A Heartbeat Away

CHAPTER 16

Griff lifted the vinyl flap of the camouflage-colored field tent and stepped inside. At this point, he decided, there was no sense in trying to explain to the head of the Northern Command that he had a lingering issue with the military.

The walls of the deceptively roomy tent rippled with the gusting January wind. There were seven tall metal lockers, evenly spaced along one of the walls. Set against the opposite side was a portable sink and head-high shelving unit stocked with army-issued towels. Portable gas heaters kept the space warm.

Griff and his Special Forces bodyguards wasted no time getting undressed. There was no banter, no extraneous talk. They exchanged their street clothes for green surgical scrubs, folded neatly inside their lockers. Griff found it a challenge to pull the drawstring tight enough to hold the pants up around his depleted waist. Finally, he pulled his field biological suit from the tightly packed locker and spread it out on the floor. With well-practiced moves, he stepped into it feetfirst, then slid his arms into the sleeves, extending his fingers until his hands fit snugly inside the attached gloves.

“You guys know to be extra careful with the hands, right? One tiny puncture could kill you.”

“We know how to take care of our gear,” came the terse reply.

“I gotcha,” Griff said, raising his hands defensively.

The other soldiers eyed him coolly. He reminded himself that to them, he was a convicted terrorist. In fact, there would be no one he encountered this night who believed otherwise. No bands. No banners. No ceremony proclaiming welcome to freedom, Griff.

“I don’t know how much experience you’ve had in a hot zone before,” he said. “This virus is lethal. Aren’t you the least bit curious as to what they’ve thrust you into?”

“No one thrust us into anything,” the soldier to his right said. “We volunteered. Our orders are to shadow you every step you take, and to protect you if anyone tries to … to—”

“Go ahead, say it.”

“To take you out.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll do great in there,” Griff said.

Just as I’m sure you’re not all coming out alive.

Griff pulled the flexible butyl hood over his head. What little vapor condensed on his visor evaporated as soon as he got the PAPR breathing system running. Without a built-in microphone, he had to raise his voice to be clearly heard. Even though the gloves and boots were essentially welded to the suit, he still wrapped his wrists and ankles with tape. None of the soldiers took that added precaution.

“I’m taping up,” he said. “I’d suggest you do the same.”

“Why?” one solider asked.

“To shore up your weak points, that’s why.”

The soldiers stared at him numbly.

“I don’t see any weak points.”

“Wrists and ankles. Look, this virus doesn’t care how careful you think you’re being. It has one mission, just like you do. Its mission is to find a way into your bloodstream, locate the organ it was born to make its home in, and replicate. If it were a perfect organism, it would use you up just enough to keep you and it alive forever. It would be so much easier that way. But this virus isn’t perfect, so it will kill you whether it wants to or not, and in ways you can’t even imagine.”

The soldiers eyed each other. Finally, one nodded. Griff tossed him the roll of duct tape.

“I’m ready when you are,” Griff said.

Minutes later, the seven emerged from the field tent and made their way across the frozen ground toward the visitor center entrance. Spacemen on the move. As always, the suit made Griff feel mildly claustrophobic, despite it being loose-fitting and pliable. He had no doubt that the sensation was brought on in part by the invisible assassins separated from him and unimaginably violent death by only four mils of vinyl.

He scanned the faces of the soldiers flanking him, checking them through their clear plastic visors for signs of distress. Clearly they were tough and focused, but then again, none of them had contracted a Level Four virus like Ebola or WRX3883 before. In all likelihood, that fact would change before too long.

As they walked, Griff could again hear spectators shouting at them, though his hood muffled their voices. Suddenly, he heard the woman’s voice calling his name—once, then again. But before he could locate the source, General Egan emerged from behind an armored troop transport vehicle. He ordered the guards to halt a few feet shy of the portable airlock.

“Sergeant Stafford, you’ll keep me informed of your progress by radio.”

“Yes, sir.”

The husky soldier, who introduced himself to Griff as Sergeant Chad Stafford, draped the bulky radio, tethered to a low-hanging strap, around his neck. Three others were handed M16A4 assault rifles, and two were given high-powered flashlights. Griff noticed that none of them was given a first-aid kit.

“Be sure to leave all this gear inside when you return,” Egan said.

“General,” Griff said, “those weapons will just add to the risk of a suit puncture.”

“With all due respect, Dr. Rhodes, I’ll be the judge of that,” Egan said. “Our orders are to keep an eye on you and a lookout for anyone who might cause you trouble.”

Following the general’s order, two soldiers guarding the airlock entrance stepped aside. Griff paused to make a careful inspection of the hastily built structure. The unit had two distinct parts—the airlock and a connecting tunnel. Both were comprised of vinyl panels set upon heavy-duty integrated aluminum frames that formed a transparent enclosure. The airlock was large enough to accommodate all seven of them. The tunnel, however, which was accessible through a vinyl door inside the airlock, required them to walk single file to reach the entrance of the Capitol.

The airlock met Griff’s standards for safety, but only for a Level 3 or less microbe. Neoprene cell foam gaskets sealed the frame-to-frame connections. Ceiling-mounted HEPA air filters produced the optimum negative pressure airspace. There were three portable chemical showers inside the airlock chamber itself, which they would use to decontaminate before they could exit.

The rudimentary structure, designed to allow entry into the Capitol with the minimal risk of viral escape, was not up to the safety standards of a BSL-4 containment facility. But despite his reservations, Griff knew the setup was better than nothing and best for these circumstances.

Once inside the airlock, he used the gauge he had requested to measure microns of airborne contaminate. As soon as he got three satisfactory readings, he pulled open the door sealing the airlock from the tunnel. On the way out, each of them would be required to take a twenty-minute chemical shower, following which Griff would measure the air quality again. Three more safe readings and he would risk opening the airlock door for them to exit.

Simple enough.

“The visitor center entrance to the Capitol should be unlocked,” Sergeant Stafford yelled. Griff could barely hear over the noise of the ceiling-mounted air purifiers lining the tunnel walkway. “You’ll be met by the president’s personal physician and escorted to President Allaire by his Secret Service people.”

“Roger that,” one solider replied.

The team entered in single file. No one spoke as they passed through the visitor center door. Once inside the Capitol, Griff paused, adjusting his senses to the new environment. All was silent.

Deadly silent.

After a delay of two minutes, a team of four agents appeared—two men and two women. Their expressions suggested they hadn’t been briefed to expect the biocontainment suits. Or maybe it was Griff’s Unibomber appearance.

“Where’s the doctor?” Sergeant Stafford asked.

“Detained. People are starting to get sick. We’ve got medicine and supplies coming in by tram to the House subway station.”

Griff turned to the agent.

“I’ll need access to those tunnels so I can sample the atmosphere. We might have to seal them off. We have no idea about their air flow patterns.”

“What is this virus?” an agent said.

“Nothing good,” Griff answered.

The agents introduced themselves, but Griff paid no attention to their names. Instead he studied them for signs of strain. Then he asked to check their hands. Chen’s test animals had reportedly developed bizarre patterns of redness on their palms as their infections intensified—crimson swirls or concentric, targetlike lesions. Of the four agents, only one of the men, tall and angular, had a slightly increased respiratory rate. He could have been hyperventilating because of the tenseness of their situation, or he could have been incubating virus.

It had been just over ten hours since the initial exposure.

“Why are you wearing jackets?” Griff asked. “It’s hot inside these suits and we have fans going. You guys must be baking.”

“We’re wearing shoulder holsters,” one of the women said. “The people in there are upset enough without having obviously armed guards parading about.”

“What’s the room temperature?”

“No idea, but it’s up there. We just got the AC running again. It already shut down on us once. We’re trying to keep the House Chamber and other rooms cool. Body heat wants to turn the place into a sauna.”

“Well, radio somebody right now and tell them to shut that AC off. It’s bad enough there are openings around every window in this creaky old place. We’re talking viruses here, as in small—unimaginably small for most people. And like I said, we don’t know about airflow or how the germ will spread. Let’s not help it along through the ventilation shafts.”

The Secret Service agent sent the order on via radio, and the biocontainment team and their guides resumed their descent into hell. They crossed a polished marble floor and then headed down a short flight of stairs into Emancipation Hall. From there, they passed the model of the Statue of Freedom and up some stairs before emerging into the Great Rotunda. Griff took little notice of the splendor of the dome, lined by cream- and gold-colored toruses, with the Brumidi frieze and stunning fresco at its top. The way things were, the Great Rotunda, and the rest of the Capitol for that matter, had become nothing more than an ornate coffin.

They crossed under the dome in silence, but from up ahead, Griff heard voices. The clamor grew louder as the team approached Statuary Hall.

“Isn’t everybody still inside the House Chamber?” he asked, visualizing the floor plans he had studied on the way across country.

“We’ve moved some people. President’s orders.”

“Varied exposure levels?”

“No one’s told us. They just said who to move and where.”

Griff’s containment suit was sweltering, but still, the scene in elegant Statuary Hall sent a chill through him. Entering between Washington and Jefferson, the team stepped into a large, two-story semicircular space, crowded with people. Many of them were lying on blankets, spread out across the richly polished checkered floor. Others were propped against the pedestals displaying the busts of heroes from each of the states.

In a bizarre, unsettling juxtaposition, those comprising the miserably uncomfortable assemblage were decked in their finest evening wear, much of which had been ripped in response to the heat. A Civil War infirmary scene was Griff’s first impression—minus the bloodied bandages and hand-carved crutches.

Portable lighting augmenting that from the chandelier bathed the scene in an eerie glow.

There were several cots set up in a row along one wall, bearing mostly older men and women with IV drips in their arms. Near them were several large trash cans, filled to overflowing with rubbish, and beside the cans were columns of cartons, stacked five high, with stenciled lettering on the side that read: US ARMY RATIONS.

The voices fell into a deathly silence as Griff and the others made their way into the room. A number of the detainees, haggard, shirts open, hair undone, slowly rose to their feet and followed Griff’s movements with their eyes. Then, without warning, a small, frustrated mob, ten or twelve, with madness in their eyes, rushed him. Some clawed at his suit. Others tried getting at his mask.

“What’s going on?” a woman shouted. “Tell us!”

“Help us! Please!”

“Who are you?”

“For God’s sake, do something! Get us out of here!”

The violent reaction was totally unexpected. One break in his suit, one microscopic tear in the seal between his mask and hood, and he was dead. Griff batted away at their arms. The soldiers and Secret Service agents, also taken by surprise, delayed several seconds before finally wading into the crowd, shoving some people aside and others to the floor. The agents pulled their sidearms and two of the soldiers swung the barrels of their M16s, gashing open a distinguished-looking gentleman’s face. A woman came at Griff from the side. Her hair was matted down with sweat and her makeup had run rivers along both cheeks.

“Please,” the women begged, “I have a son. A husband. If it’s just a flu virus, why can’t we leave?”

“Flu?” Griff repeated. “Is that what you were told?”

“Yes.”

Griff clenched his jaw and pushed his way past the woman, being led and followed closely by those assigned to protect him.

“Wait,” one of the soldiers behind Griff said.

The group turned. He was an African American, with the broad shoulders and narrow waist of a serious weight lifter. Now, the soldier stood motionless, holding his right arm out. The tape safeguarding his wrist had been torn away, and the weld between the hand and arm was ripped, exposing his skin.

“I’m sorry,” Griff whispered, placing his arm around the shoulders of the man who had quite possibly saved Griff’s life at the cost of his own. “I’m really sorry.”

Without a word, the soldier set his rifle down, placed his helmet beside it, turned, and head high, walked back into Statuary Hall.

For a time, no one could speak.

“Let’s hope you’re worth it, pal,” one of the other men said finally. “Let’s hope you’re worth it.”

The group was led down a hallway to a nondescript door just outside the House Chamber.

“The president is waiting for you inside,” an agent said.

Griff inhaled deeply, then exhaled and opened the door. From his seat at the desk inside the small office, James Allaire rose. For a time, the two men stood several feet apart, sizing each other up.

“You’re lying to these people.”

“I’m the goddamn president of this country. I do what I feel is necessary to maintain order and protect the citizens. I’m counting on you to save their lives.”

“You were wrong about me. You know that? I’m not a terrorist.”

“Well then, prove it.”