P.P.M.
by Gary Naiman
Smashwords Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
© Copyright 2010, Gary Naiman
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this eBook may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Fideli Publishing.
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ISBN: 978-1-60414-243-3
Cover art by Todd Aune, Spokane, Washington
Dedicated to the living spirit of Rachel Carson…
Chapter 1
Somalia
Twin beams of polarized light radiated from the metal ceiling, their pale glow illuminating the two men working below. The men wore surgical gowns, gloves, and caps, with protective masks covering their noses and mouths. The only sound was the air rushing through the recycling vents on the grated floor. The shadows flickered with colors from the electronic instruments racked on the metal walls.
The men sat at a table arrayed with test tube racks, slide boxes, and culture dishes. A microscope occupied the space in front of them, with a centrifuge and ice chest off to the side.
One of the men placed a glass slide on the scope’s viewing platform. He leaned forward and peered through the twin eyepieces, his gloved hand slowly turning the focus knob. He stiffened, his eyes trained on the unexpected filament of protein floating on the sea of dead blood.
“You have something?”
The man ignored his colleague and continued turning the knob, his eyes fixed on the bronze strand.
Nihalla leaned closer. “Mr. Frankton?”
Karl slumped on the stool, his bloodshot eyes glaring at the microscope. He plucked the slide off the scope’s viewing platform and handed it to Nihalla. “Eyelash, sorry.”
Nihalla raised the slide to the light and squinted at the amber fluid trapped inside the slide’s transparent seal, and at the red “84” scribbled beside it. He frowned and snatched the lash with a tweezers before placing the slide in its white-plastic box.
Karl glanced at the box. “That’s it?”
“Yes, last one.” Nihalla closed the box and applied a tape seal. He slipped an insulated glove over his right hand and reached for the ice chest. When he lifted the lid, a rush of white vapor spilled down the chest onto the table. The vapor crept across the table like a freed spirit before disappearing into the conditioned air.
Nihalla’s frown deepened as he lowered the box into the ice chest. “Maybe I missed something.”
“Missed?”
“When I checked the spinals.”
Karl gave him a puzzled look. “We both checked the spinals. Everything normal. No anomalies.”
Nihalla ignored him while lifting a frost-covered box out of the chest. He held it up and watched the vapor drift down his glove.
“You okay, Doc?”
Nihalla didn’t respond.
“How about a break?”
“I’m fine, Mr. Frankton.”
Karl slipped off the stool and stretched his aching back. “Want anything?”
“A cup of tea would be nice.”
“No problem, but you should take a break. Give you a chance to clear your head.”
Nihalla didn’t hear him. He’d peeled the tape off the frosted box and lifted out the first slide. It would take three hours to recheck the spinal fluids.
“Well…back soon with that tea.” Karl patted Nihalla’s shoulder and shuffled across the van’s grated floor to the rear door, taking care not to brush against the racked vials on the lab table. He gripped the door’s metal handle and looked back at Nihalla hunched over the microscope’s twin eyepieces.
The Somali physician had been at it for two days without a decent break. No food, no rest, not even a cup of his precious chamomile tea. Dedication was one thing, but the poor guy was killing himself. Take a breather for Christ’s sake.
Karl started to speak, but the words jammed in his throat. Watch it, chum. He’s not like you. This is his country, his village, his people. And don’t call him “Doc.” It’s Dr. Nihalla, the very best. Hell, you’re not good enough to be his scrub, so take your sorry ass out of this van, clear your muddled head, and get back with that tea.
Karl yanked the handle and pushed out of the Vickers Mobile Lab into the blinding daylight. He closed the door and felt a blast of crushing heat. After four hours in the van’s conditioned air, he’d almost forgotten where he was.
He pulled down his surgical mask and squinted at the sun floating in the haze. If there was a hell on earth, he was standing in it. Unbearable heat, dead trees, parched savannah grass, swarms of flies, and that oppressive haze. A real paradise, southwest Somalia in July. Smack in the middle of the hagaa drought.
He brushed back his surgical cap and ruffled his blond hair while studying the cluster of brown shacks on his left. The only sound was the unnerving drone of flies.
He stared at the yellow plastic tape encircling the shacks. Suspended by wire stakes, the tape stretched nearly fifty yards before disappearing around the last shack. It reminded him of an enormous crime scene investigation, except for the tri-pincered International Biohazard Symbol stamped across the tape in black. The warning was clear. Cross that tape without proper gear and your next step might be your last.
He eased down the van’s metal steps and placed his foot on a lever protruding from a white-plastic container. He popped open the lid and ripped off his surgical gown, followed by his mask, cap, and latex gloves. He dropped them in the container and pulled his foot away. The weighted lid plopped shut.
In a few minutes, Crumley would snatch the container’s plastic bag and dump it in the incineration pit at the far-end of the village. A quick “bleach-n-burn” to eliminate any contamination risk and Crumley would be done with his grim chores for the day.
God, he was tired. If he could just close his eyes. No sense working like this. Might overlook something. Maybe already had.
Where the hell was the breeze? Not even a rustle. Nothing but burned grass, scrub, and that damned sun. He tugged at his khaki shirt and shuffled through the faded savannah grass toward the white tents on the slope above the village.
He was nearly to the tents when he stopped to look down at the village. The drone had grown louder, more like a steady hum. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead.
He stared at the pavilion at the north end of the village. Swarms of flies darted under its rusted, corrugated metal roof, their tiny bodies engulfing it in black haze.
He squinted at the shadows beneath the metal roof and felt his stomach churn. There was no tree to grab, nothing to lean against. He bent over and clutched his knees.
This was different than peering at death through a microscope’s sterile eyepiece, or studying gruesome photographs in an air-conditioned Atlanta briefing room. This was the real thing and it was more than he could stand.
He could barely make them out in the shadows. Eighty-four silver bags, each containing the remains of a human being, neatly placed beside one another in four tight rows, their ID tags stamped “1” through “84.” The same numbers as on the slides.
And that gut-wrenching smell. The acrid stench of bleach. A final bath for the dead administered by agent Terwood Crumley as he stepped through the plastic bags in his white biohazard suit, a spray tank strapped to his back, a silver nozzle in his gloved hands.
Karl fought the nausea while recalling the moment their chopper touched down two days ago. They were warned it would be rough, but nothing could prepare them for the shock when they stepped off the chopper in their biohazard suits.
He’d seen death before. A year ago in Zaire. A dozen corpses in a small village below Mt. Elgon, their bodies liquefying from the latest outbreak of Ebola. Another two dozen fighting for their lives, their skin splattered with ominous red blotches, blood leaking from their noses and mouths, a look of hopeless lassitude in their eyes. A hard day, but not like this.
The landscape was different than Zaire. No dense, green jungle shrieking with colubus monkeys. No Mt. Elgon rising above the haze, its stepped ridges shaded silver-green in the morning sun.
This was southwest Somalia and there was no emerald jungle. Only burned savannah grass, dead trees, and that merciless sun.
To the north, rugged highlands rose toward the Karkaar Mountains, but here everything was flat and barren. The only water came from two rivers flowing down from Ethiopia. One of them, the Jubba, managed to reach the Indian Ocean at the port city of Chisimayu.
But Chisimayu lay three hundred miles to the southwest. The only water up here came from the Shabeelle River, or what was left of it. A trickling stream fading south toward the parched sand dunes below Mogadishu, the Somali capital.
Karl wiped the sweat off his face and looked north. Hell, if you want to see a river take a look at the flood of refugees pouring into Mogadishu from the west, all of them fleeing Somalia’s tribal wars and killer droughts.
What a hellhole. Poverty, civil war, drought, and death. An anarchist nation ruled by territorial clans and warlords. Names like Dir, Daarood, Isaaq, Hawiye, Digil, and Rahanwayn fighting to protect their turf while their women and children starved to death. And now, this.
He recalled the bodies strewn across the village, their frozen hands clutching their throats, their strained fingers embedded in the clawed dirt. Mothers and children clinging to each other, their faces twisted in agony. But most of all, he’d never forget the terrified look in their glazed eyes. Like they’d seen the devil before gasping their final breath.
Yes, this was the nightmare Karl Frankton and his four colleagues dropped into two days ago. And still no answer.
He took a deep breath and continued up the slope. When he reached the tents, he paused for a final look at the village. From here, he could see tomorrow’s work.
They hadn’t cleared away the dead animals. Goats, dogs, and birds lay in the dirt beside the huts, the relentless insects and vultures tearing at their carcasses. Tomorrow, he and the others would don the bio-suits and perform the gruesome task of collecting tissue samples. Maybe they’d find something in the animal fat.
He eyed the cooking pots and bowls scattered around the burned-out campfire. The flies were having a feast on the spilled contents, as were the wild dogs that slinked between the huts, snatching the decayed food in their teeth before bolting into the tall grass. Yellow tape meant nothing to those starved creatures. Another day, and they’d start on the carcasses.
He rested his hand against a dead tree and stared at the morbid scene. Something was eating at him. Something very deep. Something missing, like an unfinished painting.
“What are you doing?”
Karl spun around and saw Jim Powell staring at him, his unbuttoned khaki shirt hanging limp over his trousers.
“Well?”
“I’m taking a break.”
Powell’s face twisted in a scowl. “Sorry, buddy. No time for that. Tom’s sweating bullets. We have visitors in the morning. We work all night if we have to.”
Karl flicked a bead of sweat off his forehead. “I’ll get back to Nihalla.”
“Hold it.” Powell stroked his chin. “Since you’re so interested in those dead animals, put on your suit and start taking samples.”
“Now?”
“Better than working in the dark with those dogs hanging around. One of them might take a bite out of you. Lord knows what they’re carrying.” Powell nodded approvingly. “Yeah, you take care of the carcasses and I’ll take care of Nihalla.” He brushed past Karl and headed down the hill toward the van.
***
It was cooler now. Below ninety degrees. The haze had dissipated and the night sky flickered with stars. A light breeze had picked up from the southeast, flaring a few lazy embers into the darkness above their campfire.
Powell leaned toward the fire and rubbed his tired eyes. “Where the hell are we?”
“Up a creek without a paddle.”
Powell glared at the attractive brunette sitting across from him, her tanned face glistening in the fire light.
Susan Cayman shrugged. “What do you want me to tell them?”
“The truth, dammit. We’re on the verge of a breakthrough. Another couple days should do it.”
“Sure you want to say that?”
Powell’s face flushed. He snatched his spiked coffee and chugged it down. “No reason to alarm anyone. We just need more time.”
“Tom agrees?”
Powell gave her a second dirty look. “Don’t worry about Tom. He’ll listen to me.”
She nodded and sipped her coffee.
Powell dragged a silver flask out of his shirt pocket and took a swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced at the stern-faced man seated on his left. “Shot?” He held out the flask.
Karl ignored him and stared at the fire, his arms wrapped around his knees. His mind was on the dead animals. He couldn’t forget the look of terror in their bulging eyes when he knelt beside them. Just like the villagers.
Powell took another swig and leaned toward him. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Better take some dex. It’ll be a long night.”
Karl nodded and looked toward the village. “How’s Nihalla?”
“Out on his feet in the van. Keeps going over the same damn slides.”
“Sure he’s okay?”
Powell stabbed the coals. “What do you care?”
Karl flinched. Things were getting a little tense on the Shabeelle. It had been building since the two men met in Atlanta four days ago. He started to speak, but Susan cut him off.
“I’ll talk to Nihalla.” She stood up and brushed off her khaki pants. “The poor guy knew those people in the bags. Probably brought them into this screwed-up world. It’s gotta be rippin’ him.”
“Leave him alone.”
“What?”
Powell swiped the coals. “We all have our little ghosts. No time to play nun out here.”
“But—”
“Forget it. We have bigger problems.” Powell waited for her to sit down before resuming his ritual with the coals. “Tom told me he picked up a broadcast from Mombassa. Sounds like it broke out down there.”
“Mombassa?” Karl’s head snapped up.
“That’s what I said.”
Karl snatched the flask and took a swig.
“Hey, I said a shot.” Powell reached for the flask but Karl yanked it away. He took another swig and flipped the silver flask at Powell, nearly striking him in the face.
“Hey, watch it!”
Karl stood up and peered into the darkness. “How did it get down there so fast? That’s five hundred miles?” He looked at Powell with stunned eyes. “The damn thing’s airborne.”
“Screw that. You just chugged half my scotch.”
Karl wasn’t listening. He stepped away from the fire, his eyes focused on the village. “God, if it’s airborne—”
Powell jumped up and seized his arm. “Forget the damn bug. What about my scotch?”
“Take it easy, I’ll pay you when we get back.”
Powell’s face twisted in a sneer. The booze had done its job. “You expect me to fall for that? I want my money now!”
Karl tried to pull his arm free, but Powell’s grip was like iron. The last two days had taken a hard toll on the young pathologist.
“Now!” Powell jabbed his nose into Karl’s face.
Karl noticed Susan backing away from the campfire. The commotion had awakened Crumley who was gawking at them from his tent. The man clutching his arm was on the brink of losing it. If things went any further, it could finish them both.
Karl yanked his arm away. “Snap out of it. You’re acting like a kid.”
“Damn you!” Powell lunged at Karl and threw a right cross, but his fist only caught air. He gasped from a sharp pain in his gut as Karl’s right fist slammed into his solar plexus, dropping him like a rock.
Karl looked down at the young man doubled up at his feet. He lowered his fists and took a calming breath. “You okay?”
“Go to hell.”
Karl reached down to help him, but Powell swiped his hand away. Karl crouched beside him and lowered his voice. “Come on, man. I know it’s rough. None of us expected this. We need to stick together. I’ll get your booze. Just take it easy.”
Powell glared at him. “How the hell did we end up with you? With all the good ones out there, how in God’s name did we draw you!”
“You think I wanted this? I go where I’m told.”
Powell took a painful breath and stood up, his hand clutching his stomach. “You talk like you’re one of us. Think we don’t know what happened at FDA? Think we’re stupid? You’re poison, Frankton. Poison!”
Karl clenched his fists. “There’s a lot you don’t know. Just let it go.”
Powell picked up his flask and stuffed it in his shirt. “I know this. If you’re not outta here tomorrow, I’m going to Tom with it. It’s you or me, dammit. You or me!” He brushed past Karl and headed for his tent.
Karl scooped a handful of dirt and stared at the deserted fire. Through the darkness, he heard Susan’s strained voice coming from Tom Buckley’s tent. The dust hadn’t settled and the ambitious bitch was already blowing the whistle.
He flung the dirt at the ground. Nice going, jerk. Picking a fight with a kid on the verge of a breakdown. The poor guy probably came from a wealthy New England family. A silver-spooned med school grad with guarantees of fame and fortune. Probably thought he knew it all after those dry runs in the Level 4 Lab.
He’d watched Powell perform the first three biopsies. Why in God’s name did Buckley start him with a family? First the father. Nothing to it. Swab the skin with alcohol, point the scalpel away from your bio-suit, and make an incision in the abdomen. Forget the blood. He’s dead, remember? Peel back the skin flaps until you find the liver. Shove in the biopsy needle, give it a good twist, and yank it out. Drop the sample in the plastic vial and you’re done. Now for mommy and baby daughter. God…
He stood up and brushed off his khaki pants. Best to let the poor fool sleep it off. Nothing like a little sleep to ease the pain. He glanced at his watch. Better take that dex. And pin ten bucks to Powell’s tent flap. Anything to keep the peace. He started toward Powell’s tent and heard a shuffling in the darkness. Tom Buckley’s stern face burst into the firelight.
Buckley was a tall, gaunt man with charcoal hair and deep-set, black eyes that had a way of making you listen. He stopped and trained his black eyes on Karl. “Well?”
“No problem. Just blowing off steam.”
“Susan tells me you started it.”
“Me? That little b” Karl caught himself and lowered his voice. “Jim’s a good kid, but he’s in over his head. He’s going to snap. You better pull him out before he kills himself, and us too.”
Buckley’s black eyes burned into him. “You have a lot of nerve. Too much for your own good.”
The two men stared at each other, their faces flickering in the firelight. The only sound was the crackling flames.
Buckley looked down at the folded paper in his hand. “I received this a few minutes ago from Atlanta.” He handed the paper to Karl. “They want one of us back there.”
Karl unfolded the e-mail printout and focused on the sender’s name. Hampsted? He’d not seen that name before.
“Get your things together. A plane’s leaving from Mogadishu at ten hundred hours. I’ll have a jeep pick you up at seven.”
Karl looked at him in disbelief. “Me?”
“You.”
“Just like that?”
Buckley nodded.
“Are you nuts? You don’t want to pull me out now. Not when we’re so close.”
Buckley snatched the e-mail out of Karl’s hand and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “Sorry, I have to think of the team.” He looked down and forced out the words. “You’re a troublemaker, Karl. We don’t want you here. There’s too much at stake. Besides, you’re contracted. An outsider. We’ll replace you with one of our own.” He started to turn away and hesitated. “Better get some sleep. And keep away from the others. You’re on pretty thin ice.” He disappeared into the darkness.
Karl felt a tightness in his gut. He looked down at the fading campfire. Were they crazy? All he needed was another day. He’d find the answer in another day. For God’s sake, just one more day!
He recalled his attorney’s warning at the FDA hearing two years ago. His scientific curiosity had cost some powerful people a lot of money. They wouldn’t rest until Karl Frankton was a name on a tombstone.
***
He took a shower in the portable facility behind the tents. The cool spray felt like nirvana splashing off his face and chest. He was just getting into it when the timer shut off the water. He cursed the timer and stepped into the darkness, a towel wrapped around his naked waist.
It was past midnight and the temperature had dropped into the seventies. The breeze had died down and everything was still except the faint gurgle of the river. A full moon bathed the village in shadowed light.
He was about to duck into his tent when he spotted Nihalla leaning against the olive-drab van, his arms hanging limp, the moon lighting his exhausted face. A discarded surgical cap dangled from the Somali’s left hand. He was staring at the village.
Karl’s eyes filled with tears. He wanted to go down there and put an arm around him. Maybe offer a kind word or two. Then it hit him. The tea, idiot. You forgot his tea! He shook his head and slipped through the tent flap.
His watch read 12:20. It would only take a few minutes to pack his gear. He laid out his last clean pair of khakis and a worn, blue denim shirt. A quick stroke of his stubbled chin told him he should shave, but he was too tired. No problem. Better to step off the plane with that rugged, weary look. It might make a difference when Buckley filed his report.
He’d nearly finished packing when he spotted the brown-leather toiletry kit protruding from his disheveled clothes. He unzipped the kit and lifted out a small, pewter-framed photograph of a blond-haired woman. She wore a black graduation cap and gown, the cap tilted slightly back, its black tassel brushing her right shoulder. She was standing in front of a black, wrought iron gate.
He collapsed on the cot and studied the sunlit face. The only sound was the gentle hum of the HEPA air sensors going about their sampling outside his tent. It reminded him of the cool breeze rustling through the trees on that beautiful spring day, so long ago.
His hand groped for the flask in his kit. He popped the cap and took a burning gulp. Then another. He switched off the electric lantern and fell back on the cot.
The tears were coming freely now, along with memories of a better time and place. He forced back a sob and guzzled the scotch.
The ghosts were strong tonight. Like those dead faces in the village. Staring at him. Crying out to him. And that smell of bleach and rancid flesh. And that stifling, sunlit haze. He pressed the picture against his heart and stared at the spinning darkness. The flask slipped out of his hand. He was going back to a better time and place…
Chapter 2
Columbia University
He braced against the stiff breeze and focused the camera on the Chrysler Building’s stainless steel crown. “Always wanted to do this.” He smiled and pressed the shutter button.
“Satisfied?”
“Yup.”
Anne leaned against him and stared at the wall of sunlit skyscrapers. They were standing on a bluff overlooking Morningside Park and the Manhattan skyline. The sun beamed down on them from a crystal-blue sky. The cool, spring breeze carried the scent of fresh wildflowers. It was a perfect day. A day like none other.
Anne looked down at the blue-ribboned diploma in her hand. “Guess you’re next.”
He stiffened and looked away.
“What’s wrong?” She grasped his cheek and gently turned his face toward her. His eyes were filled with tears. “Karl?”
“You made it, dammit. The whole nine yards.”
“Oh, honey.” She reached up and kissed him softly on the cheek. “We’ll be okay. I’ll do some part-time work at Roosevelt. Maybe”
He touched a finger to her lips. “Just get that practice started. I’ll figure something out.”
She brushed his finger away. “You think I’ll let you down now? After all you’ve done? The nerve.” She wiped away a tear and kissed him on the lips with a wife’s love. They clung to each other and listened to the wind rustle through the trees.
He eased away from her and looked down at the camera. “Come on, Doc. We still have two shots.”
“The cap and gown, remember? They’re due at one.”
He stepped back and eyed her attire. “You’re keeping the cap, right?”
She dragged off the flat, square mortarboard and stared at it while her blond hair ruffled in the breeze. “Never thought about it. They charge a lot for these things. Maybe just the tassel.”
“Tassel? After seven years in hell? No way. Gotta keep the cap. Tradition and all that. Right, old chum?” He glanced at the nine-year-old shuffling toward them from the trees.
Jeremy tugged at his starched collar and gave his neck an angry twist. “I don’t care about all this kissy stuff. Let’s go to Gram’s so I can get out of this suit. It’s killing me.” He leaned against his dad and looked up at him with pleading eyes.
Karl rested a hand on his son’s shoulder. His wife’s warm body pressed against him. He looked at the skyline and felt the breeze on his face, and for a moment, he was a king.
“Honey?”
“Yeah?”
“We should get going.”
He nodded and kissed her softly on the forehead. “Anything you say, Doc.”
They headed up 116th toward Amsterdam Avenue, passing Columbia’s stately President’s House and Greene Hall. When they reached the university’s eastern gate, Karl paused and pulled out his camera.
“What are you doing?” Anne frowned while glancing nervously at her watch.
“Just one.”
“Come on, honey. The reception’s in an hour. I need to get into something decent.”
“Only take a minute. We’ll use the gate for a backdrop.” He nodded at the opened wrought iron gate.
“Dammit, Karl.” She was about to explode when she noticed Jeremy gawking at her. She let out a frustrated sigh and stormed through the entrance, her black gown flapping in the breeze.
“Come on, Dad. Take the picture already.”
Karl smiled at his impatient son and shooed him through the entrance. The young man sauntered up the brick path behind his mom, his blond hair glistening in the sunlight, his right finger tugging at the starched collar.
God help the ladies. Ol’ Jeremy had his dad’s sharp features, blue eyes, and blond hair. He’d probably end up a surfer in Hawaii. Certainly not the physician type. Oh well, can’t expect too much from Frankton genes. Karl smiled to himself and followed his son through the opened gate.
It only took a minute to line up the shot. He had Anne position the tassel so it brushed her right shoulder. The perfect graduation pose. He stepped back on College Walk’s brick path and hesitated.
Hmmm, that view behind him looked pretty good too. The green quadrangle with Butler Library and Low Memorial to either side. Maybe take one on the steps of Low Memorial with those pillars stretching to the rotunda and French’s statue of Alma Mater floating above her shoulder. Real profound.
“So help me, Karl!”
Oops. Don’t want her mad this weekend. Got a lot of lovin’ to make up for. Jeremy stays with Gram, and Mom goes to Cape Cod with dear ol’ Dad. He smiled and lifted the camera. “All set. Just look up so we don’t get any shadows on that beautiful face.”
“That’s it!”
“I love you.” He centered her face in the eyepiece. “Once in a lifetime. You’ll thank me someday.”
She looked at him with pleading eyes. “For God’s sake, honey. It’s fifty blocks to the party. I still have to change and get fresh.”
“We’ll be fine. Lots of time. Think of the little gift I have for you this weekend. At-a-girl. Nice, sexy smile. Steady…“
He squeezed the shutter and listened for the click that never came. The picture froze in the eyepiece as if trapped in time. Anne’s face glistened in the sunlight, and faded away…
***
“Frankton, you okay?”
Karl squinted at the blurred face peering down at him. He sat up on his elbows, trying to clear his throbbing head.
Buckley was standing beside the cot. He wore a white bio-suit with the helmet cradled in his arm. His face was twisted in a scowl. He held up the empty flask. “You know what this means?”
Karl blinked at the flask. “I’m not on duty. I’m relieved, remember?”
“You’re drunk in the field! It goes on your report.” Buckley threw the flask on the cot. “Get your gear together. The jeep leaves in ten minutes.” He yanked back the tent flap and ducked through the opening.
Karl sat up on the cot and buried his face in his hands. Buckley’s stinging words rang in his ears. Drunk on duty. The kiss of death, given his record of insubordination and recklessness. Or was it? Want to make a wager, Mr. Buckley? Bet the boys in Atlanta look the other way. Mustn’t get the attorneys involved. Might cause a media flap. Most unwise, don’t you think?
He spotted the photograph lying beside his foot. He reached down and picked it up while recalling the magic day three years ago when a proud husband celebrated his wife’s triumph. With only a year remaining to his own graduation from Columbia’s prestigious medical school, he would soon follow her down the road to fame and fortune.
Dr. Karl Frankton. It sounded so good. Not bad for a poor kid from York, PA. A real old-fashioned American dream. Only one problem. Three years ago, the dream became a nightmare because of a flashing computer screen and something called M-13. He jammed the photograph in his duffel bag and pushed off the cot.
The tents were bathed in sunlight and the humid air smelled from decay. Only seven a.m. and it was already ninety degrees. A quick check of the equipment locker revealed the bio-suits had been removed from their sterilized containers along with his own suit, a clear message his time was up in Somalia. He walked through the dead trees and looked down at the village.
There they were, prowling through the carnage in their white bio-suits, rakes in hand, their sample-collection boxes dangling from their waists. If he didn’t know better, he might be looking at a 1970’s TV shot of Apollo astronauts probing the moon’s dead surface.
Buckley led the way, his rake clawing the dirt around the cooking pots. Can’t blame him for being so stressed out. With the heavies flying in, it was important to stay busy, especially when no one had a clue. If the media discovered the outbreak before CDC isolated the invisible killer, the result would be chaos, and that would mean heads, starting with Mr. Buckley’s.
Karl backed away from the slope. No sense waiting for an affectionate wave. They knew he was up here, but no one would look his way. Good riddance and all that. He hesitated and looked toward the pavilion.
What about them, Mr. Frankton? Eighty-four souls struck down in mid-stride, their breath snatched away by an invisible hand. So brutal. So frightening.
He recalled the numbered slides. Maybe Nihalla would find the answer. God, let him nail the damn bug before he killed himself with remorse. And someone please make him a cup of chamomile tea.
His eyes lit up. The tea! There was still time. Only take a couple minutes to boil the water. Hell, he’d brew it himself. A compassionate way to say goodbye to the only one he respected. A little late but
“Mr. Frankton?”
Karl turned and saw Crumley staring at him with tired brown eyes. He wore a bio-suit with the helmet cradled in his arm.
Crumley nodded toward a jeep parked in the grass beyond the tents. “Gotta get going, Mr. Frankton. Those guys are kinda edgy.”
Karl squinted at the two Somali soldiers staring at him from the jeep, their green camouflaged fatigues bathed in sunlight. “Which clan are they?”
Crumley shrugged. “Don’t know. They’re supposed to be government sanctioned.”
“Government? That’s a laugh.”
Crumley extended his ungloved hand. “Good luck, Mr. Frankton. Wish I could go with you.”
“Yeah…take care, Terwood.” Karl shook Crumley’s hand and started to pick up his duffel bag.
“Mr. Frankton?” Crumley held out a white envelope. “Maybe you can do me a favor? In case anything…well, you know what I mean.”
Karl took the envelope and stuffed it in his pocket. “You’ll be okay. Just use plenty of tape around those sleeves and ankles. And watch that rusted iron on the pavilion roof. It’s sharp as hell.”
Crumley nodded and glanced toward the jeep.
Karl forced a smile and patted his pocket. “I’ll give this back to you in Atlanta.” He snatched the duffel bag and walked toward the two Somalis and their CIA-issue jeep.
The jeep ride was the last thing Karl needed. The cursing soldiers had to pull over twice while their passenger staggered to the side of the road and heaved his cookies in the dried grass. The hard part was sitting in the open with all that high straw surrounding them, the perfect setting for an ambush. They were crossing Hawiye country and the clan was well-stocked with light arms and automatic weapons. Maybe even a “hand-held” or two.
Things got tense when Karl let fly the second time. The two Somalis backed away from their moaning passenger in horror. Had the young medic caught the dreaded disease that wiped out the village? Rumors of new outbreaks were rampant, even trickling in from Ethiopia and Kenya, and here they were escorting an infected American bureaucrat who had no business in their land, a useless intruder who might be more dangerous than any sniper. Better to shoot him and let the hungry dogs do the rest. One of them had his finger on the trigger when Karl crawled into the jeep and blurted out, “I’ll be okay now.”
A couple aspirins and Karl was almost feeling human when their jeep reached Mogadishu’s bullet-riddled airport. He wouldn’t forget the battered yellow and white buildings lining the roads through the town. The looted warehouses and stores. The young men on the rooftops, AK-47’s dangling from their hands, their pockets stuffed with enough narcotics to dope them for a kill. And the faces of those starved, pathetic creatures huddled in the alleys and shadows, an army of refugees flooding the Somali capital in search of food, water, and shelter. The perfect breeding ground for the next HIV, Ebola, or Marburg virus.
The jeep skidded to a halt on the tarmac, a hundred feet from an ancient C-47 Dakota parked in the blazing sun.
“You’re Frankton?”
Karl eyed the fatigue-clothed man staring at him from the opened cargo door. He nodded and swung the duffel bag over his shoulder.
“Gotta hurry, Mr. Frankton. We’ve got rumors of stingers in the area.”
Great, nothing like getting blown away by some drugged kid with a hand-held. What the hell happened to spears? Karl climbed the ramp and felt a blast of hot wind as the engines came to life.
They hop scotched to Tel Aviv where Karl transferred to a C-5A. After a queasy ride through a line of storms, the massive jet touched down in Lisbon to pick up a special forces unit. From there, the huge transport headed over the Atlantic for the seven hour leg to Atlanta.
Karl tried to sleep, but his mind kept racing through the past forty-eight hours. He popped a sleeping tablet, but the platoon of green berets wouldn’t shut up. Probably coming home from a rapid deployment exercise. Enough field equipment to launch an invasion.
He felt a little edgy sitting in the cavernous military transport with a unit of special forces personnel and their high-tech APC’s. At one point, he struck up a conversation with one of the stern-faced grunts, but had to back off when the young warrior started questioning him about his assignment in Africa.
Since med school, Karl had gotten into the habit of keeping a journal. He spent the final hour going over his scribbled entries, particularly the ones he’d jotted down in the mobile lab.
In two years of face-to-face confrontations with Ebola, Marburg, Lassa, Hanta, Malaria, SARS, Alpha-Omega E, and a dozen other killers, he’d never seen anything so lethal, yet virtually nonexistent. Every test had proven futile. ELISA enzyme reactions—negative. HEPA air detection—negative, yet the virus appeared airborne. Blood, stool, urine, sputum, cerebrospinal fluids—negative. Organic samples—nothing. Protein analysis—zero. Impossible, dammit. There had to be something. Some trace of the virus. He closed the journal and jammed it in his duffel bag.
They touched down at Atlanta’s Hartsfield International Airport at 6:15 a.m. Karl had reset his watch so many times, he was afraid the screw would come loose. In three years, he’d replaced the screw mechanism three times. Cheaper to throw the damn thing away, but Anne had given him the watch on his twenty-eighth birthday. Remember that day, old buddy? Just a week before she graduated from Columbia. He twirled the screw and pushed it until it clicked.
The huge plane taxied to a secured terminal at the far end of the tarmac. When it rolled to a stop, an officer in a blue jumpsuit stepped to a console at the front of the cargo compartment. He pulled back a red lever and watched the nose ramp drop away. “This is where you get off, Mr. Frankton.” He smiled at Karl and nodded toward the sunlit opening.
Karl stood up and swung the duffel bag over his shoulder. He exchanged well-wishes with the grunts and shuffled toward the officer. It had taken twenty-eight hours to cover the nine thousand miles to his destination.
“Watch yourself going down, Mr. Frankton. One of the mechanics will guide you clear of the plane. Good luck.” The officer patted Karl’s shoulder and watched him step down the ramp.
Karl barely cleared the plane when he heard a voice call out, “Mr. Frankton?” He stopped on the tarmac and squinted at the sunlit face staring at him from the opened window of a black sedan.
“You’re Frankton?”
Karl nodded.
“Change in plans, Mr. Frankton. Hop in.”
“You’re?”
“Parker Hampsted, your new case leader.”
Karl recognized the name from Buckley’s e-mail. He stepped toward the car while eyeing the man’s gaunt face and neatly-groomed charcoal hair. With those steel-blue eyes, Hampsted looked more like an FBI agent than someone from CDC. Karl forced a smile and asked the obvious question. “What’s going on?”
“I’ll explain on the plane.”
“Plane?”
“We’re headed for Seattle, Mr. Frankton.” Hampsted watched Karl’s stunned reaction. “Sorry, you’re the only one available with the necessary qualifications.”
Karl felt his shoulders drop. Twenty-eight hours for this? He opened the rear door and flung his duffel bag on the seat. “I need to take a pee.”
“You can do that on the plane.” Hampsted gave him the evil eye. “You clean?”
Karl shrugged. “They tested me on each leg. Nothing detected.” He felt a rush of adrenalin. Nothing detected? What a laugh.
“Get in.” Hampsted watched his passenger climb into the back seat. He nodded to his driver, a blue-suited man with black hair and sunglasses.
They drove across the tarmac to the charter terminal and pulled up beside a twin-engined Gulfstream. Hampsted slid out of the car and snatched a black attaché case off the front seat. He straightened his gray suit and gestured toward a ramp leading into the plane. “Never mind the duffel bag. We’ll stash it in cargo.” Hampsted climbed the ramp, followed by his stunned subordinate.
The small passenger compartment was deserted. Beams of sunlight lit up three rows of brown leather seats, one to each side of the blue-carpeted aisle. The compartment smelled from air-freshener. Not bad after two days in Somalia and nine thousand miles in a Dakota and C-5A.
Hampsted dropped into the first seat and gestured for Karl to sit across from him. As Karl sat down, a blue-uniformed pilot stepped out of the cockpit and pulled the exit door closed. The pilot flashed a smile and retreated into the cockpit.
Karl stared at the closed cockpit door. “So, what’s up?”
Hampsted placed the black attaché case on his lap and frowned. “Get some rest, Mr. Frankton.”
Karl’s ears popped from a sudden rush of cabin pressure. The compartment vibrated from the throttled engines. He rested his head against the soft cushion and looked up at the white-plastic ceiling. The last thing he remembered was the plane taking off…
Chapter 3
Willapa Bay
He squeezed more suntan lotion on his palm and nudged the beautiful woman lying beside him. “How about the front?”
“Huh?”
“The front?”
Anne rolled on her back and smiled under her amber sunglasses. “You already did me there, remember?”
“Just a little more. Don’t want you to get burned.”
Her smile broadened. “You’re going to get us kicked off this beach.”
He leaned closer and rested his oiled palm on her bare stomach. “How about here?” His hand slid lower.
“Watch it, big guy. You’re supposed to be studying.”
“I am studying.”
“I mean books.”
He kissed her softly on the neck. “God, you smell good.”
“Get some rest, Casanova. You’ll need it when we’re back in the room.” She rolled on her stomach and rested her head on her arms. She hadn’t worn a bikini in years and it was driving him mad. What a pair of legs. And the rest of her. Still warm and firm like the first night they made love. Hard to believe that was ten years ago.
He smiled and scanned the oiled bodies strewn across the sand. It was early June and the Cape was jammed with vacationers. Still a little cool, but quite comfortable after a hard Northeast winter. He squinted at the bright haze. The clouds were thickening. It would rain soon. No problem. The perfect excuse for staying in bed.
He could see the Harborside Inn through the corner of his eye, its majestic tinted windows overlooking Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket Sound. The air smelled sweet from roses and daffodils. Multicolored pennants streamed from the hotel’s symbolic masthead. The perfect graduation gift for the woman he loved.
He closed his eyes and listened to the water lap at the shore. The mini-vacation had cost him eight hundred bills, but it was worth it. Epicurus was right. Live for the moment. The hell with tomorrow.
He felt a chill. Who was he kidding? Forget Epicurus, they were in big trouble. Tomorrow wasn’t the problem. It would only be Sunday. Another day in paradise. It was the next day that scared him, and the day after when they were back at Columbia’s Bard Haven Towers with a tuition bill the size of a house stuck in their mailbox.
He sat up on his elbows and gazed at the sound. He was flat broke with a jobless wife and growing son. Forget the dreams of grandeur, old chum. You just dropped to Maslow’s Level One. You knowprimal instinctfear and survival.
He glanced at Anne. It would take her a year to get a practice started. She could always apply for interim work at one of the local hospitals, but the waiting lists were long and openings weren’t plentiful for recent grads.
If they were alone it would be different, but they had to think of Jeremy. The poor guy didn’t have a decent set of clothes. Even the suit he wore at his mother’s graduation was borrowed, and school was only three months away. Nothing worse than being taunted by a bunch of spoiled kids. Karl knew that terrible feeling from his own impoverished childhood in York. He’d vowed that would never happen again. Now his son was going to live it.
He scooped a handful of sand and felt it pour through his fingers. Maybe they should ship Jeremy off to Gram’s until things improved. They got along fine, and Jeremy would be safe there. He frowned and listened to a rumble of thunder. Forget it, pal. Jeremy was already spending too much time at Gram’s, and Anne’s mom didn’t have the money or stamina to handle him much longer.
They could try his sister in York, but she wasn’t too keen on Anne or Jeremy, not to mention her own brother. Never forgave him for leaving the farm to pursue his fantasy of becoming a big-shot doctor. Blew up at him for being a dreamer. For not wanting to be like the other poor bumpkins in that boring town. Besides, he and Jeremy were too close to be separated. The guilt would tear him up.
The breeze was stiffening. A drop of rain struck his cheek. The approaching gray clouds flickered with lightning. He sat up and stared at the incoming storm.
Time to face the music, old buddy. You shouldn’t have spent that last eight hundred bills on this little vacation. Talk about denial. You could have bought your family another few weeks while you tried to figure something out. Now you’re in deep guano, and so are they. Nice going, jerk.
And how about the biggest laugh. Your tuition’s due. Forget the student loan. You’re so far in arrears, they’ll probably drag you into court. Think about it, chum. You’re a year away from graduation at one of the nation’s finest medical schools and you’re living on food stamps and a prayer, and the prayer just went south cause you got laid off from St. Luke’s. He dug his fingers into the sand and recalled his supervisor’s cold words…
Sorry, Karl. Damn budget cuts. Please don’t take it personally. There’s nothing I can do. I feel real bad because of your family situation. I tried to talk them out of it.
Hell, you’re a good paramedic. Maybe you can come back when things improve. I’m sure you’ll find something. Only another year to graduation. In a few years, you’ll be rich and all this will be a fading memory.
“Damn!” He squeezed the sand through his fingers and felt the raindrops on his face. A bolt of lightning flashed over Chappaquiddick. He clenched his fist and watched the sunbathers scramble for shelter.
“We better go.” Anne had pulled off her sunglasses and was staring at him with concerned eyes.
“Yeah, we should talk.” He stood up and looked down at the stack of books on the blanket. The rain was spattering off the leather bound covers. Watch that rain, idiot. Last thing you need is Columbia’s medical library on your case.
He reached for the books and noticed a white envelope protruding from the stack. He remembered yanking it out of the mailbox when they left for the Cape. Nothing new. In the past two months, he’d gotten used to the “overdue” notices stuffed in their mailbox. He’d saved this one for a bookmark.
He started to lift the books and hesitated, his eyes staring at the envelope’s return address.
“Come on, honey. I’m getting soaked.”
He ignored her and ripped open the water-stained envelope. His trembling hand unfolded the crisp, one page letter.
“What’s wrong?”
He stared at the letter while a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, followed by a deafening clap of thunder.
“Dammit, Karl, we’re going to get fried!” She tugged on his arm, but he didn’t respond. “Honey?” She felt for a pulse, her eyes trained on his stunned face.
He heard her crying out to him, but he couldn’t move. His eyes were fixed on the letter…
June 1, 2010
Mr. Frankton:
We are impressed with your excellent scholastic record at Columbia-Presbyterian Cancer Center. Please consider this a formal offer to join our FDA research team in Bethesda, Maryland for three months of intensive work at our CDER research lab (June 14 through September 10). While our salary offering is limited due to government restrictions, we can provide all living expenses during your residence.
You will also be entitled to full tuition reimbursement at Columbia while you remain in our internship program.
We look forward to your joining us at FDA, both short and long-term.
Sincerely,
Zoltan Mermer
Director of Drug Evaluation and Review
Food and Drug Administration
United States of America
“God.”
“Karl?”
The letter blurred and faded away…
***
Karl blinked at the sunlight flashing through the Plexiglas window. Beyond the wing, Mt. Rainier’s snow-capped peak jutted through the haze. He stretched his stiff back and glanced at his watch. It was 8:40 a.m., Pacific Coast Time. They’d been airborne five hours and he’d slept every minute of them. He rested his head against the seat and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.
The beach was gone and so was Anne, but he could still see the boldface type on that fateful letter. So many hopes and dreams were rekindled when he unfolded that white piece of paper three years ago. It was more than a financial blessing. A summer in FDA’s Drug Evaluation and Review Program would give him the break he needed to reach the goal that had driven him since he first gazed into a microscope’s eyepiece, a simple glance at a flagellating protozoa in a high school biology class. Until that moment, Karl Frankton’s young life was aimless—purposeless.
Without that look into the eyepiece, he would have spent his useless existence earning a meager paycheck at a local food store, then blowing it in York’s pool halls and bars chasing sweet young things while getting blind, staggering drunk.
Oh yeah, mustn’t forget the inevitable back seat impregnation scene with some hot-blooded country gal. Followed of course by the ill-advised marriage, kids, money problems, drunken arguments, and backbreaking divorce.
But it didn’t happen that way. Maybe it was the sun shining on the microscope through the high school lab’s blinds. Or the unexpected rush of anticipation when he squeezed the medicine dropper and watched the bead of clouded water plop onto the glass slide. Maybe the sharpened image when he turned the focus knob and trained his blue eyes on the twisting, vibrating creature in the lens.
There was another world in that lens, an incredible, unseen world that would humble any astronomer. Why search for alien life on a far-off planet when it was at your fingertips in a simple drop of pond water?
This would be his dream, his passion. He would dedicate his life to exploring the churning, alien world inside that lens. It would be his world, a mysterious new world. And finally, after four years of college and six years at Columbia’s prestigious medical school, a young man’s fantasy was about to come true with a little help from the ol’ FDA.
His face twisted in a frown. If he’d only ignored M-13…
“Awake?”
Karl glanced at the man seated across the aisle.
“Better lift that seatback. We’re almost down.”
Karl nodded and forced a smile. He barely knew Hampsted, but he already disliked him. He pressed the seat button and looked at Seattle’s Space Needle and skyline.
Hampsted closed his attaché case and rested it on his lap. He leaned toward Karl and spoke in a subdued tone. “Good you got some rest. I’m not sure when you’ll sleep again.”
“What’s going on?”
“You’ll know soon enough.” Hampsted leaned back in his seat and flinched as the plane rattled from the touchdown at Sea-Tac’s international airport.
The Gulfstream taxied off the runway and rolled to a stop two hundred feet from the charter hangars. After shutting down the engines, the pilot stepped through the cockpit door, the same forced smile on his face. He grasped the exit door’s handle and gave it a yank. The compartment flooded with sunlight as he pushed the door open and dropped the exit ramp into place.
Hampsted stood up and clutched his attaché case. He stretched his back and nodded at the opened door. “Ready?”
Karl pushed out of his seat and followed Hampsted through the exit door. When he stepped on the ramp, he noticed a brown-suited man with sandy hair staring at them from the security fence. The man flipped off his sunglasses and walked toward them, his green eyes trained on Hampsted.
“Mr. Hampsted?” The agent flashed his CDC card.
Hampsted raised his ID card and stared at the stern, young face. “Where’s the chopper?”
“Coming in, sir.” The agent glanced to his left where an olive-drab, Bell Turbocopter was descending on the tarmac, its blades flickering in the morning sun.
Hampsted glanced at Karl and gestured toward the chopper.
“We’re taking that?”
Hampsted nodded and headed for the chopper. When Karl tried to follow him, the agent seized his arm.
“Your card, sir?” The agent’s green eyes burned into him.
Karl reached into his shirt pocket and fumbled for his photo-ID card. He held it up and frowned at the agent.
“Thank you, Mr. Frankton.” The agent released his grip and gestured toward the chopper.
“What about my bag?”
“We’ll take care of it, Mr. Frankton. Please hurry.”
Karl shook his head and followed his two favorite people toward the waiting chopper.
A quick hop up the chopper’s foot ladder and Karl was strapping in beside Hampsted. The agent had taken the passenger seat in front of them, alongside the black-helmeted pilot.
Hampsted placed his attaché case on the floor and leaned toward the pilot. “How long will it take?”
“About thirty minutes, sir. We’re cleared for takeoff.”
Hampsted nodded and dropped back in his seat as the pilot squeezed the throttle, lifting the chopper into the haze above the tarmac. At a thousand feet, the pilot pressed the control stick to the left and trained his black visor on the tilted ground below his side window.
Karl stared at the swaying horizon while trying to control his churning gut. After thirty-three hours in the air, his stomach was in no mood for aerobatics. He gripped the armrests and prayed he wouldn’t barf on his new supervisor.
The chopper veered to the left until the compass atop the console read 225 degrees. With the sun behind them, the pilot leveled off and pressed the control stick forward, dropping the helicopter’s nose into an aggressive attitude. A powerful force pressed them back in their seats as the chopper accelerated to 175 mph. They were headed southwest toward the Pacific Ocean, ninety miles away.
Karl unlocked his white-knuckled hands from the armrests and looked at Mt. Rainier. “Where are we going?”
“Enough questions, Mr. Frankton.” Hampsted leaned forward and tapped the agent’s shoulder. “Everyone in place?”
“Yes, sir. Since fifteen hundred yesterday.”
“Equipment?”
“Everything they requested.”
Hampsted nodded and eased back in his seat.
The chopper cleared the city’s haze and darted over the islets dotting Puget Sound. The cockpit flickered from the sunlight reflecting off the water. Quite a change from parched savannah grass and dead trees.
Twenty minutes out, they got an impressive view of Olympia, the state capital. Beyond it, Karl spotted Saint Helen’s enormous cirque sitting atop the haze. The mountain looked so peaceful, yet thirty-three years ago it filled the sky with the biggest explosion of modern time, its pyroclastic cloud blasting a stern warning that man only rents space on this fragile planet.
With Olympia and the mountains fading behind them, Karl could see the Pacific Ocean converging from the west, its blue veneer glistening through the haze. A narrow peninsula lay to the south, its strip forming an elongated inlet that opened to the ocean at the peninsula’s northern tip. They were headed straight at it.
Hampsted leaned forward and tapped the pilot’s shoulder. “That’s it?”
“Yes, sir. Dead ahead. We’ll be down in five minutes.”
Hampsted peered at the approaching peninsula, his hand fumbling with the handle of his attaché case.
Karl trained his eyes on the windshield and nearly jumped out of his seat when another chopper dropped in front of them, only a hundred feet off their nose. The pilot mumbled something through the mike on his helmet and pressed the stick forward.
They began an aggressive westward descent toward the peninsula’s northern tip and were nearly over it when the lead chopper swerved left and darted south along the peninsula’s interior shore.