Immortality (10 page)

“Fifteen minute break,” the voice of the dock foreman crackled over the headphones. Harold engaged the winch lock. A few seconds later, his stomach was lanced with pain. He pressed his fist into his belly. The pain was less than it had been, but still felt like he’d swallowed a burning coal. It was only a few months ago that he’d returned to the job from a hospital stay. He’d made the trip down to the lower forty-eight on orders from the company doctor. Serious tests were run. Harold’s Dad had died of stomach cancer. The results from the hospital had been both a relief and a curse. Harold only had the beginnings of an ulcer, but his love of eating had come to an end. At twenty-eight years old, no more chili, no more pastrami, no more tacos with hot sauce. He thought about the bag lunch Sue had prepared: tuna dry on white bread, carrot sticks, and an apple for dessert. At least he’d sneak a couple beers with Toad after work.

The shadow of a low cloud moved over him, momentarily dimming the sun. Harold looked out into the direction of the oncoming cloud and saw in the distance gray snow clouds moving toward him from the sea. The wind had been gusty all day, but now the harbor waters were turning into a heavy chop. Spray was beginning to whip up over the docks. He could feel the crane vibrating from the gusts. He looked at the wind speed gauge. The needle was wavering up and down, peaking at close to thirty miles per hour. Union policy mandated that work stopped if the sustained wind speed reached thirty-four miles per hour.

Close to the shoreline and low over the water, a flock of seabirds were searching for fish. The patrol worked its way past his crane and then edged back out over deeper water. One of the birds bumped into another. The collision sent both birds somersaulting into the water. Less than a few seconds later there was another collision. Stupid birds. It was as if they were drunk. A coughing sound came over the radio. Harold pressed the talk button.

“Hey, Pete; that you hacking in my ear?” he asked. “You smoking those roll-your-owns again or what?”

There was no answer. Harold looked down at the dock and saw men collapsing. Their small forms made them look like toys. Some were motionless while others were trying to help. Harold stood up in the cramped cab and leaned forward. All rational thoughts had stopped. He braced his hands against the glass. His cousin’s yard-vehicle disappeared underneath a stack of crates that toppled over him.

“Toad!” he yelled.

There was a peal of thunder that increased to the sound of an explosion. His cab windows rattled. Harold wrenched his eyes from Toad and saw a small patch of flames rising off the water; above the flames, reaching towards the clouds was a growing mushroom of gray smoke. At its origin were two ships that had collided. Harold recognized one of them, the cargo ship
Chica
Misteria
out of Venezuela. He’d unloaded her the other day. The second ship must have been carrying a cargo of chemicals. He could see liquid flames spilling from her belly out across the water. Smoke from the fire was already approaching the docks.

Harold was climbing down the crane, his face streaked with tears. Above his head, the opened cab door slapped back and forth in the wind. He gripped the ladder rungs sloppily as he raced down the scaffolding. A safety cage surrounded the ladder like a tunnel of steel bars. He slipped, then caught himself with one knee hooked through a rung. His entire body hurt. It was the end of the world. He was sure of it. The air was foul with the taste of burning tar. He was out of breath and coughing. Brown smoke was blowing across the dock, at times obscuring it from view.

Harold didn’t remember actually reaching the dock. He vaguely remembered using a six-foot pry bar to shift the crates that had fallen on Toad’s yard-vehicle. He remembered a guy that came to help shift some of the crates. A minute later the guy was dead. There was no way to see it coming. The light in the guy’s eyes just went out as he crumpled to the ground.

That was the past. Now there was only a world of raw pain that was threatening to stop his heart. He looked down into Toad’s eyes. They were lifeless orbs of glass. Scattered across the dockyard were hundreds of bodies that had once been friends. There was no one alive. The world had grown oddly still except for the wind.

By his will alone, General McKafferty urged the jet transport faster. He and his men were on board an Air Force high speed transport that was approaching mach two. In forty minutes they’d arrive at Elmendorf Air Force Base in Anchorage. Two hours had passed since the port had been hit. The goddamn disease – or weapon – or whatever the hell it was – had now been used on
United States soil
. McKafferty banged his fist into the armrest. He’d revised the armed force’s bio-containment plans years ago after 9/11 and the anthrax mail attacks. Back when it had been completed, he’d prayed they would never need it. He now knew that God had not been listening to a sinner like him.

The Port of Anchorage was under martial law. Army teams had been mobilized from Fort Richardson which was eight miles outside of Anchorage. The Arctic Warriors were in control. All points of access had been sealed. A wing of Blackhawk helicopters lifted off from Elmendorf Air Force Base carrying McKafferty and his team. They were flying directly toward a plume of smoke that looked like a colossal mushroom cloud. Part of its head had merged into the ceiling of clouds. Its base was five miles out over the water. McKafferty felt dwarfed by the sight. The towering darkness was like the rage of an angry God.

The local authorities were out of control. Calls had been placed to the White House demanding help. The governor was throwing a screaming fit and McKafferty was racing into the middle of the storm. His helo was vibrating badly as it cut through turbulent air. The engines were at their maximum power settings. McKafferty, his team, and everyone else at Elmendorf were wearing NBC suits – Nuclear, Biological and Chemical protective gear. The clothing was a major upgrade from equipment worn by soldiers who’d worked the scenes of the anthrax mail attacks. McKafferty’s communications officer tapped him on the shoulder. She was Lieutenant Alice Rivers, twenty-four years old, and on her first tour with the General.

“Sir, we’ve gotten word that CNN is sending in a crew to do a video shoot from the air.”

“Damn it! I knew they’d try to weasel around the quarantine orders. Send this message to Elmendorf: I want fighters in the air circling that port. Give ’em orders to drive off any approaching aircraft – hell, tell ’em to shoot the bastards down if they have to.”

“General!”

“Yeah right... leave off the part about shooting ’em down.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The helos swung in low from the east. McKafferty’s helo orbited the docks while three other birds landed. He watched his men disgorge from the crafts and fan out. He felt anger reddening his skin. Whatever the hell caused this devastation; he would put a stop to it.

A small private plane came out of the setting sun and swooped low over the docks. McKafferty saw the glint of a camera aimed out the window. Where the hell were his Air Force sentries? That looked like CNN going live right now. Things were unraveling. He needed to contain this horror until his people understood what was happening. If news of this spread, his job would get a lot tougher. He didn’t need political toadies crawling up his ass.

“Lieutenant Rivers,” he yelled. “Raise the operations officer at Elmendorf. I want to talk with him now!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Goddamn reporters are coming in for the kill.”

“Sir, I have him on the line, channel eight.”

“Who am I speaking to?” said McKafferty.

“Captain Bennett, acting CO.”

“Captain, do you know who I am?”

“Yes, Sir, you are OPCON, General James H. McKafferty United States Army. Your communications officer made that very clear.”

“Well son, then you know how big a club I carry. If you don’t want to catch it swung full force against the side of your head, I suggest you get your fucking F16s in the goddamn air and over here right now!”

“Yes, Sir, your orders were received minutes ago and we’re processing them priority one. The Eagles will be in the air within fifteen minutes.”

“Processing, hell! Make it five minutes and don’t disappoint me, son.”

“Yes, Sir!”

McKafferty knew that Air Force fly-boy was probably raising the middle-finger salute right about now, but there wasn’t anything that an Air Force Captain could do about a General with full operational control of the mission. McKafferty switched his com-channel over to the helo pilot’s.

“Let’s swing this bird around and head on out to the civilian staging area.”

A police barracks had been selected as Safe-Point-One, a civilian staging area for police and rescue teams. The barracks was almost twenty miles from the Port of Anchorage and well outside the two-mile quarantine line. As the helo touched down in the parking lot, a garbage can tipped over, sending a stream of litter across the road. McKafferty climbed out. He pulled off the hood of his NBC suit. His communications officer did the same. McKafferty noticed a tense expression on her face.

“Lieutenant, you don’t have to do this,” he said. “You can stay in the chopper with your suit on.”

“It’s my job, Sir... and I know the NBC team has checked and cleared this area. So it’s safe… Right, Sir?

“Rivers, you’re a good soldier.”

A man wearing a parka with ‘Police Captain’ stenciled on it came out of the building to meet them in the lot. McKafferty had already been briefed on Captain Eastwood. He recognized the man from a photograph in his file. Eastwood looked young for the job, clean shaven with a mop of blond hair. By now, the Army had every road leading in and out of Port of Anchorage under military control. He knew Eastwood would have his questions about the deployment, and the man’s suspicion would only make it harder for McKafferty to sell him on the cover story.

“Hello, Captain Eastwood,” said McKafferty as he extended his paw.

“General McKafferty?” asked Eastwood.

“That’s right, son.”

“General, will you please tell me what the ‘H’ is going on?”

“I’ll make you a deal. I understand you have someone named Harold Nakachia in your custody and that this man is an eyeball witness. You give me access to Harold and I’ll tell you what I can, within limits of national security, of course.”

Eastwood seemed to think it over for a moment.

“Harold stays in my custody?” asked Eastwood.

“Of course.”

“You got a deal.”

“Okay, Captain, here’s what I know. An NBC team from Fort Richardson has run preliminary sweeps of the docks and found traces of an unidentified chemical toxin. Right now, our best guess is that it came from a leaky container on some ship. The Army’s position is that the container is not United States government property but may contain agents used in the manufacture of chemical weapons.”

“I don’t care who gets blamed,” grumbled Eastwood. “I just want to know if my people are safe here. We don’t have chemical gear for everyone.”

“Your people are safe,” said McKafferty. “We’ll find the source in no time. Our sniffers have picked up nothing a quarter mile from the port. There is no chance the chemical will get this far, no matter what it is.”

Eastwood’s face showed relief. McKafferty smiled as warmly as his ugly visage would allow. The man had bought the story and hadn’t asked about the Army shutting down roads. Harold was not a real bargaining chip; McKafferty already owned him. Once the cover story was leaked to the press, the speculation would be that the disaster was caused by military chemicals, and that was fine with McKafferty. The Pentagon could take it on the chin as long as the real truth didn’t get out. Control of the population was paramount at times like this. Rumors of terrorists or killer plagues would make control far more difficult, and in the end that could cost more lives than the incident itself.

McKafferty took off the rest of his NBC suit. Underneath was an insulated khaki officer’s field uniform. On it was the cobra and sword insignia of BARDCOM. McKafferty walked into a jail which was attached to the barracks. The air smelled of disinfectant. As ordered, an NBC team had set up a medical isolation tent four feet out from all sides of the cell which held the survivor.
Just as a precaution
was the story the Army had given Captain Eastwood. McKafferty was relieved that nobody had asked why the Army was treating a chemical spill like a biological attack. Steel bars and heavy, double–walled, floor-to-ceiling plastic separated the survivor from the outside world. The survivor had been brought in wearing an NBC suit to isolate him from his jailers. On the floor in the hallway was a ventilator that was fitted to the tent. The ventilator disinfected both the air being blown into the tent as well as recycled air being drawn out. All the sites in South America had indicated zero risk following a kill zone. The scientists were not as worried about this survivor spreading any disease as they were worried about contaminating their prize subject with the normal dirty environment of human habitation. They wanted him unadulterated until they could run their medical tests.

Harold Nakachia was sitting on a chair inside the plastic tent, his lunch untouched in front of him. The NBC suit he’d worn when he arrived was lying in a pile on the floor. McKafferty’s first thought was that the man was a big son of a bitch; then he recognized the vacant look in Harold’s eyes. McKafferty had first seen that look in Vietnam on the faces of recruits who’d lived through their first day of bloody combat.

“Hello, Harold. I’m James.”

“Hey, James. What’s the Army doing here?”

McKafferty realized this man was sharp. The vacant look was gone from his eyes. Harold stood up. Anger was radiating from his body. He was not going to be easy to control.

“The Army was called in because we have experience with things like this,” said McKafferty.

“And exactly what are things like this?”