Domain (24 page)

He wills his eyes open, focusing them on the source of the green light. Death is minutes away, the thought somehow both frightening and comforting.

The brilliant beacon suddenly dulls. Iz cranes his neck forward, leaning precariously over the transom. He sees a gurgling, tarlike ooze spew forth from an enormous hole within the seafloor. The black substance belches—Iz can smell its sulfurous, rotting stench—then finishes blanketing the emerald glow as it continues to rise within the funnel of water, darkening the still-churning sea.

Iz closes his eyes, forcing himself to think of Edie and Dominique as the maddening torrent pushes the
Manatee
down into its spiraling vortex.

God, let it be quick
.

Carl reaches up. He squeezes Iz’s hand as the black ooze rises to greet them.

The boat strikes the thick, tarlike substance and flips, bow over stern, tossing Iz and Carl headfirst into the mouth of the inky maelstrom.

Chapter 12

NOVEMBER 23, 2012
PROGRESO BEACH,
YUCATAN PENINSULA

6:45 A.M.

B
ill Godwin kisses his sleeping wife on the cheek, grabs his microdisc player, and slips out of the second-floor hotel room of the Holiday Inn.

Another perfect morning.

He descends the aluminum-and-concrete staircase to the pool deck, then exits the fenced-in area and crosses Route 27 to the beach, the morning light forcing him to squint. Stretched out before him are miles of unblemished, pristine white sands and crystal-clear azure coastal waters.

Beautiful
…

Brilliant specks of gold are just peeking over a line of clouds on the eastern horizon by the time he reaches the water’s edge. A Mexican girl in her teens zigzags along the serene Gulf waters on a purple-and-white wave-runner. Bill admires her figure as he finishes stretching, then adjusts his headphones and sets out at a leisurely pace.

The forty-six-year-old senior marketing analyst at Waterford-Leeman has been jogging three times a week since recovering from his second heart attack six years ago. He figures the “morning mile,” as his wife calls it, has probably added another ten years to his life while keeping his weight under control for the first time since his college days.

Bill passes another jogger and nods, momentarily picking up his pace. A week’s vacation in the Yucatan has done wonders for his blood pressure, but the rich Mexican cuisine has not helped his waistline. He reaches the deserted lifeguard stand, but decides to go a little farther. Five minutes and a half mile later he stops, totally exhausted. Bending over, he removes his running shoes, stuffs the disc player inside one sneaker, then strides into the balmy waters of the Gulf for his morning dip.

Bill wades out until the incoming swells reach his chest. He closes his eyes and relaxes in the warm sea, mentally organizing his day.

“Son of a bitch…” Bill jerks sideways, clutching his arm, searching the water for the jellyfish that stung him. “What in the hell?”

A black, tarlike substance has adhered to his forearm, searing his flesh. “Goddam oil companies.” He swishes his arm back and forth in the water, unable to wash the ooze away.

The scorching pain increases.

Swearing aloud, Bill turns and takes several strides inland. Blood is pouring from both nostrils by the time he staggers onto the beach. Purplish spots blind his vision. Feeling light-headed and confused, he drops to his knees in the sand.

“I need help! Can somebody help me?”

An older Mexican couple approaches and stops. “
Que paso, Señor
?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish—
no hablo
. I need a doctor—
el doctor
.”

The man looks at him. “
El doctor
?”

A stabbing pain inflames Bill’s eyeballs. He cries out in agony and slams his fists into his eyes. “Oh, God, my head!”

The man looks at his wife. “
Por favor, llame a un medico
.” The woman hurries off.

Bill Godwin’s eyes feel like they are being skewered. He tears at his hair, then bends over and pukes a bloody, acidic black bile.

The older Mexican is leaning over, futilely attempting to assist the sick American when he pulls back suddenly and grabs his ankle. “
Hijo de la chingada
!”

Sizzling vomit has splattered on the man’s foot-searing the flesh.

The White House,
Washington, DC.

Ennis Chaney feels the eyes of President Mailer and Pierre Borgia upon him as he reads the two-page report.

“No clue about where this toxic crud came from?”

“It came from the Gulf, probably from one of PEMEX’s well fields,” Borgia states. “What’s more important is that a dozen Americans and several hundred Mexicans have died. The currents have confined the black tide to the Yucatan coast, but it’s important that we monitor the situation to make sure the ooze doesn’t reach American shores. We also feel it important that we maintain a diplomatic presence in Mexico during this environmental crisis.”

“Meaning?”

Chaney notices Mailer’s discomfort. “Pierre thinks it would be best if you headed the investigation. The drug-trafficking problem has strained our relationship with Mexico. We feel this situation might present us with an opportunity to mend a few fences. The press will be accompanying you—”

Chaney sighs. Although his official term as vice president was not to begin until January, Congress had confirmed his appointment him to the vacant seat earlier. The new post, combined with helping his senatorial staff adjust to his leaving the Senate, was wearing him thin. “Let me get this straight. We’re preparing for a potential conflict in the Persian Gulf, but you want me to head a diplomatic mission to Mexico?” Chaney shakes his head. “What the hell am I supposed to do, other than offer my condolences? With all due respect, Mr. President, our ambassador to Mexico can handle this.”

“This is more important than you realize, besides”—the President forces a tight smile—“who else has the stomach for it. Your work with the CDC during the dengue fever outbreak in Puerto Rico three years ago was a terrific public relations coup.”

“My participation had nothing to do with public relations.”

Borgia slams his briefcase shut. “The president of the United States just gave you an order, Mister Vice President. Are you planning on fulfilling your duties, or are you planning on resigning?”

The raccoon eyes open wide, shooting daggers at Borgia.

“Pierre, would you give us a few minutes.”

The Secretary of State tries to stare Chaney down with his one good eye, but he is overmatched.

“Pierre, please.”

Borgia leaves.

“Ennis—”

“Mr. President, if you’re asking me to go, then of course, I’ll go.”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me. Just inform Cyclops that Ennis Chaney quits for no one. As far as I’m concerned, that boy just rose to the top of my shit list.”

The vice president boards the Sikorsky MH-60 Pave Hawk two hours later. His newly promoted assistant, Dean Disangro, is already on board, along with two Secret Service agents and a half dozen members of the press.

Chaney is angry. Throughout his political career, he has never allowed himself to be used as a public-relations lackey. Party lines and political correctness mean nothing to him. Poverty and violence, education and equality among the races, these are the fights worth fighting. He often imagines himself a modern-day Don Quixote—fighting the windmills, he calls it.
That one-eyed Jack may think he can yank my strings, but he just got himself into a street fight with the king of all brawlers
.

Dean pours the vice president a cup of decaf. He knows Chaney hates flying, especially in helicopters. “You look nervous.”

“Shut up. What’s this I hear about us making a detour?”

“We’re scheduled to stop at Fort Detrick to pick up personnel from USAMRIID before heading on to the Yucatan.”

“Wonderful.” Chaney closes his eyes, gripping the armrest as the Sikorsky leaps into the sky.

Thirteen minutes later, the chopper touches down at the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. From his window, Chaney sees two men supervise the loading of several large crates.

The two men climb aboard. A silver-haired officer introduces himself. “Mr. Vice President, Colonel Jim Ruetenik. I’m the military biohazard specialist assigned to your team. This is my associate, Dr. Marvin Teperman, an exobiologist on loan to us from Toronto.”

Chaney looks over the short Canadian with the pencil-thin mustache and annoyingly warm smile. “What exactly is an exobiologist?”

“Exobiology concerns the study of life outside our planet. This sludge may contain a strain of infectious virus that we’ve never seen before. AMRIID thought I might be of some help.”

“What’s in the crates?”

“Racal suits,” the colonel answers. “Portable, pressurized space suits we use in the field when dealing with potentially hot agents.”

“I’m familiar with Racal suits, Colonel.”

“That’s right, you were in Puerto Rico during the dengue outbreak in 2009.”

“This stuff is going to be a bit nastier, I’m afraid,” Marvin says. “From what we’ve been told, physical contact with the substance is causing immediate crash and bleed outs—profuse hemorrhaging from all orifices of the body.”

“I can handle it.” Chaney grips the seat as the chopper takes off. “It’s the damn chopper that gets me queasy.”

The colonel smiles. “Once we land, our first concern will be to assist the Mexicans in establishing gray zones—intermediate areas between the contaminated sites and the rest of the population.”

Chaney listens for a while longer, then eases his chair back and closes his eyes.
Racal suits. Crash and bleed outs. What the hell am I doing here
?

Four hours later, the Sikorsky slows to hover over a white beach blotted with a black, tarlike substance. Sections of the infected shoreline have been cordoned off with orange, wooden barriers.

The helicopter follows the deserted shoreline to the east, approaching a series of Red Cross Army tents that have been erected along a secured stretch of beach. A massive bonfire burns fifty yards from the site, its dark brown smoke leaving a thick trail, miles long, in the cloudless sky.

The Sikorsky slows, then touches down on a cordoned-off parking lot adjacent to the tented area.

“Mr. Vice President, this suit looks to be about your size.” Colonel Ruetenik hands him an orange space suit.

Chaney sees Dean pulling on a suit. “Wrong. Sit your ass down, Papa, you’re staying here. The press and security men, too.”

“My job is to assist you—”

“Assist me by staying here.”

Chaney emerges from the copter twenty minutes later, accompanied by Teperman and the colonel. All three are wearing the bulky orange Racal suits and air tanks.

A physician greets them outside the main tent. Chaney notices a green ooze dripping from the man’s white environmental suit.

“I’m Dr. Juarez. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

Colonel Ruetenik makes the introductions.

“Is that the toxic substance on your suit, Doctor?” Chaney asks, pointing to the green liquid.

“No, sir. That’s envirochem, the good stuff. We use it as a disinfectant. Make sure you douse your suit in it before getting changed. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the bad stuff.”

Chaney feels beads of sweat drip down the side of his face as he follows the others into the quarantined area.

Beneath the Red Cross tent are dozens of people lying on plastic cots. Most are in bathing suits. All are covered in black blotches of blood and bile. Those who are conscious are moaning in agony. Workers dressed in plastic bodysuits and heavy rubber boots and gloves are removing body bags from the tent as fast as newcomers are being led inside.

Dr. Juarez shakes his head. “This place has turned into a real hot zone. Most of the damage occurred during the early-morning hours before anyone realized how contagious the sludge was. We had the beaches quarantined by noon, but the first wave of physicians and volunteers just kept getting contaminated, making things worse. We’ve resorted to identifying the victims, then burning the bodies just to slow the spread.”

They enter an adjacent tent. A pretty Mexican nurse in an environmental suit is seated next to a cot, holding a middle-aged American man’s hand in her gloved palm.

Dr. Juarez gives the nurse an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “Nurse, who do we have here?”

“This is Mr. Ellis, an artist from California.”

“Mr. Ellis, can you hear me?”

Mr. Ellis is lying on his back, staring into space, his eyes wide-open.

Ennis Chaney shudders. The man’s eyeballs are completely black.

The colonel pulls the doctor aside. “How does the infection appear to be spreading?”

“Physical contact with either the black tide or another infected subject’s excretions. No evidence to suggest an airborne virus.”