'Yeah, they're still inside. That's the reason Assistant Director Cunningham called in the troops.' He glanced back at Tully and Ganza, who were quiet, staring and waiting though they already knew what they would hear. 'They've both been exposed.'
CHAPTER
14
Colonel Benjamin Platt understood that fifty percent of a biocontain-ment operation was containing the news. Commander Janklow had been quite clear. They were to take every precaution possible to keep the news media out and if that wasn't possible then Platt was to convince them this was a routine response to a routine request. He was not to use any 'scary terms'—Janklow's words—that would incite a panic. Phrases like 'crash and bleed,' 'lethal chain of transmission,' 'evacuation,' 'biohazard' or 'contamination.' And under no uncertain terms was he to ever use the term 'exposed.'
Truth was they had no idea if there was even a problem. Platt still had hopes that this was a knee-jerk reaction, someone getting a little too excited. After the anthrax scare in the fall of 2001 there had been hundreds of prank letters, attempts at fame or hopes of revenge. Platt knew there was a fifty-fifty chance this fit into that category. Somebody wanting his fifteen minutes of fame on the six-o'clock news.
Platt saw McCathy waiting for him at the back door of the panel truck, scratching his beard and frowning, tapping his foot to show his impatience. It was McCathy's turn to wait.
Finally satisfied that everything and everyone was in place, Platt knocked on the truck's back door. Within seconds a lock clicked and the metal door gave a high screech as it rolled up into its tracks. Platt had the truck backed to the rear door of the house, blocked by a privacy fence on one side and toolshed on the other. It'd be difficult for anyone to see inside the truck, and they'd have only three steps to get inside the house. The back door entered a small enclosed porch, then another door opened to the kitchen. Platt figured they'd be able to use it as a decon area when leaving.
McCathy started to climb into the truck but Platt stopped him.
'It's my mission, I go in first.You'll come in second.'
McCathy nodded and stepped back. It wasn't a courtesy, it was a risk, and McCathy wouldn't argue. If anything McCathy looked relieved.
Two of Platt's sergeants, two of his best in the biohazard unit, waited inside the truck. He climbed up and pulled the thick plastic sheet down behind him to cover the open back. He started changing into the scrubs Sergeant Herandez handed him, though she averted her eyes as soon as he unbuckled his belt. She was young, he was her superior officer. In a few seconds he would be trusting her and Sergeant Landis with his life as they made certain he was sufficiently secured against a potential biological agent, and yet she seemed to be blushing at the sight of him in his skivvies. It almost made him smile.
Platt had hired twice as many women on his biohazard team than his predecessor at USAMRIID who had made it known that he didn't think women could or should work inside a hot zone because they'd panic or become hysterical. Platt knew better and ignored everything his predecessor taught him about women, but at times like this the differences surprised him, maybe even amused him. And Platt wasn't easily amused these days.
Landis held the Racal suit up, ready to help Platt into it. Unlike the blue space suits they used inside USAMRIID's Level 4 suites, the Racal suit was orange, bright orange and field designed with a battery-powered air supply that could last up to six hours.
Platt pulled on a double pair of rubber gloves and Herandez taped them to the sleeves of the suit while Landis taped Platt's boots to the legs, creating an airtight seal. The helmet, a clear, soft plastic bubble, was the final step and usually the telling one. Platt had watched men and women, brave soldiers, dedicated scientists, freak out in a space suit from claustrophobia, clawing their way out. Platt had spent thirty-six hours behind enemy lines in Afghanistan trapped inside a tank disabled by an IED (improvised explosive device), hoping someone other than the Taliban would find him while he treated his fellow soldiers, one with a gaping head wound, the other with half his arm blown off. There wasn't much that could compare to that. Entering hot zones in a cocoonlike space suit seemed like a cakewalk.
He waited while Hernandez and Landis double-checked his suit. Even before they switched on the electric blower Platt was sweating, trickles sliding down his back. The motor whirled and he heard the air sucking into the suit while it puffed out around him.
Herandez gave him a thumbs-up. It was difficult to talk over the sound of the electric blower. Platt waved a gloved hand at the tape and made a tearing motion. She nodded, understanding immediately, and started ripping off three-to-five-inch pieces then attached them one on top of the other to Platt's sleeve where he could easily reach. If there was a break in his suit he'd use the pieces to patch the hole before the suit lost pressure. Any kind of break or tear could render the suit useless in a hot zone.
It had been a while since Platt had done this in the field. The last time had been at the
Finally he returned Herandez's thumbs-up. Waddling like a toddler learning to walk, he let the pair of sergeants help him out the back of the truck. He waited to get his balance. In three steps he was at the back door of the house and ready.
CHAPTER
15
When Maggie was a little girl she loved to watch old black-and-white horror movies.
Earlier, Cunningham had reluctantly made the call to the Army Research facility. It was either USAMRIID or the CDC, and USAMRIID was only about an hour away. Cunningham had given Director Frank of the FBI and Commander Janklow the basics, along with a layout of the residential area. All three men agreed extraordinary measures would be taken, including whatever it took to prevent a panic. Then Cunningham asked Maggie to unlock the back door to the kitchen and they waited.
They had been expecting a group from USAMRIID. Maggie had even watched the white panel truck back onto the lawn. She saw the construction crew block off the street. And yet, she wasn't sure what she had truly expected—men and women in gas masks, perhaps. Maybe surgical scrubs and gowns. But certainly not space suits.
It was just a precaution, she told herself. Of course, they had to take every precaution. But at the same time she told herself this, she also felt a bit sick to her stomach.
The man in the orange space suit didn't see her at first. It took full body movement to turn and look around. And he couldn't possibly hear her. His suit hissed and whirled to keep the pressurized air circulating. Maggie imagined it was even noisier inside the plastic bubble.
He moved slowly, deliberately, a moonwalk into the living room. The boots looked heavy. His arms stuck out, not able to rest against the puffed suit. He stood less than six feet away when he turned. She couldn't see his face through a fog of mist built up on the plastic helmet. With a gloved hand he pushed the plastic against his face and was able to smear the inside moisture away.
His eyes met hers. They were intense, dark brown and his brow was furrowed. He looked as if he was trying to decide what to say to her. The plastic started to fog up again and this time he slapped it against his face, causing a hiccup in his electric motor. The air pressure gasped, hesitated then started sucking air again. When he looked at Maggie a second time he attempted a shrug, as if to say he had no idea what had just happened. And then he did something Maggie never expected. He grinned at her. It was enough to break the tension and she actually laughed.
That's when Cunningham came into the room with Mary Louise close behind, close at his side. The little girl took one look at the spaceman and started to scream.
