The Ares Decision

61

Jon Smith stepped over Dahab’s garbage bag — cocooned body and peered into the open door to the bathroom. “You okay, Peter?”

Howell was leaning over the sink, supporting himself with palms planted on either side. When he spoke, the water in his mouth ran out red.

“Just cricket, thank you for asking.”

“Do you think any of his blood got in your cuts?”

“How the hell should I know, Jon? There isn’t a square inch of me that isn’t torn or broken.”

“Yeah…”

“What about you?”

“The same.”

“Well, I guess we’ll know soon enough, then.”

The pilot had done the best he could to calm the passengers, telling them that Dahab was a drug runner wanted for murder and that they were from Interpol, but not everyone was convinced. Cautious whispers had evolved into loud, multilingual discussions, and then into a constant, panicky drone. Ten rows up, two men were standing in the aisle jabbing at each other in one of a number of arguments that seemed almost certain to get out of hand. When one got shoved into the lap of the woman behind him, Smith stepped through the curtain and banged loudly on the wall.

“Hello! Can I have your attention, please?”

Silence immediately descended on the plane, and everyone turned toward him.

“My name is Jon Smith and I’m a doctor with the U.S. Army. If you’ll give me a minute, I’d like to tell you what’s going on.”

His voice didn’t quite achieve the calm authority he’d hoped for, but in truth, he was lucky he could talk at all. The sensation of Dahab’s grip on his throat was still palpable beneath the finger-shaped contusions.

“The man who was killed was a terrorist.”

The volume went up again as people shouted a barrage of questions: Could he have accomplices on the plane? Was there a bomb? Why had he been allowed to board?

Smith waited for the cacophony to die down before starting to flesh out the story told to the flight crew.

“He wasn’t armed and there are no explosives. He had a drug-​resistant form of tuberculosis that he planned on trying to spread throughout Europe.”

More shouted questions as the level of fear notched noticeably higher.

“Please! Let me finish. I want to stress that this strain of TB can be cured with special antibiotics. However, those antibiotics are expensive and we only have a few thousand doses stockpiled. Obviously, that would be a serious problem in a pandemic, but it’s not a serious problem for the people on this plane. We’re currently being diverted to a naval base where we’ll be met by American medical specialists. In the extremely unlikely event you’ve contracted this illness, you’ll be given medication that will take care of it.”

Jon Smith stood at the back of the cockpit, looking through the windscreen at the scene below. There were three C-5 transport planes on the ground, and medical tents were in the process of being set up. Various military vehicles were lined up along the runway, and green-clad figures rushed through the glare of portable spotlights. This wasn’t going to do much for the passengers’ peace of mind, but the time for subtlety was long past.

They touched down and bounced around a bit before rolling to a stop in front of a steel barricade. Armed men in biohazard gear immediately surrounded the plane, and blocks were put around the wheels to make certain the plane couldn’t take off again. The frightened voices of the passengers rose to a volume that almost obscured the ringing of the pilot’s sat phone.

Smith picked up. “Go ahead.”

“What’s your situation?” Fred Klein asked.

“Unfortunately, the patient didn’t make it. We’ve wrapped up the body and put it in the back.”

“Possibility of spread?”

“To the passengers and crew, I’d say minimal. To me and Peter, medium to high.”

“I’m going to get you two off the plane. We have a situation that needs your attention. Everyone else stays put until we finish setting up. Go to the door closest to the cockpit. We’re bringing up a ladder.”

“Two minutes,” Smith said. “I need to brief the passengers.”

“Two minutes.”

He went back out and found Peter trying to make his way to the front of the plane as people grabbed at him and pointed out the windows at the soldiers.

“Hello! Can I have your attention again, please?”

They all looked to him, and Howell used the diversion to limp to the front of the plane.

“Peter and I are getting off,” Smith started before once again being drowned out.

“Everybody calm down and listen to me! We came into direct contact with the infected man, so we’re the most likely people here to have contracted the illness. We’re being taken to quarantine so there’s no chance of us passing it on to any of you. More medical personnel and equipment are being flown in and you’ll be let off when they get set up.”

“When do we get the antibiotics?” someone shouted.

“Most likely you won’t need them, because I doubt any of you are going to get ill — this strain isn’t particularly contagious. Look, I know a lot of the doctors out there and they’re the best in the world. You’re in good hands.”

Someone outside banged on the door and he twisted the handle. By the time he got it open, the man on the ladder was already on the ground and retreating to a sandbagged machine-gun placement.

A few of the passengers surged toward the door, but Howell blocked them. “Please stay back,” he said, retreating toward the ladder. “I could be infected.”

That slowed them enough to allow Smith to climb onto the ladder and quickly descend, trying not to think about the battery of guns trained on his back.