Marc Cameron - National Security

General Randall held up a sheaf of computer paper. “We’ve been over the passenger list, Dr. Mahoney. No large groups. According to the pilot in command, it looks like an American kid named Ian Grant seated at the back of the airplane was the first to get sick. We’ve run this kid’s passport history. He was on a flight to Paris from the Ivory Coast day before yesterday.”

Megan made some notes in a small notepad she carried with her everywhere. “And he isn’t traveling with anyone?”

“No, ma’am.” Randall shook his head. “But he and the old ladies who were sitting next to him are dead.”

“And farther forward?” Megan felt her chest go tight as she thought through the possible ramifications of a hemorrhagic virus trapped in the tight confines of a commercial airliner.

General Norton leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “The pilot says there are five dead and over forty showing symptoms.”

Megan nodded. It was exactly what she’d feared. “If an agent this fast is also airborne… that entire airplane is doomed-”

General Randall harrumphed, rolling his eyes. “Doomed is a strong word.”

Megan Mahoney chewed softly on her bottom lip. She was all too used to dealing with know-it-all managers who, in truth, knew less than the guys who vacuumed their spacious offices. She leaned against the teak table, both hands clasped at her chest. A string of Mikimoto pearls was draped across her fingers.

“You are right. We do have plans in place for this sort of thing, General. Northwest 2 should proceed to the quarantine isolation gate at JFK. If those passengers aren’t quarantined the moment they step off that airplane, this illness would almost certainly infect any unprotected people who get within breathing distance. I suppose I don’t have to point out that Marburg kills one in four of those it infects…”

“Maybe it’s not Marburg,” Randall said.

“You’re right. It could be worse,” Mahoney said. “Ebola Zaire kills nine out of ten. Once those passengers get cell coverage they’ll be on the phone with their families. If they describe even the smallest fraction of what they’re going through, mass panic will ensue on the…” Her voice trailed off as she scribbled some figures on a legal pad in front of her.

“What?” Randall asked, appointing himself as CDC’s unofficial interrogator. “You’re the disease expert. What are you thinking?”

“The air onboard a commercial jet is recirculated throughout the plane…” Megan blew a strand of copper gold hair out of her face as she tapped her pencil on the pad. “A 747 carries roughly four hundred passengers. So far, they’ve eaten up fifty percent of their flight time and a little over ten percent of the passengers are infected. If this is anything like the hemorrhagic fevers we’ve seen, as soon as they show symptoms, each of those passengers will become a fountain of leaking virus and, from the look of things, be spewing it into the air with each breath.” She threw her pencil on the table. “I’m tellin’ y’all, Ebola does things to the human body you don’t want to see in the guy scrunched up next to you in coach.”

Director Willis leaned forward. “Dr. Mahoney,” he said, giving her a knowing nod. “Why don’t you explain to the rest of the group what a hemorrhagic virus does?”

“If it hasn’t happened already, very soon, the inside of that airplane will be awash in every bodily fluid imaginable. Connective tissue breaks down so skin looks like it’s falling off the bone. Cells rupture, men’s testicles swell, then die and turn black. Skin becomes hypersensitive to touch, making even the brush of clothing unbearable. There’ll be lots of bleeding-even from the pores-loss of bladder and bowel control…”

Mahoney saw all eyes on the plasma screen were focused heavily on her. “Look, I apologize for being so blunt, but it’s important y’all understand just how dangerous this is. Ebola… digests you, for lack of a better description, from the inside out. By the time it’s finished, it’s replicated itself in exponential proportions. Each drop of blood in an infected body can contain over one hundred million viruses… and every single one of those little guys wants to find a way out, because you’re dead, and he’s gonna need another host…”

“Thank you, Doctor.” A towering man in a crisp blue uniform and a full head of gray hair rubbed tired eyes. “Admiral Tobias Scott,” he said, though the chairman of the Joint Chiefs needed no introduction. “Whatever our decision, we owe it to Captain Holiday to get back to him quickly. He’s got be awfully lonely.”

“I have two F-15s on alert at Lajes Field. With your permission-”

“I appreciate that, General Randall, but our 747 is well beyond the Azores by now.” The admiral leaned sideways and spoke for a moment to an aide before turning back to the group. “Ladies and gentlemen, it looks as though the U.S. carrier Theodore Roosevelt is almost directly under Northwest 2’s present position. I’ll have her skipper send an F-18 Hornet up as an escort. He can jam the radio and satellite phone traffic so Captain Holiday or anyone else on board will be unable to get a signal out without coming through us. That should solve our mass-panic problem for the time being.” Scott looked directly into the camera. “Forrester?” he said, almost barking.

Guy Forrester, a balding civil servant who’d risen inexplicably through the ranks of government to land high in the newly formed Department of Homeland Security, had jowls that were puffed and green, as though he might be sick. “Yes, Admiral Scott?”

“Have someone pick up that FAA controller and the doctor who spoke to Captain Holiday. We’re going to have to bring them in to… protective custody, shall we say.”

Forrester blinked bleary eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. He did not move.

“Right away, man,” Scott barked. “I can not emphasize containment enough here. You’re dismissed to go make your calls.”

The admiral leaned back and steepled his fingers in front of closed eyes. “I need to brief the President in five minutes. Let’s hear some options, people.”

4 September

Captain Steve Holiday drew a breath from his oxygen mask through clenched teeth. Samantha, the lead flight attendant, was dead. Perky Liz, who’d just been showing off photos of her little boy’s first birthday, was dead. Four of the remaining nine crew members were having trouble standing, and from all accounts, two of those would be gone in a matter of minutes. He’d deployed emergency oxygen masks for the passengers but lied when he announced that doctors had advised this would help staunch any further spread of the mysterious illness. No one was telling him a damn thing.

Beside him, slouched in the right seat, Karen Banning had figured out she was dying. A pile of tissues at her feet was stained with the steady flow of blood that dripped from her nose and came up with every raw, spasmodic cough. He’d tried to comfort her with a pat on the shoulder, but she jerked away, shrieking in pain at his touch. Any pressure against her skin threw her into agony.

Once-smooth skin hung loose and lifeless off her cheekbones. Dull eyes bounced oddly in all directions as if hung on the end of cartoon springs. It was the stuff bad dreams were made of.

The few unaffected passengers had barricaded themselves in the upper deck, outside the cockpit, and threatened to roll a beverage cart down the stairs at anyone who tried to come up the stairs from below. A look at the video monitor that viewed the back galley showed a surreal scene of dangling yellow oxygen masks, slumped bodies, and exhausted passengers shuffling zombielike to and from overflowing restrooms.