Amazonia. Part 37

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

Shadows.

AUGUST 15, 3:23 PM. INSTAR INSt.i.tUTE LANGLEY VIRGINIA.

Lauren knocked on Dr. Alvisio's office door. Earlier this morning, the epi-demiologist had requested, rather urgently, a moment with her. But this was the first chance she'd had to break away and meet with him.

Instead, she had spent the entire morning and afternoon in video con-ference with Dr. Xavier Reynolds and his team at Large Scale Biological Labs in Vacaville, California. The prion protein they had discovered could be the first clue to solving this disease, a contagion that had claimed over sixty lives so far with another several hundred sick. Lauren had arranged for her former student's data to be cross-referenced and double-checked by fourteen other labs. As she waited for confirmation, she had time to meet with the epidemiologist.

The door opened. The young Stanford doctor looked as if he hadn't slept in weeks. A bit of darkstubble shadowed his cheeks, and his eyes were bloodshot. "Dr. O'Brien. Thank you for coming:" He ushered her into the room.

Lauren had never been in his office, so she was surprised to see a whole array of computer equipment lining one entire wall. Otherwise, the room was rather Spartan: a cluttered desk, an overflowing bookcase, a few chairs The only personal touch was a lone Stanford Cardinals banner hanging or the far wall. But Lauren's eye was drawn back to the computer bank. The monitors were full of graphs and flowing numbers.

"What was so urgent, Hank?" she asked him.

He waved her to the computers. "I need you to see this:" His voice was grim.

She nodded and took the seat he offered before one of the monitors.

"Do you remember when I told you about the possible signature spike of basophils early in the disease process? How this clinical finding might be a way to detect and specify cases more quickly?"

She nodded, but since hearing his theory, she had already begun to doubt it. Jessie's basophils had spiked, but the child was recovering very well. There had even been talk of letting her out of the hospital ward as soon as tomorrow. This rise in basophils could be something that occurs with many different fevers and is not specific to this disease.

She opened her mouth to say just that, but Dr. Alvisio interrupted, turning to his computer keyboard. He typed rapidly. "It took me a full twenty-four hours to gather data from around the entire country, specifi-cally searching for fever cases in children and the elderly with characteris-tic basophil spikes. I wanted to run a model for the disease using this new criteria:"

On the monitor, a map of the United States appeared in yellow with each state mapped out in black lines. Small pinpoints of red dotted the map, most cl.u.s.tered in Florida and other southern states. "Here is the old data. Each area of red indicates current doc.u.mented cases of the con-tagion:"

Lauren slipped on her reading gla.s.ses and leaned closer.

"But using the basophil spike as the marker for designating cases, here is a truer picture of the disease's present status in the United States:" The epidemiologist hit a keystroke. The map bloomed brighter with red dots. Florida was almost a solid red, as were Georgia and Alabama. Other states, empty before, now were speckled with red spots.

Hank turned to her. "As you can see, the number of cases skyrockets. Many of these patients are in unquarantined wards due to the fact that the trio of signs designated by the CDC have not shown up yet.

They're expos-ing others:"

Despite her doubts, Lauren felt a sick churn in her belly. Even if Dr. Alvisio was wrong about the basophils, he had made a good point. Early detection was critical. Until then, all feverish children or elderly should be quarantined immediately, even if they weren't in hot zones like Florida and Georgia. "I see what you're saying," she said. "We should contact the CDC and have them establish nationwide quarantine policies:"

Hank nodded. "But that's not all:" He turned back to his computer and typed. "Based on this new basophil data, I ran an extrapolation model. Here is what the disease picture will look like in two weeks:"He pressed the ENTER key.

The entire southern half of the country went red.

Lauren sat back in shock.

"And in another month:" Hank struck the ENTER key a second time.

The red mottling spread to consume almost the entire lower forty- eight states.

Hank glanced at her. "We have to do something to stop this. Every day is critical:"

Lauren stared at the bloodstained screen, her mouth dry, her eyes wide. Her only consolation was that Dr. Alvisio's basis for this model was proba-bly overly grim. She doubted the basophil spike was truly an early marker for the disease. Still, the warning here was important. Every day was critical.

Her pager vibrated on her hip, reminding her that the war against this disease had to be fought with every resource. She glanced down to her pager's screen. It was Marshall. He had followed his numeric code with a 911. Something urgent.

"Can I use your phone?" she asked.

"Of course:"

She stood and crossed to his desk. Hank returned to his computers and statistical models. She dialed the number. The phone was answered in half a ring.

"Lauren. . :'

"What is it, Marshall?"

His words were rushed, full of fear. "It's Jessie. I'm at the hospital:"

Lauren clutched the phone tighter. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Her temperature is up again:" His voice cracked. "Higher than it's ever been. And three other children have been admitted. Fevers, all of them:"

"Wh . . . what are you saying?" she stammered, but she knew the answer to her own question.

Her husband remained silent.

"I'll be right there," she finally said, dropping the phone and scrab-bling to replace it in its cradle.

Hank turned to her, noticing her reaction. "Dr. O'Brien?"

Lauren could not speak.Jessie . . . the basophil spike . . . the other chil-dren. Dear G.o.d, the disease was here!

Lauren stared gla.s.sily at the monitor with the map of the United States mottled entirely in red. The epidemiologist's theory was not a mistake. It wasn't overly pessimistic. "Is everything all right?" Hank asked softly.

Lauren slowly shook her head, eyes fixed on the screen.

One month.

5:23 PM.

AMAZON JUNGLE.

Kelly sat hunched with her brother, both flanking Olin Pasternak. The Russian computer expert was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g down the cover piece to rea.s.semble the satellite communication system. He had been working on it all after-noon, trying to raise the States.

"This had better work," he mumbled. "I've torn it down to the moth-erboard and built it back up. If this doesn't work, I don't know what else to try."

Frank nodded. "Fire it up:"

Olin checked the connections one final time, adjusted the satellite dish, then returned his attention to the laptop computer. He switched on the solar power, and after a short wait, the operating system booted up and the screen hummed to life.

"We've got a connection to the HERMES satellite!" Olin said, and sighed with relief.

A cheer went up around Kelly. The entire camp, except for the pair of Rangers on guard by the swamp, was gathered around Olin and his com-munication equipment.

"Can you get an uplink established?" Waxman asked.

"Keep your fingers crossed," Olin said. He began tapping at the key-board.

Kelly found herself holding her breath. They needed to reach someone Stateside. Reinforcements were certainly needed here. But more important to her, Kelly couldn't stand not knowing Jessie's status. She had to find a way to get back to her.

"Here we go:" Olin struck a final sequence of keys. The familiar con-nection countdown began.

Richard Zane mumbled behind her. "Please, please work..."

His prayer was in all their hearts. The countdown blipped to zero. The computer screen froze for an interminably long second, then a picture of Kelly's mother and father appeared. The pair looked shocked and relieved.

"Thank G.o.d!" her father said. "We've been trying to reach you for the past hour:"

Olin moved aside for Frank. "Computer problems," her brother said, "among many others:"

Kelly leaned in. She could not wait a moment longer. "How's Jessie?"

Her mother's face answered the question. Her eyes fidgeted, and she paused before speaking. "She's . .

. she's doing fine, dear."

The image on the screen fritzed as if the computer had become a lie detector. Static and snow ate away the picture. Her mother's next words became garbled. "Lead on a cure . . . prion disease . . , sending data as we speak. . :"

Her father spoke, but the interference grew worse. They seemed unaware that their message was corrupted. ". . . helicopter on its way . . . Brazilian army.. :'

Frank hissed to Olin, "Can you fix the reception?"

He leaned in and tapped quickly. "I don't know. I don't understand. We've just received a file. Maybe that's interfering with our downstream feed:'

But for each key the man tapped, the signal deteriorated.

Static whined and hissed with occasional words coming through. "Frank. . . losing you . . . can you . . .

tomorrow morning . . . GPS locked.. :" Then the entire feed collapsed. The screen gave one final frazzled burst, then froze up.

"d.a.m.n it!" Olin swore.

"Get it back up," Waxman said behind them.

Olin bent over his equipment and shook his head. "I don't know I can. I've troubleshot the motherboard and rebooted all the software:"

"What's wrong then?" Kelly asked.

"I can't say for sure. It's almost like a computer virus has corrupted the entire satellite communication array."

"Well, keep trying," Waxman said. "You've got another half hour before the satellite is out of range:"

Frank stood, facing everyone. "Even if we can't link up, from what we did hear, it sounds like the Brazilian helicopter may be on its way here. Maybe as soon as tomorrow morning:"

Beside him, Olin stared at the frozen screen. "Oh, G.o.d:"

All eyes turned to the Russian communications expert. He tapped the screen, pointing to a set of numbers in the upper right-hand corner. "Our GPS signal. . :" "What's the matter?" Waxman asked.

Olin glanced over to them. "It's wrong. Whatever glitched the satellite system must've corrupted the feed to the GPS satellites, too. It sent a wrong signal back to the States:" He stared back at the screen. "It places us about thirty miles south of our current position:"

Kelly felt the blood rush from her head. "They won't know where we are.

"I've got to get this up and running;" Olin said. "At least long enough to correct the signal:" He rebooted the computer and set to work.

For the next half hour, Olin worked furiously with his equipment. Oaths and curses, both in English and Russian, flowed from the man. As he labored, everyone found busy work to occupy the time. No one bothered to try resting. Kelly helped Anna prepare some rice, the last of their sup-plies. As they worked, they kept looking over to Olin, silently praying.

But for all the man's efforts and their prayers, nothing was gained.

After a time, Frank crossed and placed a hand on Olin's shoulder. He raised his other arm, exposing his wrist.w.a.tch. "It's too late. The communi-cation satellites are out of range:"

Olin sagged over his array, defeated.

"We'll try again in the morning," Frank said, his encouragement forced. "You should rest. Start fresh tomorrow."

Nate, Kouwe, and Manny returned from a fishing expedition by the swamp. Their catch was bountiful, strung on a line between them. They dropped their load beside the fire. "I'll clean;" Kouwe said, settling easily to the ground.

Manny sighed. "No argument here:"

Nate wiped his hands and stared at Olin and his computer. He crossed toward the man. "There was something I was wondering about while fish-ing. What about that other file?"

"What are you talking about?" Olin asked blearily.

"You mentioned something about a file being downloaded during the feed:"