Terror At Dawn

SIX

The two doctors stood before Admiral Jette and Captain Arnot, waiting for a reaction. Both the captain and the admiral seemed frozen, as though to react to the news was to make it even more real that it might be. Finally, the captain cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Just how sure are you that this is what you think it is?” He avoided saying the names that ran like a litany of doom through his mind: black plague, Ebola, hemorrhagic fever.

Dr. Evan Bender, a captain and the senior medical officer on board United States, pursed his lips. “We’re not certain of anything at this point, Captain. The lab reports are inconclusive, not surprising with what we have to work with on board. It will take a full culture in level-four containment facilities to make sure.” He glanced over at the younger doctor to his side, Dr. Marcia Henning, and said, “And that could take a few days, couldn’t it?”

Dr. Henning was one of the more junior doctors aboard, but she had completed a one-semester work project with the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, and was the closest thing the ship had to an infectious disease specialist. “Maybe just forty-eight hours,” she said, “although it could be longer, depending on what they think they’re looking for. And if it’s a new strain that hasn’t been identified yet and this is the first time it’s popped up, some mutated organism of some sort — well, it could be longer. They’ll try to sequence the DNA and see if they can find out what family of diseases it belongs to first.”

“Until then,” Dr. Bender put in, “the first course of action for us is full isolation procedures. It could be that our young Marine is just suffering from a nasty case of the flu. But until we know more…” He spread his hands in front of him, palms up, and a look of helplessness spread across his face. “I can’t recommend we take any chances with this, sir. The potential for disaster…” Again, he left the sentence unfinished.

The captain, although he appeared to be looking at the doctors, was in reality mentally replaying a seminar from the Naval War College. The seminar had been part of an intelligence briefing, highly classified, restricted on a need-to-know basis. Every man and woman in the room had been headed for command. The intelligence officer from the CIA had seemed peculiarly uneasy, and with an unerring instinct born of years of command, the captain and everyone else in the room had known that he was holding something back. The CIA, they understood, had been extremely reluctant to provide any information on the topic of biochemical warfare, at least not at a level of specificity that would do anyone any good. Sure, there were plenty of unclassified briefings around, tons of material to study. But getting someone to put their ass on the line and say yes, this is something every one of you is going to face within the next few months — well, that was something else entirely.

The CIA officer had declined to give his name, introducing himself as Jim. He had sharply cut features, darkly tanned with a slight sunburn on his nose, eyes that had seen too much that he could never tell. Still, once Jim had gotten started, the captain had appreciated his no-nonsense manner.

“There is a good possibility,” he had begun, “that one of you will face the possibility that a biochemical weapon has been used against you. Better than a possibility — I would go so far as to say an eighty-percent chance.” He paused to let that sink in.

Around him, the captain had heard the sharp intakes of breath. Putting a number to the threat made it real.

Eighty percent. For some reason, it had floated through his mind that presidential elections often reflected a voter turnout about a third of that.

Jim punched a button on his remote control, and the computer threw up a map of the world, some areas shaded in red. “These are the areas in which biochemical weapons are being developed — particularly biological agents. Some of them are quite primitive, and in our estimation the countries or groups involved are incapable of actually deploying the weapons. That doesn’t mean they can’t sell the warheads to a third party or make them available on the international arms market.”

Our new friend Jim has the look of someone who ought to be out in the field. Wonder how he got tapped to do this presentation. Maybe an injury — maybe he screwed up somehow and got yanked back to a desk?

The slides went on and on, describing what particular forms of death were being developed in each region, the availability of delivery systems, political estimates of which groups were intending to actually use the weapons. Only occasionally were Jim’s comments modified by, “We believe,” or, “We estimate.” More often, the data was accompanied by hard numbers, specific statistics, and projections even more frightening for their banality. Finally, when Jim opened the floor to questions, the captain asked, “So what do we do?”

Jim studied him for a moment, his gaze flat. “Arnot — deployed in four months to the Middle East.” It was not a question, but the captain nodded in response anyway. “There will be a precruise briefing that will answer most of your questions, Captain. In general, you must be prepared to react immediately to any unexplained outbreak of illness, particularly if it comes aboard following a shore deployment in one of these areas. Absent hard laboratory evidence to the contrary, you must — I repeat, must — assume that the patient has been infected with a contagious biological weapon.” Jim’s eyes bored into Arnot’s, seeking confirmation that the captain understood what he was saying. “Prior to deployment, your medical staff will be briefed as well. You’ll have some additional equipment aboard that will help them refine their analysis and diagnosis, as well as extra supplies of antibiotics, other supplies necessary to provide symptomatic treatment and life support.”

“Guess we all better get our flu shots,” someone in the back of the room muttered uneasily.

“You’ll be getting more than that,” Jim said, his gaze still fixed on Captain Arnot. “There are a number of vaccines in development now. Whether enough will be available prior to deployment is still questionable.”

“FDA-approved?” a medical officer headed for command of Balboa Naval Hospital asked.

“In some cases,” Jim said, and waited for the inevitable reaction of groans and complaints to subside. “Yes, we all know what happened with the anthrax vaccine. The court cases when sailors refused to take it, claiming it was dangerous. The problems in the manufacture, complaints about the series of shots. That will not be an issue.”

Jim stopped suddenly, as though he had said more than he intended to.

“Why?” the medical officer asked.

“We think the legal precedents have been set at this point,” Jim continued, his voice unconvincing. “And our studies showed that most sailors will prefer the protection of the vaccine to any unsubstantiated and undocumented potential side effects. There are the procedures in place to deal with that possibility, too.”

They’re not going to tell them. The thought shot through Arnot like a comet. They’ll tell them it’s a flu vaccine, some sort of booster — or just include whatever they’re testing out and not tell anybody. A wave of anger, then a shameful surge of relief. Yes, it was terribly wrong — but he wouldn’t know about it, would he? Even the captain of the ship would not be told, if that was what they were planning. And if he didn’t know, he wouldn’t have to deal with the possible protests.

Now, as he stared at the two medical officers standing tall in front of his desk, the captain’s doubts resurfaced. Had they been vaccinated against some form of biochem weapon in the last routine flu shot? If so, against what? And was there any way to find out — hell, could he even ask questions about the possibility? — without violating the nondisclosure agreement he’d signed prior to the CIA briefing?

He glanced over at the admiral, wondering if he had attended a similar CIA briefing. He’d try to find out later, if he could.

The admiral was still silent, although his face had gone pale. He stared at the two medical officers wide-eyed, and the captain was surprised to see a tiny tremor in his right hand. And that color — even as he watched, the admiral seemed to go a shade paler.

“Admiral?” he asked. “Do you have any guidance on this?”

The admiral turned to stare at him as though he didn’t recognize Arnot. Then, in a rush, color came flooding back to his face. “I suggest we arrange for evacuation of those men involved to shore. They’re better equipped to deal with this than we are. There are — how many, forty-eight? — potential victims and we don’t even know what we’re dealing with. The ship doesn’t have the resources to run a full isolation ward. It will interfere with our mission.”

“Losing those men and women if this turns out to be just the flu will interfere, too,” Arnot said.

“Damn it all, Arnot, are you paying attention?” The admiral pointed at the senior doctor, and now Arnot could clearly see the quiver in the admiral’s finger. “Do you know how many people the black plague wiped out in Europe? Do know how contagious this ship is? I’m not having it on my ship — I’m not having it.” The admiral’s voice was slightly higher, his words tumbling over each other. “What about the air wing? We start losing pilots right and left, what good are we?”

Arnot and the doctors stared at him, consternation on their faces for a moment before they all settled back into professional Naval officer expressions. “Planning evacuation is premature,” the senior doctor said shortly. “Once we have some preliminary lab results back, then we might consider—”

“No. I’m not taking the risk. I want an evacuation plan on my desk in twenty minutes.” The admiral shot up from his seat and rose to his full height. “Now move.” The admiral turned and stomped out of the room, his back stiff.

When he was gone, Arnot turned back to the doctors, and let out an involuntary sigh. “I’ll talk to him. How soon do you think you’ll know something else?”

“Twelve hours, Captain,” the younger doctor said. “I started cultures as best I can — but I can’t do any DNA sequencing here. We’re running a couple of tests to determine if it’s a normal variant of some sort of flu. But even if it is, we can’t be absolutely certain that it hasn’t been genetically altered in some way. Mostly we’re going to have to monitor the kid, treat his symptoms, and provide life-function support. If he’s got something truly nasty, he’s going to get worse fast, given how fast it came on initially after the possible exposure.”

“What about evacuation?” the captain asked. “The plans I saw said we could do it.”

“Yes, we do have contingency plans,” the senior medical officer said. “But in the case of a possible biological-warfare outbreak, we have to get permission from Fifth Fleet and from JCS. There’s some question in my mind whether they’re going to want anyone off the ship at all. They may prefer to fly in additional experts and treatment equipment.”

“Quarantine us,” the captain said. The doctor nodded. “You think that’s what they’ll do?”

“I do.” This time, it was the younger medical officer who answered. “The first priority with any epidemic is to contain the spread.”

Epidemic. Quarantine. Dear God.

“I’ll talk to the admiral, make sure he understands the procedural requirements for evacuation. In the meantime, I’ll let you get back to your patient. I don’t need to tell you that I want to be informed of any change in his condition and any preliminary lab results.” Both officers nodded.

Alone in the conference room, the captain relaxed for a moment, and let a wave of despair sweep through him. He allowed himself approximately fifteen seconds to feel the crushing burden of command, then resolutely put it aside in that compartment of his mind dedicated to dealing with such fears. He scribbled a few notes on a notepad, then took a deep breath and went to see the admiral.

Fifteen minutes later, he left the admiral’s cabin in a foul mood. As he’d suspected, Admiral Jette had changed his mind when he’d learned evacuation would require requesting permission from Fifth Fleet. Arnot had pointed out that evacuation might be devastating to the morale of the medical department, since they’d had extensive training and additional resources supplied to deal with such a contingency. Without coming right out and saying it, he’d led the admiral to conclude that an immediate request for an evacuation might reflect on the admiral’s ability to rely on his own resources. Admiral Jette had not needed any prompting to remember when the promotion board to two stars met.

He cares more about his own career than he does that kid, not to mention the rest of the crew. By God, if I thought I was endangering anyone on the ship, I’d be howling for that evacuation right now.

Easy to make snap judgments, though. Arnot grimaced. After this cruise, he’d be up for promotion to one-star himself, and someday might be sitting in the seat Jette occupied now.

And would I want my captain thinking about me the things I’m thinking about Jette?

No. He’d give the admiral the benefit of the doubt, Arnot decided.

Or give him enough rope to hang himself.

With the forward galley secured since Griffin had fallen ill, the aft galley was far more crowded than normal. Williams entered the galley, and saw that the line stretched around the compartment before arriving at the stack of trays and the food line. Those going on watch had front-of-the-line privileges, and he started to walk around the line and invoke them when he noticed a woman standing at the end of the line. Short dark hair framed translucent skin, the mouth broad and generous, the eyes dark blue. She had the look of someone who was about to laugh at any moment. Where had he seen her before?

Oh, right. In the galley. She had just finished her tour of mess cranking when he reported in.

He headed for the end of the line to stand directly behind her. She didn’t turn around. Williams cleared his throat, scuffed his foot on the floor, and finally said, “Hey.”

She glanced behind at him, and a look of recognition crossed her face. “Hey.” She nodded a pleasant if not altogether friendly acknowledgment.

“Hey,” he said again, a bit at a loss for words. “You were in the galley, weren’t you?” He could see the look of disdain on her face — of course she had been in the galley — all sailors spent a tour there. Probably every guy in the world tried to come on to her, so she was playing it cool. Well, he would just have to show her he was different. “You got off right after I got here,” he continued doggedly, wondering if he was making any sense at all. “I just got off last week. Three months total.”

“How very nice for you,” she said politely, then turned to face forward. He noticed the insignia on her sleeve.

“Engineman, huh? How do you like it down there? I’m in aviation data systems. VF-95.” He saw her start to lose interest at the mention of aviation, and said, “It’s really pretty interesting. And dangerous. I was down in the hanger bay when the fire broke out.” There was a small flicker of interest in her eyes. He debated telling her how the petty officer had called him a wild man, but had the good sense to quit while he was ahead.

“I was on the bridge when it happened,” she said finally. “I saw the boat just before it fired.”

“Really? What did it look like?”

She shrugged. “Small, wooden. An outboard motor. I almost missed it. Not that it would have made any difference if I had, I guess. We still got hit.”

“It could have been a lot worse,” he said. “We had enough time to get the hanger bay doors at least partially shut and there was only one missile fired.”

“Yeah. I guess. But if I’d seen it a minute earlier, maybe even thirty seconds before…” Her voice broke off and she looked over his head as if staring at something only she could see.

“A minute — we could have gotten the doors closed all the way if we’d had that long,” he said unthinkingly. She recoiled as though he’d slapped her. “But there wasn’t any way to, was there? I mean, it wasn’t showing up on radar or anything, I heard.”

“No. That’s why we have lookouts. But still — it was there. Like I said, if I’d seen it earlier, things might have been different.”

“Yeah, and if we were off the coast of Florida, it wouldn’t be so damn hot,” he said.

Her head snapped up, eyes suspicious, as though she suspected he might be making fun of her. He continued, hurrying. “From what I hear, most people wouldn’t have seen it all. The first we would have known about it was taking a missile in the gut. But the way it did go down, we had the fire crew on scene and we were able to contain it before it spread to any of the aircraft. The warning we did get made the difference between being out of commission for a long time and taking a little hit. That’s what I meant.”

Her face was still hard, but he thought he saw a slight softening around her eyes. “I keep wondering what would have happened if I paid more attention,” she said quietly.

“Could you have?” he asked, aware of the tremendous risk he was taking.

She shut her eyes, squeezing them shut as though reliving the incident. “Maybe.”

“No. I don’t think so. And if you keep thinking like that, you’re just going to screw everything up. You’ll be thinking about that, and you will miss the next one. You weren’t slacking off — and you know it.” He made his voice as hard as her expression.

She opened her eyes the slightest bit. “You seem to think you know a lot about me.”

He nodded, the feeling of certainty settling on him. “Yeah, I think I do. You don’t look like the type to screw around while you’re on watch. Did anyone tell you that you should’ve done a better job, seen it earlier?”

“No. Actually…” She hesitated for moment, a blush coloring her cheeks. “The captain told me I did a good job. He transferred me to engineering just like I wanted.”

“Well, there you go. The captain, he’s been in the Navy how long? Twenty-four, maybe twenty-five years? And he told you you did a good job and you don’t want to believe it? Well, I know who I believe.”

She considered him for moment, then stuck out her hand. “Andrea Smith.”

He took her hand in his, feeling the small, delicate bones, the silky skin over them. “Gary Williams. Nice to meet you again.”

“Williams?” Then her expression did relax. She laughed, even. “I heard about you and the fire. Somebody said—”

A new voice broke in. “Hey, you two lovebirds want to move ahead?” Williams looked up and saw that the line had already reached the stacks of trays. They’d been edging forward as they’d talked, but a gap was developing between them and the people in front of them.

“Oh, boy,” she said, taking a tray and handing him one. “It either looks better than usual or I’m starving.”

Williams followed her through the line, barely paying attention to what was put on his tray. It might be galley food, but he had a feeling this was going to the best meal he’d had in a long time.