A Heartbeat Away (10 page)

CHAPTER 15

DAY 2
6:30 A.M. (EST)

The VH-60N banked smoothly to the right and eased toward the ground. Griff sat motionless in a plush leather seat, staring out at the granite buildings of D.C. This helicopter, though the same type that had lifted him to freedom hours earlier, had a fully finished interior, and was clearly used for transporting high-profile passengers. He was on the last leg of a journey from solitary confinement in a maximum-security penitentiary to a meeting with the president of the United States.

Just another typical day.

Griff had made the trip east, from Tinker Air Force base to Bolling, in an eerily empty C-22B transport plane. Flight time took less than three and a half hours from takeoff to landing with different military teams escorting him at each step of the two-thousand-mile, three-stop journey. Now, with the beginning just ahead, he pressed his forehead against the small portal window, and allowed images of people and places to flow through his mind.

From the earliest days of his remembered life, he had one and only one guiding force—the desire not to be normal. His parents were gray, conservative, hard-working Midwesterners, both of whom died early—his mother of cancer, and his father in a construction accident that left Griff and his older sister Louisa set financially. He was a rebel in school—a wiseass many called him—well coordinated but disinterested in sports; brilliant, but with a history of underachievement that was well on the far side of arrogance. The boys respected and feared him because of his reckless disregard for danger and his body. The girls, with few exceptions, kept their distance. The cops only saw him as a troublemaker—a brawler who, as often as not, would end up in the ER pummeled by someone twice his size.

Then Louisa died.

Meningitis, they told Griff. Meningicoccal meningitis. Within one hour of her first symptom, a headache, she was in a coma. Less than thirty-six hours later, without ever regaining consciousness, she was dead. She was twenty-four at the time. He was seventeen.

Griff watched the ripples sent across the Reflecting Pool by the powerful rotors. Escorted by several military aircraft, the chopper had passed unhindered through restricted airspace, touching down atop a cordoned-off area of frozen lawn between East Capitol Street and Capitol Driveway. Griff had studied maps of the Capitol complex en route, and knew they had landed near the entrance to the recently constructed visitor center.

Emerging from the belly of the chopper, his legs felt stiff, his muscles ached, and his temples were beginning to throb. Fatigue? Dehydration? Stress? Perhaps just the transition to freedom from twenty-three hours a day for nine months isolated in an eight-by-eight concrete cell.

He wondered what symptoms the seven hundred or so inside the Capitol were experiencing. Certainly there would already be some coughing. A good percentage of Sylvia Chen’s monkeys who had been dosed with WRX3883 by aerosol had rapidly developed a dry, hacking cough, accompanied by an outpouring of mucus. Several of the animals had died even before the virus could have taken hold in their nervous systems, probably from sudden airway obstruction, but possibly from some sort of allergic reaction to the germs themselves.

Several times, Griff had called the vet working for Chen, and insisted she treat the animals. But the woman, surly and arrogant, admitted that although she was a D.V.M., she was a specialist in pathology, paid more to autopsy the subjects than to keep them going.

Giant mobile spotlights illuminated the predawn darkness with enough wattage to turn midnight into noon. A camouflage field jacket, supplied to Griff earlier, protected him against the crisp morning air. He rubbed at his eyes and reflexively tugged at his tangled beard. Hours earlier, the flight crew on the C-22B had handed him a heavy scissors, a package of Gillette disposable razors, and a can of shaving cream, but he declined their offer.

The president needs to see the man he’s made
.

Shielding himself against the wind from the rotors, Griff took in his new surroundings with interest and awe. A mishmash of barriers—concrete blocks, low steel gates, wooden sawhorses, and barrels—formed a secure perimeter along all the roadways bordering the Capitol that he could see. Uniformed soldiers, police officers, FBI agents, and combat-ready personnel from SWAT patrolled the makeshift perimeter, their guns ready. At periodic intervals, there were sharpshooters standing beside the tripods that bore their long-range rifles.

Well behind the soldiers and police, the curious lined the perimeter, in places standing five or even ten deep. Griff estimated the crowd to be a thousand or more, with people still arriving, the vapor from their frozen breath swirling in the rotors’ wash. Some had impressive cameras and appeared to be from the media, others were using cell phones and camcorders to capture whatever might be transpiring.

History in the making.

If they only knew.

In addition to the military and the crowd, several large trucks were offloading what almost certainly were cartons of provisions into a large tent. Power cords snaked across the lawn from thrumming generators, providing illumination and heat. Griff took in the remarkable, surreal scene, juxtaposing it against the stark, unadorned walls of his cell at the Florence penitentiary, where he had started this day. He was impressed with the organization and the speed with which the military was responding to the crisis. But he also knew there was no way they were going to wade in and out of this logistical morass without a disaster.

Sooner more likely than later, WRX3883 was going to escape.

The crowd nearest to where Griff debarked noticed him right away.

“Who is that, the Unibomber?”

“Is there anyone else coming out of there?… Nope, he’s it.… He’s it?”

“Maybe he’s the prime minister of someplace.”

“I can’t believe they’re going to let him in there without giving him a bath.”

“Looks like the ghost of Howard Hughes.”

Griff battled back the urge to stop and tell the growing crowd that if they knew what was going on inside, none of them would want to be within five miles of the place. Instead, he pulled up the hood of his field jacket and trudged ahead, flanked by a cordon of soldiers, all wearing similar military camouflage.

Behind him, the rotors slashed to a stop. Ahead, a tall, ramrod-straight man, bareheaded with a gray flattop, emerged from the visitors’ pavilion. He was dressed like the other soldiers, but Griff could tell right away he was brass.

“Dr. Rhodes, I’m General Frank Egan, head of the U.S. Northern Command,” the man said, extending his gloved hand. His steely gaze remained fixed on Griff’s face, clearly taking measure of him. “I am under orders from the president to get you inside the Capitol complex and to escort you to the House Chamber as quickly as possible.”

“Well, then, escort away,” Griff said.

“We’ve had our best people here for a few hours now. There’s a staging tent set up over there for you and the others who will be changing into field biological gear. They are Racal spacesuits, positive-pressurized, HEPA superfiltered air supply, with redundant battery power. There are more on the way. I believe that’s what you requested.”

Griff nodded grimly and smiled inwardly at the fact that the highly technical descriptions were like something from a child’s primer to him now. No one who had been around him during the weeks following his sister’s death would have ever predicted the transformation that was about to occur.

As his sullenness and oppositional behavior had intensified, the powers in his high school met with his aunt and uncle—his only remaining relatives. They in turn brought in their minister, and after that, the police community relations officer, who had done his best but failed to reach the brooding, disenfranchised teen. Throughout the meetings, Griff had sat stoically, staring at the wall or out the window, saying little. Then, after a three-week absence from school, spent sleeping on the basement couches of friends, or in abandoned buildings that for years had been his haunts, he suddenly marched into class and aced an exam in a chemistry course he had never attended.

“Is this the team who will be escorting me in?” Griff asked Egan, pointing to the six soldiers who stood confidently at ease behind the general.

“Yes, they are.”

“I’m guessing they aren’t biocontainment experts.”

“You are guessing right.”

“They armed?”

“Does it matter?”

“Allaire wants me to save the day, but he doesn’t trust me, is that it?”

“I have my orders, Dr. Rhodes. These soldiers are prepared to sacrifice their lives for this mission. They will suit up and accompany you every step of the way.”

Griff just nodded. The general surprised him though, when his hard eyes suddenly softened.

“Dr. Rhodes,” he said, “I don’t know what in the hell is going on inside, but it’s an understatement for me to say that your being flown here as you have been is of the utmost importance to the people in there and to our country. The president has shared with me some of where you’ve been for the past nine months and why. All I can say is please do your best to help him and those people with him.”

“I will do that, General,” Griff said, his mouth unpleasantly dry.

Egan studied him.

“I believe you will,” he said finally.

“General, one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“I hate to be a pessimist here, but you need to prepare yourself for the worst.”

Griff flashed on his work with Project Veritas, specifically on his computer models, which he had been working on for years in his efforts to steer clear of experimenting on animals. His latest programs rendered flawless CGI animations of various combinations of the ribonucleic acid (RNA) pattern of the WRX3883 virus, as well as other, related RNA viruses like SARS and hepatitis C, and many deoxyribonucleic acid (DNA) viruses as well.

His programs, the most promising of which he had code named Orion, could generate countless three-dimensional combinations of the molecules that formed the backbone of the submicroscopic germs. But they could not, to this point at least, develop a sequence that would effectively kill them.

At that moment, however, he did not need a computer simulation to tell him what he already knew. Within fourteen days—twenty-one at the outside—everybody inside the Capitol would die in a manner as horrible as his worst Ebola nightmare.

Over the years before his arrest, despite all the financial support and equipment he could ask for within the tight security of the Veritas project, Griff had failed to uncover the missing link in his RNA sequencing that would create an effective viral kill-drug. It was naïve of Jim Allaire to believe that within fourteen days, the answer would suddenly appear.

“Looks like I’ve traded one cell for another,” Griff said, gesturing at his escorts.

“Think of them as bodyguards,” the general said.

“Is that how President Allaire described them to you?”

“Not exactly.”

Not ready to deal with Egan and his militia, Griff turned and walked back toward the crowd. Immediately, a second helicopter, hovering two hundred feet overhead, turned a powerful spot directly down on him. The glare hurt his eyes.

“Guess they’re worried I’m going to run for it,” he said to no one in particular.

He slowed, but continued walking away, enjoying the sense of freedom, however artificial. Behind him, no one followed. The spot remained on—Egan hedging his bets. As Griff neared the crowd, which seemed to have doubled in size since his arrival, people again began shouting.

“Hey, crazy man!”

“You with the beard!”

“Can you tell us what’s going on?”

“Here, over here. Let me get a picture of you. Just one shot.”

Flashbulbs popped.

In the clamor and cacophony of voices, suddenly one stood out—a woman’s voice from somewhere deep within the crowd. It was enough to make Griff peer ahead, looking for her. But every minute was crucial, and with the spotlight glaring off the sea of frozen breath, there was no chance. He turned and walked back toward where the head of the U.S. Northern Command stood waiting. As he reached the man, he heard the woman’s voice once more above the din.

Of all those voices shouting at him, hers was the only one calling him by name.

CHAPTER 16

DAY 2
7:00 A.M. (EST)

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.