Time of Attack (14 page)

“
Komainu
?” Quinn wasn’t familiar with the word.

“A foo dog,” Miyagi explained. “I believe it was my daughter who shot your wife.”

 

T
he phone didn’t have a chance to finish the first ring before Doctor Elton snatched it up.

“Kane County Clinic.”

Brandy stood with her back to the door, as if to bar entry to any of the infected patients who crowded the lobby and exam rooms.

Elton talked little and listened much, nodding, then scribbling a few notes. His chest grew tighter with each word spoken by the woman on the other end.

His eyes stopped on Brandy and he sat up straighter in the chair. “Pardon me? . . . Yes, I understand.”

He hung up, staring at the phone. The conversation had lasted no more than two minutes, but he felt as if he’d been run over by an ore truck.

“What?” Brandy prodded, wringing chubby hands in front of her purple scrubs. “What did they—”

A soft, but persistent knock interrupted the conversation and caused Brandy, who hated mysteries, to throw back her head in a long groan. Donita peeked tentatively through the door again.

“Doctor,” she said. “I am really, really sorry to bother you, but I think you should come out here. Your sister-in-law just came in the back way. It looks like her husband is getting worse.”

“I’d better go check on this,” Elton said, rising from his chair. Rick Bedford was a good man, a hero in Elton’s book.

Marta met him in the hallway outside the office. Rick’s arm was draped over her shoulder. “Hey, Todd. Sorry about not going through the receptionist,” she said. “We didn’t want to scare any of your other patients.”

Elton was an educated and rational man, but one look at his brother-in-law sent him into a near panic. He swallowed hard, willing himself to stay calm before showing them into the X-ray lab, the only open room.

Bedford’s army buddy had been bad, but most of his boils had been confined to his torso, arms, and hands. Rick’s face was dotted, distorted, and swollen with the awful pustulent things. His shirt hung open to the waist, revealing more of the same as if he’d been attacked by a hive of angry bees. Some of the boils had begun to weep, bringing the foul smell of infection—and that wasn’t the worst of it. Even from five feet away, it was evident that Bedford wasn’t getting enough oxygen. His normally tan face was pale and drawn. His lungs rattled as if he was breathing through wadded paper.

Though Bedford swayed on his feet, ready to pass out at any moment, he remained standing, unable to sit without pain from the boils that surely covered his buttocks and thighs. Brandy rolled in an oxygen monitor and clipped the lead to his finger. She shook her head and frowned at the results.

Elton donned a surgical mask, then pressed his stethoscope to Rick’s back. An aid was hardly necessary to hear the horrific crackling noise at each breath. He stepped to the sink, scrubbing his hands, then slathering them with alcohol gel. “I’m calling over to get you a bed next door in the hospital,” he said. “Wait right here.”

Marta held her husband’s hand. It seemed to be the only part of his body unaffected by boils.

“What is wrong with him, Todd?” she pleaded, glancing away as if she had something to say but didn’t want Brandy to hear it.

“I’m not sure. But his buddy R.J. has it as well.” Elton had known his sister-in-law for a long time, longer even than he’d known his wife. The look in her eyes said she wasn’t telling him everything. “What is it, kiddo?”

“Whatever it is, I’ve got it, too . . .” She raised the hem of her shirt so he could see the boils on her armpit.

“Looks like it’s going around all right.” Elton’s voice was much too strained to console her. He pitied poor Marta but couldn’t help feeling a sense of dread that he was doomed to this same fate, just from treating so many infected people. A flash of anger jumped up in his chest, but he tamped it down. It wasn’t Marta’s fault.

“Sore throat?” he asked, bringing his focus away from his fears and back to her pain.

“Like acid.” She grimaced.

“Okay,” he said, trying to sound more sure than he truly was. “Sit tight in here for just a minute. I’ll call up to the hospital and get you a room with two beds.”

Brandy followed him out, glaring as Elton shut the door behind him. Back in his office he collapsed in the desk chair and leaned back, clenching his eyes shut. Fatigue and frustration made him want to rub them, but he stopped short, thinking of the bacteria or virus or whatever this was that might somehow have found its way to his fingertips.

Brandy stood with her broad backside to the door again, staring down at him. “You do realize that your brother-in-law is in the early stages of respiratory distress. If all these people have the same thing, they’re all going to need ventilators.”

“I know.” Elton groaned.

“There’s a good chance a ventilator won’t be enough. He’s going to need ECMO.”

“I said I know.”

ECMO was Extracorporeal Membrane Oxygenation—a heart-lung bypass. There were risks, but in acute cases of respiratory distress, putting a patient on ECMO while the causal disease ran its course was sometimes the only option.

“Well,” Brandy chided, “if you know, then why aren’t we sending him to Salt Lake?”

Elton groaned, throwing up his hands. “CDC says we have to lock the clinic doors.”

Brandy drew back as if she’d been punched, frowning. “We can’t just kick these people out, Doctor. They’re sick.”

“Nobody’s saying to kick them out,” Elton said, his voice a tense whisper. “As of fifteen minutes ago, this clinic is under quarantine. I’ve been ordered to lock everyone in.”

 

W
infield Palmer chewed on his bottom lip, his normally ruddy face more flushed than usual as he stood beside the Resolute Desk to the left of the president. It was no small matter being the best friend and confidant to the most powerful man on earth, and the National Security Advisor did not take such a calling lightly.

President Chris Clark tapped a fat Mont Blanc pen against the edge of a black leather folio, his head bowed in thought. With his chiseled good looks and Midwestern schoolboy grin, he looked as if he’d been born to the part of commander in chief.

“We’re certain we have it contained?”

“Mr. President,” Palmer said. “We are not even certain what it is. We hope we have it contained. So far, it looks as though Afton, Wyoming, and Cedar City and Kanab in Utah are the only hot spots.”

“So,” Clark said at length, looking up at his friend. “My signature effectively imprisons these people?”

“The Public Health Service Act gives the CDC authority to detain for listed illnesses and diseases,” Palmer said. “Unfortunately, boils—or whatever this happens to be—isn’t on that list.”

“Until I say it is.”

“That would be correct, Mr. President.”

Even after three years as part of the Cabinet, it sounded odd in Palmer’s ears to call his friend Mr. President. They’d roomed together at West Point and both had gone back there to teach among the unconventional thinkers of the Department of Social Sciences—Sosh, they called it. Somehow, even then, Palmer had known Chris Clark would someday be the president. He had an easygoing but self-assured air that made people want to hitch their wagons to his—walk through fire for him.

Their thirty-five-year friendship allowed them to banter easily, even argue over the finer points, and each trusted the other more than a brother. One of them just happened to be the most powerful man on the planet.

“Sorry about this, you poor schmucks.” President Clark sighed, scrawling his signature across the document with the Mont Blanc. “Boils.” He replaced the lid on the pen and dropped it on top of the folio, shuddering. “Sounds like some kind of biblical plague. We have National Guard troops en route?”

Palmer looked at his watch, nodding. “Out of Salt Lake. Lieutenant Colonel Toby Miller is in command in Wyoming. He’s got all of Star Valley cordoned off. The location makes it fairly easy and the people are cooperating so far. Colonel Rob Huber will run the show in Utah. Cedar City is right on Interstate 15, so access for us is a little easier. It’s still in the middle of nowhere. The sheriffs in both Iron and Kane Counties are being completely cooperative. Kanab—in Kane County—seems to have the most cases so far at fifteen. It is pretty small, less than seventy-five hundred. A peaceful little burg, farmland and high desert mountains, so it won’t take many. Geography helps, with only three main roads and a handful of secondaries out of town. Colonel Huber is in constant contact with the sheriff—a solid guy named Monte Young. He’s been the sheriff there for five terms, always running unopposed. His constituents trust him. Latest reports say his son-in-law is one of the sick ones.”

“That sucks,” Clark said.

“That it does, sir. But Sheriff Young appears to be up to the task. His men are on their public address system now advising citizens to practice social distancing, keeping away from each other, not going to stores, basically just staying home. Biggest problem will be foreign tourists coming and going to Zion National Park and Lake Powell, which are both nearby. Some are bound to be trapped within the perimeter, so they might have issues.”

The president leaned back in his soft leather chair. “The last thing we need is some poor kid with the Guard having to use force to keep a group of Austrian hikers under quarantine.” He shot an accusing eye at his National Security Advisor. “How was Miss’s mood this morning?”

Miss was Melissa Ryan, the fifty-two-year-old brunette bombshell who saw Palmer romantically at least three times a week—and also happened to be the Secretary of State. They were together so often, their security details often melded into one at public events, though his was Secret Service and hers was Department of State, Diplomatic Security. An incredibly savvy diplomat and media darling, Ryan was considered a favorite for president once Clark’s run was over.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Mr. President,” Palmer said, trying to look innocent. “But she’s in Mexico at the free trade summit.”

“Get her back here as soon as you can,” Clark said. “This thing has the potential to turn ugly in a heartbeat. We have any idea how it started?”

Palmer shook his head and gave the answer he most hated giving his boss. “We don’t know yet. CDC has a specialist en route from Salt Lake. So far, I’m hearing of just a few isolated cases worldwide. England has three with two university students near Bradford and a housewife in Harrogate. Italy reports one case, and there are two in Germany. The Ministry of Health in Japan says they had five cases near Kyoto several months ago. In fact, it looks like Japan had the earliest appearance of the disease. All were fatal, but they appear to have it contained with no further outbreak.”

“Have they talked border closure?”

“It’s being discussed, I’m sure,” Palmer said. “But so far, everyone is just increasing screening at immigration points.”

“Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that.” Clark’s eyes narrowed. “Shutting borders means stopping trade, and that would knock the legs out from under world markets. With the present economy we might not recover. Seems an odd coincidence that all the affected countries are friends of ours. Have we ruled out bioterrorism?”

“We have not,” Palmer said.

“I guarantee you, Win,” Clark mused, “Andrew Filson will have his ass here inside the hour, screaming at me to carpet bomb Europe, Japan, and the entire state of Utah.”

Palmer would have chuckled but for the seriousness of the situation. Secretary of Defense Andrew Filson saw a terrorist behind every tree both at home and abroad. Sadly, his hawkish fears often turned out to be warranted. The Sec Def invoked a sort of broad-target spray-and-pray strategy when it came to counterterrorism. Clark appreciated diverse thought, even encouraging healthy arguments among his Cabinet. Thankfully, he was prone to listen to more tempered ideas than Filson’s and allowed Palmer to use certain assets to handle things with a more surgical precision than carpet bombing.

“I wish I could disagree with—” Palmer’s cell phone rang. He looked at the president before answering it.

“Go ahead,” Clark said.

Palmer picked up. It was his secretary, Millie. His face blanched at her news.

“I understand,” he said, feeling the need to sit down.

“Of course. Bring it all in if you don’t mind.”

He hung up, wheels turning in his head, looking for the next move.

Clark dropped the Mont Blanc on the desk blotter and held up both hands. “So?” he asked. “Are you going to make me guess?”

“Twenty-two more plague cases have been reported to the CDC. Nine in Henderson, Nevada, and five in Mesquite, just over the border from Utah.”

“That’s fourteen.” The president frowned, obviously sensing more bad news. “What about the other eight?”

Palmer held his phone ready to dial, knowing full well who he had to call next. “The other cases are in Afghanistan, Mr. President. All of them at Bagram.”

“Shit!” Clark said, slamming the flat of his hand on the desk. “Okay, you see what’s going on with CDC and the new U.S. locations. I’ll try and keep Andrew from nuking everything in Afghanistan that’s not Bagram.”

“Very well, sir,” Palmer said. “Considering what we’re seeing over here, I suggest you give the order to quarantine the base.”

“Noted.” President Clark rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “This is really something,” he said. “Just days until I address Congress and the nation. What am I supposed to say? ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the state of the union is . . . infected.’ ”

“There may be one bright spot on the horizon,” Palmer said. “Japan was well ahead of us in their outbreak. Ambassador Pennington says a pharmaceutical company over there appears to be making potential inroads on a vaccine.”