The Liger Plague (Book 1) (3 page)

“Look, sir, I don’t have time to discuss the matter right now. Just do whatever you can to stop the ferry service for a few hours until we can establish the severity of this threat.”

“Are you kidding me? There’ll be riots along the Portland docks if people aren’t allowed to travel over to the island for Cooke’s annual Art Fest. Besides, I don’t even know who you are or if you’re real or merely a prankster.”

“Trust me, David, your ass will be in a major sling if this organism makes it over to the mainland! And I’ll be the one to do it. My wife and daughter are on that island right now.”

Dodd paused for a few seconds. “Okay, I’ll temporarily shut it down, Colonel, or whoever you are. You have one hour to prove to me that this threat is real. I’ll also need for you to provide me some information so I can verify your identity.”

“That’s not a problem. For the time being, I need you to keep this information between us so we don’t cause citizens to panic.” Tag gave the director his work number and password so that security back at the institute could cooperate with him and verify his identity.

Up ahead, the troopers had completely blocked off the interstate. A line of blue cars were parked end to end, and behind them he could see the troopers aiming their rifles at his speeding Jeep. He had no choice now but to surrender. He slowed the vehicle until it came to a stop. Two fully equipped troopers approached his jeep with their rifles raised and ordered him out of the vehicle. He carefully opened the door of his Jeep and raised his arms, immediately registering the look of surprise on their faces when they saw his army uniform and brass signifying his rank as a colonel. Placing his hands behind his head, he fell to his knees, feeling like a prisoner of war in his own country.

The armed troopers rushed over and pushed him down to the warm pavement. His cheek hit the road, getting scraped during the scuffle. Once his hands were shackled behind his back, they stood him up and forced him back up against the Jeep. Standing in front of him was the patrol unit’s commanding officer.

“Colonel Winters, it seems you’re in a world of trouble,” the lieutenant said, hands on his hips. His nameplate said Duncan. “Have a little too much to drink this afternoon?”

“Listen to me, Lieutenant Duncan,” he said, staring directly into the man’s eyes. “I’m the director of the army’s Infectious Disease Institute, and I have reason to believe that a biological agent has been unleashed on Cooke’s Island off the coast of Maine. It’s the only reason I tried to evade your officers. I had the terrorist on the line and couldn’t chance hanging up on him.”

“Okay, Colonel, let’s see some ID. Then we can talk about this once we get back to the police station.”

“No police station!” he said, shaking his head. “My wife and daughter are vacationing on Cooke’s Island as we speak. If you don’t believe me, call the executive director of the ferry system. I requested that he stop all ferry service between Portland and the island. After that you can call the institute I work for and verify who I am. They’ll confirm my identification as head of the USAMRIID.”

A look of concern registered on the trooper’s face. He stared at him for a second before clutching his elbow and escorting him back to the trooper vehicle.

“Move those cars, and get traffic moving again,” Duncan ordered his officers.

He opened the back door and stuffed Tag in the seat. Then he went about making the requisite calls. Once he appeared satisfied with the results, he turned back and stared at him through the cage.

“Everything checks out, Colonel. So where do we go from here?”

“How about I get my Jeep back and you give me a police escort into Portland. And I’m talking ASAP, Lieutenant, in case this terrorist calls me back.”

“Sure thing, Colonel. Let’s get you moving along.”

The trooper took off his wrist restraints and escorted him back to his dented and scraped Jeep.

“How bad of a threat is it?” Lieutenant Duncan asked.

“I don’t know all the details yet, but from what the caller has told me, it sounds like the real deal.” He climbed into his Jeep, turned the ignition, and the engine rumbled to life despite all the punishment it had been through.

“I want you to drive back over that median strip. There’ll be a trooper positioned in front of your vehicle until you arrive at the ferry terminal in Portland. Stay right behind him. Understood, Colonel?”

“Understood. And there’s one other thing, Lieutenant. It’s imperative that you not tell anyone about this threat or else there’ll be a shit-storm around these parts the likes of which you’ve never before seen.”

“I’m hearing you loud and clear, Colonel.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant Duncan. My wife and daughter are on that island, and they have no idea the potential danger they’re facing. I’ve had a house on Cooke’s for fifteen years now and never dreamed something like this could happen there.”

“Better be on your way, Colonel,” he said, rapping the hood with his knuckles. “Drive safe.”

Tag crossed the median strip and slid in behind the waiting trooper. In a matter of seconds they were cruising due north on Route 95 at over one hundred miles an hour, lights flashing and sirens blaring.

The temptation to call his wife’s cell phone tugged at him, despite the fact that this mysterious caller named Lenny had warned him about the dangers of using a cell phone. Tag wondered what this meant. Did the RF waves emitted from the phone create a synergistic effect with the virus? Without fully knowing the true extent of the hybrid virus’s capabilities, he had no idea what kind of organism he was dealing with.

He racked his mind trying to come up with a plausible theory for radio frequency and viral causation. Some studies had shown that even moderate radio frequency, such as the kind that emanated from cell phones, had the potential to heat up compromised cells located near the basal ganglia of the brain. The mere thought of that notion, as farfetched as it sounded, scared the shit out of him. The combination of a lethal airborne virus such as smallpox engineered with one of the more debilitating brain viruses was a frightening concept, but he didn’t think such a hybrid was even remotely possible. Then again, RF wave propagation was not his area of expertise. He’d seen many deadly viruses, both natural and engineered by man, but he’d never come across a virus that combined both high infection
and
mortality rates. He thought Stephen King’s book
Cell
had been purely fiction.

Crossing over the Piscataqua Bridge into Maine, he made a mental note of the supplies he kept at the house. He’d quietly, and without his wife’s knowledge, begun to stockpile food and a small cache of weapons in the event something catastrophic happened on the mainland and they needed somewhere to hide out. Now it had been reversed. It had been an ongoing project, an insurance policy against disaster, and although he had a sufficient number of weapons, food and biosuits, he’d not yet had the time to properly secure the house and make it completely impenetrable. He’d been hoping to complete the retrofitting once he was fully retired later this summer, but now it appeared too little too late. Had Monica known about his hidden stash, she would have complained mightily and called him a paranoid schizo. Yet in the event of an emergency she’d no doubt appreciate his diligent planning and forethought, especially when it came to protecting their children.

They arrived at the exit leading into Portland. Although he was tired, the adrenaline coursing through his veins kept him wired and alert. They climbed onto I-295 and took the first exit leading to the waterfront. Tag could see a wedge of Cooke’s Island from high up on the bridge crossing over the Fore River and into Portland. By the time he made it onto the quaint thoroughfare that was Commercial Street, he could already make out the large crowd of people gathered at the end of the pier.

Tourists flocked along the street and wandered in and out of the shops facing Casco Bay. It was a perfect summer afternoon, warm and dry, and the businesses were hopping. Tourists strolled up and down Commercial Street, popping in and out of the bars, shops and cafes. He pulled the Jeep up near the front gate of the ferry terminal and parked it on the street before making his way toward the water. A lone camera crew stood around the terminal, looking for answers to why the ferries had stopped service to Cooke’s Island. With the Art Fest in full gear, it created quite a storm, and people seemed agitated and upset. About a dozen uniformed cops patrolled the area, trying to keep the large, unruly crowd from getting out of control. Tag, still in his dress greens, approached one of the young cops on duty and asked the whereabouts of Portland’s highest ranking police officer. She pointed Tag down toward the terminal and explained that the police chief was conferring with the mayor at Gate 1.

He sprinted down the short road leading down to where the vessels pulled into the dock. He knew it well, having taken the ferry to Cooke’s Island hundreds of times in the past. He could see the island rising majestically out of the ocean, shimmering in the distance like a prized jewel, located roughly four miles from the mainland. It looked resplendent and inviting on this hot summer day, and in normal times he looked forward to getting over there and unwinding with a cold beer. Not today. He made his way over to the two men now deep in discussion. As soon as they saw him approaching, the imprint of his decorated green army uniform caught their attention.

“Gentlemen,” he said, reaching out to shake their hands. “My name is Colonel Taggert Winters. I’m the director of an army infectious disease facility, and my job is to thwart biological threats that jeopardize our national safety.”

“From that introduction, Colonel, am I to assume that there’s a biological weapon on Cooke’s Island and that this is the reason why the ferry system has shut down?” the mayor asked.

“We still don’t know what’s happening on that island yet. I attended an infectious disease conference in Boston earlier in the day when I received a threatening call saying that a biological agent had been released on the island. Although it sounds preposterous, I have reason to believe that this is a legitimate threat. It’s the reason I called the director of the ferry system and had him temporarily cease service until we could establish the severity of this threat.”

“Colonel, with all due respect to you and the U.S. Army, we get all sorts of threats around here. The Portland waterfront is considered one of the most vulnerable ports in the nation, but to stop ferry service to Cooke’s Island during the busiest weekend of the year? No, that sounds like lunacy to me.” He pointed toward the crowd. “Do you see all those people waiting there? We’re going to have a full-fledged riot on our hands if we don’t get these people ferried over to that Art Fest before the opening ceremony. It’s one of the city’s biggest money-making weekends, so you better make sure this threat is legitimate before you enforce such a drastic measure.”

“Mayor, my wife and daughter are on that island. In fact, my wife is this year’s featured guest at the Art Fest, so I can assure you that I’m not pulling your chain. I’ve owned a summer home on Cooke’s for the last fifteen years and wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think it legitimate.”

“Point made, Colonel. So we’ve established that there’s a possible biological threat on the island,” the police chief said, “and you’ve temporarily restricted all access to the island. What do you propose we do now?”

“The first thing we do is take a deep breath and remain calm. It’s vital that you not tell anyone about this threat just yet—not your wife, your kids, your secretary. No one! If the press gets wind of this threat, it’ll cause the entire nation to go into panic mode. Not only that, the person who called in this threat has threatened to attack other targets throughout the country if word gets out. And by other targets I mean large metropolitan areas. People’s lives depend on our confidentiality, gentlemen.”

“That means we’re going to have to stall the press and all these potential passengers for the time being. We can do this temporarily, Colonel, but I can assure you that we won’t be able to conceal this secret for long,” the chief said.

“Understood. Which is why you’re going to need to use one of your police boats to cruise the harbor and make sure no one gets on or off that island. Might call a Coast Guard vessel in to help seal it off completely, if you can vouch for their confidentiality. If this viral threat is real and even one infected person from Cooke’s makes it over to the mainland, then this thing could spread like wildfire.”

“Jesus, you sound like this is the real deal,” the mayor said.

“I don’t know anything for certain right now, Mayor, but we can’t take any chances, or we could end up with a highly infectious disease spreading from coast to coast,” Tag said. “Oh, and one more request, gentlemen. I need someone to take me over to the island and drop me off at a secluded spot.”

“Drop you off? Are you crazy, Colonel? If this threat is as bad as you say, then what possible good can you do by going over there?” the mayor asked.

“Not only that, Colonel, but you’ll catch the virus yourself and be unable to assist in any rescue efforts,” added the police chief.

“Whoever is responsible for this threat left a vaccine inside my Jeep. Well, not really a vaccine. More like an antibody, a remedy which has the ability to repel the virus as soon as it hits the membrane,” he said, trying to keep his explanations simple and brief. “The method’s not important, just the fact that I’m vaccinated.”

“Almost sounds as if this terrorist has it in for you personally,” the mayor said.

“Could be, Mayor. One does tend to make a few unexpected enemies in my line of work.”

“You’re telling me,” the police chief said, laughing resignedly.

Chapter 3

Two Hours Earlier

Monica Winters strolled arm in arm with her daughter, Taylor, through the Old Port and toward the Shelton-Stahl Art Gallery located up the hill on Fore Street. The Shelton-Stahl Gallery was one of the oldest and most prestigious art galleries in Portland, showing some of the most well-known artists in Maine.