The Nightmare Scenario (13 page)

When Dr. Urbani reported his suspicions of a new disease, it was met by the wider community with calm skepticism. It was Aeolus who was the first to realize how serious the situation was. He took charge, not by means of assigned authority, but by seizing the initiative.

His were the speeches to the UN that made the organization put such pressure on China and other countries to enforce the quarantines that stopped the outbreak. His was the argument that, if the virus reached Africa, there would be no way to stop it, which convinced the broader medical community that severe and radical measures were required.

The WHO received great praise for its handling of the epidemic. It gave the organization more clout in all its areas of operations. No one could contest that this was Aeolus’s achievement. People decided to put up with his personality and, as recognition, he was eventually made Deputy Director-General.

Walt had been close to the process, and, at that time, he had realized that Aeolus would go far, probably to the top. When Aeolus went for something, he was unstoppable. A force of nature.

Walt was collecting his things when Kevin unexpectedly broke the silence.

“Sorry, sir, but if we have a virus isolate, shouldn’t we be starting to think about vaccines?”

Even Walt, with his limited medical knowledge, knew this wasn’t the right question to ask.

“It’s going to be useless,” Aeolus sighed. “Still, I guess we have to do it. I’d rather not waste any time on it, but for political reasons, we have no choice. We are,
after all, the World Health Organization. I’m going to make a call, and you might want to sit in on it, but don’t say a word. Is that clear?”

Kevin and Ed nodded. Walt didn’t have to. He knew better than to speak when it wasn’t called for.

Aeolus pressed a button on his phone. “Mandy, can you get me Dr. Chen-Ung Loo?”

“Of course.”

The line went silent for a minute, and then a voice answered.

“Yes?”

“Loo, my staff is asking about to looking into vaccine options.”

“It’s a waste of time, the strain is too different. We have no base to start from. It’ll take at least six months before we have a working vaccine. We have more important things to focus on.”

“Yes, that’s my opinion too. Still, as the leader of the WHO, I have to start the process. Anything else would be politically unacceptable.”

“That said,” continued Aeolus, “the last thing I want is every yahoo with a lab coat, microscope and a bunch of hen eggs getting all excited, flooding us every day with a thousand pages of useless research about various failed attempts. It’ll tie up valuable resources here. We need a coordinated effort and I don’t have anyone here who’s both competent enough to lead it and of so little value that I can spare him. So I’m looking to farm it out.”

“Obviously, for the live attenuated vaccines, I want to give it to Yelena,” said Aeolus.

“Obviously,” Loo echoed.

“Yes. My problem is with the inactivated vaccines. I don’t suppose you’re interested in leading it?”

“Not a chance. I have more important things to do. Also, long-term research isn’t my strong suit. I’d go with the Dutch to coordinate that.”

“The Dutch, you say?”

“Yes, even though they’re not highly valued in your Anglo-dominated organization, they have done great work. Take the 2003 H7N7 outbreak. It was very well managed. They’re as good at vaccines as the Americans but have the Germans’ ability to organize.”

“Okay. Done.”

“I have a request from my side.”

“Shoot.”

“I think we need more staff in the hot zone. My guys on site have some quite disturbing reports of the state down there. I’d like to draw on some of your staff in the region.”

“Sure, just call the office in New Delhi and make the arrangements.”

“Aeolus, I say this with all due respect, you know as well as I do that the Indian regional office can be, how should I put it, slightly bureaucratic. I was thinking of a more direct means. I have a list of people in Manila and Hanoi that I’d like to send down.”

“They’re yours. Just send us the list and we’ll steamroll the New Delhi crowd.”

Aeolus lifted the receiver, inactivating the speaker-phone. “Loo, this is the real thing, right?”

Even without the speakerphone, Walt could make out Dr. Loo’s response.

“Yes, Aeolus. This is the one. I hope to God you guys are ready for it.”

“So do I,” responded Aeolus and hung up.

“Kevin, take care of this vaccine thing. And unless someone comes up with something that’s going to be viable within a month, I don’t want to hear anything more about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Walt…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of New Delhi,” said Walt.

“Okay. That’s it for now. I have some things to attend to. We meet up again at three to see what Dr. Summers can tell us about what’s going on down there.”

As everyone left the room, Aeolus grabbed his cane and headed toward Stan Russell’s office. He knocked on the door with the tip of his cane, as was his usual habit, and entered.

Stan was on the phone, but hung up quickly.

“How are things?” asked Aeolus.

“Well, boss, as I’m sure you know, it’s a madhouse. I am trying to keep the UN ambassadors calm, while at the same time trying to figure out how to handle the press.”

“We might, and I say
might
, as it’ll most likely not come to that, have to quarantine Indonesia.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible, Stan. Let’s just say we ended up in that situation. How would we do it? I mean, if we
really
had to.”

Stan sighed. “Well, first of all I think it’d be impossible to get the Indonesians to impose a self-quarantine. They’re too proud and they’d never use the army to prevent their potentially uninfected citizens from escaping just to help the rest of the world.”

“So that leaves us with a forced quarantine,” continued Stan, “which would be very complicated. Depending on who does it and how it’s done, the Muslim world could potentially view it as an act of aggression. We would need a very broad coalition.”

“How about getting a Security Council resolution?” asked Aeolus.

“It’d be tricky, but probably the only way. That, and then building a supporting coalition among select Arab countries.”

“But then you end up with the problem of who would enforce it,” Stan continued. “Even if sanctioned by the UN, the military effort involved is considerable. The Russians don’t have the maritime capability to do it, even if they wanted to. It would have to be the Americans or, preferably, the Chinese, and I seriously doubt we could make that happen.”

“Stan. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it wasn’t important, but we might need to make it happen. Place some calls. Take the temperature of the most essential people. Soften the ground in advance of what might come.”

“You want me to do that on top of the shitstorm I’m already in?”

“Yes that, and one more thing. Do it quietly. There can be no press.”

“What is it your Japanese assistant usually says? Ryokai?”

“That’s the attitude, Stan. That’s the attitude.”

JULY 30
^TH
, SUNSET, PRIVATE JET INBOUND FOR BABULLAH AIRPORT, TERNATE, MALUKU ISLANDS, EASTERN INDONESIA

T
he view from the window of the descending Gulfstream was nothing short of astonishing. The sun was just setting below the clouds, lighting up the white surface with shifting shades of pink and orange. It was a well-worn cliché, but the scene really looked like a cotton-candy landscape taken straight out of the pages of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. In the midst of the dreamlike scenery rose two mountain peaks, their volcanic rock tops formed by rugged, frozen magma, black as coal and barren as the surface of the moon. Further down, the peaks were surrounded by circles of lush tropical greenery. The two mountains were the islands of Ternate and Tidore, the most populous central areas of the northern Maluku Peninsula.

As the captain announced fifteen minutes to landing, Rebecca started her long, well-rehearsed sequence of checking and putting on her gear. She took great precaution to be meticulous in every step, knowing that becoming complacent, and missing something, was a particular risk for those for whom the movements were automatic and deeply engrained in muscle memory.

She pressurized the suit from the inside to verify that there were no leaks, smoke-tested the filters, and checked the oxygen level in the air-supply unit. She started the cumbersome process of putting everything on, enlisting the help of one of the cabin attendants who carefully followed her instructions with trembling hands, as if the suit in itself was an object of danger.

Once on the tarmac she was met by two young women with features much too east Asian to be locals. Behind them was a rusty, camouflage-colored open Jeep, in front of which stood a short, stout man. He had brown skin, and was dressed in shorts bearing the faded logo of “Coca-Cola,” and a yellow football jersey of Ronaldinho, the number ten printed in green in large letters across the breast. He, on the other hand, was clearly a local.

One of the women came up to her and extended a hand, which Rebecca hurriedly shook, her latex glove inhibiting all the sense of human contact usually associated with the greeting.

“My name is Yan Qiu Zhang; I am a nurse from the Hanoi office. Welcome to Ground Zero.”

“Why aren’t you in gear?” asked Rebecca.

“We came as fast as we could. There was no time.”

It was in breach of all rules and Hank would call their behavior sentimental and stupid. From the comfort of her office, Rebecca might have agreed, but here on-site she felt it was just selfless and brave.

“What’s the situation like?”

“Under control so far, but I can’t say for how long. It’s getting worse by the hour. The infection is spreading incredibly fast.”

“Okay, get me to the hospital.”

They started on their journey to the clinic. The main road ran by the sea, in a curling circumference around the island. She was told it was about four miles.

Although Rebecca was anxious to reach the patients, the speed with which the driver pushed the Jeep forward, bumping and veering from pothole to pothole, made her wish he would lighten his pressure on the accelerator.

It was clear that the islanders were still blissfully unaware of the danger they were in. As she flew by muted pink, mint-green and turquoise houses, Rebecca could see people going around their usual business. They sat on porches in groups, weaving fishnets, crafting pottery and peeling fruit. One man was occupied changing the track on a massive, two meters high, loudspeaker set, spewing out old eighties hits over the entire expanse of the neighborhood.

After a sharp right turn, the driver suddenly slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a goat and a number of hens mindlessly strolling across the road. He honked and shouted, but it did nothing to increase the animals’ pace. Resigned, the driver, stood and reached for some
green mangos, hanging in fat bunches from a tree arching over the road. He passed his loot around with a smile that showed he was missing two of his front teeth.

Rebecca noticed a woman walking toward them, her face entirely covered in a white paste. The nurse preempted her question. “Sunscreen – Maluku-style.”

As they got closer to the town and traffic became denser, with an ever-increasing number of scooters passing them on both sides, the driver finally slowed down.

They passed a school – kids were pouring out. They came running, curious about the strange creature in the Jeep. When they got closer they became ecstatic, giggling, jumping and grabbing each other, pointing at Rebecca. Rebecca realized it was not only the strange “clothes” she was wearing that was the source of their amusement. It was also the fact that she was white and they’d never seen the color of her skin in real life before. They screamed in chorus: “Messi! Messi!” The famous soccer player was probably the only Caucasian they knew by name.

Rebecca felt a pang in her chest as she envisaged how their faces, now plastered with youthful exhilaration, would all to soon, most likely, turn to expressions of fear, loss and grief.

Ten minutes after they’d left the airport, they arrived at the hospital. A group of people, probably relatives of the infected, shouted questions at the guards at the entrance. Some of the medical personnel were in gear, but most were not.

A man approached her. His words, filtered through the speaker in his suit, had a slight metallic resonance.

“Dr. Rebecca Summers?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Justin from the Singaporean CDC. We’re glad you are here.”

“Are you in charge?”

“I wouldn’t say that. I don’t think anyone really is at this point. But yes, I’ve been running the hospital for the last twelve hours. The hospital director’s become too ill.

“But now that you’re here, the hospital’s yours. As we say in the Navy, ‘you have the conn.’”

“Take me to the patients,” said Rebecca in a commanding voice that under normal circumstances might have been considered rude, but in the current situation would be perceived as nothing but an expression of urgency.