The sudden tightness in his chest made his eyes f ly open. He jerked forward, sitting upright in his chair. His hands clutched the edge of his desk, white-knuckled and fisted like he needed to hang on or else he'd fall.
He'd joined the Army as a means to help pay for medical school. But he believed, he truly believed in every mission. Patriotism was not just a trigger word for him. He respected authority. He understood honor. He appreciated discipline. And he had never disobeyed a direct order. He hadn't even considered it…not before today.
He got up now and started pacing, his nervous energy sidelining the exhaustion. In one pass by his desk he flipped on a lamp and continued by. He had to stop and think what day it was. How many hours had passed since he and McCathy removed the Kellermans from their home?
Twenty-four hours? Thirty-six hours?
It felt like a week. And then he tried to clear his mind. He needed to focus.
What had Janklow said…exactly? What words had he used?
Janklow had said, "What if?" Platt was certain those were the commander's exact words.
"What if " did not sound like an order.
When it came right down to it, Platt knew he would be the one held accountable for this mission whether he followed Janklow's suggestions or recommendations. If all of this ended up in a court-martial it would be Platt's neck and career, not Janklow's. The age-old defense "I was only following orders" hadn't saved any soldiers lately.
Platt needed to make a decision. If he was careful he could override Janklow before the commander even realized it. And if he was smart
Platt would to find a way to make it impossible for Janklow to reveal what his original orders—or suggested orders—had been. Platt tried to remember everything he knew about the vaccine. He knew the report, although it had been almost a year since he had read it. The vaccine had only been tested on macaque monkeys. The most important thing was that it depended on how quickly after exposure the monkeys received the vaccine. Thirty minutes after exposure the vaccine protected ninety percent of the monkeys. Twenty-four hours after exposure there was a fifty-percent survival rate.
The FDA hadn't approved the vaccine's use, not yet, except in the case of lab accidents with scientists. Fortunately, accidents with Ebola were rare. Unfortunately, because of that, there wasn't enough data about the vaccine's use on humans. Even if Platt decided to use it now, especially on civilians, it would require something called an emergency "compassionate use" permit from the FDA.
He glanced at his watch—a knee-jerk reaction.
He was already looking at thirty-six-plus hours after exposure for two of his patients. Several days for the other two. He couldn't afford to wait out the time that the FDA would take just to consider his request for emergency use.
Platt stopped his pacing and stood in front of the window, but he paid little attention to the darkness outside, swallowing the last bits and pieces of twilight.
Access to the vaccine wouldn't be a problem. He had it right here, a couple stories above him. And they had plenty of it available because USAMRIID had been one of the research facilities involved in its development.
He sat back down, the exhaustion weighting him down. He planted his elbows on the desk. He rubbed at his temples and moved his fingers to his eyes. The humming was still there inside his head.
He glanced at his watch again. And then he decided. "What if?" was not a direct order. Janklow had worded it precisely the way he wanted to word it. He wanted to put Platt in the position of making the decision.
His decision.
It was clear to him what he needed to do. And what was also clear was that he would not include, consult or inform McCathy.
CHAPTER
47
The Slammer
Maggie hated the panic that now crept into her friend's eyes. She had known Gwen Patterson too long for Gwen to use her professional-psychiatrist tricks on her.
"It's a good sign," Gwen said, keeping her voice level, her mood optimistic, apparently unaware that her eyes were betraying her. "Colonel Platt said it isn't showing up in your blood."
"Yet," Maggie added. "He said it hasn't shown up yet."
"From what I know about these viruses they work quickly."
"Or they can remain dormant inside a host."
"You're strong and healthy. You said you haven't felt sick."
"The first symptoms can be subtle, almost like having the flu."
"You said the little girl didn't even throw up on you."
"My sleeve. I think there was some vomit on my sleeve." Maggie tried to smile as she pulled at the ribbing on her blue hospital gown. "I had to exchange my clothes for the Slammer's latest fashion trend."
"That's not enough." Gwen's voice hitched. She saw that Maggie noticed. She readjusted herself on the plastic chair. Recrossed her legs, smoothed her skirt, switched the telephone receiver from right ear to left ear as if repositioning herself might make her stronger. "On your sleeve, that's not enough. It's passed through blood."
"Any body fluids," Maggie corrected.
"Okay, any body fluids. But it's not airborne."
"In lab tests it's displayed a capability—"
"Stop," Gwen shouted, so suddenly it made Maggie jump.
The panic in Gwen's eyes threatened to dissolve into tears. Maggie wasn't sure why she had resorted to sounding like a textbook. She was saying out loud all the frightening things she had learned, tossing them at Gwen because Gwen was her buffer, her crutch. But it was a mistake. It wasn't fair. She wasn't used to seeing Gwen like this. She was biting her bottom lip, her free hand a fist in her lap. She had always been Maggie's mentor, her rock, her advocate. She was the stable, logical, optimistic one of the pair, but it wasn't right to foist this on her, not now.
Gwen sat back, took a deep breath. Maggie waited, only now realizing that her chest ached. Gwen's panic was contagious. It crushed against her lungs.
"You'll be okay," Gwen said as if reading Maggie's mind.
Maggie shifted in her chair, suddenly chilled. She tucked the gown around her. The panic had transferred to Maggie, because now Gwen seemed calm, genuinely so this time. Had she slipped and caught herself, realizing she needed to be strong for both of them?
Her eyes held Maggie's. "Is there anyone you want me to call?"
"I've already called you."
"What about your mother?"
"She'd be a nervous wreck."
"She's still your mother."
"Yes, she's my mother, but she's never been motherly. I can't handle taking care of her right now. And believe me, that's what it would be. Me taking care of her."
Gwen nodded then she smiled, her bottom lip almost completely void of lipstick. "You're going to be okay. It might be different if the little girl sprayed you in your eyes or your mouth. But that didn't happen."
"That did happen," Maggie said, the memory twisting a knot in her stomach. "It happened to Cunningham."
CHAPTER
48
Reston, Virginia
Emma tossed a kernel of popcorn to Harvey. One for her, one for Harvey. The two of them sat on the living-room floor, surrounded by the newest editions of Emma's favorite magazines.
In Bride was the article "Pretty in Pink," saluting Breast Cancer Awareness Month. She still couldn't believe her mother was wearing a pink wedding dress.
Okay, so it was kinda cool, but it was hard to imagine anything other than a white wedding dress. In fact, if it wasn't for this article and a couple of others, Emma would have thought her mother—who was the ultimate slave to fashion—had made up the whole "pink wedding dress" thing. Even so, get real, who's that politically correct that they'd use their wedding as some social statement?