Black Storm (33 page)

The trunk less affected than face and arms. Centripetal distribution. Synchronous development. Then death…if she could judge by the bodies down the corridor. She thought of doing a scraping of one of the lesions. But she didn't have a kit for a Tzanck prep. In a lab, she could do immunofluorescence. But she wasn't in a lab. She was in a tunnel deep in Iraq.

She'd always been taught that no diagnostic sign was absolutely pathognomonic in and of itself. There was no
definitive diagnosis till you got the lab work. But she didn't think this was varicella.

In fact, there was really only one thing it could be. She'd never seen it. She'd only read about it. The last natural case of variola major had been reported in 1977.

She looked at her hands. The man had been coughing, maybe for hours before they got here. Coughing in the confined space, the still air of the tunnel. By the looks of things, the others had died here, going through exactly the same process.

She'd never seen a case of hemorrhagic smallpox. But this looked like the clinical descriptions.

She looked at the soldier for a moment more, wondering who had put him and the others down here, who had abandoned them to die. Then she wondered how many more had been infected, and where they were now. She thought of her kit. Would morphine do him any good? She doubted it. She buttoned his clothing again and smoothed the blanket over him. He shuddered, and his legs thrashed briefly. Then he subsided again into that feverish simulacrum of sleep.

She stripped off her gloves, peeling them carefully off inside out, so that at no point did her bare fingers touch the outer surface, and dropped them on the blanket with him. Her skin itched and crawled. Shuddering with the knowledge that any precaution she took now was probably too late. She'd leaned close over him, breathed air he'd just exhaled. She looked at him for a moment more, wondering who had done this to him. She was very much afraid she knew, though.

She got up slowly. Skirted the two blanket-covered corpses, giving them only a glance as she passed. Then headed down the tunnel after the rest of the team.

Light outlined the rectangle of a thin steel door set into roughly poured concrete. Gault had pressed his shoulder against it, bending it outward ever so slightly. Now, lying on his belly, blinking into what seemed like blinding light, he peered with one eye through the crack.

The room beyond was concrete-walled and concrete-ceilinged, capped by a barrel vault some twenty feet up. Caged industrial lamps burned saffron. The floor was concrete too, flat and gray and covered with dust and pieces of pipe and piles of rough lumber. Large pieces of machinery in turquoise blue, chrome yellow, the bright colors of playground equipment, were spaced across the floor. Puddles of liquid gleamed darkly here and there. He could hear motors running, the hiss of air or steam, and a rhythmic thumping that reminded him of those creatures who lived underground in the movie
The Time Machine
. He couldn't remember what they were called.

He watched for some time, but saw no one and heard no sign of activity, no voices, no footsteps, no clang of tools. So that at last he felt around the edge of the door, apparently an access to the comm tunnel down which they'd come. His fingers encountered a crude latch and turned it slowly, till it slipped off its catch and the door began to swing outward. He caught it and eased it back,
put the latch on again, testing it, making sure it wouldn't pop open unexpectedly.

He pulled a Ziploc out of his battle dress and took a booklet of papers out of it. He tore one of the flimsy sheets of M8 chemical agent detector paper off and rubbed it carefully around the edge of the door. He waited, then examined it. Its pinkish hue didn't change. He looked at the door again.

Suddenly he remembered what those creatures were called. Morlocks, that was it. Blue hairy monsters that came up at night to kidnap and eat people who lived on the surface.

He grabbed a handful of dirt and tossed it back down the tunnel.

Nichols leaned in as Gault, hands cupped around his ear, explained in a whisper what he was going to do. A leader's recon. Nichols was not to cover him. Nor come after him, if he didn't return. He would wait for half an hour, then rig the door with a claymore and withdraw. Squirt the report from the garage and get the fuck out of Dodge.

The corporal nodded. He didn't have any questions, and Gault started rigging his MOPP gear.

MOPP meant mission-oriented protective posture. The gear included the field gas mask and gloves, the coveralls and injectors every soldier in the Gulf carried now to protect himself against gas, nerve agents, mustard, whatever Saddam had managed to buy or make to kill human beings as quickly and efficiently as bug spray. He already had the oversuit on. The charcoal lining was wet, but he couldn't stop to wonder if that made it less effective. It was all he had. He checked the closure flap on the front and Velcroed the cuffs tight around his boots. He set the hood ready to pull up and then took out his mask.

A quick check, filter cartridge tight, webbing tight, and he placed it against his face and peeled the rubber “spider” back over his skull till it snapped tight, snugging
the facepiece against cheeks and forehead and jaw as he pulled on the straps. Feeling the familiar sense of suffocation, the nose-prickling smell like the inside of a new tire. He put his palm over the filter and breathed in. The mask sucked tight, molding to his face.

Peering out through the lenses, working more by feel than by sight, he pulled the hood over his head and snugged it around the mask with the drawstring.

Gloves next. He peeled his sleeves back and drew on the white cotton undergloves, a memory-echo of dress white gloves with the full dress uniform, polished rifles, gold buttons. Then over them black butyl rubber overgloves, heavy and thick. Held his hands out to Nichols, who tugged the suit sleeves down and Velcroed the cuffs blood-tight around the wrists.

Moving clumsily now, feeling nothing through the cloth and rubber, Gault tore another sheet of the paper off and stuck it to the sleeve patch, and put the rest of the booklet into its little pocket. He put three skin decon kits into one cargo pocket and his atropine injector kits into the other. On top of that he jammed the thirty-five-millimeter camera, ready to hand. Nichols peered into his mask. Gault blinked at him, sucking air through the filter. It was hot inside the mask and hard to breathe, but if any of those puddles out there were nerve or blister agents, he preferred working for his oxygen to the alternative.

Lights meant people, and if anyone saw him he'd have to take them out fast and quiet. He started to blow through the suppressor on his MP5, then remembered the mask. He handed his weapon to Nichols instead. The corporal cleared it and handed it back. Gault pulled back the bolt with his clumsy rubber flipper for a visual check. Made sure he had a cartridge in the chamber, and worked the safety off and back on again. Got the spare mags and put them in the pocket with the atropine and 2-PAM chloride.

He nodded to Nichols. The corporal kneaded his shoulder and moved back to let him pass. Gault squatted, turned the latch, and bent quickly to squeeze out through
the access. He heard the faint clang and the grate of the latch, and stood alone in the light.

 

TEN MINUTES
later he was flattened against the west wall, looking down at two oblate shapes swathed in cheerful blue plastic.

He had alternately observed and rushed across the vaulted space, zigging from stacks of tanked gas to a diesel generator set to a row of large stainless-steel boxes that as he neared he realized were refrigerators; at least they hummed like Frigidaires, and the doors sealed with rubber gaskets. He had carefully avoided stepping in the pools of liquid here and there on the floor. Now he was against the far wall from where he'd entered. He was careful to keep his body out of sight and only break the line of the equipment down low, near the floor.

At the far end of the hall, men were moving. Some were in the olive Iraqi uniform. Others wore green rubber suits. All wore the Soviet-issue gas mask; he couldn't recall the model designation but he recognized it from briefings. Those who were armed carried their Kalashnikovs slung. He watched them for perhaps five minutes. A lot of activity, but not much noise. Maybe because of the masks. An officer pointed. Then the growl of a vehicle engine, and the back corner of a truck moved into view, taillights glowing and mud flaps swinging as it braked, paused, then moved forward out of his field of view once more.

When he'd seen enough for the moment, he moved back toward the palleted shapes. He examined them for a time, then went back to the wall and observed again. The truck did not reappear.

The faint click of a camera shutter bounced off the walls, off the curving ceiling. Followed by the sound of film being advanced, and then another shutter click.

At last he decided it was time to go. He trotted to the fridges. Crouched there, he tried the door handles. Each
and every one was locked. He blinked behind the mask lenses, feeling sweat drip and burn into his eyes. He concentrated on breathing in and out, slow and easy. If the hostiles at the far end of the bunker thought they needed to wear masks, he sure as hell wanted his sealed tight.

Checking the far end of the vault again, he felt for the book of detector paper. Clumsily tore off a flimsy page, bent, and pressed it to a stain on the concrete. Rubbed the dye-impregnated paper back and forth, scrubbing it in, then picked it up and counted to twenty, watching the far end of the vault, before holding it close to his eyes with his rubber-coated fingers.

 

DAN WATCHED
tensely as the door cracked open. He and the others covered it with their weapons.

It was Gault. Nichols swung it wide and the gunny toothpasted himself awkwardly through, like a grown-up playing hide-and-seek, bent over, trying not to tear his suit. Nichols latched the door behind him, and the team leader pushed his hood back and tore his mask off. He breathed hard through a reddened, sweat-covered face. The corporal gave him an interrogative thumbs up. He grinned, short and sharp, and pointed up the tunnel. Nichols reared back, giving him room to squirm by. The gunny pointed at him, then forked two fingers to his eyes; pointed to the door. The corporal nodded, and Gault turned to head back where the others waited. Dan saw the mask in his hand and the detection paper stuck to his overgarment.

“Come on back with the others, Commander,” Gault whispered. “You and the doc both need to hear this.”

Maddox and Blaisell were sitting side by side. She looked pale. Sarsten was an arm's length up-tunnel, rifle across his knees. He looked very interested, almost avid. Dan went to a knee, and together they all stared at the
team leader as he took a knee too, breathing still ragged, and briefed them on what he'd observed.

“It's a work space; looks like where they load the warheads. There are two empty ones on pallets on the west side of the room. That's where the refrigerators are too.”

“You're sure they're refrigerators?” Maddox asked him.

“That's affirmative. Big stainless industrial-type freezers. I tried 'em, but they're locked. It's obviously a handling area. Tanks, for liquid. Hoses and pumps. A lot of leakage on the deck, but there's no reaction from the chemical detector paper. There's a rack with green suits on it.”

“What kind of suits?”

“Like chemical protective suits. Rubber, or plastic.”

Maddox asked him, “With hoods? Do they have hoods attached to the suits?”

“Correct. Beyond is another room. The whole thing looks like one long hall, all with the arched roof. Partitions in between, but I can see troops moving around farther down. Some are in battle dress and gas masks. Others have the full-body dress-out. Looks like Soviet-bloc chemical suits.”

“This has to be it, then,” Dan said. “It's in the right place. It's underground. We just have to decide what the most likely active agent is, confirm our location, then call in our strike. Agreed?”

He looked rapidly around, gathering their glances to his, taking command. It felt like time, felt like far past time, and he felt suddenly anxious to do what had to be done and get the hell out. “Gunny Gault, that consistent with your understanding of this mission?”

Gault hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes, sir.” He nodded down-tunnel. “I'd like to ascertain exactly what they've got down there, but it may not be worth the risk. If they see one of us, realize they've been compromised, they can evacuate and relocate.”

“I agree, it's not worth the risk. We'll get a GPS fix. Then we can start back.” Dan pointed at the detector paper. “You said you tested what was on the floor. What else did you test?”

“The access door; any patch of liquid I saw, any stain on the deck.”

“Did you test the refrigerators?”

“They were locked. I tested the deck just in front of them. In case anything had leaked or spilled. Again, nothing.”

“You waited for it to develop?”

“Twenty seconds. No reaction.”

He started to fish out the used papers, but Dan waved him off. “You know your job. Tell me about these warheads you saw.”

“They're on pallets, covered with blue shipping wrap. I tore the wrap off one. It's about two meters high, maybe a meter in diameter. They shipped them base up with two-by-four braces holding them vertical.”

“What's the material? Metal?”

“A metal skin on the outside, just sheet aluminum, looks like. On the inside, concrete, just like Ted said.”

Dan nodded. They'd doubted the Iraqi, but he'd told the truth as far as he knew it. “Anything inside?”

“No. They're hollow, with a cast steel base that looks like it screws in. The bases are on the same pallet, but not installed.”

“Did you get pictures?”

Gault nodded, patting one of his pockets. Dan said, “Good. All right then. We've established that whatever it is, it's a liquid. Both from what Ted said and from examining one of the casings designed to take it. That crosses off two of the possibilities the DIA and CIA gave us: radioactive waste and a crude nuclear bomb. It leaves chemicals and bugs.

“You checked the environment and came up with no response on the chemicals. That plus the refrigerating equipment tells me it's a bug.” He looked at Maddox.
“Doc? You agree? There's no reason to refrigerate a chemical weapon.”

 

SHE SHIFTED
uneasily, wondering if she should tell them. Was it necessary? Was it smart? Then she thought, I've probably been infected. They've been exposed; but being exposed and being infected were not the same. The more often they were exposed, of course, the higher the probability of infection. But if they knew, they could take precautions against another exposure. It might save some of them. So she took a breath and said, “I agree. And I'm pretty sure I know what the infectious agent is.”

They looked at her, waiting. She took another breath and said, “I expected either anthrax or botulinum toxin. But based on the casualties back in the access tunnel, it's neither.”

“Okay, what is it?” said Gault.

“I can't be certain without lab tests. Basing a diagnosis on symptomology's more of an art than a science. But I'm pretty sure we're looking at smallpox.”

She could tell from their faces they weren't sure how to take that. “I thought that was, like, extinct,” Blaisell said.

“That's right.”

Gault said, “I know it's bad shit. But not as deadly as anthrax, right?”

“I'm afraid this is worse than anthrax,” she said.

Sarsten whispered a laugh. “Worse? How could it be
worse?
They both kill you, right?”

She concentrated, trying to get it across in words they'd understand. “The difference is that variola—that's smallpox—is naturally infectious by aerosol.

“See, the anthrax in a warhead or a bomb is artificially aerosolized. That's what we mean by ‘weaponizing.' It's hard to do, to get the spores milled down and coated so they can float and be inhaled. The weaponized material will infect the people who breathe those specific spores. But those people, in turn,
won't
pass it on to others.