Exposed (18 page)

USAMRIID

Colonel Benjamin Platt rubbed both hands over his face, stopping to dig the heels into his eyes then raking his fingers over his short cropped hair. It didn’t do much good. He was exhausted. His vision was still a bit blurry from staring at the monitors and computer screens for the last several hours. He sat back in the rolling leather chair and twirled it around to look in through the glass wall.

Thankfully she had fallen asleep about an hour ago. What a nightmare this must be for her. To have a spaceman come into her home and take her mom away in a plastic bubble. Then to be brought here. The Slammer tended to freak out even the most stable people. It was bad enough to be locked in but worse being poked and prodded by doctors in space suits. There had been plenty of studies done on the psychological effect of human contact, human touch and, of course, the psychological effect of its absence. The Slammer proved most of those studies to the extreme.

Still, they couldn’t justify taking her to a civilian hospital where a child would be much more comfortable. They couldn’t risk exposing hospital personnel who simply would not be trained to deal with something like this. And, of course, they couldn’t risk the exposure to the media. Platt knew that was, in part, Janklow’s reasoning. His directive had been quite clear.

Platt gulped what was left in his coffee mug despite it being bitter and lukewarm. He couldn’t remember when he had eaten last. He rubbed at his eyes again. No matter how hard he tried he could not stop thinking about Ali. Mary Louise triggered something inside him and his exhaustion wasn’t allowing him to shut it down. The little girl’s big, blue, curious eyes and long tangle of curls reminded him so much of his daughter. What was worse than the memory was the physical ache. He still missed her and it surprised him how much. It had been almost five years. More years had passed since she was gone than the years that she had been in his life.

He was in Afghanistan when it happened. He had left only months before, leaving behind a loving wife, a beautiful daughter and starting a promising new career as an Army doctor. He knew how dangerous it would be but exciting, too, because he was one of the chosen few who would protect the troops against biological weapons. It was considered a heroic mission and after 9/11 it felt like a worthy obligation. It was a chance to put to use all his textbook knowledge, to try experiments in the field what had only been proven in the labs. To save lives.

He had been willing to take the risks for himself, totally unaware that the real danger was back at home. He would have given up all his so-called valuable knowledge, his golden opportunity to have just a few more minutes with his precious Ali, to be there with her. Even if it was just to hold her hand before she was gone forever. But someone else had made that decision for him, had decided what was more important, had denied him that small wish.

A knock at the door startled him. The door opened behind him and Platt spun around to find Sergeant Landis.

“Sir, I have that information you requested.”

“You found something?” He said “some
thing
” when he really hoped Landis had found some
one.

“There is no father listed on the birth certificate,” Landis cut to the chase.

“How about grandparents?”

“A grandmother. Lives in Richmond. The grandfather is recently deceased.”

He handed Platt a folded piece of paper. Knowing Landis, Platt expected to find more than enough information, probably more than he needed.

“One problem, sir,” Landis stood in front of him, unfolding a second piece of paper, “Commander Janklow left a message for you a few minutes ago. He said—” and Landis read from the paper “‘—under no uncertain terms is Colonel Platt to call any relatives of any of the contained victims before Monday morning. We need to know what it is we’re dealing with first.’”

Landis handed Platt the note but remained standing in front of him as if waiting to be dismissed or perhaps awaiting further instruction.

Platt took the paper and tapped its folded corner against the desk. He glanced back into the little girl’s room and his eyes swept back over the monitors and computer screens that continued to blink and click and gather data.

When Janklow assigned him this mission he told him it was in Platt’s hands, he expected them to be steady, unflinching hands that would do what was necessary, whatever he—meaning Platt—deemed necessary. But then Janklow insisted McCathy be included. Now this.

Janklow had assigned Platt the mission because he knew Platt was a play-by-the-numbers, follow-all-orders, dot-all-the-i’s kind of leader. And yet, Janklow didn’t trust him.

“Do you have kids, Sergeant Landis?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Kids. Do you and your wife have any?”

“Two boys, sir.” Landis was staring at him now, more curious than confused. Platt never asked personal questions.

“What time does your shift end, Sergeant?”

Landis didn’t need to look at his wristwatch. “About an hour ago, sir.”

“Go on home to your wife and your boys, Sergeant.”

“Sir?” Now he looked confused, almost uncertain as to whether he should leave his boss who was acting strangely. “Is there anything else you need me to do?”

“No, you’ve given me everything I need.” Platt waved the first piece of paper Landis had handed him to indicate this was all he needed. The thought of Mary Louise being alone until Monday tied a knot in Platt’s gut. She’d already been alone for how many days?

Sergeant Landis left, making room for Dr. Sophie Drummond’s arrival.

“Sir, sorry to interrupt.” She stayed in the doorway until he nodded. “Agent O’Dell has been asking to talk with you.”

“Restless and uncooperative so soon?”

“Very cooperative. Maybe a bit spooked.”

“Slammeritis?”

“Perhaps.”

“Any word from McCathy?”

“Not yet.”

He nodded again and she slipped back out the door.

Not hearing from McCathy set Platt on edge. If McCathy was working by process of elimination then he should have already ruled out the worst. Not knowing churned up acid to eat away at the knots in Platt’s stomach. He knew all too well what Agent O’Dell must be feeling.

Artie closed up the second plastic, Ziploc bag. He couldn’t help but smile. For the last three weeks he had followed instructions by the letter. He didn’t mind. That’s what you did when you were an apprentice, a foot soldier, a student. You expected the sorcerer, the general, the teacher to call the shots and you were grateful to serve at the hand of a great one. But at some point Artie believed a great mentor would want him to show off what he’d learned.

Artie had caught on early what the “game” was even though he hadn’t been privy to the “game
plan
” or the
“endgame.”
He could see the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. The idea was brilliant, truly awe-inspiring and he wanted to be more than just a pawn. He needed to show that he could contribute.

Ever since he was thirteen he had dreamed of the perfect crime, plotting it out in his mind. He loved true-crime novels, devouring them in one sitting, committing the details to memory, highlighting and dog-earing the pages. His mom thought it was “so cool” that her son enjoyed reading, paying no attention to what it was he was reading.

He still carried around several of his favorite paperbacks in his backpack, what he believed to be an assortment of brilliant crimes and the masters behind them. They included the Unabomber, the Anthrax Killer, the Beltway Snipers and the Zodiac. The worn paperbacks had become handbooks, prized manuals. He figured he had learned more from studying them than he could learn from any one person.

He set the two plastic bags side by side before sliding them into their manila envelopes. The two looked like all the others. The only difference was that each of them contained five-hundred dollars instead of a thousand. The stacks of five hundred was just as thick as the thousand-dollar stack.
A brilliant substitute
. Only recently Artie realized he could use fifty ten-dollar bills instead of fifty twenty-dollar bills. The stack would be just as enticing. How could the recipient not be tempted to open the bag, if only to count all those bills?

By splitting the money Artie could send one of his own packages for every “official” one he sent for his mentor. He’d use the same rules of the game. And he had plenty of the virus. A tiny, almost invisible droplet inserted anywhere between the bills was all that was needed. It didn’t take much. Sealed in the airtight, dry plastic the virus remained dormant, waiting for moist, warm human contact. All it took was some point of entry—a cut, an eye, up the nose, at the lips, behind a raw cuticle. He wasn’t exactly sure how it worked. That hadn’t been part of his job. He did know that if it hit its bull’s-eye it was as good as a bullet. Better, actually, because it left no trace. The perfect weapon. Virtually invisible.

For his first package, his first “perfect” kill, Artie had followed in his mentor’s footsteps, choosing one of his favorite crimes and an address connected to it: Benjamin Tasker Middle School in Prince George’s County, Maryland. On Monday, October 7, the Beltway Snipers shot their youngest victim, a thirteen-year-old on his way to school, practically on the front steps. The boy survived, unlike ten of the other thirteen victims. Also unlike the others, Artie found it daring, bold and totally unpredictable to shoot a kid. So Artie wanted to do something just as daring. If you wanted to spread a deadly virus, where better to start than in a school?

Pleased with himself and satisfied with the two bags, Artie slipped them into their envelopes then began the cleanup process. He hated the smell of bleach but he used it to spray and wipe all surfaces. The smell lingered in his nostrils. Though he was diligent about giving himself a shot every time, he never failed to use a skin decontaminate. The military M291 resin kits had six individual decontamination pads. The dry, black resin powder was designed to show up any contamination spots. He was told it was the best universal liquid skin decon that the military had.

Yet, that wasn’t quite enough for Artie. After the resin, he still mixed fresh .05 percent hypochlorite solution with an alkaline pH and washed his hands again, up to the elbows. He had read in one of his paperbacks that the solution had been used by the military before the M291 resin kits, all the way back to WWII. Artie figured it was an extra safeguard, another one of those things his mentor would expect of him—to do his own research and take his own precautions.

In the small bathroom/supply closet he changed from his scrubs back to his street clothes, bagging all of it, including the paper face mask and shoe covers. He’d toss them in the parking lot’s Dumpster. No need to clean them. The closet was filled with an endless supply.

He left the lab, feeling excited and…What was the word? A few monkeys still screeched down the hall, but now Artie ignored them. His step was lighter, almost a strut. For the first time in his life he felt…And then the word came to him. He felt
powerful
.

Artie closed up the second plastic, Ziploc bag. He couldn’t help but smile. For the last three weeks he had followed instructions by the letter. He didn’t mind. That’s what you did when you were an apprentice, a foot soldier, a student. You expected the sorcerer, the general, the teacher to call the shots and you were grateful to serve at the hand of a great one. But at some point Artie believed a great mentor would want him to show off what he’d learned.

Artie had caught on early what the “game” was even though he hadn’t been privy to the “game
plan
” or the
“endgame.”
He could see the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. The idea was brilliant, truly awe-inspiring and he wanted to be more than just a pawn. He needed to show that he could contribute.

Ever since he was thirteen he had dreamed of the perfect crime, plotting it out in his mind. He loved true-crime novels, devouring them in one sitting, committing the details to memory, highlighting and dog-earing the pages. His mom thought it was “so cool” that her son enjoyed reading, paying no attention to what it was he was reading.

He still carried around several of his favorite paperbacks in his backpack, what he believed to be an assortment of brilliant crimes and the masters behind them. They included the Unabomber, the Anthrax Killer, the Beltway Snipers and the Zodiac. The worn paperbacks had become handbooks, prized manuals. He figured he had learned more from studying them than he could learn from any one person.

He set the two plastic bags side by side before sliding them into their manila envelopes. The two looked like all the others. The only difference was that each of them contained five-hundred dollars instead of a thousand. The stacks of five hundred was just as thick as the thousand-dollar stack.
A brilliant substitute
. Only recently Artie realized he could use fifty ten-dollar bills instead of fifty twenty-dollar bills. The stack would be just as enticing. How could the recipient not be tempted to open the bag, if only to count all those bills?

By splitting the money Artie could send one of his own packages for every “official” one he sent for his mentor. He’d use the same rules of the game. And he had plenty of the virus. A tiny, almost invisible droplet inserted anywhere between the bills was all that was needed. It didn’t take much. Sealed in the airtight, dry plastic the virus remained dormant, waiting for moist, warm human contact. All it took was some point of entry—a cut, an eye, up the nose, at the lips, behind a raw cuticle. He wasn’t exactly sure how it worked. That hadn’t been part of his job. He did know that if it hit its bull’s-eye it was as good as a bullet. Better, actually, because it left no trace. The perfect weapon. Virtually invisible.

For his first package, his first “perfect” kill, Artie had followed in his mentor’s footsteps, choosing one of his favorite crimes and an address connected to it: Benjamin Tasker Middle School in Prince George’s County, Maryland. On Monday, October 7, the Beltway Snipers shot their youngest victim, a thirteen-year-old on his way to school, practically on the front steps. The boy survived, unlike ten of the other thirteen victims. Also unlike the others, Artie found it daring, bold and totally unpredictable to shoot a kid. So Artie wanted to do something just as daring. If you wanted to spread a deadly virus, where better to start than in a school?

Pleased with himself and satisfied with the two bags, Artie slipped them into their envelopes then began the cleanup process. He hated the smell of bleach but he used it to spray and wipe all surfaces. The smell lingered in his nostrils. Though he was diligent about giving himself a shot every time, he never failed to use a skin decontaminate. The military M291 resin kits had six individual decontamination pads. The dry, black resin powder was designed to show up any contamination spots. He was told it was the best universal liquid skin decon that the military had.

Yet, that wasn’t quite enough for Artie. After the resin, he still mixed fresh .05 percent hypochlorite solution with an alkaline pH and washed his hands again, up to the elbows. He had read in one of his paperbacks that the solution had been used by the military before the M291 resin kits, all the way back to WWII. Artie figured it was an extra safeguard, another one of those things his mentor would expect of him—to do his own research and take his own precautions.

In the small bathroom/supply closet he changed from his scrubs back to his street clothes, bagging all of it, including the paper face mask and shoe covers. He’d toss them in the parking lot’s Dumpster. No need to clean them. The closet was filled with an endless supply.

He left the lab, feeling excited and…What was the word? A few monkeys still screeched down the hall, but now Artie ignored them. His step was lighter, almost a strut. For the first time in his life he felt…And then the word came to him. He felt
powerful
.