The Nightmare Scenario (40 page)

He chose to focus on the moment that often played in his dreams, which, when forced to the foreground of his consciousness, gave him that exemplary determination for which he was known.

The image materialized. Too short to see her face, he was still comforted by her hand gently patting his head. Her voice repeating in a whisper that everything was going to be all right, and that he needed to be a good boy.

Gradually, the headache subsided to bearable levels.

Aeolus returned to his reading. In front of him were two manila folders. One was Ed’s summary of Jan Lukschandl’s work on mutations in the second polymerase. The other was a facsimile of research into the impact of the higher concentration of positively charged amino acids in the first hemagglutinin sequence. Walt had received it from an unknown sender.

Lukschandl’s research did indeed explain why the virus grew so much faster than usual. The fifty percent
increase in replication rate was why people fell ill, and died, so quickly.

The other piece, which Aeolus could only assume was from Boris in Koltsovo, showed that the increased presence of arginine quadrupled the number of ways the virus could attach to the host cells. That was why it was so much more contagious than the regular flu. Four times more, in fact.

Together they made for an extremely lethal cocktail.

Aeolus shivered. In the fight against Team Humanity, the virus was superior. They weren’t ready for this.

If only they had known these things earlier; if only Lukschandl had his crackpot idea a decade ago; if only Yelena had stumbled over the impact of arginine concentration when she was in America. If only… then they might have understood these effects and even had some form of remedy waiting for the virus.

But they hadn’t.

And such was the nature of research. It was a slow, gradual process, the success of which was contingent on a fair portion of luck. Louis Pasteur had been right that “chance favors the prepared mind,” and a sharp intellect was a necessary, but by no means sufficient, condition for success.

They had simply not been looking at the right things.

For the first time, Aeolus experienced that loss of motivation that follows from certain defeat approaching. What was the winning move? Was there even one?

They had never been ready for this.

AUGUST 22
^ND
, 4 P.M., PATIENT WARD, WHO REGIONAL OFFICE, SHAM NATH MARG, NEW DELHI

R
oger’s breath was now so shallow, every attempt at exhaling accompanied by splutters of blood, that Rebecca knew he did not have long; an hour, maybe two.

He could no longer speak, but Rebecca still repeated her statements of reassurance and comfort, telling him how he would be fine and would soon start to feel better.

The panic in Roger’s eyes had grown over the last few hours. It was the panic of a drowning man not getting enough oxygen. It was as if he was pleading for her to touch him, to give him comfort in his moment of death.

Finally, she yielded to her emotions. The same moment she made it she knew the right decision. She removed the latex glove and laid a hand on his forehead.
It was not a critical breach. She could probably prevent the infection by scrubbing with alcohol, but it was a breach of protocol that meant she could not return back inside to the isolated area.

As her skin touched his, a sense of calm came to Roger’s eyes. He inhaled one last time and stopped breathing. It wasn’t the illness. It was him. He was killing himself by willing himself to stop the painful breathing and die on his own terms, to die in peace while still under her touch.

His heart stopped within a minute and a moment later his facial muscles relaxed completely; all wrinkles gone from his now cherub-like face. Rebecca’s hand lingered on his forehead.

She had no idea how long she stood there, her mind void of thoughts, but her catatonic state was broken by her own voice, coming to her as though from a distance. It repeated the same words, first inaudible, and then with growing strength. “This is not why I became a doctor.”

After several repetitions, she broke free of her lethargy. “Screw it!”

She went to the phone and demanded to be connected to Walt.

“Walt, this is Rebecca. I have to get a hold of Aeolus. Can you put me through?”

“You know he’s in an undisclosed location. We can’t reach him directly, but I can forward a page through the CDC. They should be able to get him, but it might be a while.”

“Please do it, Walt. And tell him it’s urgent.”

“What’s it about?”

“Tell him I’m resigning.”

“Is this some sort of joke? You possess the rarest of commodities; his trust. He needs you. You’re in charge of one-third of the world for Christ’s sake!”

“I know all that, Walt. Just find him!”

Rebecca waited by Roger’s bedside, patting his forehead. She thought she could feel his body start to cool ever so slightly.

After about an hour, the phone rang.

“Rebecca, Aeolus here. What is this nonsense Walt is telling me?”

“It’s true, Aeolus. I’m sorry, I really am, but I have to resign. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the opportunities you’ve given me and how I cherish the trust you’ve put in me, but I’m emotionally compromised. I can’t do the job anymore and I
must
step down.”

“What do you mean, ‘emotionally compromised’? I’d rather have you working at a fraction of your capacity than appoint any of the halfwits from your staff down there.”

“Aeolus, it’s Roger. He became infected. He got it in Burma. He just passed.” She felt awkward speaking to Aeolus about it. He was not the kind of man you discussed emotions with. “Aeolus, I loved him. I made him a promise. I made a promise to a dying man. It’s a promise I intend to keep. I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Look,” continued Rebecca. “I didn’t become a doctor to deny people treatment, to sacrifice some for the benefit of others.”

“You’ve saved lives, Rebecca. These are tough calls, but it’s our job as epidemiologists.”

“Saved lives? What lives? In spite of all our sacrifices, she’s still spreading, killing people wherever she goes. We’ll wake up four weeks from now and see it was all in vain. We’ll have sacrificed our ethics, rejected our duties as doctors to accomplish absolutely nothing! Screw epidemiology! I can’t be a calculating, odds-weighing, unfeeling machine any longer. I’m going to be a doctor, a real doctor. I am going to treat patients.”

After a brief pause Aeolus came back. His voice was cold, void of all emotion.

“You do as you wish. Who do you want to put in your place?”

“I would propose Dr. Aslam. He’s competent, has good instincts, and acts with and conveys conviction. He’s the best guy we have. There’s just one problem.”

“Aslam? He’s a Pakistani?”

“Yes.”

Rebecca had been around Aeolus long enough to know he fervently hated prejudice in all its forms. “Ignorance by nature or nurture is bad enough,” he’d once told her, “But ignorance through a conscious choice is the worst insult a man can hurl at his most precious gift – his intellect.

“Tell whoever objects that, if they have a problem with this decision, I’ll send a squadron of Gurkhas down there, and they can try explaining their problems to people who are not of pure ethnic origin to them. Surely, they will then get to know the meaning of the
word defenestration. Knowledge I highly doubt they possess today.

“Goodbye, Rebecca. It’s a great loss for the team, but only your own conscience can judge you. It’s not for me to do so. Where are you going?”

“I’m going to where there are no doctors. I’m going to where this whole thing started, to Papua.”

“I wish you the best of luck,” Aeolus said and disconnected the line.

Rebecca got Dr. Aslam on the phone.

“Dr. Aslam. I’m leaving. You are now in charge.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Dr. Hughes has full confidence in you and will give you all the support you need. I’m convinced you can do it. But keep in mind that Dr. Hughes is a pretty tough customer. Don’t screw this up!”

“Uh… Okay.”

“And more thing.”

“Yes.”

“Please bring me my stethoscope.”

AUGUST 22
^ND
, 3 P.M., VIA APPIA ANTICA, SOUTHEAST BOUND, ROME

A
hmed El-Hamasy hit the brakes and shifted down to second gear. The engine of the Fiat Iveco huffed and puffed as the vehicle jerked violently. It had been years since he’d driven a truck this size, and it showed. The old roman pavement didn’t exactly make it easier. As the vehicle decelerated, they passed Catacombe di San Sebastiano, its Gothic arched entrance, usually occupied by Asian tourists, but now completely abandoned.

Underneath the church were the catacombs, where scores of Christians, buried throughout the centuries, had been laid to rest. Ahmed thought this would have been a natural destination for their current cargo, but the imam had disagreed. They were not to disturb the burial grounds of those already passed.

After another 200 feet they turned onto Via di San Sebastiano, stopping just by the field they now used as a graveyard.

They had embarked on their mission as soon as the burial services collapsed. It started small, burying the sick from their own community in Tuscolana. Then, as the bodies started mounting on the streets, they set out in trucks to find other Muslims and ensure them a proper burial.

Early on, it was clear that the amount of bodies would be too numerous for their usual burial grounds, so they set up camp at a two-acre open grass field west of the catacombs. It was pristine ground in a central location. It was here that they bathed, shrouded and buried their fallen with their heads towards Mecca.

So far all had been good, but once they were catching up with the Muslims the imam proclaimed their duty to bury the others as well, be they Christian, Jewish or pagan. They weren’t sure of the proper rituals, but they put them into the ground and prayed for them.

Ahmed wasn’t wild about the idea, but since he was one of the few in their group who could drive a truck, he didn’t have much of a choice.

He kicked open the door of the truck, jumped out, and walked around the back. Sherine came around from the other side, grabbed the truck’s handle, and turned to Ahmed. “You ready?”

Ahmed reached into his pocket and pulled out his vinegar-soaked scarf. He put it on and gave Sherine a nod. Sherine popped the door open and they started unloading the bodies.

A dozen men, all with scarves covering their mouths and noses, came over to carry the corpses away towards the burial field. And with them came the dogs. The two
stray shepherd dogs that they couldn’t seem to get rid of no matter how much they shooed at them.

In the distance, Ahmed could hear loud bangs interlaced with the screeching of tires. This had to be the women coming. Ahmed had given one of them a crash course in truck driving, but she’d only had time to acquire the most rudimentary skills. It was the willpower of the driver as much as the motor that propelled their vehicle forward.

Whether it was in the tradition of the diseased they were burying or not, they stuck to their own ways in this respect. Men handled men and women handled women

The imam came jogging over and embraced Ahmed and Sherine. “You are back. Safe and sound,
al-Hamdullah
.”

“I’m not so sure about safe,” said Ahmed pointing at Sherine’s scarf, which was speckled with blood, both fresh and coagulated.

The imam grabbed the back of Sherine’s neck and looked deep into his eyes. “Life and death are in God’s hands, Sherine. Whatever happens, God will show mercy to you as you showed to his creatures. You were striving in His path, and for this, you will be
shahid
.”

“
Shahid?
A martyr? How do you know? How can you be so sure?” Ahmed struggled to conceal his discontentment with what they were doing. “Dying for people who do not even believe in our God?”

“Our God? What’s this talk, Ahmed? ‘Our God and your God is one, and unto Him we surrender.’ This you should know.”

“But…”

“God never asked you to judge his creatures. He only asked you to show compassion to them, whatever their beliefs and deeds are. He is the only judger and to whom we will all answer.”

He patted Ahmed on the shoulder and said, “Seek God’s aid, my son. And don’t lose your resolve.”

AUGUST 24
^TH
, MIDDAY, INTERSTATE 95, SOUTH CAROLINA STATE BORDER, EN ROUTE TO COLUMBIA

A
full infantry battalion traveling on the interstate is a mighty sight. Now there was not one, but two, the first and third battalions of the Third Infantry Regiment out of Fort Myer, heading toward Columbia with orders to establish a perimeter around the city. With Fort Bragg out of commission, they were the closest force of sufficient size and capability. Fort Jackson, with its 4,000 soldiers was based in South Carolina but wasn’t considered up to the task, as it was primarily a training facility. They’d provide bodies, but the Third Infantry Regiment would provide leadership.

Riding in the lead vehicle was the commander of the first battalion, Colonel Degan. It was not common practice for the commander to ride first in the US Army, but it was in the Israeli. It had caused horrendous casualty figures among the officers in the Six Day War, but
Colonel Degan was convinced that the drawback was well offset by the morale it inspired in the troops. Also, General Patton always rode first, so that settled it.

As they neared the state border, the colonel saw what he assumed was the National Guards’ feeble attempt at a quarantine. It was a half-dozen Humvees parked in crisscross formation over the road. It didn’t look particularly professional. “Jeez,” thought the colonel, “about time we took over.”

Suddenly one of the Guardsmen yelled through a megaphone: “Halt!”

“What’s up with this guy? Who does he think we are? A band of looters?” said the colonel to the driver. “Keep on driving.”

The man on the megaphone shouted, “Stop your vehicles immediately or we will open fire!”

The colonel was more annoyed than concerned and shouted into his own megaphone. “This is the Third Infantry Regiment of the US Army. We are here to help you enforce quarantines around Columbia and all major populated areas in South Carolina.”