The Darkness Drops

The Darkness Drops

Peter Clement

Prodrome: 1989

Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

W.B. Yeats, The Second Coming

There is no truth, only stories.

--Anonymous

Prodrome

Friday, September 29, 1989, 3:10 A.M.

Pathology Department, City Hospital Number 1, Sverdlovsk, East of the Ural Mountains, USSR

Dr. Anna Katasova pressed into the shadows, squeezing her back against a rough stone wall. Its slimy cold penetrated the layers of her surgical clothing, raising yet more goose bumps, and she tried not to shiver. But the icy damp of the subterranean passage won out, and she had to clench her teeth to keep them from chattering.

Fitting entrance to a morgue.

She listened for footsteps.

None.

But her breath leaked out the top of her OR mask and, turning luminous in the icy air, it reached shimmering fingers through the dim streaks of light. Anyone who looked down here would at the very least spot her traces.

Yet Yuri had insisted she not approach the autopsy room at the corridor’s end. "Anechka," he said over the phone, using his pet name for her, the Ural dialect of his Russian elongating the a sound. Just come half-way down the hallway, keep watch, and stop the crypt keeper from interrupting me. His words rasped through the receiver in a raw whisper. She could tell that his vocal cords had tensed to the snapping point.

What in God’s name--

Trust me, Anna.

Yuri--

He’d hung up.

No sound came from the direction of the elevators that led back upstairs to lights and people. Overhead the old pipes moaned, and scurrying noises inside the air ducts gave her the creeps. But nothing human seemed near. And least none living. A row of sheeted stretchers stood end to end along the opposite wall. Twelve she could count; the rest extended into the gloom like linked segments of a white worm. Each held a corpse.

The shrouded forms were more sinister and suggestive of death than if she could see them lying naked and exposed. The pathologists had been lining them up like that for the last five days. Despite the cold, a cloying whiff of rot penetrated her mask, descended through the back of her nostrils, and played at the base of her tongue until she nearly gagged.

Careful now, Doctor, she muttered to herself, having already learned that even for a physician, medical cool around a cadaver depended on having something to do--pronouncing it dead, checking it for evidence of foul play, examining it for physical signs that might better yield a diagnosis--anything to keep busy. But with no procedures or duties to hide behind, all her training did squat to protect her imagination from getting the yips. The pale material that outlined the cavity of an open mouth began to rise and fall. A bony imprint of a hand appeared to move beneath its cover.

She tried to distract herself by pressing her gloved palms against the stones behind her. The entire city, since its founding as Ekaterinburg by Czar Peter the Great in 1723, had been hewn from rock by hand, giving rise to generations of master stone cutters. Except in July 1918, those hands picked up rifles instead of tools and, to show there’d be no going back on the revolution, massacred Czar Nikolai II along with the rest of his family, with or without Anastasia. And on May 1, 1960, at the local military base, the hand of a descendant from those stone cutters launched the missile that brought down Francis Gary Powers, setting off a show trial to tweak the nose of America. By then strategic defense industries had dominated the region’s work force, and to this day the city remained closed to the outside world, including those who would visit its airspace at an altitude of 50,000 feet. But over the last year rumors hinted that soon the restrictions would be relaxed and the city renamed Ekaterinburg, thanks to the spirit of Peristroika. Unfortunately, one of the most vociferous politicians nipping at Gorbachev’s heels was a local drunk named Boris Yeltsin who’d never amounted to much. He might offend enough apparatchniks in Moscow that, just for spite, they’d keep his hometown in a political deep-freeze forever--

A familiar shrill whine from inside the morgue interrupted her rambling train of thought. The sound dropped in pitch, a characteristic deepening that occurred whenever the steel teeth of a bone saw bit into their target. Then it returned to the higher note, having completed the cut.

Was Yuri doing an autopsy?

Oh, no, she groaned, more worried than ever.

If caught, they’d both end up in prison, or worse.

Of course someone had to have the guts to verify what they were dealing with, but why him?

When the first case came in the door, she’d known the man would die. His ashen face had drained to the color of dusk; his chest wall heaved like a bellows; his eyes flicked right and left, as if a pocket of the air he so desperately needed might be hidden somewhere in the room. She did all the right moves--tubed his trachea, bagged oxygen into his lungs, bolused bronchodilators and steroids into his bloodstream, then topped him off with antibiotics. But his hands restlessly plucked at the covers like a man trying to pick up loose change, a sure sign of severe oxygen depletion. On X-ray the center of his chest bulged with lymph nodes, something normally seen only in cancer patients. But two days earlier, according to a very anxious young wife, he’d been a healthy thirty-five-year-old chopping wood and milking the cows on their farm northeast of the city.

Dr. Anna Katasova had then tried to ventilate him by hand. With each squeeze of the bag, blood-tinged foam poured out the release valve. She nevertheless put him on a respirator, but an hour later, his heart stopped, and no amount of pumping, electrical shocks, or drugs could bring him back.

They’d received twelve more just like him that day. The same the day after, and the day after that.

Within the first twenty-four hours, infectious disease specialists had arrived from Moscow. Flu, they said after cursorily examining the latest batch of victims who were still breathing.

Oh, sure.

Better take precautions. Wear masks, gowns, and gloves, they’d added.

We already are, you idiots, she’d wanted to yell at them, but kept her mouth shut. Suits, white collars, and ties didn’t disguise their military bearing.

Neither had she nor the other medical students ventured an alternative diagnosis, at least not out loud. Even their teachers remained silent. But people muttered together in small groups, particularly the pathologists. Some old-timers suggested that this had happened once before.

And throughout the hospital, especially in the cafeteria after hits of strong, black tea flooded tongues with courage, whenever anyone nodded knowingly, hinting that they knew what these people really had, everybody glanced toward the northeast, the direction in which a large agricultural experimental farm was situated on the outskirts of town. Officially an arm of the People’s Agrarian Co-operative, it had been nicknamed OepMa Tena, or The Body Farm, and been the butt of sly asides since its inception decades ago. How come the place has more army trucks than tractors? the good citizens of Sverdlovsk would say to one another, exchanging wicked grins.

The clatter of an elevator door opening and closing snapped her to attention.

Footsteps approached.

The whine of the saw continued at her back.

She watched the lighted arch, expecting to see a figure enter the passageway at any moment.

Within seconds an orderly appeared, hunched over a stretcher bearing yet another shrouded corpse.

The crypt keeper, they called him, because of his creepy manner.

With a final push he glided his load into the lineup, then peered through the darkness toward the autopsy room.

Would he mind his own business, or investigate who’d be cutting up bodies at this hour?

He started down the corridor toward the door.

Time to act.

Anna stepped out from the shadows. One moment, please!

The man let out a yelp and jumped backward.

What is your name? Anna pressed to keep him on the defensive.

Pe . . . Pe . . . Pe . . . Petrov--

Do you have reason to interrupt the pathologists? she demanded, striding up to stand toe-to-toe with him. His face was in shadow, and, as did everyone these days, he wore a surgical mask, but enough of his features were visible for her to see the angular scar he bore that extended down his forehead and through his right eyebrow. The mark curved into an arch as he looked up at her.

Like most Russian men, he didn’t match her height. At 1.75 meters, or five foot ten as Yuri’s American friends in Moscow measured her, she liked the advantage. Yet the tall stature had ended her first dream, a promising career in ballet. She towered over most of the male dancers. Their loss, medicine’s gain, she’d said a million times when people asked if the forced switch had left her with any regrets. If they pushed her for a more complete reply, she’d wave them off with a breezy denial. But to herself she admitted, Yes, I miss the limelight, the fantasy, the wonder of creating something perfect. The selfishness of it is intoxicating. But when I save a life in ER, it’s the same rush of exhilaration as opening night. The only difference is, in a white coat it’s not proper to admit feeling the diva.

She glowered down at her subject. Well? Do you have reason to be here or not?

Why no--wait a minute. You’re only one of the medical students. His thick rural accent suggested an older Russian dialect spoken far to the north. It made the pronunciation of only sound like clearing phlegm from the back of his throat. Katasova, isn’t it? What are you doing here?

She instinctively resorted to a move learned in preparation for the role of Sleeping Beauty that had since helped her win many a confrontation. Ever so slightly arching her back, she raised her shoulders, drew in a breath, and went up on her toes. It made her statuesque, presenting a formidable adversary to man or woman. But in the case of males, and some females, the delicate thrusting forward of her breasts that accompanied the maneuver could be distracting enough for her to completely seize the upper hand. Yes, I am Dr. Katasova, and you better get out of here. Those men in suits who you’ve seen around the hospital are putting in extra hours to diagnose what killed all these. She waved her hand at the string of grizzly cargo the way an American game-show hostess she’d seen parodied on Russian TV showed off the prizes. And don’t you breathe a word of the work they’re doing. They insist that no one know about the extra effort, lest everybody on staff thinks there’s something serious going on and panics.

He stood nose to her chin, transfixed by her chest, then shifted his gaze to strip the rest of her with his eyes. Looking over her shoulder toward the autopsy suite, he nodded knowingly as the noise of the saw made a series of quick dips, similar to someone revving up what their Western friends in Moscow called a weed-whacker. Ribs, he said.

What?

Ribs. That’s the sound it makes when the blade’s going through ribs. He cocked his head and waited for her response, obviously testing if he could find a squeamish chink in her tough-girl act.

Big mistake. He probably pulled that trick on sweet young things in bars. Well, two could play and she intended to get rid of him fast. Hearing a corpse get chopped is one thing; seeing it, now that separates the girls from the women. She reached over and whipped the cover off the nearest body. Its silver-gray flesh glistened in the half-light, and gaunt eyes glittered back at them from the depths of a face so tight with rictus it appeared ready to split open on the skull beneath. I think this one’s next. Why don’t I tell them in there that you’re willing to clean up the parts once they’ve finished. It’ll speed things along--

His scar shot upward. No, no, Doctor, I’ve got my own work to do. He started to back away, arms extended, hands held palms toward her, the way people do when somebody’s about to shoot them.

Are you sure? I could check with a supervisor and get you relieved for special duty--

Shut up! I’m too busy, and they’re shorthanded upstairs as it is. He turned and quickly headed toward the elevators, practically at a run.

Then not a word of this to anyone, Petrov, she yelled after him. Otherwise our visitors will still insist you work with them. She watched him disappear from sight, listening to his retreating footsteps. The rattle of the elevator doors closing and the hum of the cage starting upward confirmed his departure.

Damn you, Yuri Raskin, she muttered, pivoting on her heel and heading toward the autopsy door. You and your harebrained scheme. Let others play the hero. Only on nearing the entrance did she realize that all had fallen quiet inside.

She grabbed the handle and yanked it open. Yuri, we nearly got caught. Now let’s get out of here--

She stopped.

On the table immediately in front of her lay a cadaver with its chest cut open, the blunt ends of the severed ribs pointing upward like amputated claws. The cavity they enclosed was completely empty. On a nearby counter, the freshly removed heart, its arteries and veins drooping out from the different chambers like cut hoses, glistened under the fluorescent ceiling lights. But what held her aghast was the sight of her husband, Dr. Yuri Raskin, holding the dead man’s lungs, both lobes still attached to one another, each dripping with the same pink-stained foam she’d seen bubble out the tube of the first patient she treated. The tissue bridging the middle of the specimen was knobby with whitish nodes that resembled a clump of mushrooms.

Oh my God, what is it? she gasped.

Tall, slender, slight even to the point of boyish, Yuri looked up. Above his tightly applied mask, the corners of his eyes crinkled and his jet black brows reared back from one another like caterpillars about to fight. Unless I miss my guess, anthrax, he said, sliding his prize into a large plastic bag and sealing the ziplock top. At his feet lay a Styrofoam picnic hamper filled with frozen packs, the kind used to transport organs.

An icy pressure squeezed her chest. You're taking the lungs? she said, horrified.

He gently placed the packet in the container and attached the lid. Don’t worry. It’s all arranged. I made a bunch of calls--

Yuri, don’t! This will get us shot.

He glanced back up at her with those dark brown eyes that never lost their seductive sparkle. No, Anna. This will get us to America.

2009

You have been much by the dark river--so near to us all--and have seen so many embark, that dread of the old boatman has almost disappeared.

--Sir William Osler, Aequanimitas

The best sentinels to discover a new disease are doctors who have a beer together after work and talk shop.

--Source Unknown

Chapter 1

Wednesday, January 21, 2009, 6:05 P.M. IPT

USS Ronald Reagan, Nimitz Class Carrier CVN 76

Ten corpses lay in the meat locker below deck.

Two men behind him carried an eleventh.

Unlocking the makeshift morgue, he walked in on what looked like an orgy, the dead who were already there having slid into each other’s embrace from the roll of the giant vessel. No one had thought to tie them down. Their poses were all the more suggestive under the partial cover of disheveled shrouds.

Back-to-back, belly-to-belly, it’s the zombie jamboree, an ensign who lugged the head end muttered.

Shut up, his partner whispered, and they deposited the newest resident on the floor. You want us to straighten this tangle up, Sir?

What Dr. Paul Wilson wanted was to get out of there. He shook his head, and waved the two men back into the corridor.

Seconds later he was rushing to where he could find fresh air.

On-board gamblers had given three-to-one odds that the body count would reach twelve before dawn. No takers bet against them, and everyone watched each other while going about their duties, probably wondering who would kill who this time. Some grim-faced wags joked that the next murderer might even turn out to be themselves. Nobody laughed.

He stumbled up the last stairwell and stepped outside. Ninety thousand tons of hull shuddered, then rose beneath his feet, forcing him to grip the rail of the smoker’s promenade, a long balcony tucked under the port side of the flight deck. The lurch itself couldn’t throw him overboard. He’d have to help it along with a jump to achieve that. What nearly toppled him had been the nauseating swirl in his head, not suicidal intent. At least not yet.

A shadow scurried deeper into the darkness behind him, one of the phantoms that had recently taken up residence along the edges of his vision. A vanishing leg, the flash of an arm, a darting rat--they skirted his days only to become bolder at night.

Lack of sleep, he told himself. To be expected at the end of a six-month stretch in the world’s last remaining but most enduring war zone. Nothing that wouldn’t clear up once he got off this floating nuthouse.

He focused on the gray walls of water three stories high that surged out from the fog. They split themselves in two at the bow, then sizzled along the hull, their briny spittle licking at the steel in long curling tongues. He understood how primitive mariners on ancient vessels could peer over the side, down into the twisting, hissing foam, and create phantoms of their own, usually in the form of sea serpents.

A wind squall plucked at his uniform, and he shivered, finding the early evening gloom unusually chilly for the tropics. Beyond the colorless sphere where visibility ended, sea bled into murky dusk, and the rest of the ship loomed into shadow. The emptiness out there sucked at him, as if threatening to pull him into its void, portending obliteration. He tightened his hold on the rail, and, for the first time in his life understood the terrors of those who suffered from agoraphobia, the fear of open spaces. Yet he stayed put. Better the bracing wetness of spray, rain, and mist in his face than to go inside. There the walls of this steel warren would close in and squeeze him until he couldn’t breathe. But why? Navy veteran, ship’s surgeon, chief medical officer to five thousand crew since the vessel’s maiden shakedown cruise in 2003--he’d never been bothered by open sea or cramped quarters before.

The prisoner has been brought to sick bay, ready for you to examine him, Sir, a female voice said from behind his back.

He’d released his grip on the railing and started to turn toward her when his entire left arm began to tremble. The blur of white fingers as he failed to bring them under control disgusted him. I’ll be along in a minute, he said, and grabbed the rail again, hoping the woman wouldn’t notice. Outwardly the shaking stopped, but he could still feel the muscles jumping beneath his skin, like frog legs connected to a battery.

* * * *

I don’t know why I did it, Sir, the nineteen-year-old said. His ID badge read Billy Johnston, and his boyish features were stretched white with earnest bewilderment. Until today, his record as an ensign had been spotless. Sitting on the examining table, stripped to his boxer shorts, wrists cuffed, ankles shackled, he looked puny, and had remained completely docile from the moment they’d subdued him. He’d also been desperately polite, as if a show of good manners might undo the carnage of his sixty-second rampage.

A few hours ago down in the engine room he’d grabbed a lug wrench and cracked open the skull of a second lieutenant who’d ordered him to wipe up an oil spill. Before the MPs could pull him off, his victim’s head resembled a hollowed out melon, the kind with a decorative zig-zag cut around its edge and used to hold fruit salad at fancy buffets, except this offering contained shards of bone protruding from a white and gray puree of brain matter.

The ten others in the morgue had been killed under similar circumstances, each a victim of inexplicable, out-of-proportion rage. And ten other murderers were in shackles below decks, each as stunned by what they’d done as the one who sat before him now.

It had all occurred during the last seven days.

Hold out your hands, Billy, Paul ordered.

The young man complied.

It wasn’t obvious, but to a trained eye, the fingers had a tiny vibration.

* * * *

Paul once more clasped the promenade rail with both hands and breathed in the night air. He kept turning over in his mind what he’d done, and what he should have done.

A dark shape flitted along the back of the promenade.

He swung around and saw nothing.

He glanced right and left.

Nobody near enough to worry about

He turned back to face the sea.

Despite armed MPs stationed about the ship, he watched his back, especially out here and, above all, among those wearing the signature, wool-lined, leather jackets of flyboys. They had it in for him because he’d decked them. Not that the other ranks were any more sociable. Everyone remained snarly, suspicious, and hostile. Even those who lined the railing with him kept to themselves, shoulders hunched up as much against company as the damp. Little wonder. People had disappeared from this very spot. Maybe they leapt to escape private demons, but rumors circulated that some had been thrown.

He glanced over his shoulder again.

This time not even a shadow stirred.

Of course there were those on board who’d try and harm him in other ways than with a lug wrench. They’d say that he’d been incompetent, had covered up his own problems while denying the need to get help himself. Well, just let them try. He’d taken precautions on that front. Logged everything. Made detailed entries in the clinical charts of anyone who’d shown symptoms.

He looked at his watch.

The whole mess would soon be PACOM’s problem anyway. It was their medical officers at Pearl who’d agreed that the Reagan could push on to port where they’d sort everything out.

Commander Wilson, Sir!

He pivoted about, hands raised defensively in front of his face as if to ward off a blow.

A young woman wearing the insignia of second lieutenant stood at attention a safe distance away.

He immediately lowered his guard. Yes?

The captain requests your presence on the bridge, right away, Sir. There’s been another incident.

Incident?

Argument, Sir.

An icy burn ignited in the core of his slightly protruding gut. The growing number of shouting matches on the bridge had been the one set of events that he hadn’t put on report. He should have, but the captain had pressured him to cover them up. No surprise there. The bridge was a captain’s most immediate turf. He’d be held responsible for a failure to rein in undisciplined squabbling amongst his officers anywhere on the USS Reagan, but especially on the bridge. Anybody hurt? Paul said, preparing to hear the worst.

First Lieutenant Peterson has a bloody nose, sir.

He let out a long breath. Thank God no one was dead. Still, this could be trouble with the brass if they investigated and found out the full extent of what he’d kept under wraps. Well then, that’s not very serious, is it? he said, affecting a breezy manner. When dealing with a screw-up that could be a career breaker, minimize, minimize, minimize.

Well, actually, Sir, it is pretty serious. The reason First Lieutenant Peterson got popped on the nose is that he misread the global positioning satellite readings, then crashed the tracking system trying to override it with bad data. Some of the officers took exception, Sir. They wanted him busted for incompetence. That’s why the captain sent for you--to declare Peterson medically unfit.

Not fix his nose? Paul said, allowing himself a slight smile. It seemed he could handle this one easily enough.

That too, Sir.

They started toward the nearest stairwell. So there’s no problem to navigate home? he asked, just to make sure that all was once again well on the bridge.

The woman flushed, but said nothing and quickened her stride, pulling slightly ahead of him.

Lieutenant? he said, expecting an answer. From a few steps behind he saw the sides of her cheeks glow crimson.

She entered a corridor leading under the carrier’s tower. He picked up his pace and followed at her heels, trying to steady the familiar flutter of his heart as the walls pressed in on him. Answer me, Lieutenant.

She swallowed. Permission to speak off the record, Sir?

Go ahead.

She looked behind her to make sure no one else had followed them into the passageway. It was empty. Sir, when the captain threatened to relieve First Lieutenant Peterson, the lieutenant accused the captain of being equally unfit for duty. He claimed the man gives an order for a course correction, then repeats it a minute later, as if he’s forgotten the first one. It apparently happened several times tonight.

Oh, Jesus, Paul thought, not again. But we’re on course now, aren’t we? He wanted to slam the lid on this fast.

She looked at him in surprise. I suppose so. Lieutenant Peterson said something about we’d have been up shit creek if the other officers on watch hadn’t pointed out both his and the captain’s errors, so I guess that meant they corrected all the mistakes.

Well, then, no harm, no foul, right?

Pardon?

Everything’s worked out fine. I wouldn’t make a big deal of it. As for poor First Lieutenant Peterson, he’s obviously suffered the same breakdown that’s taken everyone else. We can’t put much stake in what he says.

She looked puzzled, but nodded.

As he followed her up several flights of stairs, instead of worrying about the woman keeping her mouth shut, he found himself admiring how slinkily her ass moved under her uniform. Christ, he was old enough to be her father. That was another change. He kept getting horny.

When she wasn’t looking, he opened a small vial of the Ativans he’d come to rely upon and slipped two of them under his tongue. It was only the third time today, he reassured himself, but then wasn’t so certain of the count.

Shadowy movements off in the darker corners of the stairwell continued to plague him, and on one landing, he glimpsed the bristly leg of a giant spider before it scuttled out of sight.

Chapter 2

That same evening, Wednesday, January 21, 2009, 7:31 P.M. IPT

Kapiolani Courts, Honolulu, Hawaii

Carla Ho leaned into her backhand and returned Terry Ryder’s serve with a sizzling stroke. The ball cleared the net by a breath and brought him scrambling forward. He lobbed it toward her with a clumsy underhand, and as it looped upward, she lost sight of it in the blaze of sodium lights, then spotted it again, a yellow planet floating down from a star-studded night.

Got you, Ryder, she called out, raising her racket. The tips of her black hair brushed across the tops of her hips as she readied to blast a shot by his ear. She arched her body into the swing, and her entire forearm started to tremble.

Outwardly nothing showed, a least not enough to be noticed, but the quiver of it vibrated through her as the biceps, triceps, and extensors locked in spasm. She stared at the limb as if it belonged to someone else.

It felt like nothing she’d ever experienced before.

A belated swipe at the ball winged it with the rim, sending a weak bouncer to the sidelines. The impact, albeit feeble, caused her to lose her grip on the rubber handle, and it slipped from her fingers.

Choke! Terry teased, unaware of her difficulty. His tanned face crinkled easily as he smiled, and his eyes, sea-blue, did a playful roll toward the heavens in mock disbelief.

She said nothing, opened and closed her hand a few times, then took a couple of practice swings.

Normal.

Must have just pulled the muscles, she thought, and resumed playing.

Everything seemed fine.

But she reined in her effort, not wanting to provoke a repeat attack. Minor or not, it had made her apprehensive.

You went easy on me tonight, Terry said after the game as they walked back to her apartment. He slid his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into him. It took twice as long as usual to beat me.

The hug reassured her more than he knew. Maybe you’re getting better, mister almost forty, she razzed, determined to blow off what had happened, but it still bothered her.

He grinned and gave her neck a nuzzle.

Carla slipped her own arm around his waist, and took comfort from the muscular feel of his six-foot frame. Its sinewy movement alongside hers provided a reassuring reminder that they were a perfect fit.

She needed such reinforcements from time to time, as theirs was not an obvious match. Twelve years her senior, his lean face bore the worry lines that went with a lifetime of traipsing into hot zones to confront the creepiest microbes on earth, and his hair, though still primarily black, had acquired sufficient streaks of premature gray to highlight the difference in their ages. At twenty-seven and lithe enough to be mistaken for a teenager, she reveled in the raised eyebrows they invited when she smooched him in public. I like them weathered, she’d sometimes quip, just to watch an onlooker’s reaction. But such bravado couldn’t hide her deeper concern that Terry might find her too young and want the company of a more experienced woman. Funny how tables turned. Five years ago, when they’d first become lovers, she twenty-two and he thirty-four, it fell on her to overcome his concerns about their twelve-year gap. Men my age are still boys, Ryder, she would tell him. One way or another, they try to anchor me down, so I won’t show up how green they are. You let me fly and seem to enjoy the ride.

Then there were their discrepancies in disposition. The brain and the surfer slut, she’d sometimes tease, worried that he would tire of her intellectually.

Hey, I’m the all-too-dark idiot, remember? And you’re a sunburst who keeps me sane, he’d counter, laughing, until she began to believe him. Yet her insecurities lingered. The man still had no-go zones that a laser couldn’t probe.

But I’ll open them up, sooner or later, she once more promised herself.

They neared the entrance to her building, and she nuzzled her head against his chest, catching a whiff of his sweaty skin. You need a shower, she said, pulling away from him.

I thought you’d never ask.

As he entered her under the steaming jets of hot water, she felt an odd tingle in her right arm again. Seconds later it disappeared, allowing her to cling to him while they found one another’s rhythm.

Afterward, he slept soundly, which meant he’d no intention of driving back to his own home that night. She loved it when he chose to stay over and they could cuddle in their sleep. But her hand had gone numb again, and the sensation of pins and needles kept her awake.

As a nurse, she normally wouldn’t have thought twice about such fleeting symptoms. But in the last seven days there’d been dozens of people who came to ER because they had experienced odd episodes of weakness and tremors. The mildness of the symptoms provoked the residents to joke about how underwhelmed they were by them, and they christened the syndrome The Paradise Shakes. Always open to the fastest way of writing down a disease in a chart, the nurses, herself included, shortened it to TPS. The physicians, Terry among them, had been less quick to make light of the whole phenomenon.

Well, she certainly wouldn’t bother him about her own episode. If anything obsessed the hell out of Dr. Terry Ryder, it was mystery illnesses, even minor ones, until he figured them out. He’d only start in on this one again, having already spent hours poring through charts and puzzling aloud over what was going on. Besides, there was nothing he could do about it. Nobody had come up with any treatments.

Outside the window of her bedroom, a grove of slender palm trees stirred restlessly in the trade winds, the sudden rustle of their fronds causing Terry to jerk his arms straight out in his sleep, as if to ward off some approaching intruder. It happened less and less these last few years, but still, she sensed the competition for him between her and his inner demons.

She placed her hand on his head and stroked it until his body relaxed, then curved into hers. She felt his breathing match her own, and it seemed even their heartbeats pulsed in cadence.

No, don’t start him in on little muscle tremors again, especially after she’d done such a fine job of taking his mind completely off work for the night. And she intended to keep him similarly distracted a while longer, once the birds woke them at dawn, a time he particularly liked to make love.

She drifted off, oblivious to the sound of distant thunder, but her sleep was far from peaceful. Dreams turned the sibilant whisperings of the leaves on the breeze into the hissings of a thousand snakes.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009, 9:02 P.M. IPT

USS Ronald Reagan, Nimitz Class Carrier, CVN 76

Paul Wilson’s moment of clarity had become more terrible than the black and orange spiders that scuttled into the shadows or the squeeze of metal walls that pressed in on him. He paused, gripped the edge of a bulkhead door, and tightened his hold, pressing the riveted surface into the palms of his hands. The pain helped him focus, and he resisted the urge to slip another Ativan under his tongue. How many had he taken today?

At least they were nearly home. Then he could put the whole goddamned ship on medical report--reputations, careers, and pending promotions be damned. Maybe it was time to consider a career change himself, to private practice. He wouldn’t have much of a future around here. Whistle-blowers never did.

First he’d have to get out of the inevitable quarantine that awaited them all. He saw himself as a patient, dressed in a skimpy gown with his ass hanging out the back and started to laugh, then noticed a puddle of liquid had formed at his feet.

He’d pissed himself.

He bolted, the way a criminal might flee the scene of a crime.

Time to confront the captain. After tending to First Lieutenant Peterson, there’d been no choice.

Doc, I’m not the only guy who’s screwing up, the young officer had screamed, bug-eyed with fear as the MPs dragged him off the bridge. You’ve got to believe me. Everybody up here’s losing it. Especially Captain Washington. Lock ’em all up before they sink us.

His fellow lieutenants had scoffed at the accusations.

But six days earlier Captain Thomas Washington had committed a similar navigation error. Who told you? he demanded when Paul confronted him about that initial misstep.

Paul had refused to give names. The real question here, he said instead, "is can you keep control of the Reagan? You know I’m duty bound to notify PACOM if you’re not medically fit."

With bags under his eyes as big as prunes, Washington had studied him a few more seconds, sighed, and nodded. Okay, I repeated an order. It happened only once. Just lack of sleep, is all. My staff picked up on it immediately. Besides, the computers would have howled bloody murder if they hadn’t. We’ve so much fail-safe built into these babies, it’s practically impossible to run them up on the rocks. And you’ve got to admit, a single slip of memory is a far cry from erupting into a homicidal maniac, like some of these other crackers on board. That’s what you’re really worried about, right? Handsome, ebony-skinned, and the first African American slated to be Admiral of the Pacific Fleet, he pleaded that Paul let this one go.

A chill rippled through Paul, snapping his thoughts back to the present. How many other people were covering up to protect their behinds? Or worse, had made mistakes that no one caught. Hadn’t even been aware of their screw-ups themselves.

Five minutes later, after a quick shower and change of uniform, he was knocking at the captain’s door. Sir, it’s Commander Wilson. Open up, you mother fucker! he nearly added. He never should have covered up for the son of a bitch in the first place.

No answer.

Captain Washington, as Chief Medical Officer, I order you to open this door now!

Still no answer.

He tried the handle.

Unlocked.

He pushed.

The door swung inward.

A shaft of light from the corridor cut through the dark sitting room. His gaze swept a tan leather couch and matching easy chair squared on a navy blue carpet. The material was barely a cut above Astroturf, but nevertheless a luxury in a world with only cold metal underfoot. To the right loomed the shadowy shape of a modest, built-in bookshelf that had been especially constructed for the captain’s personal library, a collection that included first editions of Herman Melville and Edna St.Vincent Millay, treasures he never tired of showing off to his officers. On the left, another doorway led to his sleeping quarters. There the yellow glow of a small table lamp revealed a queen-size bed, its maroon covers turned down for the night, the underlying sheets looking taut enough to bounce a quarter off them. From where he stood, Paul could also see the entrance to Captain Washington’s bathroom, the only personal one on board. In all, a low-ceilinged, windowless version of any suite at a Day’s Inn motel, but on a crowded vessel like the USS Reagan, it was a palace of privacy.

Paul took in these familiar surroundings over the space of drawing a breath and walked over to the bedroom. In a far corner the man himself sat behind a metal desk, his ebony face cast in the bluish glow of a computer screen. The thick features bulged in anger.

You actually sent this? he said without looking up, his voice vibrating with low-pitched fury.

Captain, you know damn well Pearl had to know--

You traitor! You fucking traitor! He slowly got to his feet. You told them everything without speaking to me. A big man in any setting, the low ceiling made him appear all the more massive, as if he were expanding in size. You fucked me--

There’s no disgrace here, Captain. I put myself on report as well. Whatever’s going on, we’re casualties, same as if we took a bullet--

It’s a mental thing, you idiot. You know damn well once it’s a mental thing, the causes don’t matter shit. He started around the desk. I’m fucked, because after a mental thing, nobody trusts you!

Captain, I specifically said you were still capable of bringing the ship safely to port. That’s why I cc’d you with my e-mail. You never lost command--

You fucked me, you back-stabbing Judas! He kept coming.

Paul backed toward the door.

The captain lunged.

Paul turned and tried to run, but felt his head snap back as one of those powerful arms coiled around his neck. Before he could yell for help, Captain Thomas Washington’s massive hand clamped down on the top of his head and wrenched it ninety degrees to the left as if unscrewing the top of a pickle jar.

Commander Paul Wilson, MD, heard the crunch as his cervical vertebrae snapped apart, and stayed conscious long enough to see the darkness behind his eyes explode to white.

Thursday, January 22, 2009, 1:05 A.M. IPT

Pearl Harbor Tower, Oahu.

Second Lieutenant Brillo Jefferson peered down at the fluorescent grid on his work consul. He ran a hand over the short bristles of his wiry black hair that had been the source of his nickname. "What the hell gives with the Reagan?"

The man he was here to relieve, equal in rank but a decade his senior in jaded attitude, lounged in a chair with his back to the glowing bank of screens. Don’t worry about it, he said, munching on an egg-salad sandwich and not bothering to look up.

Brillo frowned at the visual representation of all ship traffic in a two-hundred-mile range, his focus still on the Reagan. But she keeps changing course. Now she’s two degrees off again

I said, don’t worry. It’s been like that all night. They’ll correct back.

It puts her full speed toward Waikiki.

Like I said, they’ll swing back.

Shouldn’t we hail her?

I have. They say all’s well.

Who’d you talk to?

The master and commander himself, Captain Washington. He told me to relax, that they’re riding in on the storm, and he’ll resume his heading when it’s time.

But this isn’t regular.

The older man stuffed the last of the sandwich into his mouth and licked a few remaining crumbs off his fingertips. What’s the problem, Brillo? The chief pooh-bah himself said ‘all’s well.’

The problem’s that he never wavers coming into Pearl, storm or no storm. The guy’s always no-nonsense.

Well, tonight he sounded particularly relaxed. I swear he even spouted poetry, something strange about ‘Tall ships and a star to sail them by.’

Poetry?

Yeah, poetry, I swear.

Brillo studied the screen in silence for a few seconds, the dark ridges of his forehead thrown into stark relief by the green glow. How far out were they when you called?

About sixty miles.

Maybe he’s turnin’ into the wind to fly off his planes?

No one’s flying off squat. The pilots are all sick with something.

Sick! With what?

Dunno'. That’s all the word I got from the tower at Hickam. The flyboys are down with something. Every one of them.

Now that is weird, the younger man said, digesting the information,

His senior shrugged. Hey, shit happens.

"Yeah, but usually shipboard guys don’t get sick in big numbers, only land grunts,