Pandemic Page 69

Three people from a ship that was already known to be compromised. When Paulius went after them, he’d probably take all twenty SEALs under his command, bring the package back to an isolated ship with a crew of fifty. Just one infected person could mean the death or conversion of everyone onboard.

“May I ask as to the state of health for you three? I’ll come get you if you’re halfway down a crack leading straight to h.e.l.l, but I’d like to give my people the best possible chance of making it out of this alive.”

“Are you asking if you should be wearing CBRN gear?”

The acronym stood for chemical, biological, radiological and nuclear, and applied to the bulky biohazard suits military forces wore when any of those four threats were present.

“They do get in the way a bit,” Paulius said. “If possible, we’d rather go with our usual attire.”

Paulius heard the man breathe in deep through his nose, let it out slow. A thinking man, perhaps. If so, that was a good sign.

“All three of us are negative at the moment,” Otto said. “But be ready to adapt. Listen, Commander, I want something to sink in. If I call you, the people you’re bringing out and the material they are carrying could save the world. That’s not a figure of speech. It’s literal.”

“Admiral Porter told me we were saving the USA. Now it’s the world. Go figure. If we fail to extract the package, what’s the worst-case scenario?”

“Extinction,” Otto said. “The entire human race, gone. If any of your men signed up to be heroes, Klimas, this is their chance.”

Agent Otto sounded like an okay guy. Maybe he had a service background. He didn’t sound like a bulls.h.i.tter, but he was still a suit — bulls.h.i.tting and suits went hand in hand. His words, however, stirred Klimas’s soul; no one joined the SEALs to push pencils.

Saving the world? This was as big as it got.

HEADING FOR PORT

Cooper sat in the bridge of the Mary Ellen Moffett, guiding the ship toward Chicago at eight knots. The wind had picked up to forty miles an hour. Waves hammered the boat. It was two in the morning, the storm blocked out all stars, and snow swirled madly — his visibility was d.a.m.n near zero.

At a time like this, Lake Michigan was the wrong place to be.

The weather forecast said the storm would die down in a few hours. Once it did, he could make better time, probably hit Chicago sometime that afternoon.

Everyone else was asleep. As well they should be — the job was almost over, and the weather had made everything about as difficult as it could be.

Cooper yawned. He drank a little coffee; it was already cold, but he didn’t care. He just needed to stay alert for three more hours, then Jeff would take over and Cooper could get some sleep. If all went well, he’d wake up just in time to help dock the Mary Ellen. Then he and his best friend would be rid of Steve Stanton and Bo Pan. They wanted off in Chicago? Well, that was just fine.

After that sweet good-bye, Cooper and Jeff could hit the town. A couple of days in the Windy City would be just the thing. José could come, too, if he opted to go out for once instead of rushing back to his family, as usual.

Look out, Chicago … the boys are about to be back in town.

BATTLE STATIONS

“Hey, Margo,” Perry said. He smiled, that smile that would have made it rain endors.e.m.e.nt-deal millions had he fulfilled his destiny in the NFL.

“Hey,” Margaret said.

“I got Chelsea.” Perry’s smile faded. “The voices have finally stopped, but … I don’t think I’m doing so good. I’ve got those things inside of me.”

His face wrinkled into a frown, a steady wince of pain.

“It hurts,” he said. “Bad. I think they’re moving to my brain. Margaret, I don’t want to lose control again.”

I’m so sorry I failed you, Perry … I tried so hard …

“You won’t,” she said. “They won’t have time.”

The same dream, the same lines, and now, the same sound — the whistle of a bomb rushing downward to kill him.

A small shadow appeared on the ground between their feet, a quivering circle of black.

Perry stared at her. Then, he looked to the sky. “That doesn’t sound right, does it?”

The whistle; it had always been a consistent sound, growing steadily as the bomb fell, but this time it sounded intermittent … on, then off, on, then off.

Perry leaned in close. “General quarters, Margo — all hands man your battle stations.”

Margaret jerked awake. She was trapped, held down, something wrapped all over.

Coc.o.o.ned.

Margaret blinked, reeled from the stab of terror that flooded her chest. No, she wasn’t in one of the fleshy brown coc.o.o.ns … she was in her biohazard suit.

She was in the lab.

The sound of an alarm filled the air, audible even through her thick suit, a high-pitched whooop … whooop … whooop that told her things had gone bad.

She was sitting at a workstation next to the butchered body of Candice Walker. Margaret had fallen asleep, right on the keyboard. On the screen, an endless line of BBBBBBBBBBBBBB stretched from the top to the bottom.

She heard Tim’s voice in her helmet speakers.

“Margaret! Get up! We’re under attack!”

Under attack? That didn’t make any sense. Who would attack them on Lake Michigan?

A hand grabbed her arm, gripping hard against the blue synthetic material, jerked her around. Tim Feely, eyes wide and nostrils flaring behind his clear visor. He held a metal canister in each of his gloved hands.