by Bob Mayer
Prior to entering the quarantine area, Riley had assisted Comsky and Lome in extricating the copilot’s body from the wreckage of the Black Hawk. It was not a job anyone from the AOB was going to volunteer for.
Given that no one really seemed to understand what was going on, Riley had suggested that Comsky explain the need for the quarantine, and Lome’s patience had worn through.
“No one put me in charge,” Riley replied in a steady voice. “But you’re not in charge either. Not of me or Conner or Mike,” he added, pointing at the SNN crew. He looked at Comsky. “He’s the man who has the most knowledge about what we might be dealing with here, so if anyone should be in charge he gets my vote.”
“Who said this was a democracy?” Lome snapped.
“Oh, give me a break,” Conner Young said. “It’s a democracy because we’re all in the same crap pile. Equal risk. Equal vote. Get it?”
“I don’t need to take any shit from you civilians,” Lome said.
“Sergeant Lome,” a woman’s quiet voice called out from a cot in the shadows near the tent wall. “As far as I can tell,” Lieutenant Vickers said, “I am the ranking person in this tent. So let Sergeant Comsky answer the question.”
“Ma’am,” Lome said, refusing to give in, “you might outrank me, but standard operating procedure says that while you are in charge in the air, in an emergency on the ground, it is the senior army person who is in charge.”
“That’s standard operating procedure only in case of an aircraft crash for escape-and-evasion purposes,” Riley countered. He looked around. “You don’t have an SOP for this situation and Lieutenant Vickers does outrank you. Do you want to go to Major Lindsay with this?”
“Fine,” Lome snapped. “The lieutenant is in charge. Go ahead.”
Vickers turned her head toward the medic, who looked as unhappy as a man could appear and wasn’t showing much interest in the feuding. “What makes you think Sergeant Ku died of a viral infection?”
Comsky blinked and made an effort to focus in. “I didn’t think it at first, but as I ruled out other causes for what was happening to him, that came to mind. There was no external wound. He’d been appearing sick for a while. The vomiting. The bleeding from everywhere. I’d read about the bleeding around the needle that happened when I tried to run the IV. That’s what happened in some cases of severe viral infection.”
“So he had a bug,” Sergeant Oswald said. “Does that mean we have it? I heard what you told Top at the crash site.”
“We’re not sure he had a bug,” Comsky said. He looked around gloomily. “But the fact that someone back in the States ordered Major Lindsay to quarantine us isn’t good.”
“So he probably had a bug,” Conner Young said sarcastically. “Are we all agreed on terminology?”
“Going back to the original question,” Vickers said. “Does that mean we have it?”
Comsky shrugged. “Depends on the transmission vector. For example, AIDS requires body-fluid—blood or semen—contact. If this has the same type of vector, most of you are okay.” He looked down at the bandage on the back of his hand.
“Unless we have an open wound,” Vickers said, running a finger along one of the cuts on her face.
“And had contact with Ku’s blood,” Comsky added. “But if it’s like influenza and it’s transmitted through the air, then we’re all fucked.”
A long silence descended.
“Hell,” Comsky finally said. “On the positive side, most deadly viruses are not easily transmitted. The odds are great that it isn’t transmitted through the air, because most viruses don’t last long when exposed to ultraviolet light. That’s why they usually go through a body fluid. And anyway, we don’t even know if it is a virus.”
“I might be a little slow here,” Riley said, “but would you explain what a virus is?” Riley knew that he had to get Comsky’s and everyone else’s mind away from dark thoughts, and the best way to do that was to get their minds working on something professional. Besides, Riley knew, people worked better when they were aware of the facts of a situation.
Comsky collected his thoughts. “There are different types of invasive organisms. The two major forms are bacteria and viruses. Tuberculosis is a bacterium. AIDS is a virus.”
Comsky’s demeanor had changed. He was back in the classroom at Fort Sam Houston in Texas, where he’d received his basic and advanced medical training. Riley knew that Special Forces medics were highly trained professionals—not functionaries who simply handed out bandages. “Most people think of these things as little bugs that are out to kill humans, but really they’re just creatures trying to live. In some cases we just happen to be the host through which they live and reproduce.” Comsky paused. “Well, actually, bacteria are alive. Viruses aren’t and they are.”
Riley looked around. The medic certainly had their attention.
“Bacteria,” Comsky continued, “are living cells. They cause problems in humans because our bodies mount a response to their infection, and in many cases, the response is so strong it destroys good cells along with the bacteria.
“Sometimes it’s the bacteria cells themselves that cause the problem. Cholera is a good example of that. The toxins from the bacteria attack cells in the intestine, causing severe diarrhea, which dehydrates the body to the point where many of those infected die.
“We didn’t spend as much time on viruses in our medical training,” Comsky said. “If I remember correctly, a virus is genetic material—DNA or RNA—inside a protein shell. They sort of just hang around and exist. Then they come in contact with a host. The problem, for the host that is, is that to reproduce, a virus needs a living cell. In the process of reproducing, a virus kills the host cell.”
“Why didn’t you spend as much time on viruses?” Riley asked. It seemed to him that if they were so deadly, there would be more attention paid.
“Because you can treat most bacterial infections,” Comsky said, “although there are more and more strains appearing that have mutated and are resistant to traditional drug treatments such as penicillin. But there are very few antiviral drugs. The best defense against viruses is vaccination.” He looked down at his hand. “And you have to have a vaccination before you get infected for it to be effective. So, most of the time, finding out that someone has a viral infection doesn’t do you much good, because in many cases there are no cures.”
“So if we got some sort of virus from that guy,” Sergeant Oswald said, bringing the entire conversation full circle, “then we’re screwed.”
“Roger that,” Comsky said.
So much for improving morale, Riley thought.
“How long do we have if we got this thing?” Oswald demanded, cutting to the chase.
Comsky shook his head. “I don’t know. Ku went down fast out there, but it must have been in him for a while.” He laughed, but it was not from the humor of the situation. “That’s the paradox of viruses that has saved mankind from being wiped out. The quicker a virus kills its host, the less chance it has of being transmitted. If a virus takes someone down in a day, it only has a small window to be passed on. If it takes years, like AIDS, then it has more of a chance to be spread. Thus the more effective a killer it is, the less chance that a virus will propagate.
“To really answer the question,” Comsky continued, “we need to find out where Sergeant Ku might have picked this thing up.”
Sergeant Lome liked that. It was a course of action, at least. “I’ll tell Major Lindsay to get on it.”
Lieutenant Vickers turned to Comsky. “I think you’d better get to work on my ankle and set it as best you can.”
Abraham Lincoln, 15 June
“Say again, sir?” the galley steward wasn’t used to the ship’s executive officer coming into his domain in the forward mess unless it was for an inspection. And he wasn’t quite sure he had heard the officer’s request correctly.
“I want you to load the largest coolers you have with ice and get them up on th
e flight deck right now!” the officer repeated.
“Yes, sir.” The steward appropriated several large coolers used to transport frozen food on the ship between the forward and aft galleys. He had his shift position them one by one underneath the massive ice-making machines in the kitchen. The galleys were capable of providing over ten thousand meals a day, so they had every piece of equipment imaginable.
They trundled the coolers to an elevator and went up to the flight deck, where a C-2 cargo plane waited. The ship’s XO was waiting there, anxiously waving them up the back ramp, where they secured the coolers. As soon as they were done, the ramp closed and the plane was rolled into place and launched.
As it disappeared to the east, the crew was left to ponder what the urgent need for ice was in Angola.
Oshakati, Namibia, 15 June
General Nystroom pulled his reading glasses out of the case in his breast pocket and slowly read the message that had just been transmitted to him. It was succinct and to the point.
TO: NYSTROOM/EYES ONLY FROM: HIGH COMMAND/SILVERMINE CEASE ALL OPERATIONS NORTH OF BORDER—HOLD IMPLEMENTATION OF JACKET THREE PENDING FURTHER ORDERS—REVIEW CONTINGENCY PLAN THAT FOLLOWS AND PREPARE TO CARRY IT OUT END OF MESSAGE
Jacket Three was the operations plan for the invasion of southern Angola. It was the entire purpose of all their actions for the past four months. Nystroom shook his head. Why were they stopping him now? His forces were ready to go. Every hour they delayed gave the rebels more of a chance to reconsolidate their forces from the destruction the planes had wrought.
And how was he to cease all operations north of the border? Was he supposed to just order his scouts up there to hide? Or was he supposed to pull them back?
“Is there more?” Nystroom asked his communications officer.
“No, sir. Just that one page.”
Where was the contingency plan, then? Nystroom wondered. Were the Americans backing out? He’d heard nothing. The 82d was deploying as planned according to his liaison officers.
If the Americans were still on schedule, was there some change back in his own command? Or was there another factor? Nystroom threw the message down. Damn political bullshit.
National Security Agency, Fort Meade, Maryland, 15 June
Waker read the text of the message that had been transmitted from Silvermine to General Nystroom one more time. Breaking the South African code had been easier than he had expected, but he wasn’t too thrilled with what he had just uncovered. He didn’t know why the South Africans were holding up on their part of the operation, but he knew he needed to pass this information along to his higher headquarters. Waker put the appropriate address on the decoded message and e-mailed it along a secure network.
Cacolo, Angola, 15 June
It was one of the strangest things Conner had ever watched. She’d had Seeger film Comsky packing Ku’s body—or rather the lump wrapped with ponchos—in ice inside a large cooler the plane had brought in. They put the body of the copilot in another cooler. She knew her film was being intercepted by the Pentagon and that everything from here on was going to be held until this thing, whatever it was, played out. She also knew that the recent action would probably never make prime time. It had not been a pretty sight.
“Comsky!”
They all looked out toward the wire. Major Lindsay stood there in the darkness.
“Yes, sir.”
“I found out something about Sergeant Ku.”
Comsky walked over to the wire, the rest of them following. Conner noted the six feet of air that separated them from the man on the other side. Was that enough to keep Lindsay safe? Was there even something on this side to worry about?
“I talked to Major Gungue and we tracked down the officer who was in charge of Ku before he got picked up to be your team’s liaison. A lieutenant Monoko. They were stationed at the Angola-Zaire border at a town called Luau.”
“Has anyone checked that place?” Comsky cut in.
"“Yeah, we called out there on the radio. No sign of disease. But we did find out something interesting. On their way back from Luau it seems that Lieutenant Monoko got lost. They wandered around the Lunda Norte region for a while before Monoko figured things out and got them here. Hell,” Lindsay said, “they weren’t even supposed to be here.
“But anyway,” he said quickly, “they came across a village where everyone was dead. A bunch of bodies had been stacked and someone had tried to burn them, but the job hadn’t been finished. Lieutenant Monoko said Ku got some blood on him from one of the bodies.”
“Have you found the village?” Riley asked.
“No. Monoko’s not exactly sure where it was. We just have the approximate area.”
“How long ago did this happen, sir?” Comsky asked.
“Six days.”
“Anything else, sir?”
“The people from Fort Detrick will be here before dawn,” Major Lindsay offered. He stood for a few moments, shuffling his feet, then headed back to the AOB.
“Six days,” Comsky muttered. “That’s fast.” Comsky turned away from the wire and walked off into the darkness on the other side of the tent, pondering the new information.
Slowly the rest of them wandered away inside the small area allowed them.
Conner Young returned to the tent and lay down on a cot. She was bone tired but couldn’t get to sleep. Riley had been right. The biggest story was probably going to be out here—and she was beginning to believe that she might end up wishing he was wrong, something she could not have imagined twenty-four hours ago.
Airspace, Atlantic Ocean, 15 June
“We’re three hours out,” the pilot announced. “We have some secure incoming messages for you guys on the computer link.”
For such a large plane, the crew space inside the B-l was surprisingly small. Tyron and Kieling were seated behind the pilots, faced with rows upon rows of instrument panels. They’d spoken little since taking off because there’d been nothing to talk about.
They both watched as words scrolled up. The information on Sergeant Ku’s last week alive, as much as had been found out so far, was displayed.
“Six days,” was Kieling’s first comment.
“If the ninth was the day he was infected,” Tyron hedged.
Kieling turned and looked at him. “This isn’t the lab, Tyron.”
Tyron ignored him. “They don’t have the exact location of the village.”
“We’ll find it,” Kieling said.
“How?”
“We’ll find it,” Kieling said. “But that’s not important. This thing didn’t start in a village.” He pulled a map out of his briefcase and unfolded it in the cramped cabin. That border post the case came from—” He pointed. “It’s not far from Lake Bangweulu. Maybe seven hundred miles.”
Shit, Tyron thought. Was Kieling going to use this trip to recoup the jaunt? Was he going to get focused on X? Tyron tapped the screen. “There’s no sign of this in the border town.
“They have the body on ice, at least,” Tyron added. “We can get samples back to the Institute on this plane’s return flight. We can also look with our equipment and determine if it’s a known like Ebola.”
Kieling was studying the map. “Uh-huh.” He looked up. “Well, we know this Ku fellow wasn’t patient zero. They had corpses in the village.”
Patient zero was the term for the disease’s human starting point. If they could backtrack and find patient zero, then backtrack patient zero’s steps, they could find what the disease had jumped from to get to humans and they could be that much further on their way to understanding not only the disease itself, but how it started.
A virus had to have a “reservoir”—a living organism that it resided in that it didn’t kill—or at least kill as quickly as the filo-viruses killed humans. Otherwise the parasite would destroy its own source of survival. If they could find the reservoir, then they might find out how that organism held off the effects of the virus, and that might point
in the direction of a vaccine or cure.
“Is there any way we can send a message?” Kieling asked the pilot.
“Sure,” the pilot replied. “You use the computer. It’s just like sending e-mail.” He then gave them directions.
Kieling typed into the small keyboard in front of him.
“What are you doing?” Tyron asked.
“Getting a hold of Colonel Martin and seeing if he can get someone to take a look around the countryside where this case came from. Maybe find that village; see what else is out there.”
Major Tyron sat still for a while, listening to the sound of the jet engines. “Hey, Kieling,” he finally said.
Kieling looked up. “Yeah.”
“What if it is a level four? Maybe a filo-virus?”
“Yeah?” Kieling waited. “What if it is?”
“What will happen?”
“A lot of people are going to die,” Kieling said.
“I know that,” Tyron replied. “My question is, how do we handle it?”
Kieling snorted. “We aren’t going to handle it, as you so elegantly put it. It’ll burn, Tyron, until it’s burned everything in its path. We just have to hope it doesn’t jump the ocean, that’s all.”
National Security Agency, Fort Meade, Maryland, 15 June
Waker read the information request and felt useful for the first time since he’d been assigned to cover Angola. He quickly began typing out a series of numbers and letters that assigned tasks to NSA assets to get the job done.
Within fifteen minutes of the request, his computer began receiving real-time imagery, in various modes, of Eastern Angola. Teal Ruby was a system of telescopes armed with cameras that could take photos from space of both air and ground down to such a resolution that individual cars showed up clearly. This regular photography—not very helpful given it was night there, but part of the standard package—was in the form of a picture mosaic that the computer put together—a job that used to take days by hand.
