Eden Plague - Latest Edition (25 page)

He left the syringe in after the initial injection, pulling out the plunger and attaching a hose to the plastic tube. This ran to a two-liter soda bottle of the Plague solution, which Spooky taped inverted to the back of a nearby fitting. His carbon-fiber knife flashed, poking a tiny hole in the uppermost surface of the bottle, allowing air in, defeating the vacuum principle that would have impeded the flow down through the hose. Gravity would do the rest, dripping the virus-laden fluid into the vast clean-water tanks.

“Hey, you there, what are you doing?” The Afrikaans-accented voice was indignant, official.

Spooky turned around to placate whoever it was. He saw an officer of the crew with Commander’s stripes, sandy blonde hair and protruding teeth and a nametag that said “de Voort.”

“Just making a repair, sir,” Nguyen said in his best false British accent.

The man licked his lips. His eyes flicked over the tube running around behind the fitting, then focused on Spooky’s right hand. “What’s that you have there?”

“Just a tool, sir.” He held the thing up, showing the handle and concealing the blade behind his turned hand. But he had forgotten just how sharp the high-tech edge on this knife was, as the pressure of his own palm opened his flesh against it. Blood suddenly ran dribbling down his upraised arm.

Commander de Voort might be middle-aged and running to fat, a long ways from the South African Navy where he began and long unused to dangerous situations, but his instincts were still good. He turned and bolted for the nearest passageway, yelling for help.

Spooky leaped after him. If the commander sounded the alarm, the whole plan might come crashing down. Desperately he lunged, catching hold of the fleeing man’s uniform tunic.

De Voort yelled louder and spun, swinging Spooky painfully into the corner of a railing.

The little man hung on grimly with his one hand, bringing the knife up in the other, threatening. “Stop!” he gasped, but de Voort ignored him. The bigger man pummeled the Vietnamese on the head and shoulders with his fists, bruising him.

Spooky dropped the knife to the deck with a clatter and struck the commander a foul blow with his free hand, perhaps four inches below his belt. The man folded up, gasping with shock. Picking up the knife, Nguyen put the blade to de Voort’s throat. “Be silent!” The ceramic-edged, razor-sharp blade was covered with Spooky’s own blood, which gave him an idea. He slid the knife down to slice a ribbon of skin on the other man’s forearm. The edge was so sharp that it was seconds before the commander even felt the sting. “Be silent or I will cut your throat! Turn over!”

De Voort rolled over to face downward on the deck.

Spooky wiped the blood off the blade then slid it back into his hidden sheath on his forearm; he carefully calibrated the force, as if breaking a board in the dojo, then drove a fist into the nerve plexus at the base of the man’s skull. De Voort went limp.

Just in time. A cry from down the passageway drew his eyes to a young woman, a crew member by her uniform, hurrying in their direction.

“He fell and hit his head,” Spooky said loudly. “He is injured. Run to call for a doctor, please.”

The woman nodded, breathless, dashing off for the nearest intercom handset.

Spooky made a quick inspection of the man’s arm where the knife had mingled both of the men’s blood. The slash was already healing, closing. The Plague had taken. De Voort’s body fat would keep him alive and recovering until medical help arrived, so looking around one last time to make sure he was not observed, Nguyen smashed a fist one more time into the base of the man’s skull. He told himself that the result would be sufficient, that the man would be unconscious for long enough.

Leaping to his feet, he followed the trail of blood back to where the two men had met, then inspected his handiwork. The bottle was half empty. He debated with himself whether it would be better to leave the thing there and get every possible drop into the system, or take it down to remove all trace of it.

Finally he decided he had to take it down. They could not afford to risk a cautious captain or crew shutting down the main water system for fear of contamination, prohibiting showers and making everyone drink bottled water until the ship got into port.

He had to hope it would be enough.

***

The restaurants and buffets on the ship were humming that night, filled to capacity with cheerful, unusually energetic people. Every public space was busy and buzzing with conversation. Senior citizens with spry steps took moonlight walks on deck or visited the ballroom to dance to big band swing; weary staff members found their twelve-hour shifts were not so odious and tiring after all; pinch-faced losers at the casino smiled as their chips flowed away from them across the tables, shrugging and philosophical. The young and not-so-young partied long into the night, drinking less, talking more, retiring to their rooms by twos.

By morning, there were miracles.

Moshe Capernaum, eighty-nine years of age, blind, diabetic and wheelchair-bound, woke up that morning and walked the four steps to the cramped bathroom of his tiny lower-deck cabin, half-asleep.

“Moshe! What are you doing, will you kill yourself? Sit back down before you fall and hurt yourself.”

Moshe blinked clear brown eyes at his wife Miryam as she fussed him back to sit on the narrow bed. “You are so beautiful, my dear. I love you more now than the day of our wedding.”

“There is no fool like an old, fool,” Miryam said affectionately, holding his hand in her lap. “If only you could see me, you will see how foolish you have become.”

“But I
can
see you my dear. I can see you clear as the daylight coming in that porthole.” He reached out to touch her cheek. “I was blind, but now I see.”

She marveled, holding his ancient face in wizened hands, suddenly grown strong.

One deck above, Sergeant Jill Repeth, US Marine Corps, started the day as she always did, with a protein shake and one hundred pull-ups on a tension bar she had brought aboard and set up in the doorway of her room’s balcony. Facing out to sea looking over the railing, her head and shoulders rose and fell, eyes on the horizon. Her lungs expanded, pumping the fresh sea air in and out.
It is great to be alive,
she told herself. She believed it more today than on some other days.

Every day above ground is a good day. Every day I am not being shot at is a good day.

Repeth was one of the One Percent. It was something most Marines didn’t know about, because most marines weren’t female. Only a small fraction of the Corps was women, because unlike the other services, the Marines didn’t bend its physical standards to admit them. Measure up or leave.

But the One Percent was a sort of secret club of female Marines that could, would and did beat the men at their own game – that could outperform most of them. Marathonners, triathletes, gymnasts, distance swimmers, biathletes. Thus One Percent, because perhaps one in a hundred Marine women could do it – could perform at this Olympic level of physical fitness.

The cruise line had given her a private room on a middle-high deck, something she would have struggled to afford if she hadn’t been selected through their “Wounded Warriors” promotion that provided free cruises to the nation’s servicemembers. She was glad of it as she finished the hundred, hardly more winded at the end than at the start. She took that as a good sign, knocking out another fifty before stopping.

That was more than she’d ever done before at a stretch. It was true she had an advantage over the average Marine, male or female; she was at least twenty pounds lighter than normal. Missing everything below both knees put less strain on the cardiovascular system; absent lower legs didn’t need blood and oxygen.

Stay positive, stay focused.
Ever since the mortar shell that took her feet, that’s what she told herself.

She dropped gently to the floor onto her buttocks, maneuvering with wiry-muscled arms and leg stumps over to her prostheses. Sitting on the floor she strapped them on, fiddling and adjusting for a longer span than normal. Finally she got them to some semblance of stability, and wobbled to her artificial feet.

She stared down at the legs and the metal-and-plastic structures. They didn’t feel right. Her good mood evaporated. Some days the damn things just didn’t sit well on her, and it looked like this would be one of these days. She wasn’t even going to turn on the microprocessor control and servos that helped her walk and run with a semblance of normalcy. She still hoped she could work up to running a marathon again.
Maybe with those bladerunner things.

She sat down on the bed and took the prostheses off, rubbing at the end of the stumps. They always itched a bit, but today they positively screamed to be scratched. She did so, vigorously, and then looked more closely at them. If she didn’t know better, she would swear that the stumps had lengthened slightly.

Maybe they were just swollen.

She shrugged to herself. Rather than fight with the artificial legs, she phoned for a wheelchair pick-up. She’d come back after breakfast and fiddle with the things. She was
starving
.

Three decks above, in the crowded, well-lit breakfast cafeteria, nine-year-old Gennie Washington scooped spoonful after spoonful of yogurt into her mouth, finishing the bowl in record time. “More, please,” she requested.

Her father Rufous gently patted the colorful knit Rasta hat that covered her bald head. “Anything else?”

“Milk! And orange juice. And bacon.”

“Coming right up, punkin.” Ever since her mother died, he couldn’t refuse her anything, not that he wanted to in this case. The chemo had been hard on her, and getting her to eat so well was a minor miracle. The cruise seemed to be good for her, to lift her spirits, and the oncologists all said that kids made the best cancer patients, because they had the best attitudes. Attitude was everything, as his football coaches had all drummed into him so long ago.

He put a tray full of food down in front of his daughter and joyfully watched her eat. It was going to be a good day.

***

“Time to get off the boat,” Larry said to Spooky as they heard the disembarkation announcement for Cancun over the public address system. “Between this guy,” he hooked a thumb at the closet where the taped and frightened staffer had spent an uncomfortable night, “and the commander you knocked out, they’ll be onto us soon.”

“I’ll use his badge one more time to get off the ship,” Spooky said as he packed a shoulder bag. “We meet at El Gringo Loco.”

Larry raised his eyebrows at Spooky. Actually they weren’t going anywhere near that bar; but the man in the closet would certainly pass this tidbit on to the authorities. He raised his own bag to his shoulder and the two men made their escape from the ship, Spooky from the staff and crew exit, Nightingale with the usual crowd of tourists heading in to the bars in Cancun.

Infection Day Minus Two.

Binoculars brought the water treatment plant at Van Norman Lakes Reservoir into sharp focus. Daniel could see the enormous tubes of the termination of the Los Angeles Aqueduct. Beyond it were hundreds of miles of pipes that gathered and funneled waters from the Sierras down to the Los Angeles Basin. It was a marvel of engineering, completely gravity operated, even generating hydroelectric power on the way. The devastation that the diversion of water caused Mono Lake and Owens Valley and many other, smaller natural Edens of California was deemed a cheap price to pay for keeping the economic powerhouse of the West Coast going.

He shifted his view to the trees planted between the Granada Hills Youth Recreation Center and the enormous structures that prepared millions of gallons of water a day for Los Angeles thirsty residents to use. The stiff breeze’s direction was important; he had to choose a place upwind to maximize his chance of success.

Not that he actually expected to succeed.

He’d spotted the car tailing him ten minutes ago; figured he had another ten minutes before Homeland Security pulled him over and checked him out. He opened and drank as many canned protein shakes as he could. He choked down about seven.

Homeland Security. Such a wonderfully loaded phrase. Nobody could possibly object to some nice security for the homeland, right?
But it gave birth to dysfunctional abominations like the Transportation Security Administration, stealing iPads and patting down toddlers and detaining old people with colostomy bags while angry young underwear bombers were let through for fear of being politically incorrect. It led to trading away constitutional rights and responsibilities to those in power, in return for the comforting illusion of protection that no amount of armed security forces or foreign interventions could provide.

He cut short his musings as he noted the wind direction was just blowing right for his ploy. He dialed a number on the disposable phone, put in a code, then tossed it out the window into a drainage ditch.

Shoving the surplus agricultural spray truck in gear, he drove down the slope of the hill and along Balboa Boulevard. It was the last mile of his journey across seven states, trusting to anonymity and the millions of vehicles on the road to get him to his goal. But it didn’t really matter where or if he was intercepted; the design had been put in motion the moment he left the Sosthenes Bunker. It would be great if he could deploy the Plague into the water; but with or without him, the plan was going forward.

The tail car started accelerating behind him, and he knew he was blown. They’d probably gotten a look at his face, despite his best efforts at concealment, and matched it against a biometric database. He sped up, taking the turn into the recreational complex in a skidding screech. He was just five hundred yards from his target section of the fence.

He floored it, then reached over and threw a large lever under the dashboard. The mechanism in back of the truck, normally used for spraying a fine mist of agricultural chemicals in orchards or fields, coughed to life. In a moment a pale white fog trailed behind him, the stiff Santa Anna wind carrying it almost due west.
Four hundred yards,
he thought.