upwind of the blaze. The man was the director of emergency management for Lancaster County, and the on-scene commander of the cow-culling operation. A young National Guard lieutenant standing next to him shook his head and spoke.
