Pandora's Legion

CPS nodded slowly. “Yes, that’s the trouble with Marburg and Ebola. The onset is similar to far lesser illnesses with comparable incubation periods.” Then she focused those violet eyes on his hazel orbs, two inches lower than hers. “You said ‘so-called Ibrahim.’ Is that an alias?”

“Well, it’s the name on the passport, for what that’s worth. We’re checking with the Americans.” CPS suspected that when drinking with his mates at the Hare and Hounds, Detective Carruthers said “Americans” with the same sneering tone as “wogs.”

“He’s been in Africa? Exposure to monkeys?” she asked.

“Arabia and Pakistan. About two months, apparently.” The dick shrugged his sloped shoulders. “Don’t know about any bloody apes.”

Dr. Carolyn Padgett-Smith extended a manicured hand and patted Carruthers’s cheek. “Why, I’d expect you’d know all about the great bloody apes, dear. Friends of the family.”

* * *

Jason Scott Lamunyon knew the end would be bad. Dr. Ali had warned him, but “bad” was a vast understatement. The Californian remembered collapsing in a pool of his own excrement, blood, and vomit, regaining consciousness hours later in the isolation ward. Nobody came near him without a biohazard suit and respirator. He realized that he was dying a putrid death: the kind of blight he sought to inflict upon arrogant, decadent Western Civilization.

A nurse approached the bed to replenish the IV drip. He wanted to raise an arm, beckoning her — or him — to bend closer. So weak. Can’t lift much. He barely nodded his head, and the attendant leaned down. The patient’s lips were moving; apparently he wanted to say something. Dr. Padgett-Smith would need to know about it; the American had been unconscious when she first looked in.

Through the morphine haze, which only dulled the soaring pain, Jason Scott Lamunyon tried to speak. It was doubly hard since the virus had attacked his tongue, which was shedding skin at an alarming rate. He croaked something almost unintelligible: “Sorry. So sorry.”

With an exertion of will, he moved his right hand to his left forearm and flexed his right thumb. Then he raised two fingers.

The attendant had no idea what the pantomime signified, but she hastened to find Carolyn Padgett- Smith.

OFF THE MARYLAND COAST

“My God, this fish is a fighter!”

Rear Admiral Michael Derringer, USN(Ret) loved the sea. But now, after nearly seven hours strapped into HMS Bounty’s fighting chair, he was beginning to think fondly of a warm, dry place ashore. Preferably someplace where marlin fishing was unknown.

The 130-pound test line unreeled again as the big blue sprinted away. At Bounty’s helm, “Cap’n Bob” Bligh glanced back over his shoulder while the skipper’s son Bobby shouted directions and lent encouragement.

With his feet braced against the strain, Derringer waited for his prey to broach again. When it leapt into the sunlight once more, he used the opportunity to reel in several more precious inches. Cap’n Bob had already pegged the blue at perhaps nine hundred pounds, and Derringer was glad that he had accepted the skipper’s advice. Blue marlin had been landed on far lighter lines, but mainly in shallow water. Here at Poor Man’s Canyon, fifty miles off the Maryland coast, the bottom was 1,200 fathoms. A big, strong fish like the one Derringer had hooked could use some depth to gain momentum and snap a lighter line.

This time the marlin changed tactics. Instead of running astern, tiring itself against the tension of the line, it abruptly turned and charged the boat. Bobby gave the “full power” signal and Cap’n Bob ran the throttle forward. Derringer appreciated the wisdom of the move: he did not want to give this very capable fish too much time at the end of a slack line. As Bounty nosed into the swells, the distance between fish and boat stabilized, then began opening. Derringer cranked furiously on his reel, taking advantage of the opportunity. When the line snugged up again, he pulled with both hands, relishing the physicality of the contest even as he felt the strain in his back and arms.

Bobby patted the client on his aching shoulders. “We’re gettin’ him, Adm’ral. Keep him comin’.”

A couple of years before, Derringer had landed a 680-pounder in barely two hours. But that was in the Gulf of Mexico. This would be his biggest catch yet, maybe even a “grander.” That would put Michael Derringer in elite company: thousand-pound marlins were getting rare these days.

“Adm’ral, there’s a message for you.” The scratchy voice belonged to Miz Alice, Cap’n Bob’s “able-bodied first mate.” In fact, her insubordinate actions late one night — declared mutinous by Cap’n Bob— inspired the name of his next boat. For a moment, Derringer could not imagine who could possibly reach him. He had left his cell phone turned off — it was a curse more than a help.

Miz Alice emerged from the cockpit with a thermos of vegetable soup. “We just got a radio call from the Coast Guard,” she advised. “ComFifth says you need to talk to them right away.”

Derringer tugged on his pole again. He could sense that at length the marlin was tiring. “Damn it! I’ve got my hands full here…”

“They’re still on the horn, Admiral. Shall I tell ‘em to stand by?”

Derringer nodded, then focused on the tactical battle. “Cap’n, you better back down a little and I’ll switch with Bobby.”

“Aye sir!” Bounty’s captain maneuvered to take some of the tension off the line while Derringer quickly unstrapped from the chair. Bobby, a muscular twenty-four, would have little problem keeping the fish occupied.

In the cockpit, Derringer keyed the microphone. He could not imagine why the Fifth Coast Guard District needed to talk to him. “ComFifth, this is Derringer in Bounty. Over.”

“Ah, roger, Bounty. Sir, this is Captain Deevers, chief of staff. We have an urgent message relayed from headquarters in Washington. You need to call your office immediately. Apparently they couldn’t get you by cell phone.”

“Hell no they couldn’t get me by cell phone! I turned the damned thing off so I could go fishing.”

Captain Deevers permitted himself a polite chuckle. “Understood, Admiral. All we know is that the Secretary contacted SSI and apparently some important people want to talk to you soonest.”

Derringer thought for a moment. If the Secretary of Transportation had contacted SSI, something unusual was afoot. Unusual and likely unpleasant. “Thank you, Captain. I wish those people were as important as the blue marlin I’ve hooked out here.”

The founder and CEO of Strategic Solutions, Inc. shouted back to Bobby. “Cast him loose, son. We’re headed in.”

HMS Bounty turned her stern to an exhausted blue marlin that happily dived on the continental shelf.

VIENNA, VIRGINIA

Dr. Phillip Catterly was accustomed to urgent calls at fearsome hours. This was the one he had always dreaded.

The clipped, upper-class tones of Carolyn Padgett-Smith snapped Catterly wide awake. Without bothering to apologize for the time, she said, “Phillip, check your email. When you’ve read my message and seen the attachments, get back to me straightaway.”

Catterly blinked away the crusty feeling behind his eyes. “What is it, Carolyn?”

“It’s awful, Phillip. Just awful.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.

“Well, it’s about as bad as it gets.” Catterly spoke bluntly to the short-notice meeting of the Department of Homeland Security’s Advisory Committee. Normally few of the attendees would have left home yet, but much of the federal alphabet was represented: DoD, DoT, FBI, FEMA, INS, and TSA, as well as delegates from science, industry, and academia.

DHS Secretary Bruce Burridge stifled a yawn. It was barely 8:00 A.M. “We have some time, Phil. Please give us the medical background. I’ve already explained the carrier’s travels and likely intentions.”

“It’s Marburg virus, similar to Ebola.” The conference members stirred in their padded chairs; one or two uttered exclamations. The FBI representative emitted a low whistle. Catterly continued, “To give it its proper name,