She spent the required seven minutes under the decontamination shower, yellow Lysol jetting out of the showerhead, raining down the faceplate of her suit, obscuring the view of her companions.
Seven minutes.
Seven long, lonely minutes in which to consider her death. She thought of everything she knew about Chimera M13, of how fast it killed, how thoroughly it destroyed its host, of what an ugly death it created — hemorrhaging, bleeding from the eyes, the ears, the mouth, nose, vagina and rectum. Blindness came early, the eyes affected first, the whites turning scarlet as they suffused with blood before rupturing. Of the excruciatingly painful disintegration of the internal organs. But that, at least, didn’t last long. Usually the patients — victims — drowned in their own fluids gasping for air as their lungs ruptured and filled with blood.
She realized the shower had stopped and two people were waiting for her. She shook herself and moved into the next level, Level 3, a gray zone between the hot zone and the safer locker rooms. Awkwardly she stripped out of her borrowed spacesuit. Her finger had stopped bleeding, but it throbbed painfully in time to her heartbeat. Every heartbeat, every stroke of that tireless muscle, shot particles of Chimera M13 racing through her bloodstream to infiltrate every cell of her body.
In a matter of minutes the antigen molecules on the exterior of the virus would match up with the receptors on her body’s cells, like putting a key in a lock. They would convince the cells to throw open their doors to the virus, which would enter the nucleus of those cells, intercalate itself into the DNA and take over the genetic machinery of those cells. Chimera would turn her cells into Chimera-manufacturing facilities that would churn out more and more virus that would infect more and more cells…
She began to hyperventilate, her head light, blood roaring in her ears. Two of the scientists led her out of the Biosafety Level 4 facility, down another corridor, then back through another airlock.
It looked like a motel room. She realized she was in the Biosafety Level 4 hospital suite, dubbed The Slammer. She was going to be isolated, cared for — what a joke! — by nurses and doctors wearing spacesuits and rubber gloves. She would never again feel the touch of a human hand. In the remaining hours before her painful death, blind, bleeding, paralyzed when her brain suffered a series of debilitating strokes as the arteries in her brain ruptured, she would die alone.
And this time, she did pass out.
PART II
Fire and Brimstone
21
On top of the building Derek shook himself awake, “No,” on his lips. He moved stiffly, ruefully thinking that he should have kept moving, not taken a break here out in the night air. He willed away his memories of his recruitment, of the complexities of the anthrax case, of his own frustration with the lack of communication between the investigating agencies and his vocal complaints to General Johnston that what Homeland Security needed were troubleshooters who could work inside or outside the existing bureaucracies. Someone, he had written in a now-famous memo, “to evaluate, coordinate and investigate” in a fluid, non-bureaucratic fashion. And how he had calmly, unthinkingly, braided the noose into which he would shove his own neck.
Derek tested his side and struggled to his feet. He moved cautiously across the roof to the room containing the elevator housing for the building. The steel door was locked. Of course, he thought, leaning against the concrete block of the squat outcropping. Anything else would be just too damned easy.
The door was designed to give access to the roof. He crouched by the door and examined the lock in the poor light. He could hear sirens below him. He wished he had his GO-Packs with him. One of the tools he carried was a power rake, a noisy but effective electric lock pick.
He pulled off his belt, which was a money belt. He unzipped the compartment. Along with several hundred dollars in cash, he kept the basics of a set of lock picks, a tiny flashlight, a steel match to start a fire if need be, and a narrow piece of steel that could be used to either ’loid a lock in lieu of wrecking a credit card or, in a pinch, be used as a tiny knife or screwdriver. He took out the picks and went to work on the lock. Within ten minutes he was inside the building and looking for an empty apartment.
The first four apartments were occupied. He muttered, “Hey, is this Jimmy Ray’s place,” to irritated residents. God only knew what they thought of him. It didn’t matter becase they never opened their doors, just hollered through them.
When there was no response at the fifth door he went after the lock with the picks and was inside within two minutes. He did a quick recon to assure himself nobody was home, then made for the telephone in the kitchen. He dialed James Johnston’s office and got the voice mail. He left a message and tried Sam Dalton’s number. Voice mail again.
Puzzled, he couldn’t imagine that either man had just gone home during this crisis. He had Dalton’s cell phone, and was again transferred to voice mail. He left a tense message indicating he’d be out of touch for a while, and hung up.
Now what?
The apartment was similar to the one belonging to Irina Khournikova. Two tiny bedrooms, a bath, a kitchen dining room combination. Based on photographs on the wall the residents were an older couple.
He ran through a list of people who might be able to help him, thought of Aaron Pilcher and tried that number again. Busy. His gaze fell on his hand. There was a phone number scrawled on the palm. He grinned. Well… why not?
Twenty minutes later the coast guard helicopter was hovering over the roof of the building. A rope dropped about twenty feet from the hatch. Derek had spent the time lurking in the shadows, waiting for the Tylenol he’d stolen from the apartment to take effect. He sprinted out from hiding and strapped the harness around his chest. In moments he was being helped into the chopper by the Texan. “This is a little bit irregular,” he said.
“But much appreciated.”
“There are a couple TV choppers heading in,” said Cynthia Black, the pilot. “Let’s get out of here.”
Derek gave a thumb’s-up and the chopper roared away. He wondered what the local cops were thinking. Through the helicopter’s windows Derek looked at the Washington Monument jutting upward from the base of the mall.
Black said, “It would probably be a good idea if you tell us what’s going on. We’re going to have to eventually justify using the chopper as a taxi.”
Derek leaned forward and groaned. “You got a first aid kit here, by any chance?”
The Texan nodded. Derek pulled off his windbreaker and gingerly peeled the blood soaked shirt away from his ribs, grimacing. “I need some help here.”
“You need a doctor.”
“Later… but… you could set me down at Walter Reed. My truck and gear’s hopefully still over there.”
Cynthia Black repeated herself. “We need to know what’s going on.”
As the Texan cleaned and bandaged Derek’s wound, Derek considered her request, if that’s what it was. “I can’t tell you everything because your security clearance isn’t high enough.”
That got their attention. “But let’s put it this way,” he continued. “I’m tracking a terrorist organization. I’m part of Homeland Security. You’re part of Homeland Security. I answer directly to Secretary Johnston. Therefore, I outrank you in every way. As of right now, you work for me. My military rank was Colonel. So I outrank you in that way, as well. Are there any questions?”
Cindy Black met his gaze and shook her head. “No sir. But I will need to notify my commander.”