The Third World War: A Terrifying Novel of Global Conflict

74

Tom Patton had been shielding them from the worst. Or perhaps he hadn't known. Mary Newman helped Jim West adjust his NBC suit. She sealed his gloves around his wrists, checked his suit for punctures and adjusted his air mix. Lazaro Campbell did the same for hers and then the President and Secretary of State went together into the isolation ward.

Order had been maintained as much as possible, but too many patients were being admitted. Men, women and children were lying together, and mattresses were laid out in rows at the foot of the beds, leaving only a narrow strip of floor to walk on.

This whole level of the hospital was quarantined. Temporary biodecontamination showers had been set up outside the door of the ward, with a thick lead-lined curtain hanging between them and the stairwell. To begin with, blood samples from each patient had been flown to Fort Detrick for analysis. But now the numbers were so overwhelming that only basic care was being provided. The dead were taken out of the southern door, down to the basement and incinerated without any autopsy. The cause of death was only too clear.

Caroline Brock had been offered some privacy, but she had insisted against it. Now she must have been beyond caring. West could only recognize her bed by the picture taped to her headboard of her and Peter a couple of Christmases ago at the Georgetown house, her sitting on his lap in front of the tree. A couple and their child lay silent, weak and shivering on a mattress that West had to step over.

Caroline's pustules were clustered so densely that they ran together down her arms and across her chest. They were haemorrhaging and coating her body with a film of blood and pus. Her fever was so high that sweat ran down her face; none of the normal skin was visible, only the outlines of the mouth, the nose and the eyes whose lids were flickering, the force of life trying to open them but failing.

A feeding tube dangled useless above her, swinging and brushing her face. She must have ripped it out, because of the pain. Newman moved it to one side. She took a tissue to wipe Caroline's lips. Caroline screamed as the tissue touched her mouth. Her pustule-covered hand came up to push Newman away.

'Caro,' whispered Newman. 'It's me. Mary.'

Her head turned ever so slightly.

'It's Mary. And Jim.'

All Newman wanted to do was tear off the mask so that at least Caroline could see her. But to do so could be to sign her own death warrant. Caroline's eyes flickered open for a moment. Her mouth moved, but instead of speaking, a pustule broke and blood trickled between her lips. Caroline spat it out.

West turned to a nurse, hovering behind them. 'How long before she dies?' he asked.

'A day at the most,' said the nurse.

'Is she conscious?'

'Many patients remain conscious until their last breath.'

From across the ward, there was a wail. In the next bed, a groan, then a baby's cry, piercing and unrelenting, for there was no one to comfort it. Under the fluorescent light, West saw a buzzing fly which should never have got in. It flew down, circled and landed on a patient's shoulder. Then it hopped across to the forehead and ended up on the closed eyelid. It had picked up some pus on its wings and movement was more difficult. The patient lay there dull and not responding, even when the fly jumped again, landed in the inflamed mouth and became trapped.

One or two lifted their hands, begging for help. The nurse — there was only one — moved to them. She could do nothing. But at least she was there.

West returned to Caroline's bed. Newman was sponging her with cold water. Caroline's eyes were open and it seemed she knew who they were. West took a notepad by the bed and wrote simply, 'To Caro and Peter. My closest and dearest friends. Goodbye.'

He gave it to Newman, who read it and understood. Then West did one of the hardest things. He turned and walked out of the ward, leaving Caroline Brock to die.

'My fellow Americans, I am speaking to you from the Oval Office at the White House,' said West, keeping his eyes steady in the glare of the television lights for the practice read-through. He had changed into a dark suit, with a black tie hand-embroidered with the American flag. 'You know why I am making this address, and I do not intend to take up much of your time. I will begin by laying out the events which have led to this, and then tell you how we plan to move on.'

Without warning the lights cut off and West blinked. Kozerski stepped in front of the desk. 'Jamie Song from Beijing, sir. He wants to talk urgently. He's speaking in English.'

West could see Patton just outside the door talking to Campbell, Meenakshi and Lizzie. Jenny Rinaldi, looking back and forth to Patton, was on the phone. Newman walked past them, into the room and straight to West. 'Caro's gone,' she said quietly. Her hand, fresh from her NBC suit, was warm when she laid it on his. West's gaze was cast down like a man trying to ignore the truth.

Newman lifted her hand and moved away, loosening her scarf. Now that she had delivered the news of Caroline Brock's death, she was unsure of where she should go.

'I don't know what the Secretary of State thinks,' said Kozerski, scanning through the words on the autocue underneath the camera, 'but looking at this draft, my hunch would be that we don't apologize for anything. Let that come later. Not now.'

Newman stepped back. Kozerski had broken the strange interlude she had found herself in. 'I second that, Mr President,' she said. 'The American people want to know about your strength, not your regrets.'

'Let's hope I don't have to say it,' said West. He lifted his head and didn't bother to hide the tears that had come naturally with the news of Caroline's death.

'Do we have a deal with Jamie?' asked West, bringing out a handkerchief. Skilfully the make-up attendant was with him, combing his hair and dabbing the skin-toner around his eyes.

'He wouldn't say,' said Kozerski. 'He wants to talk to you.'

'If you'll all excuse me,' said West, unclipping his microphone and walking over the lighting and sound cables towards his private office. He caught Newman's eyes, her look of hope and curiosity, but he had no equivalent to return to her.

Fighter planes, patrolling Washington, flew loud and low over the White House as he opened the door to his private office.

The red light was flashing on the desk telephone. West picked up the receiver. He didn't sit down or perch against the side of the desk.

'Jamie,' he said softly. But he heard nothing except the sounds of an abandoned telephone line. He felt something well up inside him, ridding him of doubt and clearing away the brooding darkness that threatened to envelop him. It was the most basic instinct, the one that keeps a person alive, the one that rids him of hesitation and gives him complete belief in his own existence.

'Jamie?' he said again, louder.

'The line's gone.' It was Kozerski's voice coming across.

West did not return the receiver to its cradle. Outside, he watched the greyness of the lingering winter. It seemed so long since the missile had hit Yokata, yet not long enough for the seasons to change and the colours to sharpen. He saw his own reflection in the glass looking back at him like a stone-faced stranger.