Plague Ship (12 page)

“What make?” David asked hurriedly.

“A Glock, nine-millimeter.”

David’s face lit up. “How much ammo?”

“A half-dozen clips.”

Perfect!
David thought, barely able to control his soaring spirits. The semiautomatic Glock could do an incredible amount of damage in only a few seconds. “Do all the officers know about the weapon?”

Rutherford lay back on his pillow, now totally exhausted. He coughed feebly as his eyes closed. “The senior ones do. But they’re under strict orders not to touch it unless ordered by me.”

David heard a noise in the passageway outside the captain’s quarters. It came and went, sounding as if someone was hitting the wall as they walked by. Or maybe someone was opening and closing doors. David crouched down and waited for the sound to disappear. He couldn’t believe his good luck. A semiautomatic Glock with 9mm bullets! It was ideal! He could hide the weapon under his short white medical coat until the four mutineers left the bridge and separated. Then he could take them out one by one. He stuffed his stethoscope into the left pocket of his white coat so that it would conceal the bulge made by the pistol beneath it.

Moving quickly to the file cabinet, David punched in the numbers 2, 8, 4 and opened the bottom drawer. He lifted up a stack of papers and stared down into the metal drawer. It was empty! There was no gun or ammunition clips. He rapidly checked the other drawers. No gun! No clips!

David pushed aside his disappointment and glared over to the sleeping sea captain.
Well, Captain Rutherford, now we know for sure that one of your officers was involved in the mutiny.
But which one?

seventeen

The elevator door opened
on the G level, and David stepped out into a horror show. Outside the sick bay, bodies were stacking up. There were at least a dozen dead and twice the number dying. All the living seemed to be coughing at once, but only a few were wearing their N-95 masks. David shook his head in despair, thinking they were going to need a lot more body bags, and soon.

In his peripheral vision, David saw a pair of burly crewmen emerging from the nearby spa. Their hair was wet and dripping water, like they’d just stepped out of the shower. They gave David a casual look and continued on their way, ignoring the death and suffering around them.

“Hey!” David called out and walked over.

“What do you want?” the shorter of the two crewmen asked.

“I need your help for a while.”

“Doing what?”

David pointed to the people on the floor. “Moving these passengers back to their cabins.”

“Forget it!” the larger crewman said. “I ain’t touching any of those dead people, or any of those live ones either.”

“Me neither,” the other crewman joined in.

“If you wear gloves and a mask, the virus can’t hurt you,” David informed them.

“Yeah, right,” the larger crewman said sarcastically and motioned to a dead passenger on the floor who had an N-95 mask on. “You mean, like that poor son of a bitch?”

“You won’t be actually touching their bodies,” David pressed. “Just the wheelchairs and gurneys.”

“No way!” the crewmen replied almost simultaneously and walked off.

David glowered after them, furious they wouldn’t lend a hand. He wondered if Richard Scott had given them orders not to. After all, the more fear and chaos, the less likely the officers and passengers were to revolt against him. Or were the crew simply frightened of death and the virus that brought it? Either way, David was left with a major problem. The dead and dying on the floor were teeming with the virus and contaminating everything in the sick bay and beyond. And the air would be the most contaminated as patients continued to cough up virus-laden droplets. Again David thought about the N-95 masks being only 75 percent effective at best, with the true effectiveness probably closer to 50 percent. And again he thought they were going to need a lot more body bags.

David entered the reception area and stepped over more sick and dying people. Most were so weak they couldn’t call out for help or even reach up to him, like they’d done before. They had given up hope and accepted their impending death. The phones were ringing, all lines lit up. Where the hell were the doctors and nurses? David asked himself, glancing around the chaotic area.

He moved into the examining room and noticed there was now a curtain separating the two tables. To his left, Marilyn was asleep, her head resting on the chest of her dead son. David made a mental note to transfer them out first, then the other dead, then the dying. And by himself, he’d have to put all the dead in body bags.
Shit!
Fighting his fatigue, he pulled back the curtain and saw Carolyn standing beside the examining table, with defibrillation paddles in her hands. The body in front of her was ghostly white.

“David! Thank goodness!” She cried out. “Sol just went into cardiac arrest! He was getting better! I swear to God his breathing was starting to improve, then he crashed!”

David rushed over and looked at the running EKG strip. There was a flat line, with only rare, small blips. “Have you already tried the defibrillator?”

Carolyn nodded hurriedly. “No response at 300 joules.”

“Go up to 400!” David directed.

Carolyn quickly reset the defibrillator and placed the paddles on Sol Wyman’s chest. “Stand clear!”

The shock caused Sol’s body to briefly lift off the examining table, then it settled. Sol remained motionless, his eyes staring up at nothingness.

David peered at the EKG. It showed only a flat line, with no blips at all. “Again!” he shouted.

Another shock went through Sol and lifted his body.

The EKG stayed flat.

“Once more!” David yelled.

The third shock also had no effect. The EKG showed only a flat line.

“Get me a cardiac needle with 1:1000 epinephrine!” David
ordered and began CPR, repeatedly compressing Sol’s sternum. But to little avail. There was still no evidence for effective circulation. Sol’s skin was cold and starting to mottle. The EKG continued to show a straight line.

“Here you go!” Carolyn handed David a syringe with a very long needle attached, and watched him jab the needle through the chest wall and into Sol Wyman’s left ventricle. Blood came up into the syringe and David quickly injected a 1:1000 epinephrine.

David gazed down at the EKG and studied the moving flat line. At length, he removed the needle from Sol’s chest and discarded it into a nearby trash can. “No good,” he pronounced softly.

“Ooooh!” Carolyn moaned and slumped heavily into a metal stool. Her entire body seemed to sag.

David came behind her and began to gently rub her shoulders. “You did everything right and everything you could.”

“He was such a sweet man,” Carolyn murmured.

“I know.”

“And now Marilyn has no one,” Carolyn said, “No child, no husband. Nothing. Even if she gets through this outbreak, I doubt that she’ll be able to go on.”

“She just might turn out to be a lot stronger than you think,” David told her.

“Lord! I hope so.”

David glanced around at the crowd of sick and dying people, all of whom seemed to be moaning and groaning at the same time. It reminded him of something out of a gothic novel, in which a contagious outbreak decimated the population and quickly overwhelmed the few physicians on hand. But this wasn’t the Middle Ages. It was modern-day America, and things like this shouldn’t be happening. But they were. And where the hell were the other doctors, who should be helping Carolyn?

“Where is Maggio?” David asked, scanning the sick bay once more.

“He decided to take a break, along with his wife, who’s even more useless than he is.”

“Terrific,” David growled. “And Steiner?”

“With his wife, who has the bird flu for sure.”

“Christ!” David grumbled. “That leaves just you and me and Karen.”

“And I’m near the breaking point,” she said honestly. “In another minute, I’m going to start screaming and yelling and telling everyone to get off their asses and go back to their rooms.”

David squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. “You’re holding up fine.”

“No, I’m not.”

A loud chorus of coughs came from the adjoining room. Then someone started to retch, but the sound was drowned out by even harsher coughing. As the noise quieted, a pale, thin pan appeared at the door and appealed, “My wife is about to pass out! Could someone please help me?”

Carolyn sighed wearily. “I’ll be right with you.”

“Thank you, miss,” the man said and hurried away.

With effort, Carolyn pushed herself up and took a deep breath. “I feel like I’m rowing against the tide and close to dropping the oars.”

“Can you hold on a little longer?” David implored.

“Not much,” she said candidly.

“A little longer,” he encouraged. “Now tell me, how many gurneys and wheelchairs do we have?”

“Five wheelchairs, two gurneys.”

“So about seven trips to clear out the sick bay.”

“But who is going to do the pushing?”

“I’ll find somebody,” David promised. “In the meantime, I’ll send Karen down to lend a hand.”

Carolyn made a guttural, disapproving sound. “Any port in a storm, I guess.”

“Keep the curtain between Sol and Marilyn closed until I return.”

David dashed out and down the passageway, his mind on Carolyn and all the stress she was under.
My God! She’s handling a sick bay packed with the sick and dying all by herself. Then she had to deal with a cardiac arrest on top of everything else. And she’s doing all this while I wasn’t there to direct or assist. It’s amazing she lasted as long as she did. Even for an experienced MedEvac nurse like Carolyn, the load is too heavy
.

And she’s right about Karen Kellerman not being much help. Anesthesiologists are good at putting patients to sleep and awakening them. Looking after sick people isn’t their forte.

Coming to the end of the passageway, David reached for the door to the staircase. As he opened it, there was a loud blast from a shotgun. Instinctively, David dropped to the floor and covered his head while the boom echoed up and down the entire stairwell. In a sudden rush, the flashback came into his mind and caused him to lose his breath. He was back in Somalia, dodging bullets as his Special Forces unit raced across the tarmac to a waiting helicopter.
Jesus! Jesus! Got to get back to the ’copter! Got to get out! More incoming! Almost there!

Almost—
Then the flashback abruptly ended. Perspiration poured off David’s brow and onto the cold floor of the stairwell. He began taking long, deep breaths to gather himself while he waited to see if there would be more shots. Everything stayed still and quiet. Slowly he got to his feet and concentrated his hearing. He heard an angry voice from above.

“The stupid son of a bitch!”

“What the hell was he trying to do?”

“Be a hero, I guess.”

“Well, he’ll never try it again. That’s for damn sure.”

David remained motionless as he pondered what to do next. A shotgun had been fired and someone was badly hurt or dead. He had to be careful in case the shooter was trigger-happy or nervous. And in the staircase, he’d be out in the open, with no protection.

“Ahoy, the stairs!” David called out. “This is Dr. Ballineau. May I come up?”

“Come ahead,” replied the voice from above.

David cautiously climbed the stairs, keeping his hands in front of him where they could easily be seen. He figured the shotguns would be pointed directly at him. Or would they? For a moment, he wondered if the staircase would be the place to make his move. The two mutineers—assuming there were only two—would be close together. But the space was confined, and that could make things very dicey, particularly when dealing with shotguns.

Up on the next level, Richard Scott and Robbie were waiting for him, their shotguns at the ready. They were standing over a body with the right side of its chest blown off. There were blood and tissue parts splattered against the walls and stairs.

David peered down at the body and saw the face of Arthur Maggio. His eyes were wide open, as if showing surprise at being shot and killed.

“You can’t do anything for him,” Scott said matter-of-factly.

“Why in the world did you shoot him?” David demanded.

“He lunged at my weapon,” Scott replied. “We were coming up the stairs, he was coming down. Suddenly and for no reason, he jumped at us. I barely had time to react.”

“Yeah,” Robbie confirmed. “He went right for the shotgun. I’ll swear to that on a stack of Bibles.”

Bullshit
, David was thinking. Maggio was a gentle, little man who would never go up against a shotgun. More likely, he stumbled on the stairs and was reaching out to break his fall.

“You look like you don’t believe us,” Scott said.

David shrugged. “You two were the only witnesses.”

“Damn right!” Robbie said, nodding firmly. “The old bastard decided to go out in a blaze of glory.”

“Old men don’t do blaze-of-glory acts,” David countered. “They see the end of their days coming, and they don’t do things to hurry it up.”

Robbie tensed noticeably and tried to put a mean edge to his voice. “Are you doubting my word?”

David shook his head. “Just Maggio’s motive.”

“Good,” Robbie said and gave David a hard stare. “Because you don’t want to call me a liar, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” David replied, now noticing the changes in Robbie’s voice and posture. The mutineer was trying to give the impression he was tough, but David could sense the man’s uneasiness. The mutineer was unsettled. He was unaccustomed to blood and guts. “Would you mind pointing your shotgun at something other than me?”

“It bothers you, eh?” Robbie grinned and jabbed the 20-gauge Browning at him.

“A lot.”

Robbie’s grin grew wider. He kept the shotgun aimed at David.

Richard Scott was examining the body of Arthur Maggio. He used his foot to turn it over, so that Maggio was now on his back. “I’d say his death was accidental and instantaneous. Wouldn’t you agree, doctor?”

David nodded, now seeing the full extent of the damage caused by the shotgun blast. The right side of Maggio’s chest was blown open, with his ribs and lungs shredded into almost unrecognizable pieces. The liver was completely gone, but the gallbladder and adjacent intestines remained intact. “He never knew what hit him.”

“Well,” Scott concluded with an uncaring shrug, “he had lived long enough.”

“I hope you’re not going to leave him here,” David said.

“Oh, no,” Scott assured. “We’ll put all his pieces in a body bag. We have to keep the staircase nice and tidy for our passengers.”

Robbie found Scott’s last statement humorous and chuckled loudly.

Scott gave him a stern look, and the chuckling stopped. “I want everything cleaned up immediately,” he went on. “There’s to be no trace of blood or body tissue anywhere. Select two of the most experienced deckhands to do the job.”

“How will I know who to pick?” Robbie queried.

“Ask Choi.”

David was suddenly aware of how badly he had underestimated Richard Scott. At first, he thought Scott was just a headstrong braggart who was athletically gifted and knew how to handle a shotgun. But Scott was much more than that. The man knew how to plan and carry out a mission, and which men he could use and control. And then there was his reaction to blowing Arthur Maggio to bits with a shotgun at close range. He had none! It was like he’d killed a fly. The man was unfazed by brutal death. David wondered if Scott was a former military officer who had seen combat. Or maybe he was a psychopath. And that would make him even more dangerous.