Michael Palmer - A Heartbeat Away

Two screws out.… Now, three …

One to go.

The groove of the final screw was nearly gone, and the body was stripped, making the already difficult task nearly impossible. Griff needed some sort of lubricating spray, but there was none. The five minutes he and Melvin had allotted for this phase of the escape had already taken triple that. How ironic to have the fate of the country hinging on a tiny bit of rust. The notion brought a rueful smile.

Griff had overheard Stafford say that patrols along the roads bordering Kalvesta were being increased in response to the secretary’s unexpected arrival. Any delay on his part risked Melvin being spotted by one of those patrols—assuming, of course, that Melvin ended his Staghorn meeting in time to make their rendezvous. With his anxiety escalating, Griff brought in a small hammer and chisel to loosen the stripped screw.

For want of a nail, the shoe was lost, he said to himself, tapping on the chisel to the rhythm of the proverbial poem. For want of a shoe, the horse was lost.…

Another try with the screwdriver. Griff figured he could change the angle of the blade to improve the leverage.

For want of a horse, the rider was lost. …

The handle shook as Griff strained to turn it. The shank slipped free of the mangled screw head, and he felt the blade tear across the fabric of his suit. Hyperventilating, and fearing the worst, he checked the puncture. The suit’s several protective layers seemed to be intact.

For want of a rider the battle was lost.…

Griff tried another approach, gripping the sides of the vent with his gloved hands and twisting the already loose metal plate as he pulled. Home run! The troublesome screw budged, then creaked a fraction of a millimeter, then suddenly turned. For the moment, at least, the kingdom was saved.

The pre-filters removed easily enough, but the much larger HEPA filter looked to be a serious challenge. The angle required to use the spin ratchet on the stainless steel bolts seemed designed for a contortionist. Sweat continued dripping down Griff’s brow and stinging his eyes, until he was working nearly blind. To make matters worse, again and again his elbows displaced his flashlight.

He finally managed to unplug the connectors powering the fan, and held his breath. Despite Melvin’s assurance, he still worried about the alarm. The loud rush of air being sucked up the vent stopped suddenly. The only sound was his heart pounding in his ears. An inch at a time, he worked the cumbersome fan free from the aluminum duct. The razor-sharp edges of the filter’s metal casing were a continuous threat to the integrity of his suit, but he handled them well.

Finally, he took in a single deep breath and pulled until the heavy filter came free of the duct. He let it fall to the floor of the Kitchen with a loud, satisfying crash.

Buoyed by a second wind, he removed the remaining components—blowers and bags—with a great deal less effort. Now, it was time to get Rappaport out of the picture. In a short while, a powerful animosity had developed between the two of them. Rappaport was convinced of Griff’s guilt and lack of patriotism, and Griff was uncomfortable around the man’s arrogance and self-assuredness. In addition, more and more, thoughts were taking shape regarding the fact that until it became clear why Genesis was undertaking their reign of terror, Paul Rappaport seemed to be at the forefront of those who would benefit from it.

Griff’s joints ached from his having stayed so long in such an awkward position. He crossed to the wall-mounted control panel for the Kitchen’s Environment Status System—its ESS. His goal was to make the place seem even more potentially lethal than it already was.

Of the three buttons on the panel’s front face, the green one was lit, and the yellow and red ones were not. Griff keyed the input code required to change environment status, and with a push of a button the Kitchen went from a green safety level to yellow. The yellow status alerted topside communication of a potential exposure risk in the labs. Nothing too alarming, like the total evacuation and shutdown mandated by red, but nothing they would risk Rappaport being exposed to, either. It would certainly buy some time. How much, Griff had no way of knowing.

He went back to the ventilation shaft and used his Maglite flashlight to penetrate the darkness of the metal tunnel, scanning for sharp edges between duct joints that could slice open his suit before he cleared the hot zone. Fortunately, the engineers had injected sealant between the joints. The passage would be relatively smooth.

With thoughts of Angie and of what might lie ahead in Wichita, he set the flashlight down. He would need both hands free to work his way up the steep rise at the far end of the system. Detaching the air hose from his suit, he positioned himself facedown on the metal and snaked his way into the blackness.

Space in the duct was unpleasantly tight. Griff worked forward in a military crawl. The shaft was roughly the diameter of the opening in an MRI machine. His back scraped against the top of it every time he arched his hips. The darkness was now total, and the accompanying claustrophobia was becoming oppressive. His helmet and face mask made the situation even more difficult and unsettling.

Breathing through his nose, eyes closed, he wriggled ahead, feeling for any incline.

Breathe in … breathe out … breathe in … breathe out …

The tube seemed interminable, the air stale. Then, just as he was wondering if Melvin had given him misinformation about the course of the system, he sensed an incline beginning. At first the rise was subtle. Griff opened his eyes, but he was still engulfed in absolute darkness.

Breathe in … breathe out …

Suddenly, the incline became more severe. The shaft bent upward at an angle that was at least forty-five degrees. Instantly, the rhythm Griff had established disappeared. Movement ahead and upward became awkward, and required every bit of his strength. Without the air hose to help cool him, his suit trapped much of his body heat. He kept himself wedged in the shaft, moving through the blackness only a few inches at a time. Fatigue became a serious problem. The climb was far more difficult than he had anticipated. He fought off the increasingly desperate urge to try crawling backward to the opening.

Visions of giving up—of just stopping and dying there—began to dominate his thoughts. He drove himself ahead by remembering the guards at Florence, beating on the soles of his feet and calling him a traitor and a terrorist. He allowed his mind to relive the electric total-body pain and the blood of his Ebola infection.

The rise in the shaft increased. Griff slid backward. Frantically, he pressed his palms against the metal, finally managing to regain his leverage. Again he shimmied ahead, his arms shaking from supporting what amounted to his full body weight. Still, he managed to inch higher. He guessed the angle of the shaft to be at least seventy degrees, now.

Angie … the guards … Louisa … Rappaport … the cell … Allaire … Africa …

He was nearly upright now, wedged in place, but able to use his knees for support and thrust. As Melvin had warned, this part of the ascent was like rock climbing. But nothing had prepared him for the consuming blackness. His forearms were on fire.

I’ve beaten Ebola.… I’ve outlasted Florence.… I can do this.…

Tears of pain mixed with the sweat and salted his lips. He kept his gaze fixed upward, searching for the end. Then, suddenly, his glove hit metal—the rung of the ladder! Above him, the utter darkness had given way to the gloom of dusk. He bent his head back as much as space would allow and saw the squares of the access grate, silhouetted against a darkening sky.