Terror At Dawn

gotten started, the captain had appreciated his no-nonsense manner.

“There is a good possibility,” he had begun, “that one of you will face the possibility that a biochemical weapon has been used against you. Better than a possibility — I would go so far as to say an eighty-percent chance.” He paused to let that sink in.

Around him, the captain had heard the sharp intakes of breath. Putting a number to the threat made it real.

Eighty percent. For some reason, it had floated through his mind that presidential elections often reflected a voter turnout about a third of that.

Jim punched a button on his remote control, and the computer threw up a map of the world, some areas shaded in red. “These are the areas in which biochemical weapons are being developed — particularly biological agents. Some of them are quite primitive, and in our estimation the countries or groups involved are incapable of actually deploying the weapons. That doesn’t mean they can’t sell the warheads to a third party or make them available on the international arms market.”

Our new friend Jim has the look of someone who ought to be out in the field. Wonder how he got tapped to do this presentation. Maybe an injury — maybe he screwed up somehow and got yanked back to a desk?

The slides went on and on, describing what particular forms of death were being developed in each region, the availability of delivery systems, political estimates of which groups were intending to actually use the weapons. Only occasionally were Jim’s comments modified by, “We believe,” or, “We estimate.” More often, the data was accompanied by hard numbers, specific statistics, and projections even more frightening for their banality. Finally, when Jim opened the floor to questions, the captain asked, “So what do we do?”

Jim studied him for a moment, his gaze flat. “Arnot — deployed in four months to the Middle East.” It was not a question, but the captain nodded in response anyway. “There will be a precruise briefing that will answer most of your questions, Captain. In general, you must be prepared to react immediately to any unexplained outbreak of illness, particularly if it comes aboard following a shore deployment in one of these areas. Absent hard laboratory evidence to the contrary, you must — I repeat, must — assume that the patient has been infected with a contagious biological weapon.” Jim’s eyes bored into Arnot’s, seeking confirmation that the captain understood what he was saying. “Prior to deployment, your medical staff will be briefed as well. You’ll have some additional equipment aboard that will help them refine their analysis and diagnosis, as well as extra supplies of antibiotics, other supplies necessary to provide symptomatic treatment and life support.”

“Guess we all better get our flu shots,” someone in the back of the room muttered uneasily.

“You’ll be getting more than that,” Jim said, his gaze still fixed on Captain Arnot. “There are a number of vaccines in development now. Whether enough will be available prior to deployment is still questionable.”

“FDA-approved?” a medical officer headed for command of Balboa Naval Hospital asked.

“In some cases,” Jim said, and waited for the inevitable reaction of groans and complaints to subside. “Yes, we all know what happened with the anthrax vaccine. The court cases when sailors refused to take it, claiming it was dangerous. The problems in the manufacture, complaints about the series of shots. That will not be an issue.”

Jim stopped suddenly, as though he had said more than he intended to.

“Why?” the medical officer asked.

“We think the legal precedents have been set at this point,” Jim continued, his voice unconvincing. “And our studies showed that most sailors will prefer the protection of the vaccine to any unsubstantiated and undocumented potential side effects. There are the procedures in place to deal with that possibility, too.”

They’re not going to tell them. The thought shot through Arnot like a comet. They’ll tell them it’s a flu vaccine, some sort of booster — or just include whatever they’re testing out and not tell anybody. A wave of anger, then a shameful surge of relief. Yes, it was terribly wrong — but he wouldn’t know about it, would he? Even the captain of the ship would not be told, if that was what they were planning. And if he didn’t know, he wouldn’t have to deal with the possible protests.

Now, as he stared at the two medical officers standing tall in front of his desk, the captain’s doubts resurfaced. Had they been vaccinated against some form of biochem weapon in the last routine flu shot? If so, against what? And was there any way to find out — hell, could he even ask questions about the possibility? — without violating the nondisclosure agreement he’d signed prior to the CIA briefing?

He glanced over at the admiral, wondering if he had attended a similar CIA briefing. He’d try to find out later, if he could.

The admiral was still silent, although his face had gone pale. He stared at the two medical officers wide- eyed, and the captain was surprised to see a tiny tremor in his right hand. And that color — even as he watched, the admiral seemed to go a shade paler.

“Admiral?” he asked. “Do you have any guidance on this?”

The admiral turned to stare at him as though he didn’t recognize Arnot. Then, in a rush, color came flooding back to his face. “I suggest we arrange for evacuation of those men involved to shore. They’re better equipped to deal with this than we are. There are — how many, forty-eight? — potential victims and we don’t even know what we’re dealing with. The ship doesn’t have the resources to run a full isolation ward. It will interfere with our mission.”

“Losing those men and women if this turns out to be just the flu will interfere, too,” Arnot said.

“Damn it all, Arnot, are you paying attention?” The admiral pointed at the senior doctor, and now Arnot could clearly see the quiver in the admiral’s finger. “Do you know how many people the black plague wiped out in Europe? Do know how contagious this ship is? I’m not having it on my ship — I’m not having it.” The admiral’s voice was slightly higher, his words tumbling over each other. “What about the air wing? We start losing pilots right and left, what good are we?”

Arnot and the doctors stared at him, consternation on their faces for a moment before they all settled back into professional Naval officer expressions. “Planning evacuation is premature,” the senior doctor said shortly. “Once we have some preliminary lab results back, then we might consider—”

“No. I’m not taking the risk. I want an evacuation plan on my desk in twenty minutes.” The admiral shot up from his seat and rose to his full height. “Now move.” The admiral turned and stomped out of the room, his back stiff.

When he was gone, Arnot turned back to the doctors, and let out an involuntary sigh. “I’ll talk to him. How soon do you think you’ll know something else?”

“Twelve hours, Captain,” the younger doctor said. “I started cultures as best I can — but I can’t do any DNA sequencing here. We’re running a couple of tests to determine if it’s a normal variant of some sort of flu. But even if it is, we can’t be absolutely certain that it hasn’t been genetically altered in some way. Mostly we’re going to have to monitor the kid, treat his symptoms, and provide life-function support. If he’s got something truly nasty, he’s going to get worse fast, given how fast it came on initially after the possible exposure.”

“What about evacuation?” the captain asked. “The plans I saw said we could do it.”

“Yes, we do have contingency plans,” the senior medical officer said. “But in the case of a possible biological-warfare outbreak, we have to get permission from Fifth Fleet and from JCS. There’s some question in my mind whether they’re going to want anyone off the ship at all. They may prefer to fly in additional experts and treatment equipment.”

“Quarantine us,” the captain said. The doctor nodded. “You think that’s what they’ll do?”

“I do.” This time, it was the younger medical officer who answered. “The first priority with any epidemic is to contain the spread.”

Epidemic. Quarantine. Dear God.

“I’ll talk to the admiral, make sure he understands the procedural requirements for evacuation. In the meantime, I’ll let you get back to your patient. I don’t need to tell you that I want to be informed of any change in his condition and any preliminary lab results.” Both officers nodded.

Alone in the conference room, the captain relaxed for a moment, and let a wave of despair sweep through him. He allowed himself approximately fifteen seconds to feel the crushing burden of command, then resolutely put it aside in that compartment of his mind dedicated to dealing with such fears. He scribbled a few notes on a notepad, then took a deep breath and went to see the admiral.

Fifteen minutes later, he left the admiral’s cabin in a foul mood. As he’d suspected, Admiral Jette had