The medic was very careful drawing blood. First he checked to see that the arm was fully restrained, unable to move more than a centimeter. Then he had a comrade hold the arm in his two strong hands, careful himself to keep those hands well away from the needle. With a nod of agreement, the first selected the proper vein and stabbed the needle in. He was lucky this time. The needle went right in on the first try. To the back of the needle-holder he attached a 5cc vacuum tube, which took in blood that was darker than the usual purple. When it was full, he withdrew it, and set it carefully in a plastic box, to be followed by three more. He withdrew the needle next, and placed gauze on the puncture, which wouldn’t stop bleeding. The medic released the arm, noting that their brief grasp had discolored the skin badly. A cover was placed on the box, and the first medic walked it out of the room, while the second went to the corner to spray his gloves and arms
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with dilute iodine. They’d been fully briefed on how dangerous this duty was, but in the way of normal men they hadn’t really believed it, despite all the repetitions and the films and the slides. Both men believed it now, every cursed word, and to a man the army medics wished and prayed for Death to come and spirit this woman off to whatever destination Allah had planned for her. Watching her body disintegrate was bad enough. The thought of following her in this horrid journey was enough to quail the stoutest heart. It was like nothing they’d ever seen. This woman was melting from the inside out. As the medic finished cleaning the outside of his suit, he turned, startled by her cry of pain, as if from an infant tortured by the hands of the devil himself. Eyes open, mouth wide, a rasping, liquid cry escaped into the air and penetrated the plastic of his suit.
The blood samples were handled quickly, but under the greatest care, in the Hot Lab up the corridor. Moudi and the project director were in their offices. It wasn’t strictly necessary for them to be in the lab for this, and it was easier for them to view the tests without the hindrance of the protective garb.
“So fast, so remarkably fast.” The director shook his head in awe.
Moudi nodded. “Yes, it overwhelms the immune system like a tidal wave.” The display on the computer screen came off an electron microscope, which showed the field full of the shepherd-staff-configured viruses. A few antibodies were visible on the screen, but they might as well have been individual sheep in a pride of lions for all the good they might do. The blood cells were being attacked and destroyed. Had they been able to take tissue samples of the major organs, they could have found that the spleen was turning into something as hard as a rubber ball, full of little crystals which were like transport capsules for the Ebola virus particles. It would, in fact, have been interesting, and maybe even scientifically useful, to do laparo-scopic examination of the abdomen, to see exactly what the disease did to a human patient over measured time intervals, but there was the danger of accelerating the patient’s death, which they didn’t want to risk.
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Samples of her vomitus showed tissue fragments from her upper GI, and those were interesting because they were not merely torn loose, but dead. Large sections of the patient’s still-living body had already died, come loose from the living remainder, and been ejected as the corporate organism fought vainly to survive. The infected blood would be centrifuged and deep-frozen for later use. Every drop that came out was useful, and because of that, more blood was dripped into her via rubber IV tubes. A routine heart-enzyme test showed that her heart, unlike that of the Index Patient, was still normal and healthy.
“Strange how the disease varies in its mode of attack,” the director observed, reading the printout.
Moudi just looked away, imagining that he could hear her cries of anguish through the multiple concrete walls of the building. It would have been an act of supreme mercy to walk into the room and push in 20ccs of potassium, or just to turn the morphine drip all the way open and so kill her with respiratory arrest.
“Do you suppose the African boy had a preexisting cardiovascular problem?” his boss asked.
“Perhaps. It wasn’t diagnosed if he did.”
“Liver function is failing rapidly, as expected.” The director scanned the blood-chemistry data slowly. All the numbers were well out of normal ranges, except the heart indicators, and those but barely. “It’s a textbook case, Moudi.”
“Indeed it is.”
“This strain of the virus is even more robust than I’d imagined.” He looked up. “You’ve done well.”
Oh, yes.
‘ .. ANTHONY BRETANO has two doctorates from MIT, Mathematics and Optical Physics. He has an impressive personal record in industry and engineering, and I expect him to be a uniquely effective Secretary of Defense,” Ryan said, concluding his statement. “Questions?”
“Sir, Vice President Kealty–”
“Former Vice President,” Ryan interrupted. “He resigned. Let’s get that right.”
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“But he says he didn’t,” the Chicago Tribune pointed out.
“If he said he had a talk with Elvis, would you believe that?” Ryan asked, hoping that he’d delivered the prepared line properly. He scanned faces for the reaction. Again, all forty-eight seats were filled, with twenty more reporters standing. Jack’s scornful remark made them all blink, and a few even allowed themselves a smile. “Go ahead, ask your question.”
“Mister Kealty has requested a judicial commission to ascertain the facts of the matter. How do you respond to that?”
“The question is being investigated by the FBI, which is the government’s principal investigative agency. Whatever the facts are, they haveio be established before anyone can make a judgment. But I think we all know what is going to happen. Ed Kealty resigned, and you all know why. Out of respect for the constitutional process, I have directed the FBI to look into the matter, but my own legal advice is absolutely clear. Mr. Kealty can talk all he wants. I have a job to do here. Next question?” Jack asked confidently.
“Mr. President”–Ryan nodded fractionally at hearing the Miami Herald say that–“In your speech the other night, you said that you’re not a politician, but you are in a political job. The American people want to know your views on a lot of issues.”
“That makes good sense. Like what?” Jack asked.
“Abortion, for one,” the Herald reporter, a very liberated woman, asked. “What exactly is your position?”
“I don’t like it,” Ryan answered, speaking the truth before thinking about it. “I’m Catholic, as you probably know, and on that moral issue I think my Church is correct. However, Roe v. Wade is the law of the land until such time as the Supreme Court might reconsider the ruling, and the President isn’t allowed to ignore the rulings of the federal courts. That puts me in a somewhat uncomfortable position, but as President I have to execute my office in accordance with the law. I swore an oath to do that.” Not bad, Jack, Ryan thought.
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“So you do not support the right of a woman to choose?” the Herald asked, smelling the blood.
“Choose what?” Ryan asked, still comfortable. “You know, somebody once tried to kill my wife while she was pregnant with our son, and soon thereafter I watched my oldest child lying near death in a hospital. I think life is a very precious commodity. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way. I’d hope that people would think about that before deciding to have an abortion.”
“That doesn’t answer the question, sir.”
“I can’t stop people from doing it. Like it or not, it’s the law. The President may not break the law.” Wasn’t this obvious?
“But in your appointments for the Supreme Court, will you use abortion as a litmus-test issue? Would you like to have Roe v. Wade overturned?” Ryan scarcely noticed the cameras changing focus, and the reporters concentrating on their scribbled notes.
“I don’t like Roe v. Wade, as I said. I think it was a mistake. I’ll tell you why. The Supreme Court interjected itself into what should have been a legislative matter. The Constitution doesn’t address this issue, and on issues where the Constitution is mute, we have state and federal legislatures to write our laws.” This civics lesson was going well. “Now, for the nominations I have to make to the Supreme Court, I will look for the best judges I can find. That’s something we will be addressing shortly. The Constitution is sort of the Bible for the United States of America, and the justices of the Supreme Court are the– theologians, I guess, who decide what it means. They aren’t supposed to write a new one. They’re supposed to figure out what it means. When a change in the Constitution is needed, we have a mechanism to change it, which we’ve used more than twenty times.”