So, for starters, John decided, from now on a more senior Rainbow member would always accompany the teams into the field to provide support, someone the team leaders could lean against. Of course, they wouldn’t like the oversight right there at their shoulders, but that couldn’t be helped. With that thought he dismissed the meeting, and teed AI Stanley, into his office, where he presented his idea.
“Fine with me, John. But who are the seniors who got out?”
“You and me, for starters.”
“Very well. Makes sense-what with all the fitness and shooting training we subject ourselves to. Domingo and Peter might find it all a bit overpowering, however.”
“They both know how to follow orders=and they’ll come to us for advice when it’s needed. Everybody does. I sure did, whenever the opportunity offered itself.” Which hadn’t been very damned often, though John remembered wishing for it often enough.
“I agree with your proposal, John,” Stanley said. “Shall we write it up for the order book?”
Clark nodded. “Today.”
CHAPTER 9
STALKERS
“I can do that, John,” the Director of Central Intelligence said. “It means talking to the Pentagon, however.”
“Today if possible, Ed. We really need this. I was remiss in not considering the need earlier. Seriously remiss.” Clark added humbly.
“It happens,” DCI Foley observed. “Okay, let me make some calls and get back to you.” He broke the connection and thought for a few seconds, then flipped through his rolodex, and found the number of CINC-SNAKE, as the post was laughingly called. Commander in Chief, Special Operations Command at MacDill Air Force Base outside Tampa, Florida, was the boss of all the “snake eaters,” the special-operations people from whom Rainbow had drawn its American personnel. General Sam Wilson was the man behind the desk, not a place he was especially comfortable. He’d started off as an enlisted man who’d opted for airborne and ranger training, then moved into Special Forces, which he’d left to get his college degree i” history at North Carolina State University, then returned to the Army as a second lieutenant and worked his way up the ladder rapidly. A youthful fifty-three, he had four shiny stars on his shoulders now and was in charge of a unified multiservice command that included members from each of the armed services, all of whom knew how to cook snake over an open fire.
“Hi, Ed,” the general said, on getting the call over his secure phone. “What’s happening at Langley?” The special-operations community was very close with CIA, and often provided intelligence to it or the muscle to run a difficult operation in the field.
“I have a request from Rainbow,” the DCI told him.
“Again? They’ve already raided my units, you know.”
“They’ve put’em to good use. That was their takedown in Austria yesterday.”
“Looked good on TV,” Sam Wilson admitted. “Will I get additional information?” By which he meant information on who the bad guys had been.
“The whole package when it’s available, Sam,” Foley promised.
“Okay, what does your boy need?”
“Aviators, helicopter crews.”
“You know how long it takes to train those people, Ed? Jesus, they’re expensive to maintain, too.”
“I know that, Sam,” the voice assured him from Langley. “The Brits have to put up, too. You know Clark. He wouldn’t ask ‘less he needed it.”
Wilson had to admit that, yes, he knew John Clark, who’d once saved a wrecked mission and, in the process, a bunch of soldiers, a long time and several presidents ago. Ex-Navy SEAL, the Agency said of him, with a solid collection of medals and a lot of accomplishments. And this Rainbow group had two successful operations under its belt.
“Okay, Ed, how many?”
“One really good one for now.”
It was the “for now” part that worried Wilson. But “Okay, I’ll be back to you later today.”
“Thanks, Sam.” One nice thing about Wilson, Foley knew, was that he didn’t screw around on time issues. For him “right now” meant right the hell now.
Chester wasn’t going to make it even as far as Killgore had thought. His liver function tests were heading downhill faster than anything he’d ever seen-or read about in the medical literature. The man’s skin was yellow now, like a pale lemon, and slack over his flaccid musculature. Respiration was already a little worrisome, too, partly because of the large dose of morphine he was getting to keep him unconscious or at least stuporous. Both Killgore and Barbara Archer had wanted to treat him as aggressively as possible, to see if there were really a treatment modality that might work on Shiva, but the fact of the matter was that Chester’s underlying medical conditions were so serious that no treatment regimen could overcome both those problems and the Shiva.
“Two days,” Killgore said. “Maybe less.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Dr. Archer agreed. She had all manner of ideas for handling this, from conventional–and almost certainly useless-antibiotics to Interleukin-2, which some thought might have clinical applications to such a case. Of course, modern medicine had yet to defeat any viral disease, but some thought that buttressing the body’s immune system from one direction might have the effect of helping it in another, and there were a lot of powerful new synthetic antibiotics on the market now. Sooner or later, someone would find a magic bullet for viral diseases. But not yet: “Potassium?” she asked, after considering the prospects for the patient and the negligible value of treating him at all. Killgore shrugged agreement.
“I suppose. You can do it if you want.” Killgore waved to the medication cabinet in the corner.
Dr. Archer walked over, tore a 40cc disposable syringe out of its paper and plastic container, then inserted the needle in a glass vial of potassium-and-water solution, and filled the needle by pulling back on the plunger. Then she returned to the bed and inserted the needle into the medication drip, pushing the plunger now to give the patient a hard bolus of the lethal chemical. It took a few seconds, longer than if she had done the injection straight into a major vein, but Archer didn’t want to touch the patient any more than necessary, even with gloves. It didn’t really matter that much. Chester’s breathing within the clear plastic oxygen mask seemed to hesitate, then restart, then hesitate again, then become ragged and irregular for six or eight breaths. Then . . . it stopped. The chest settled into itself and didn’t rise. His eyes had been semi-open, like those of a man in shallow sleep or shock, aimed in her direction but not really focused. Now they closed for the last time. Dr. Archer took her stethoscope and held it on the alcoholic’s chest. There was no sound at all. Archer stood up, took off her stethoscope, and pocketed it.
So long, Chester, Killgore thought.
“Okay,” she said matter-of-factly. “Any symptoms with the others?”
“None yet. Antibody tests are positive, however,” Killgore replied. “Another week or so before we see frank symptoms, I expect.”
“We need a set of healthy test subjects,” Barbara Archer said. “These people are too-too sick to be proper benchmarks for Shiva.”
“That means some risks.”
“I know that,” Archer assured him. “And you know we need better test subjects.”
“Yes, but the risks are serious,” Killgore observed.
“And I know that, ” Archer replied.
“Okay, Barb, run it up the line. I won’t object. You want to take care of Chester? I have to run over to see Steve.”
“Fine.” She walked to the wall, picked up the phone, and punched three digits onto the keypad to get the disposal people.
For his part, Killgore went into the changing area. He stopped in the decontamination chamber first of all, pushed the large square red button, and waited for the machinery to spray him down from all directions with the fog solution of antiseptics that were known to be immediately and totally lethal to the Shiva virus. Then he went through the door into the changing room itself, where he removed the blue plastic suit, tossed it into the bin for further and more dramatic decontamination-it wasn’t really needed, but the people in the lab felt better about it then-then dressed in surgical greens. On the way out, he put on a white lab coat. The next stop was Steve Berg’s shop. Neither he nor Barb Archer had said it out loud yet, but everyone would feel better if they had a working vaccine for Shiva.
“Hey, John,” Berg said, when his colleague came in.
“‘Morning, Steve,” Killgore responded in greeting. “How’re the vaccines coming?”
“Well, we have ‘A’ and ‘B’ working now.” Berg gestured to the monkey cages on the other side of the glass. ” ‘A’ batch has the yellow stickers. ‘B’ is the blue, and the control group is red.”
Killgore looked. There were twenty of each, for a total of sixty rhesus monkeys. Cute little devils. “Too bad,” he observed.