Jericho 3 (6 page)

“I presume decontamination of all waste?”

“Waste and decontamination of all lab garments and PPE before laundering is mandatory. You’ll see Class One and Class Two biological safety cabinets, and the labs are physically separated from access corridors. These labs have self-closing, double-door access. The exhaust air is not recirculated but negative air is pumped into each BSL-3 lab.”

“And your BSL-4? Based on my orders, I presume that’s where I’ll be assigned?”

“It’s the smallest lab in here but the most potent. We’ll be working with agents that spread disease through aerosol contamination, and in many of them we don’t know the cause of transmission. They are usually life-threatening and possibly on a global scale. All clothing is changed upon entry including undergarments. Shower on exit, and all material goes through decontamination on exit. I presume you have worn the suits?”

“Yes, sir, but only in a facility that wasn’t ‘hot’. It was a training exercise.”

“Your breathing suit weighs about 10 pounds, and that’ll add an extra six inches to your natural height. Both BPS 400 suit options are full-bodied, air-supplied, positive-pressured personnel suits. You’ll be tethered to an overhead air hose at all times. Our BSL-4 labs are in separate, isolated zones within the building. The labs have a dedicated supply of exhaust, vacuum and decontamination systems. Throw in two-foot walls of solid concrete, and I can assure you, Colonel Raines, that nothing is getting out of this building.”

Raines smiled but was hardly relieved. Nothing from the federal government seemed reassuring.

“That’s my briefing, any questions?”

“No, sir. I’d love to see the facility and my office. Sir, my orders don’t delineate exactly what infectious disease I’ll be working on.”

“Well, according to the classified information I received from General Ferguson’s office, I think they want to exploit your expertise on hemorrhagic fevers – Marburg in particular.”

All levity vanished as Raines began to process the work at hand.

“Marburg. A far cry from working with dolphins or second-guessing SARS.”

“You are familiar with Marburg, are you not?” Groenwald asked with some hesitation.

“Seven days after infection, patients suffer flu-like symptoms before the virus multiplies. Blood starts to seep from the skin, the mouth, the eyes and the ears. Internal organs hemorrhage into bloody, unrecognizable masses. Up to 90 percent die within weeks, and they can be passed to another person by a kiss, a touch or even a sneeze. Yes Dr. Groenwald, I’m familiar with Marburg; it’s a highly communicable pathogen.”

“Your mission is to understand it, defend against it, and hopefully limit it to an outbreak, God willing, and not an epidemic…God forbid.”

An elevator with card reader and a biometric took them automatically to the appropriate floor. No floor buttons were displayed within the elevator car. Raines and Groenwald emerged and stood in a dividing corridor between two labs. The outer lab was the BSL-3 where scientists, medical doctors, researchers and veterinarians were busy working on dangerous infectious diseases. The inner lab was the BSL-4 where Raines would work on the most dangerous pathogens in the world.

“Your old friend and his sister, the bubonic plague, are in there,” Groenwald said as he pointed to BSL-3. “Ebola, Marburg and a few others that I’m not permitted to identify are here in the inner sanctum. These killers are transmissible, currently incurable and under quarantine.”

“How long have you been at Fort Detrick, Dr. Groenwald?”

“Thirteen years now, mostly doing infectious disease work before this facility was built.”

“Before that?”

“Baltimore at the ADRC, the Johns Hopkins Alzheimer’s Disease Research Center. Mostly mouse models, Drosophila and some non-human primates.”

“Fruit flies for Alzheimer’s disease? Amazing.”

“Unfortunately AD will kill 79,000 Americans this year, and next year, and more the year after that as our population ages. Let’s just hope that Marburg fever doesn’t ever exceed those numbers, or we’ll all be in trouble.”

FOB Lightning

Paktya Province, Afghanistan

T
he convoy of Mine Resistant Ambush Protected MRAPs, long-bed flats and a wrecker team paused outside the checkpoint at FOB Lightning. Camp and Billy Finn exited the back access door of their MRAP. They showed their badges to two AK-47 toting Gurkha guards and walked up the gravel walk between T-walls to the checkpoint turnstile where US Army guards welcomed them in. Passing the path to Terp Village, they unbolted the wooden gate as the convoy drove out and exited the main checkpoint on FOB Thunder next door, before driving over to the city of Gardez.

US Navy Captain “Camp” Campbell fired off a stiff salute to an approaching soldier, a salute that was instantly, though hesitantly, returned.

“Specialist, where can I find the Mayor Cell?”

“Sir, veer to the right, about 700 yards up and on your right, next door to the Tactical Operations Center. And sir?”

“Yes, specialist.”

“This is a non-salute base, so…you know.”

Camp rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders as he and Finn made their way up the gravel road toward the Mayor Cell. The ominous hilltop fortresses of Alexander the Great began to emerge over FOB Lightning as they knocked on the Mayor’s door.

First Sergeant Ramirez was the Mayor of FOB Lightning and was responsible for heating, air conditioning, plumbing, and food and billeting.

“Good morning, sergeant, Mr. Finn and I just arrived by convoy, and we’ll be needing some rooms.”

“Rooms? Would you like carpeting, granite counter-tops, a mini-bar and indoor plumbing, too?” Ramirez asked with less than subtle contempt for a high-ranking military officer. “This ain’t no Hilton, captain. How long will you be here?”

“Several weeks, a couple of months, not really sure.”

Ramirez looked at Camp’s insignia badge.

“You’re a doctor. Replacement for Major Banks?”

“Yes, something like that. “

“Civilian or contractor?” Ramirez asked Finn.

“Civilian,” snapped Finn. He hated the question.

“GS level?”

“Fifteen.”

Camp got agitated. “What difference does that make?”

“Sir, I’m not going to bunk a GS nine with an O-six, but a 15 is equal to your level.”

Ramirez handed them two keys to Building 89.

“Soon as you stow your gear, you need to check in with the XO and then in at the TOC. Bring your orders. The DFAC serves lunch from 1100 to 1300 hours.”

Building 89 was a standard size B-hut. A long corridor down the middle was lit with two fluorescent light boards, and plywood walls were eight feet high on both sides. Camp and Finn had rooms across from each other. After getting past a simple key padlock on every plywood door, inside each soldier had an open closet with a bay for six hangers and two cubby holes for folded clothes. Four lines of three-inch plywood shelves would hold their toiletries, DVDs and batteries. Beneath the shelves a larger boxed-in bin stored weapons and ammo under separate lock and key. A three-foot by two-foot plywood desk was against the cement wall and beneath the window that was covered with black paper to prevent any light from being seen outside. Lightning was a dark base; no lights at night limited what a sniper might be able to get away with. The extended twin bed mattress sat on a plywood frame and was lifted four feet in the air so that sea bags and battle rattle could be stowed beneath. A 220-to-110 converter and a power strip were on the floor between the desk and the elevated bed.

“You unpacked yet, Finn?”

“Home sweet home. All done. Can we hit the head on the way to the XO’s office?”

“Aye, aye…let’s roll.”

The XO was a National Guardsman from Minnesota. He had attained the rank of a full bird Army colonel on the weekends, but was a full-time literature professor at Gustavus Adolphus College by trade. The longest war in American history required several rotations of reserves and National Guard in addition to active duty enlisted. Even on the front lines.

A long line of local Afghan Pashtuns, each wearing a blue janitor’s smock, stood watching two of their brothers emptying the trash out of the XO’s metal can as two more replaced the liner bag. They were expressionless as Camp and Finn walked past them into the building.

“Ah, Captain Campbell and Special Agent Finn, we’ve been expecting you. The Mayor said you’d be over so, I took the liberty of inviting Captain Henry to join us.”

Camp read the name tag.

“Colonel Kierkendahl, pleasure to meet you, sir. Sounds like a good Nordic name.”

“Sixth generation Lutherans from Minnesota don’t ya know. Campbell, that’s Scottish right?”

Camp tired of the small talk he had initiated.

“Henry? You were with Banks the day he was abducted.”

“Yes, sir, I run a MEDEVAC mentoring program for the Afghan Army with a team of six medics from the 82nd Airborne Division. I was assisting Major Banks that day.”

“On the tularemia outbreak?” Camp asked.

“Yes, sir, it’s been contained. The patients got their full treatment of antibiotics and have been released.”

“Released? Or do you mean arrested?” Camp asked.

“Sir?”

“The report says all three were Taliban.”

“Roger that, sir. The commanding Afghan general on Thunder is well-known in the province, and he thought it would be viewed as an act of compassion to let these patients go.”

“How did the ambulance manage to leave Thunder with an American inside?” Billy Finn questioned.

“Sir, the checkpoint doesn’t usually inspect outgoing vehicles, especially an ambulance with emergency lights on. They ambulance comes and goes throughout the day. The Paktya Regional Hospital is the most sophisticated hospital between here and Khost.”

“How about coming on to the base? Do the Afghan Army guards inspect the ambulances then?” Finn continued.

“Affirmative, Mr. Finn. They do a quick inspect and release. Just to make sure there’s no car bomb.”

“So Captain Henry, the guards know who comes on to Thunder. The guards’ commanding officer knows who comes on to Thunder. And by extension, the commanding Afghan general knows who comes on to his base too.”

“Roger.”

“Once you verified that an abduction took place, who pursued?”

“I can answer that one,” Kierkendahl chimed in, hoping to satisfy Finn’s interrogation. “We immediately called the Afghans and asked for ground pursuit and requested alerts for the various checkpoints in the province. We sent ground units out as well.”

“Air?” Camp asked.

“Unfortunately, no. We don’t have air assets here, and by the time the weather cleared, it was pretty pointless,” Colonel Kierkendahl answered.

“Did the Afghan Army find anything? Any clues? Any leads?” Finn asked.

Captain Henry and Colonel Kierkendahl shifted in their chairs as the colonel abruptly stood and started to pace the room.

“Well, sir, the Afghans were not able to pursue that day,” Henry said.

“To be fair, they complained that they were out of fuel. There was really nothing they could do,” Kierkendahl added.

“Captain Henry, have you had other tours in Afghanistan?” Finn asked.

“Yes, sir, 13 months in Kandahar two years ago.”

“Did you come across any corruption problems with the Afghans you worked with then?”

“Roger that, every week. In fact, most of the time, the issue was fuel. We’d bring in a fully loaded tanker. By the time the generals and the colonels and local government officials siphoned off what they wanted for personal use, there was hardly anything left for the Afghan Army vehicles.”

“When was the last time Thunder was re-supplied with fuel, colonel?” Finn asked.

“The day before the abduction.”

“And they were already on ‘E’? How often do they send patrols out, colonel?”

“They typically send out a three vehicle patrol on a humanitarian mission once a week.”

Colonel Kierkendahl said as his agitation grew. The colonel sat down behind his desk. “Listen, bottom-line, we did everything within our power. We immediately notified the ABP, Afghan Border Patrol. I’m certain that no American soldier has left this country out their back door.”

“The ABP? You’re not serious, colonel. Two TVs, a smart phone, a pack of smokes and some pirated porn, and they’d let you smuggle Jimmy Hoffa into Pakistan,” Finn said as he stood up quickly and walked out of the HQ building, slamming the door behind him for dramatic effect.

“Captain Henry, can you take me over to the base clinic? I’d also like to meet the Terp.”

“Roger that, Captain Campbell. I’ll have my team escort her over to the TMC now.”

Camp got up to leave then hesitated.

“Hey Captain, where do I go on Lightning to make a Skype call back home?”

Kierkendahl and Henry were amused.

“Captain, this Forward Operating Base isn’t quite on the edge of the Earth but we can see it from here. One satellite dish provides barely enough bandwidth for all of our computers to run, let alone ‘shits and grins’ for the folks back home. Better send a letter and hope for good weather to get it out of here.”

Camp had never been on any mission where basic communications were so difficult to come by. His heart wanted to reach out and touch Leslie Raines. But American bandwidth in Afghanistan wouldn’t allow that connection to be made, at least not on FOB Lightning.

Datta Khel Village, Miran Shah District

North Waziristan, Pakistan

A
 Taliban guard bent down and cut the plastic straps that bound Major Banks’ feet together. He stretched his legs and knees out for the first time in what seemed like months. He had lost track of time. When he finally regained consciousness from the hit on the head in the ER, he was already out of the ambulance, gagged and rolled into an Afghan rug and was bouncing in the back of an old pick-up truck. The temperatures were extremely cold, so he figured that he had been moved over the mountain pass and into the lawless villages of North Waziristan in Pakistan.

The windowless room in the building refused to betray either night or day.