only two conclusions: Either they thought what Griffin had was not contagious, or it was so serious that they were pretty sure neither the first sergeant or the corpsman would leave the isolation room alive.
The corpsman heard a small squeak, and turned around to see Griffin in a full-scale grand-mal seizure. His bed bucked violently as his massive body slammed against it, contracted into a sitting position, then slammed down again. One elbow restraint broke, then the wristband on the same arm. The IV popped loose, spewing a thin stream of liquid on the deck. Blood down ran down Griffin’s arm. “Hold him down,” the corpsman said, and darted to the head of the bed, trying to keep Griffin from striking his head against the bed railing.
“Hell, no,” the first sergeant snapped. “Don’t you ever learn? That’s what landed you a bed in here in the first place.”
Finally, the convulsions subsided. Griffin lay limp and barely breathng on the sweat-stained sheets. The interior of the air-locked doors opened, and a doctor came in, hastily garbed.
Griffin’s breathing took on an odd rhythm, and the corpsman felt his heart sink. Agonal breathing — the last stage before death. He glanced across at the doctor, and saw pity and understanding in her eyes. She shook her head solemnly.
Thirty minutes later, it was all over. Griffin took a long, shuddering breath, then simply stopped. The corpsman folded his hands peacefully on his chest.
The doctor said, “We’ll try to move him as soon as we can. There are precautions we have to take. You understand.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She turned to look at the first sergeant. “If you were going to get sick, you would’ve done so by now. I’m going to move you to separate rooms, probably keep you in quarantine for another forty-eight hours. If you’re showing no signs or symptoms after that, I’ll consider releasing you.” The first sergeant nodded his understanding, not looking at her, cowering in the corner.
The doctor turned to leave, then caught sight of the corpsman’s hand. She grabbed his elbow, pulled him over to the sink, and dumped a bottle of hydrogen peroxide over his hand. He stared down, aghast, at the spatter of blood from the IV on his skin. “It’s probably not transmitted by blood, whatever it is,” she said.
He nodded, not believing her. Inhalation anthrax — okay, that’s one that’s not transmitted by contact. He tried to think of other examples, but his mind kept summoning up lists of diseases that
ELEVEN
“Mr. President,” the Director of Homeland Security said warmly, striding with confidence into the Oval Office. “Thank you for”—he caught sight of the man already seated in front of the President’s desk, and finished, after a noticeable pause—“seeing me.”
Jeremiah Horton was a large man who looked like the college linebacker he had been. He had a reputation as a gruff no-nonsense man, one who was more comfortable as a manager than as a leader. Like many men in the current Administration, he had had no military service. However, a distinguished career in the Senate had led to his appointment to the newly formed Homeland Security and Defense Office. He enjoyed the challenge of setting up the new cabinet-level post, and he prided himself on the exceptionally smooth integration of HSD with the rest of the President’s Administration.
Nevertheless, the birth of HSD had not been without problems. Notably among them, the man he was now surprised to see. Carl Chassen, FBI director of operations, his counterpart — although a lesser rank, since his was not a Cabinet-level post — had been a continual thorn in his side. The FBI saw conspiracies everywhere. Most particularly now, they were focused on what they believed was a plot to strip the FBI of its powers in domestic law enforcement.
Publicly, HSD had repeatedly assured both the FBI and the public that nothing was further from the truth. HSD would merely serve as a clearinghouse, a coordinator of the various agencies having law-enforcement responsibilities within the U.S.
Privately, the struggle for control of domestic intelligence operations was another matter altogether. The FBI, the DEA, and the ATF all viewed every “coordinating policy” as an infringement on their territories. Each one guarded its turf jealously, sharing information with its sister agencies only when there was something they wanted in exchange or when they were forced to. In the last week, the situation had escalated, with the CIA treating a simple overture for cooperation of operations like a frontline assault. No matter that it had been a simple request for information coupled with an informal suggestion that HSD quite reasonably had an interest in those matters occurring overseas that were likely in the immediate future to affect the United States internally. No matter that the artificial boundaries created by legislation between the various agencies only serve to drain off resources that the fledgling HSD coveted. But last week, ah — that had been the kicker. The CIA, noting the HSD’s growing stature within the Administration, seemed to have instituted a new policy of complete noncooperation. In at least one private conversation, the director of the CIA had blandly suggested that for security reasons it made more sense, in some situations originating overseas, for the CIA to be the lead agency when the action moved into the United States itself.
Horton had been outraged. The CIA’s maneuver was clearly a grab for power, one that overstepped the bounds of its charter. The CIA was explicitly forbidden to have any role in domestic security. Yet here they were, suggesting that HSD was not to be trusted with highly classified and sensitive information developed from the CIA sources. No matter that everyone in HSD had undergone rigorous security screenings, and that their administrative procedures and security measures were modeled on the very best techniques now in use in other agencies. No, it was a daring move, but one that would fail. There was no way that the President would let the CIA assume control of any operations inside the United States.
The FBI, however, was another matter entirely. Horton knew that they were frothing at the mouth over HSD’s charter role inside the United States. It was, the FBI had argued, the essence of
Chassen was the primary instigator. He had always been ruthlessly power-hungry, as far back as Horton could remember. Now, to see him sitting in on what Horton had fondly anticipated as a private meeting with the President was an unexpected slap in the face.
“Horton, come on in,” the President said easily, pointedly ignoring the brief spasm of distaste that had floated across the other man’s face. “We were just talking about the situation in the Middle East.”
“Will there never be an end to it?” Horton said, shutting the door behind him and walking over to the unoccupied chair. He settled into it lightly with surprising grace. “If only they could settle their differences and bring some peace to that part of the world — I wonder if it will happen in our lifetime.”
He saw similar expressions of cynicism on the face of both the President and the FBI director. “No. Of course not,” the FBI director said, as though surprised Horton would even suggest it. “Why should they start now? War is the natural state of affairs for them.”
“You have a cynical view of the world,” Horton said stiffly.
“Don’t you?” the President asked. “Come on, Jeremiah. Have you seen anything in the last twenty years — hell, make that the last two hundred years — to suggest that there’s any possibility of peace in that region? Even if Israel disappeared, the Shiites and Suni Muslims would still fight. And they’d exterminate the same Palestinians they claim Israel is persecuting now, if indeed there are any such people, on their own.”
Horton wished desperately he been in on whatever conversation had preceded his arrival. Clearly the
