Plague of the Dead (19 page)

    “How does this change things?” Sherman asked, turning back to Franklin with an anxious look on his face.

    “Well, two of our power plants are offline until we can get those pumps running again. We’ll be operating at fifty percent efficiency until then.”

    “Unacceptable,” Sherman said, frowning.

    “I know,” Franklin replied, “But short of finding a port and a skilled mechanic we’re shit out of luck. We’ll have to steam on half our normal power.”

    “Now, wait, maybe not,” said Sherman, wrinkling his brow in thought. “We’re still a day out of the Philippines, correct, Captain?”

    “That’s right. We should be passing through in around thirty hours. Why?”

    “I’ve got an old buddy who lives there these days. Master Sergeant, retired. Used to be a tank mechanic. He might be able to help us out.”

    “No offense, but these GE plants are a lot different than tank engines.”

    “I know, I know, but he runs a machine shop, and he’ll have access to the parts and information you’ll need to get these turbines running again. Captain, given the proper materials and hands, how fast can this problem be fixed?”

    “Master Chief?” Captain Franklin asked, addressing the detail leader working on the broken pumps.

    “I’d reckon about six, eight hours, sir,” came the reply. “Only if we knew exactly what we were doing, and kept the guesswork to a minimum.”

    “That time investment’s more than worth it,” Sherman said. “We’ll save ourselves days in the end.”

    Franklin nodded in agreement. “Full steam would get us there in half the time. We’ll lose a day or two from our original schedule, but it’s better than losing a week. I’ll need to know where this friend of yours is, General, and I’ll take the
Ramage
to him. Better let him know we’re coming. Don’t want to have to wait for the parts to come through on back order.”

    “I’ll get you the port, you plot the course, Captain.”

    “Very well.”

Washington, D.C.

January 11, 2007

2314 hrs_

    Escape, Dr. Demilio reasoned, would be impossible. She’d paid attention on the way in and had been examining her cell closely. The facility where she was being held was far too secure-she was more than willing to peg it as ‘ultra-modern’ in her eyes. The agents responsible for her interrogation used iris and voice identification to access her cellblock, touch pads in the floor recognized her position in the cell, and cameras observed her every move. She deduced the only way she’d be leaving would be if someone actively brought her out, and not before. In the meantime, she was having a bad time of things.

    Somehow the NSA had figured out it had been her that leaked the classified aspects of the Morningstar Strain to the public. Though the information was received with skepticism by the people and in the end “disproved” by government officials as hokum, she was still under arrest for treason. She hadn’t been allowed access to the outside world since her arrest-No lawyer, no phone calls, not so much as a letter. She wondered if the world had noticed she’d vanished. Surely her colleagues at USAMRIID had noticed, but were probably stifled within a day.

    Overall, Anna thought, she wasn’t being treated that shabbily. She’d cooperated after the first few interrogation sessions and told the agents what they wanted to know. She thought she would feel worse about giving in to their demands, but they already knew much of what she’d told them. She was doing little more than confirming items they already had a good idea about, and sparing herself unnecessary pain and trouble in the meantime.

    Originally they had tossed her in a dark, damp, dungeon-like cellblock somewhere in the bowels of the building, but once she’d cooperated they’d moved her up to more civilized quarters; Brighter lighting, a warm cot, and best of all dry air-no cloying dampness. They’d even begun feeding her three times a day again.

    The agents still stopped by now and then with trivial questions.

    “What containment measures are appropriate when dealing with a contaminated high-rise structure?” was one question.

    “Would basic, subsonic riot control weapons function against the second-stage carriers?” was another, referring to the undead infected.

    “What is your approximation of the rate of infection in a host that is contagious, but not showing any symptoms?”

    Anna was getting very tired of being left in the dark. She never got a chance to ask any questions of her own, though she figured she wouldn’t get much in the way of answers if she had. The agent’s questions, on the other hand, were giving her a little insight into what might be happening outside. Lately their visits had become less frequent, and when they did show up outside her cell door their inquiries were concise and anxious.

    “If someone is exposed, what is the chance they won’t become symptomatic?”

    “Will the virus burn out after it’s been active within a host for a time?”

    She worried that their questions meant real trouble. They always asked, in roundabout ways, for strategies to fight the virus. She figured that meant there were at least a few cases of the disease in the United States-where or how many, she had no way of knowing. The agents didn’t seem particularly disturbed, so she guessed the situation was still tenable. There was no guarantee that would last for long, though.

    Footsteps in the corridor alerted her to someone’s approach. She stood, smoothing out the plain uniform shirt they had given her. The footsteps stopped outside her cell and the small metal panel embedded in the door slid open, revealing the piercing gray eyes of Sawyer.

    “Dr. Demilio.”

    “Afternoon. Haven’t seen you in a little while. Everything alright out there?” Anna said, slipping in the question before Sawyer could reply.

    The agent narrowed his eyes and expelled a short breath of disgust. Though Anna couldn’t see all of his face, she imagined she could see the sneer on his lips.

    He asked, “What effect would a chemical nerve agent have on the carriers?”

    Anna folded her arms across her chest.

    “I don’t think so, Serpico,” she said. “I’ve had just about enough of being the one doing all the answering and none of the questioning.”

    “You’re in no position to question anyone, Doctor.”

    “Oh, come on!” Anna said, raising her voice and throwing her arms up in exasperation. “Who am I going to tell, huh?! I’ve cooperated with you so far! Throw me a damn bone, here! If the situation’s good, that’s great, let me know, I’ll relax! If it’s bad, then it’s my world too, and I want to know about it! So no, I won’t answer your question until after you’ve answered mine! I’ll ask again: How’re things outside?!”

    Sawyer didn’t say a word, yet seemed to be considering Dr. Demilio’s demand. Instead, after a moment, he began to speak slowly and clearly.

    “Doctor, you are in this portion of our facility as a gesture of our appreciation for your cooperation. You can always go back to the dungeon and keep Miss Ortiz company.”

    Taken aback, Anna took a step back, and asked, “
You have her here?”

    “Surprised, I take it? Yes, even though you left her out of your confession, it wasn’t hard to find out who you’d leaked the information to. She has not been very cooperative so far. As a result she is not very…
comfortable
right now. You could join her, if you want. All you have to do is refuse to answer my question.”

    Anna turned the threat over in her mind for a moment and decided it was better to retain her dignity this once-if only to piss off Sawyer.

    “I don’t think so,” she said. “You’ve got my notes. Figure it out for yourself.”

    Another invisible snarl from the face on the other side of the door.

    Sawyer began, “Maybe I wasn’t making myself clear-”

    Anna interrupted, “No, maybe I was the one who wasn’t being clear. I’m not helping you. At all.”

    “Unless I submit to your little questions,” Sawyer said.

    “Quid pro quo, Agent Sawyer,” Anna said, smiling on the inside. She was beginning to feel a bit like Hannibal Lecter, cooped up in a cell, the only source of credible information that was desperately needed outside.

    “Then your usefulness is at an end,” Sawyer said, and Anna could see his posture shift, the sound of raspy leather being scraped, and then the barrel of a pistol pointed at her through the panel in the door. “I could kill you now and let you rot in there. They’ll have better things to do than fry me for it.”

    “And if they succeed in stopping the virus, Agent? Would they really just forget it? Even with the tapes to remind them?” Anna asked, jerking a finger over her shoulder and smirking.

    Anna imagined she could see his eyes following where her thumb had led them, up to the corner of her cell where the tiny closed-circuit camera rested, red light blinking.

    “Not to mention the bugs that are probably recording our conversation now from a couple dozen microphones,” Anna went on.

    Sawyer hesitated and Anna stared him down, waiting. Suddenly the gun vanished from the panel and Anna heard the weapon slide back into its holster. Sawyer’s face pressed up to the door, brow creased in frustration.

    “If that’s the way you want it, Doctor, that’s the way you’ll have it. Live, for now. And enjoy the warm cell. You won’t be here much longer.”

    The panel in the door slid shut with a clang, and Dr. Demilio was left alone. She sagged visibly, expelling a long breath of relief. She was certain Sawyer was the type that would actually kill her if he thought she was becoming more trouble than she was worth. She was just thankful he wasn’t the one in charge.

    
Who knows who that is
, Anna thought.
And I’m not even sure I would want to know
.

USS Ramage

January 14, 2007

0902 hrs_

    “Miserable heat, eh?” remarked Denton, resting his forearms on the steel railing in front of him.

    “Quite,” General Sherman replied, holding a hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight reflecting off the tropical waters. “But a beautiful view.”

    The USS
Ramage
was anchored in an inlet that nestled up to a storybook island. Curving palms jutted out over the beaches, and a thick green canopy dotted here and there with a rooftop spread back as far as the men on the ship could see. One small town was the focal point of the island, a tiny wedge of civilization tucked between the dense forests. The sight was a welcome one to the battle-weary men and women onboard, but their presence was attracting a degree of attention that couldn’t be all good. Distant figures on the beach gazed back at them with a bit of trepidation in their step, and fishermen gave the vessel a wide berth as they sailed toward the town’s docks.

    “Does this pal of yours know we’re coming?” Denton asked, eyeing the folk onshore.

    “No,” Sherman said.

    “It doesn’t look like they’re rushing to greet us.” He gestured at the people. “Likely we’ll be stoned to death before we pull a dinghy onto those beaches.”

    “I couldn’t call ahead. There are only two generators on this island, and one of them powers their radio. They don’t leave ’em on all the time, just long enough to catch news every now and then or to call in assistance. I’m banking on Hal firing it up when he hears about the destroyer sitting in the harbor, and maybe we’ll get somewhere.”

    Denton was doubtful. He asked, “How does an entire island go on with only one radio?”

    “There are only a few hundred people here, Denton,” answered Sherman. “It’s all they need or ask for from the outside world. They take care of themselves just fine.”

    “Well, I hope something happens soon. I’d like to get off this ship and stretch my legs on dry land for a change. I bet half the ship’s with me on that idea.”

    “Let’s not go rushing off to shore,” Sherman replied. “At least until we’re invited, that is.”

    “I suppose it’s too much to hope for that they know anything about what’s going on back in good old North America, eh?”

    “They know as much as we do, or less,” Sherman said. “I’m sure our communication problems with home aren’t what we think they are. We’ve been getting bulletins from almost every other corner of the world for the past couple days. Did I tell you the Brits managed to fight back an outbreak in London?”

    “No,” Denton said, surprised. “Good for them. Gotta wonder how long that’ll last, though.”

    “They’ve got a pretty good position on that island, just like the people here,” Sherman said, folding his arms across his chest. “Don’t jinx ’em. Let’s hope for the best.”

    From behind Sergeant Major Thomas announced, “Sir! Radio contact from the island, sounds American. All he’d say was ‘
take me to your leader
.’ Sounds like Hal, sir.”

    Sherman grinned. Hal Dorne was a bit of a crackpot, but professional under duress. Sherman had served with him decades ago, before the man had retired and left America entirely, preferring the solitary paradise of the islands. He was a drinker and sometimes prone to childlike acts of mischievousness.

    “Tell him it’s me, Thomas. I’ll be on the bridge in half a minute.”

    “Yes, sir.”

    Sherman left Denton leaning on the ship’s railing, looking out over the clear blue waters.

    “It’s a shame,” Denton said to himself. “Us being here, in a place like this, and all that shit’s just lurking over the horizon. Like the eye of a storm. And to think that the only reason we’re here is to gear up to go rushing back out into it.”

    He sighed, squinting his eyes at the people on the shoreline in the distance, with their sullen movements and cold stares.

    “A shame,” he repeated softly. “Damn shame.”

0908 hrs_