'NASA doesn't realize what it's dealing with.'
'And how is it that you do?' The question, heavy with significance, went unanswered.
Another stretcher emerged from the tent. And whose body was that? Jack wondered. The faces of the four crew members flashed through his mind.
All dead now. He could not grasp that fact. He could not imagine those vibrant, healthy people reduced to shattered bones and ruptured organs.
'Where are you taking the bodies?' he asked.
'A Level Four facility for autopsy.'
'Who's doing the autopsy?'
'I am.'
'As the crew's flight surgeon, I should be present.'
'Why? Are you a pathologist?'
'No.'
'Then I don't see how you could contribute anything useful.'
'How many dead pilots have you examined?' Jack shot back. 'How many aircraft accidents have you investigated? Aerospace trauma is my training. My field of expertise. You might need me.'
'I don't think so,' said Roman. And he walked away.
Stiff with rage, Jack crossed back to the NASA ground crew and said to Bloomfeld, 'The Army's in control of this site. They're taking the bodies.'
'By what authority?'
'He says it comes straight from the White House. They've activated something called a Biological Rapid Response Team.'
'That's an antiterrorist team,' said Bloomfeld. 'I've heard about them.
They were created to deal with bioterrorism.' They watched a chopper lift off, carrying two of the bodies.
What the hell is really going on? Jack wondered. What are they hiding from us?
He turned to the convoy leader. 'Can you patch me through to JSC?'
'Any one in particular?' Jack thought of whom he could trust, and who was high enough in the NASA bureaucracy to carry the battle to the very top.
'Get me Gordon Obie,' he said. 'Flight Crew Operations.'
The Autopsy
Gordon Obie walked into the video conference room prepared for bloody battle, but none of the officials sitting around the table suspected the depth of his rage. And no wonder, Obie was wearing usual poker face, and he didn't say a word as he took his place at the table, next to a tearful and puffy-eyed Public Affairs Officer Gretchen Liu. Every one looked shell-shocked. They didn't even notice Gordon's entrance.
Also at the table was NASA administrator Leroy Cornell, JSC director Ken Blankenship, and a half dozen senior NASA officials, all of them grimly staring at the two video display screens. On the first screen was a Colonel Lawrence Harrison from USAMRIID, speaking from the Army base in Fort Detrick, Maryland. On the second monitor was a solemn, dark-haired man in civilian clothes, identified as
'Jared Profitt, White Security Council.' He did not look like a bureaucrat. With his mournful eyes and his gaunt, almost ascetic features, he looked like a medieval monk, unwillingly transported into a modern age of suits and ties.
Blankenship was talking, his comments directed at Colonel Harrison. 'Not only did your soldiers prevent my people from doing their jobs, they threatened them at gunpoint. One of our flight surgeons was assaulted -- knocked to the ground with a rifle butt. We have three dozen witnesses -- '
'Dr. McCallum broke through our security cordon. He refused to halt as ordered,' Colonel Harrison responded. 'We had a hot zone to protect.'
'So now the U.S. Army is prepared to attack, even shoot, civilians?'
'Ken, let's try to look at it from USAMRIID's point of view,' said Cornell, placing a calming hand on Blankenship's arm. The diplomat's touch, thought Gordon with distaste. Cornell might be NASA's spokesman at the White House and their best asset when it came to cajoling Congress for money, but many at NASA had never really trusted him.
They could never trust any man who thought more like a politician than an engineer. 'Protecting a hot zone is valid reason to apply force,' said Cornell. 'Dr. McCallum did breach the security line.'
'And the results could have been disastrous,' said Harrison over the audio feed. 'Our intelligence reports that Marburg virus may have been purposefully introduced to the space station. Marburg is a cousin of Ebola virus.'
'How would it get aboard?' said Blankenship. 'Every experimental protocol is reviewed for safety. Every lab animal is healthy. We don't send up biohazards.'
'That's your agency line, of course. But you receive your experimental payloads from scientists all around the country. You screen their protocols, but you can't examine every bacteria or culture as it arrives for launch. To keep biological materials alive, the payloads are loaded right onto the shuttle. What if one of those experiments was contaminated? Consider how easy it is to replace harmless culture with a dangerous organism like Marburg.'
'Are you saying this was a deliberate sabotage attempt on the station?' said Blankenship. 'An act of bioterrorism?'
'That's precisely what I'm saying. Let me describe what happens to you if you are infected with this particular virus. First your muscles begin to ache and you have a fever. The ache is so severe, agonizing, you can scarcely bear to be touched. An intramuscular injection makes you shriek in pain. Then your eyes turn red. Your belly begins to hurt, and you vomit, again and again. You begin to throw up blood. It comes up black at first, because of digestive processes. Then it comes faster and turns bright red, as rapid as gushing pump. Your liver swells, cracks. Your kidneys fail. internal organs are being destroyed, turning to foul, black mush. And suddenly, disastrously, your blood pressure crashes. And you're dead.' Harrison paused. 'That's what we may be dealing with, gentlemen.'
'This is bullshit!' blurted Gordon Obie.
Every one at the table stared at him in astonishment. The Sphinx had spoken. On the rare occasions Obie did say anything at a meeting, it was usually in a monotone, his words used to convey data and information, not emotion. This outburst had shocked them all.
'May I ask who just spoke?' asked Colonel Harrison.
'I'm Gordon Obie, director of Flight Crew Operations.'
'Oh. The astronauts' top dog.'
'You could call me that.'
'And why is this bullshit?'
'I don't believe this is Marburg virus. I don't know what it is, but I do know you're not telling us the truth.' Colonel Harrison's face froze into a rigid mask. He said nothing.
It was Jared Profitt who spoke. His voice sounded exactly as Gordon had expected, thin and reedy. He was not a bully like Harrison, but a man who preferred to appeal to one's intellect and reason. 'I understand your frustration, Mr. Obie,' Profitt said.
'There's so much we're unable to tell you because of security concerns. But Marburg is not something we can be careless about.'
'If you already know it's Marburg, then why are you excluding our flight surgeons from the autopsy? Are you afraid we'll learn the truth?'
'Gordon,' Cornell said quietly, 'why don't we discuss this in private?' Gordon ignored him and said to the screen, 'What disease are we really talking about? An infection? A toxin? Something loaded on board the shuttle in a military payload, perhaps?'
