Pandemic (28 page)

For the moment, his talents were best used elsewhere. He sat alone in the analysis module, taking advantage of the opportunity to examine his biosurveillance results. He’d set up two algorithms: the first to scan the medical records of the seventeen confirmed positives, look for any commonalities or recent trips to the ship doctor; the second to analyze prescriptions and over-the-counter sales of medicine taskforce-wide.

Six of the seventeen infection victims had visited ship doctors. There could have been more than that — all medical staffers were impossibly overworked taking care of the wounded, and there was no way of knowing if they’d properly tracked visits.

Of those six, though, there was an instant commonality: they had reported to the infirmary with complaints of headaches, body pain, sinus drip, and sore throats. Minor things, especially at a time like this. The docs had prescribed ibuprofen and cough suppressants. Basic treatments for common ailments. So common, in fact, that most people with aches and a sore throat wouldn’t talk to a doctor at all — they’d just tough it out.

Tough it out, or, self-medicate.

He called up his second algorithm, the one that data-mined records of all medical supplies across the entire task force.

When the results came up, he felt a cold ball of fear swell up in his stomach, felt a panicked tingling in his balls.

He had to tell Margaret.

Margaret and Clarence sat in the theater/briefing room, waiting for Tim to come in and deliver his urgent news.

She had just watched a man die, yet she felt … 
excited
. Walker’s hydras were a weapon, a
contagious
weapon. They spread via contact with blood. If pustules formed on Edmund, she would test those as well but she already knew that would also result in contagion.

The hydras killed the infection, but what else did they do? Hopefully she would have enough time to study that, find out what the side effects might be.

So far, Tim’s yeast had produced no noticeable effect on Chappas. It was several hours into the test, yet they had no way of knowing what the catalyst’s effects might be, if there were any at all. Maybe they’d get lucky with Chappas; maybe the yeast would cure him.

She’d dissected Nagy’s brain herself, found it thickly webbed with the crawler-built mesh. Tim’s hypothesis seemed correct: once the crawlers reached the brain, it was too late.

But that didn’t change the possibility that the yeast could inoculate the uninfected. Sooner or later they would have to test that theory. Since Tim had selfishly helped himself to part of the first precious batch, Margaret wondered if he might volunteer. Somehow, she didn’t see that happening. Tim was an excellent scientist, but he was also a coward. He didn’t have an ounce of Clarence’s self-sacrificing nature.

Speak of the blond-haired devil: Tim rushed into the room, more wide-eyed than ever. He smelled of sweat. He carried a laptop, information already displayed on the screen.

Margaret stood. Her legs ached. Her whole body ached. “So what’s this critical information, Tim?”

He handed her the open laptop.

“I found a significant indicator for infection,” he said. “We can probably detect outbreaks across larger populations, and do it even
before
victims would test positive for cellulose.”

Margaret looked at the screen: a chart showing purchases of cold medication? Clarence came up to stand by her side, read as well.

At first, she didn’t understand the significance, but then it clicked and clicked
hard
.

Clarence shook his head. “I don’t get it,” he said. “People buying cough drops and ibuprofen shows that they’re infected?”

“Not on an individual basis,” Tim said. “But in the bigger picture, yes. It’s how the CDC can spot a flu outbreak, based on an abnormal spike in sales of medicine that treats flu symptoms. Seventeen people on this flotilla have tested positive so far — shortly after the battle, six of them reported coldlike symptoms of headaches and body pain.”

Margaret read through Tim’s numbers; they painted a frightening picture.

“Ibuprofen could be meaningless,” she said. “People are working hard, they’re beat-up, stressed, but look at this — the
Pinckney
’s ship store is out of Chloraseptic, Robitussin and Sucrets. Almost out of Motrin and Tylenol.”

“Inventory for those items was at eighty-five percent the day before the
Los Angeles
attacked,” Tim said. “Two days after the attack, inventory on pain meds
and
cold meds dropped to fifty-five percent. Three days after the attack, those supplies were at about thirty percent. Today — four days after the attack — the supplies are gone. Those supplies should have lasted six months or more.”

He sniffed, whipped the back of his hand across his nose. His bloodshot eyes stared out. Tim was in bad shape.

“The
Brashear
isn’t as bad,” he said. “But consumption is clearly up. If I’m right, the
Pinckney
is badly infected and the
Brashear
is close behind.”

Margaret noticed that Clarence was staring at Tim. Not in disbelief, or in surprise or admiration, but in
suspicion
.

“Tim,” he said, “you have a runny nose?”

Margaret felt the room grow cold. Clarence’s hand had drifted near the pistol strapped to his left side.

Tim, however, didn’t seem to notice. “A little,” he said. “I’m kinda wired and worn out, you know? Fuck-all long days it’s been.”

Then he, too, saw Clarence’s stare, and understood. Tim leaned back, held up his hands.

“Don’t get crazy, big fella. I just tested negative like ten minutes ago. Besides, the yeast probably made me immune.”

“Probably,”
Clarence said. “But if you were already infected for more than a day or two, the yeast doesn’t do anything, right? You were here during the attack, treating dozens of sailors. You could have been exposed.”

Margaret reached out, put a hand on Clarence’s arm.

“Just test him again,” she said. “Remember, he’ll test positive well before he’s contagious to us, so calm down. I doubt he’s infected.”

Clarence raised his eyebrows:
how do we know that?

“I’ve got the sniffles, too,” she said. “And my body hurts all over.”

Clarence took a step back, giving himself enough space to watch both her and Tim.

Margaret sighed in exasperation. “Clarence, for fuck’s sake. Tim and I are working around the clock here — at some point, the body breaks down. You get the sniffles, you get headaches. So how about we all test now, together, just to be sure? We can test again every time we step out of the suits.”

Clarence relaxed slightly, almost imperceptibly, but he wasn’t convinced.

“Okay,” he said. “But unless you’re in your suits, I need you two to stay away from each other. And both of you keep your distance from me, got it?”

She let out a sarcastic huff. “Good to see you’re consistent.”

Now he looked only at her. There was hurt in his eyes. She wanted to take those words back, but she couldn’t.

Clarence put both hands on his face, pressed hard, rubbed. He lifted his head, blinking rapidly, sniffing in a big breath.

“If Tim’s theory is right, we have to assume well over half of the
Pinckney
is infected, about to convert and become violent. I need you both to suit up and finish whatever you’re doing in the lab. Get samples of your work packed up and ready to travel on a moment’s notice.”

Margaret had been thinking only of numbers, but Clarence’s urgency drove home a harsh reality: the
Pinckney
was a heavily armed warship, one that might soon be overwhelmed with the Converted.

Paulius Klimas had never seen a cell phone quite like the one that had been handed to him by the captain of the
Coronado
. It was a bit smaller than the satellite phones he’d carried into at least a dozen missions, and ridiculously heavy for its size.

The captain had asked Paulius to his stateroom, provided the phone, then left, giving Paulius privacy. That alone indicated some important shit was about to go down. The first call to the new phone had come from none other than Admiral Porter himself. That call had lasted all of three minutes, long enough for Porter to stress that the safety and future of the United States was on the line, and that Paulius was to facilitate in any way possible the next person who would call.

Maybe that finally meant some action.

When the battle had occurred four days earlier, he and his men had been ordered to do nothing. The
Coronado
hadn’t launched boats to rescue the drowning, hadn’t welcomed the wounded aboard.
Zero contact
.

As other ships sank, as flaming oil spread across the water, Paulius had watched sailors fighting for life and he had done
nothing
to help them. He and his men from SEAL Team Two could have put their three Zodiacs into the lake, could have grabbed dozens of sailors from the water, could have saved many lives — he had never felt so ashamed of following an order.

But he had obeyed. He had made sure his men obeyed.

Paulius understood the order, even if he didn’t agree with it; so far, no one on the
Coronado —
SEAL Team Two included — had tested positive for the infection. He and his men were a contingency plan, to be used in a worst-case scenario.

And now, it seemed, that scenario had arrived.

The
Pinckney
, the
Brashear
and now even the damaged
Truxtun
had reported positive tests, incidents of violence and murder, even the execution of military personnel. Porter’s call meant it was almost time to act.

The phone buzzed. Paulius answered.

“This is Commander Klimas.”

“Hello, Commander,” said a baritone voice on the other end. “This is Agent Clarence Otto.”

Paulius nodded. Yes,
finally
, there would be a role to play.

“Agent Otto, I have been instructed to follow your orders.”

“Good,” Otto said. “What have you been told so far?”

“That you control the package, and that the package is our highest priority.”

The package
, in this case, was a person — one Dr. Margaret Montoya, and whatever she might be carrying. Tim Feely and Agent Otto were to be rescued as well, if possible, but Dr. Montoya had become the focus of Klimas and his team.

“Excellent,” Otto said. “I need you to prep for an extraction.”

“Understood. When?”

“Soon. We’re hopefully finishing up some research here, but we may have to bug out at any moment.”

Three people from a ship that was already known to be compromised. When Paulius went after them, he’d probably take all twenty SEALs under his command, bring the package back to an isolated ship with a crew of fifty. Just one infected person could mean the death or conversion of everyone onboard.

“May I ask as to the state of health for you three? I’ll come get you if you’re halfway down a crack leading straight to hell, but I’d like to give my people the best possible chance of making it out of this alive.”

“Are you asking if you should be wearing CBRN gear?”

The acronym stood for
chemical, biological, radiological and nuclear
, and applied to the bulky biohazard suits military forces wore when any of those four threats were present.

“They do get in the way a bit,” Paulius said. “If possible, we’d rather go with our usual attire.”

Paulius heard the man breathe in deep through his nose, let it out slow. A thinking man, perhaps. If so, that was a good sign.

“All three of us are negative at the moment,” Otto said. “But be ready to adapt. Listen, Commander, I want something to sink in. If I call you, the people you’re bringing out and the material they are carrying could save the world. That’s not a figure of speech. It’s literal.”

“Admiral Porter told me we were saving the USA. Now it’s the world. Go figure. If we fail to extract the package, what’s the worst-case scenario?”

“Extinction,” Otto said. “The entire human race, gone. If any of your men signed up to be heroes, Klimas, this is their chance.”

Agent Otto sounded like an okay guy. Maybe he had a service background. He didn’t sound like a bullshitter, but he was still a suit — bullshitting and suits went hand in hand. His words, however, stirred Klimas’s soul; no one joined the SEALs to push pencils.

Saving the world? This was as big as it got.

Cooper sat in the bridge of the
Mary Ellen Moffett
, guiding the ship toward Chicago at eight knots. The wind had picked up to forty miles an hour. Waves hammered the boat. It was two in the morning, the storm blocked out all stars, and snow swirled madly — his visibility was damn near zero.

At a time like this, Lake Michigan was the wrong place to be.

The weather forecast said the storm would die down in a few hours. Once it did, he could make better time, probably hit Chicago sometime that afternoon.

Everyone else was asleep. As well they should be — the job was almost over, and the weather had made everything about as difficult as it could be.

Cooper yawned. He drank a little coffee; it was already cold, but he didn’t care. He just needed to stay alert for three more hours, then Jeff would take over and Cooper could get some sleep. If all went well, he’d wake up just in time to help dock the
Mary Ellen
. Then he and his best friend would be rid of Steve Stanton and Bo Pan. They wanted off in Chicago? Well, that was just fine.

After that sweet good-bye, Cooper and Jeff could hit the town. A couple of days in the Windy City would be just the thing. José could come, too, if he opted to go out for once instead of rushing back to his family, as usual.

Look out, Chicago … the boys are about to be back in town
.

“Hey, Margo,” Perry said. He smiled, that smile that would have made it rain endorsement-deal millions had he fulfilled his destiny in the NFL.

“Hey,” Margaret said.

“I got Chelsea.” Perry’s smile faded. “The voices have finally stopped, but … I don’t think I’m doing so good. I’ve got those things inside of me.”