Pandemic Page 68

Margaret noticed that Clarence was staring at Tim. Not in disbelief, or in surprise or admiration, but in suspicion.

“Tim,” he said, “you have a runny nose?”

Margaret felt the room grow cold. Clarence’s hand had drifted near the pistol strapped to his left side.

Tim, however, didn’t seem to notice. “A little,” he said. “I’m kinda wired and worn out, you know? f.u.c.k-all long days it’s been.”

Then he, too, saw Clarence’s stare, and understood. Tim leaned back, held up his hands.

“Don’t get crazy, big fella. I just tested negative like ten minutes ago. Besides, the yeast probably made me immune.”

“Probably,” Clarence said. “But if you were already infected for more than a day or two, the yeast doesn’t do anything, right? You were here during the attack, treating dozens of sailors. You could have been exposed.”

Margaret reached out, put a hand on Clarence’s arm.

“Just test him again,” she said. “Remember, he’ll test positive well before he’s contagious to us, so calm down. I doubt he’s infected.”

Clarence raised his eyebrows: how do we know that?

“I’ve got the sniffles, too,” she said. “And my body hurts all over.”

Clarence took a step back, giving himself enough s.p.a.ce to watch both her and Tim.

Margaret sighed in exasperation. “Clarence, for f.u.c.k’s sake. Tim and I are working around the clock here — at some point, the body breaks down. You get the sniffles, you get headaches. So how about we all test now, together, just to be sure? We can test again every time we step out of the suits.”

Clarence relaxed slightly, almost imperceptibly, but he wasn’t convinced.

“Okay,” he said. “But unless you’re in your suits, I need you two to stay away from each other. And both of you keep your distance from me, got it?”

She let out a sarcastic huff. “Good to see you’re consistent.”

Now he looked only at her. There was hurt in his eyes. She wanted to take those words back, but she couldn’t.

Clarence put both hands on his face, pressed hard, rubbed. He lifted his head, blinking rapidly, sniffing in a big breath.

“If Tim’s theory is right, we have to a.s.sume well over half of the Pinckney is infected, about to convert and become violent. I need you both to suit up and finish whatever you’re doing in the lab. Get samples of your work packed up and ready to travel on a moment’s notice.”

Margaret had been thinking only of numbers, but Clarence’s urgency drove home a harsh reality: the Pinckney was a heavily armed wars.h.i.+p, one that might soon be overwhelmed with the Converted.

THE SEAL

Paulius Klimas had never seen a cell phone quite like the one that had been handed to him by the captain of the Coronado. It was a bit smaller than the satellite phones he’d carried into at least a dozen missions, and ridiculously heavy for its size.

The captain had asked Paulius to his stateroom, provided the phone, then left, giving Paulius privacy. That alone indicated some important s.h.i.+t was about to go down. The first call to the new phone had come from none other than Admiral Porter himself. That call had lasted all of three minutes, long enough for Porter to stress that the safety and future of the United States was on the line, and that Paulius was to facilitate in any way possible the next person who would call.

Maybe that finally meant some action.

When the battle had occurred four days earlier, he and his men had been ordered to do nothing. The Coronado hadn’t launched boats to rescue the drowning, hadn’t welcomed the wounded aboard. Zero contact.

As other s.h.i.+ps sank, as flaming oil spread across the water, Paulius had watched sailors fighting for life and he had done nothing to help them. He and his men from SEAL Team Two could have put their three Zodiacs into the lake, could have grabbed dozens of sailors from the water, could have saved many lives — he had never felt so ashamed of following an order.

But he had obeyed. He had made sure his men obeyed.

Paulius understood the order, even if he didn’t agree with it; so far, no one on the Coronado — SEAL Team Two included — had tested positive for the infection. He and his men were a contingency plan, to be used in a worst-case scenario.

And now, it seemed, that scenario had arrived.

The Pinckney, the Brashear and now even the damaged Truxtun had reported positive tests, incidents of violence and murder, even the execution of military personnel. Porter’s call meant it was almost time to act.

The phone buzzed. Paulius answered.

“This is Commander Klimas.”

“h.e.l.lo, Commander,” said a baritone voice on the other end. “This is Agent Clarence Otto.”

Paulius nodded. Yes, finally, there would be a role to play.

“Agent Otto, I have been instructed to follow your orders.”

“Good,” Otto said. “What have you been told so far?”

“That you control the package, and that the package is our highest priority.”

The package, in this case, was a person — one Dr. Margaret Montoya, and whatever she might be carrying. Tim Feely and Agent Otto were to be rescued as well, if possible, but Dr. Montoya had become the focus of Klimas and his team.

“Excellent,” Otto said. “I need you to prep for an extraction.”

“Understood. When?”

“Soon. We’re hopefully finis.h.i.+ng up some research here, but we may have to bug out at any moment.”