Michael Palmer - A Heartbeat Away

The walls of the deceptively roomy tent rippled with the gusting January wind. There were seven tall metal lockers, evenly spaced along one of the walls. Set against the opposite side was a portable sink and head-high shelving unit stocked with army-issued towels. Portable gas heaters kept the space warm.

Griff and his Special Forces bodyguards wasted no time getting undressed. There was no banter, no extraneous talk. They exchanged their street clothes for green surgical scrubs, folded neatly inside their lockers. Griff found it a challenge to pull the drawstring tight enough to hold the pants up around his depleted waist. Finally, he pulled his field biological suit from the tightly packed locker and spread it out on the floor. With well-practiced moves, he stepped into it feetfirst, then slid his arms into the sleeves, extending his fingers until his hands fit snugly inside the attached gloves.

“You guys know to be extra careful with the hands, right? One tiny puncture could kill you.”

“We know how to take care of our gear,” came the terse reply.

“I gotcha,” Griff said, raising his hands defensively.

The other soldiers eyed him coolly. He reminded himself that to them, he was a convicted terrorist. In fact, there would be no one he encountered this night who believed otherwise. No bands. No banners. No ceremony proclaiming welcome to freedom, Griff.

“I don’t know how much experience you’ve had in a hot zone before,” he said. “This virus is lethal. Aren’t you the least bit curious as to what they’ve thrust you into?”

“No one thrust us into anything,” the soldier to his right said. “We volunteered. Our orders are to shadow you every step you take, and to protect you if anyone tries to … to—”

“Go ahead, say it.”

“To take you out.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll do great in there,” Griff said.

Just as I’m sure you’re not all coming out alive.

Griff pulled the flexible butyl hood over his head. What little vapor condensed on his visor evaporated as soon as he got the PAPR breathing system running. Without a built-in microphone, he had to raise his voice to be clearly heard. Even though the gloves and boots were essentially welded to the suit, he still wrapped his wrists and ankles with tape. None of the soldiers took that added precaution.

“I’m taping up,” he said. “I’d suggest you do the same.”

“Why?” one solider asked.

“To shore up your weak points, that’s why.”

The soldiers stared at him numbly.

“I don’t see any weak points.”

“Wrists and ankles. Look, this virus doesn’t care how careful you think you’re being. It has one mission, just like you do. Its mission is to find a way into your bloodstream, locate the organ it was born to make its home in, and replicate. If it were a perfect organism, it would use you up just enough to keep you and it alive forever. It would be so much easier that way. But this virus isn’t perfect, so it will kill you whether it wants to or not, and in ways you can’t even imagine.”

The soldiers eyed each other. Finally, one nodded. Griff tossed him the roll of duct tape.

“I’m ready when you are,” Griff said.

Minutes later, the seven emerged from the field tent and made their way across the frozen ground toward the visitor center entrance. Spacemen on the move. As always, the suit made Griff feel mildly claustrophobic, despite it being loose-fitting and pliable. He had no doubt that the sensation was brought on in part by the invisible assassins separated from him and unimaginably violent death by only four mils of vinyl.

He scanned the faces of the soldiers flanking him, checking them through their clear plastic visors for signs of distress. Clearly they were tough and focused, but then again, none of them had contracted a Level Four virus like Ebola or WRX3883 before. In all likelihood, that fact would change before too long.

As they walked, Griff could again hear spectators shouting at them, though his hood muffled their voices. Suddenly, he heard the woman’s voice calling his name—once, then again. But before he could locate the source, General Egan emerged from behind an armored troop transport vehicle. He ordered the guards to halt a few feet shy of the portable airlock.

“Sergeant Stafford, you’ll keep me informed of your progress by radio.”

“Yes, sir.”

The husky soldier, who introduced himself to Griff as Sergeant Chad Stafford, draped the bulky radio, tethered to a low-hanging strap, around his neck. Three others were handed M16A4 assault rifles, and two were given high-powered flashlights. Griff noticed that none of them was given a first-aid kit.

“Be sure to leave all this gear inside when you return,” Egan said.

“General,” Griff said, “those weapons will just add to the risk of a suit puncture.”

“With all due respect, Dr. Rhodes, I’ll be the judge of that,” Egan said. “Our orders are to keep an eye on you and a lookout for anyone who might cause you trouble.”

Following the general’s order, two soldiers guarding the airlock entrance stepped aside. Griff paused to make a careful inspection of the hastily built structure. The unit had two distinct parts—the airlock and a connecting tunnel. Both were comprised of vinyl panels set upon heavy-duty integrated aluminum frames that formed a transparent enclosure. The airlock was large enough to accommodate all seven of them. The tunnel, however, which was accessible through a vinyl door inside the airlock, required them to walk single file to reach the entrance of the Capitol.

The airlock met Griff’s standards for safety, but only for a Level 3 or less microbe. Neoprene cell foam gaskets sealed the frame-to-frame connections. Ceiling-mounted HEPA air filters produced the optimum negative pressure airspace. There were three portable chemical showers inside the airlock chamber itself, which they would use to decontaminate before they could exit.

The rudimentary structure, designed to allow entry into the Capitol with the minimal risk of viral escape, was not up to the safety standards of a BSL-4 containment facility. But despite his reservations, Griff knew the setup was better than nothing and best for these circumstances.

Once inside the airlock, he used the gauge he had requested to measure microns of airborne contaminate. As soon as he got three satisfactory readings, he pulled open the door sealing the airlock from the tunnel. On the way out, each of them would be required to take a twenty-minute chemical shower, following which Griff would measure the air quality again. Three more safe readings and he would risk opening the airlock door for them to exit.

Simple enough.

“The visitor center entrance to the Capitol should be unlocked,” Sergeant Stafford yelled. Griff could barely hear over the noise of the ceiling-mounted air purifiers lining the tunnel walkway. “You’ll be met by the president’s personal physician and escorted to President Allaire by his Secret Service people.”

“Roger that,” one solider replied.

The team entered in single file. No one spoke as they passed through the visitor center door. Once inside the Capitol, Griff paused, adjusting his senses to the new environment. All was silent.

Deadly silent.

After a delay of two minutes, a team of four agents appeared—two men and two women. Their expressions suggested they hadn’t been briefed to expect the biocontainment suits. Or maybe it was Griff’s Unibomber appearance.

“Where’s the doctor?” Sergeant Stafford asked.

“Detained. People are starting to get sick. We’ve got medicine and supplies coming in by tram to the House subway station.”

Griff turned to the agent.

“I’ll need access to those tunnels so I can sample the atmosphere. We might have to seal them off. We have no idea about their air flow patterns.”