Pandemic

Chapter 35

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“Look at that poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d,” Cantrell said. “Years of service, and he’ll die horribly.” The diver tilted his head to the right, toward Edmund, who lay in his bed and would never wake again.

“Or him,” Cantrell said. “Good to know that the f.u.c.king navy can heap disgrace upon misery and use our bodies like we’re laboratory mice. I mean, doesn’t all this just make you want to sign up?”

“Already did,” Clarence said.

Cantrell raised his eyebrows, nodded. “Oh, that’s right, your little spat with Doc Feely. You enlisted. You’re one of us, right? Let me guess … Marines?”

“Rangers,” Clarence said. “Then Special Forces. Got shot at plenty, but no one strapped me to a table. I need to talk to you.”

Cantrell shrugged. “It’s not like my calendar is all that full at the moment.”

The man seemed different than he had just a little while earlier. He was calmer. Relaxed. He hadn’t exactly been freaking out earlier, nothing like that, but he’d seemed tense, jittery.

Clarence tilted his head toward Clark. “Sorry about your friend.”

“A real shame,” Cantrell said. “Seems inevitable, though. The pathogen obviously had some kind of reservoir that allowed it to maintain viability all these years. The Los Angeles likely found that reservoir. Clarkie drew the short straw.”

Clarence raised his eyebrows. “You seem to have a good grasp of what’s going on. At least I think you do, because I’m not entirely sure I understand what you just said.”

Cantrell shrugged. “I know me some biology. I was premed at Duke.”

“Jesus. Not the typical life story of a serviceman. How the h.e.l.l did you wind up in the navy?”

“Fighting, I’m afraid,” Cantrell said. “I was an angry young black man raging against the inequities of life, even though I’d grown up in the suburbs and had a full ride.”

“You had a full ride to Duke? You must have been one h.e.l.l of a baller. Point guard?”

Cantrell laughed. “If you were white, I’d call you racist. It was an academic full ride.”

“Oh.” Clarence actually did feel a little racist, which was a strange sensation. “What did you do to get the academic full ride?”

“Perfect score on the SAT.”

Clarence hadn’t even known that was possible. He’d taken the SAT once upon a time. His score was less than perfect, to say the least.

“You had college for free, but couldn’t keep your nose clean. Book smart, but no common sense?”

Cantrell nodded. “No concept of perspective, actually. But close enough.”

“So you enlisted?”

“I did,” Cantrell said. “I was out of options. Thought I’d do the GI Bill and save up enough to actually pay for college on my own, but I wound up in diving school and fell in love with it. I’m sure you’re surprised to hear this, Agent Otto, but in the navy there is no such thing as a dummy diver. You have to be smart just to get in, and smarter to stay alive. In our job, one mistake can get you killed.” He tilted his head toward Clark’s cell. “Or get you infected, apparently.”

Clarence knew that Cantrell might also be infected, might be just one of Tim’s little p.r.i.c.ks away from getting a death sentence of his own.

“I read your report,” Clarence said. “I didn’t see any opportunity for Clark to get infected, but it would help if you walked me through what happened when you guys picked up the bodies.”

Cantrell thought for a moment, scratched absently at his throat.

“Okay, sure,” he said. “When the s.h.i.t hit the fan, Clarkie and I were ordered to suit up and search for bodies from the Los Angeles. We knew that meant a chance of handling infection victims. Our suits are aquatic BSL-4 arrays — positive pressure, completely internalized air, solid seals, similar to what you’re wearing now, only more streamlined for movement. A modified Seahawk flew us out to the target areas.”

“Modified? How?”

“Special lift cage,” Cantrell said. “Same thing we used to retrieve material of interest from the Los Angeles. ROVs from the LA bring up these sealed, decontaminated containers, we collect the containers, get in the lift cage, the Seahawk drops the lift cage near the Brashear’s port side.”

Cantrell pointed behind him, through his clear cell, across the prep area with its stainless steel instruments, to the wide, horizontal airlock door.

“The Brashear’s cargo crane picks up the cage and puts it right there,” he said. “In we go, divers, cage, ROV, even the cable the crane uses to connect to the cage. Anything that could possibly touch the sample container, or touch something that touches the container, gets fully deconned. The airlock seals up, completely fills with bleach, destroying any biocontaminants. When the bleach drains, the inner airlock door opens and we take the container to the prep area. Then we go back into the airlock, get another dose of bleach, then the crane brings us up on deck.”

The decon procedures seemed thorough. And yet, something had still gone wrong.

“So on the night of the attack, the Seahawk takes you and Clark out,” Clarence said. “What was different?”

“You mean other than the screaming, the blood and the fires?”

Clarence paused, nodded. “Other than that.”

“The ’Hawk’s pilot spotted a flasher on Walker’s SEIE suit,” Cantrell said. “Into the drink we went. She was alive when we found her, mumbling about the people she’d killed and how she’d sabotaged the LA.”

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