The VX gas canister had been described to Pilcher as being a Coke can on the outside, but there had been a timed release mechanism on the inside. Dalton had been able to flick a switch on the bottom of the can, screw the brass grate back over the hole in the wall, then leave the White House on business. When the White House had been full of cabinet members, White House staff, the Joint Chiefs and various experts on dealing with biological and chemical emergencies, it had gone off, spraying a fine mist of one of the most dangerous substances on the planet through the ventilation system of the venerable old building.
An armed soldier in a chem suit, M4 carbine at the ready, met Pilcher. Pilcher pointed to the FBI stencil on his own suit. “I want to see Dalton’s office. Ground zero.”
The soldier nodded, waved over another similarly clad soldier, and led Pilcher up a flight of stairs and down a hallway lined with offices. Further on he saw a larger area with glass-walled cubicles. Apparently in this administration the Secretary and Deputy Director of the Department of Homeland Security warranted their own offices close to the Oval Office.
Two corpses remained in the hallway, one a young redheaded woman in a tan pantsuit, a sheaf of scattered paperwork dealt like cards around her body. Further down the hallway was the body of a crew-cut man in a navy blue three-piece suit. In his ear was a piece of molded plastic. His suit coat was crumpled beneath him to reveal a gun and holster. Secret Service, Pilcher thought.
TA half-dozen figures in chem suits and spacesuits moved about. This terrorist attack brought out every hazardous site team in the United States — military, FBI, CIA, CDC.
The soldier stood at a door and gestured for Pilcher to enter. Sweat rolling down his forehead and into his eyes, he blinked, eyes burning. He wanted to wipe the sweat away but couldn’t. Sweat rolled down his back. The urge to scratch his back, to try to get at the itch between his shoulder blades was almost unbearable. For a moment panic dug its sharp claws in and he struggled to control the urge to pull off the mask, to rub his face, to take a deep breath of uncanned air.
Get it together, he thought. He thought of his wife. Of his daughters. He thought of the First Lady and their two children, dead. He took a deep breath, then another. His heart calmed.
He went in.
There were three spacesuited figures in Dalton’s office, and Pilcher’s fourth was at least two too many for the space. He stood at the doorway and took in the office.
There was a large oak desk, dominated by a PC with a large flat-screen monitor. There were filing cabinets. On the wall above the desk was a large cork board with dozens of notes affixed to it. Along one wall were photographs: Dalton shaking hands with the President; Dalton in full-dress uniform; Dalton and a team of soldiers standing on a tank, a desert backdrop behind them. Pilcher squeezed in and took a closer look. He saw that one of the other soldiers, looking much younger, but much the same, was Derek Stillwater. He wondered if one of the two others was Richard Coffee.
A spacesuited agent worked at the desk, his gloved fingers slow and clumsy on the keyboard. The monitor screen was blank except for the words RECOVER ACTIVE, blinking in the top left corner.
Another figure methodically emptied files from Dalton’s filing cabinets. He laid them a page at a time on a credenza and the other agent took a photograph of the page using a digital camera. Then the first agent placed the page into a plastic biohazard bag and sealed them with duct tape. The world’s slowest, most dangerous crime scene, Pilcher thought.
His voice muffled in the suit, Pilcher ID’ed himself and asked what the computer tech was doing.
“Bastard wiped his hard drive on his way out the door,” the agent said, voice equally muffled, but not enough to hide the nasal twang of New Jersey. “I’m doing a quick forensic recovery with some special software, then I’m going to dump the whole thing to my system so we won’t have to mess with transporting this thing out of here. Okay, baby, lookin’ good.”
The screen was coming to life.
The computer agent muttered, “You’re not as smart as you thought you were, motherfucker.”
Inside his suit Pilcher raised an eyebrow. Dalton had damn near decapitated the U.S. government. He had no desire to underestimate this psychopath.
“Let’s check his e-mail before I upload this…. huh.”
“What?”
“His last e-mail.” The agent pointed with a rubber-gloved hand.
Pilcher shuffled forward and peered over the agent’s shoulder. The message said:
THE ASCENT HAS BEGUN.
But his gaze locked in on who he had sent the messages to. The e-mail addresses were to stillwater.derek@dhscom.gov and irenek@hotmail.com. Derek Stillwater and Irina Khournikova!
“When were those sent?” he demanded.
The agent checked. “Looks like eleven this morning.”
Before the assault on U.S. Immuno, Pilcher thought. Dear God, they’re in on it!
34
Sharon Jaxon, in her spacesuit, wheeled a cart carrying a laptop computer and mounted digital camera into The Slammer. Liz Vargas lay propped against two foam pillows on the bed, writing notes on a yellow legal pad.
“We’ve got Dr. Hingemann waiting for a hookup,” Jaxon said. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay,” Liz said, though in truth she was exhausted. A headache was starting to pound behind her eyes. There could be perfectly good reasons besides Chimera for her to be tired and to be developing a headache. Stress was right at the top of the list. She didn’t think it was stress.
“We’re wireless, so let’s get booted up, then I’m going to check your vitals.”
Liz nodded. Much of her energy — her will to fight — of only a short while ago had waned. She knew this disease. She could try to ignore that she would probably die — and soon — but it was hard. In some ways she wanted Sharon to give her a strong shot of Valium and just go to sleep and…
No! She had to fight. For future victims, if not for herself.
She sat upright and watched as Sharon plugged in the computer and pulled it close to her bed. As Sharon took her temperature, Liz turned on the computer and made the connections Sharon directed her to. After a few minutes, the image of her old college advisor — her mentor — appeared on the screen. He was older and bald, his beard as scruffy and unkempt as she remembered, more salt now than pepper. He peered through miles of cyberspace and said, “Liz! They’ve only told me a little bit about this, but I understand it has to do with this terrorist attack we’re hearing so much about.”
Her eyes filled with tears and fought them back. “Les,” she said. “Oh God! What did they tell you?”
“That you’re working on a vaccine for this Chimera.”
She sighed. “Yes. We hope so. I’m going to send you our records. This is vitally important.”
Les nodded gravely. “Of course. I’ll get right to reading…”
Sharon, not visible to the computer screen, said, “Tell him.”
Liz turned away from the camera to study Jaxon. “I—”
”Tell him.”
“What, Liz?” Dr. Hingemann asked. “What’s going on?”
“Are you familiar with USAMRIID, Lester?”
“I’ve heard of it, of course. Yes.”
“I’m there. Lester… I was accidently infected with Chimera M13.”
Hingemann looked startled, but only for a minute. “You need to tell me as much as you can. How long do you have?”
“Anywhere from six hours to twelve hours.”
Hingemann paled. “That’s so fast. Dear God. What is this thing?”