“I’ll be fine. Maybe some good strong coffee.”
The door to the lounge opened and a doctor in blue scrubs leaned inside, eyes urgent, not taking the time to enter.
“Captain, we’re losing another one.”
CHAPTER 7
NAVAL AIR STATION
PENSACOLA, FLORIDA
Benjamin Platt insisted on seeing some of the worst cases. Yes, he was exhausted. Still a bit jet-lagged from the Afghanistan flight followed too soon by the one from D.C. to Florida, but he knew that if Captain Ganz took him to his hotel he wouldn’t sleep. He’d be thinking about all these plastic tents with wounded soldiers waiting to find out what they’d been exposed to.
After examining just five soldiers, he grew more confused. Their injuries were all different. Their surgeries were different as well, but all were to repair limbs that had been severed, crushed, or otherwise damaged. Some were now amputees waiting to heal and be fitted with prosthetics. Many of the injuries—though it was always disheartening to see a soldier lose an arm or leg—were not necessarily life-threatening.
“Could it be something here at the hospital?” Platt asked Captain Ganz as they escaped to a lounge where they could be free of their masks and goggles and gloves.
“We haven’t done anything differently. Nothing I can find that would suddenly be a problem.”
“You’re thinking it might be something they were exposed to in Afghanistan? That perhaps they brought back with them?”
“Is that possible? Could a strain lie dormant?”
“And what? Come alive when you cut into them?”
Ganz wouldn’t meet Platt’s eyes, and Platt knew that must be exactly what the captain was most afraid of.
“There’s nothing like that. Not that I’m aware of,” Platt told him.
“But it’s not entirely impossible?”
Platt didn’t have an answer. Two things his years at USAMRIID had taught him were to never say never and that anything was possible.
“How many cases do you have isolated here?”
Ganz didn’t have to stop to calculate. He knew off the top of his head. “Seventy-six.”
“And for how long?”
“We started isolating eight days ago. But some of these soldiers had their surgical procedures up to eighteen days ago.”
“All of them were operated on here?”
“Yes, though some had temporary procedures done at Bagram before being flown here.”
“Any similarities there?”
“None that we’ve been able to isolate. Those who remain at Bagram haven’t come down with the same symptoms. In fact, they haven’t lost anyone in the same manner. You’d think that’s where the problem should be.” Ganz attempted a laugh, but there was no humor, just frustration.
“You still have blood samples from the soldiers you lost. I’d like to take look at them.”
“Our lab has already examined them extensively—” But Ganz stopped and shook his head like a sleepwalker suddenly waking himself. He waved his hand as if to erase what he had said. “Of course. I’ll have someone set them up for you. What will you be looking for?”
Platt shrugged. “Sometimes when we’re focused on specifics, maybe particular pathogens like MRSA, we can miss other things that might not be so obvious.” He rubbed at his eyes, suddenly feeling the exhaustion again. Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, which surpassed HIV as the most deadly pathogen in the United States, was resistant to most antibiotics. It had become all too prevalent after surgical procedures, so it was one of the first things to look for when an infection resulted. “I’ll start by looking to see if there’s any cell degradation.”
“You could probably use some sleep first. A few hours could help. I did pull you down here before you had a chance to catch your breath.”
“I’ll be fine. Maybe some good strong coffee.”
The door to the lounge opened and a doctor in blue scrubs leaned inside, eyes urgent, not taking the time to enter.
“Captain, we’re losing another one.”
SUNDAY, AUGUST 23
SUNDAY, AUGUST 23
CHAPTER 8
SUNDAY MORNING
HARTSFIELD-JACKSON INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
Maggie’s 6:00 AM flight put her in Atlanta just before eight. Under two hours and it was still enough to rattle her composure. She hated flying—not the crowds, not the inconvenience, not even a fear of heights, but rather being trapped at thirty-eight thousand feet without any control. Even the upgrade to first class that Wurth managed to snag for her had done little to help.
He was waiting in baggage claim. For a small man he could deliver a body-crushing hug.
“Easy,” Maggie told him. “What will people think?”