Plum Island Fever

PLUM ISLAND FEVER

RON M. ARYEL

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 by Ron M. Aryel

All Rights Reserved.

CHAPTER ONE

New York City K-9 Officer Sherman Rankin struggled to keep Kayo in line on the subway platform at 71-Continental. The handsome, 95 pound Sherman Shepherd jumped around and strained at the leash. Sherman was 29 years old and a very muscular 260 pounds, but he still had to focus to control his dog.

I know, boy, I know. We’ll be done soon, Sherman said, patting Kayo’s head. Doing three tours is tough for me too. He liked his sergeant, but he didn’t like seeing that white shirt at the end of his second tour, making Penelope’s piping hot lasagna instantly turn cold in Sherman’s head. Sarge. You really don’t want to keep me longer tonight. No, Sarge, you want some other officer and his dog. Overtime pay is cool, that is, if you actually get the time off to enjoy it.

Metallic echoes reached Sherman’s ears. He turned. An E train slowly rumbled into the station on the local track, its brakes squealing like a trough full of tortured piglets. Rankin leaned against a pillar, his right hand holding Kayo’s leash, watching the cars pass by. The brakes screeched louder and the train stopped.

Get on with it. The cars were half empty. The doors opened, and Sherman waved to the conductor.

I’ll sweep the train real quick, Sherman said. Wait for me to get off.

Kayo leaped into the subway car, pulling Sherman off-balance behind him. The car was brightly lit, and the current converter supplying electricity from the third rail to the lights whistled loudly. Sherman could smell the scent of lemon cleaner from the car wash; it almost hid the ozone, the latter produced in the air when electricity arced between the car’s pickup shoe and the third rail. Kayo pushed his snout under a woman’s ball gown.

No, Sherman said as he pulled back on Kayo’s leash. We apologize, ma’am.

Then Kayo started barking. This wasn’t a snarling attack bark; it wasn’t the howl Kayo let out just before rolling over, the dog’s playful way of insisting a passing child rub his belly. So what was it? Then Rankin saw her. The woman was curled up on the seat near the vestibule.

Thanks a lot, Kayo. We both know what happens now, don’t we? He handed Kayo his squeaky toy reward for the find. The E was the only subway line other than the Grand Central Shuttle that always stayed out of the weather. Sherman would argue with a homeless woman, radio for the on-call mental health worker to arrive, spend three hours getting her off the train and doing the paperwork. She’d be back on the train tomorrow.

Sherman saw the woman’s very long legs, clothed in sweat pants. She had a sports windbreaker on, which was not zippered; Sherman saw a tank top with the number 13 under the windbreaker.

Maam, wake up, Sherman said, trying to sound sympathetic. When his request elicited no response, Sherman pulled out his collapsible nightstick and extended it, tapping the woman very lightly on the back. Maam, it’s time to get up. You can’t sleep on the train, Sherman insisted. She did not stir.

Come on, now, get up! he repeated, tapping the woman again, just a little harder. After waiting another few seconds, Sherman collapsed his nightstick and put it back on his belt, then retrieved a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. He gently grasped the woman’s shoulder and rolled her slightly. The woman’s head, her eyes closed, rolled from one shoulder to the other.

Sherman gasped as he saw the numerous red bumps and purple bruises. She was young, slender, no more than 25 and the bumps covered her face, neck and continued under the tank top, where there were more purple blotches. Sherman lifted the tank top a little and leaned her forward. She wore a sports bra. Her entire back was covered in red and purple welts. Sherman lifted her chin; the woman was taking shallow breaths.

The conductor strode into the car.

Are you done yet? We have to get going, he began, then saw the passenger. Oh my God, she looks really sick.

She is sick. Sherman confirmed the obvious. Would you do me a favor and close the doors, so nobody else walks in here? I’ll call the paramedics.

The dog whined and sniffed the unconscious passenger. Sherman, pulling gently at the leash, told him to sit, then reached for his shoulder radio microphone.

William 7 K-9, 10-52 on the Jamaica-bound subway platform at 71-Continental, he called. The radio sputtered and Sherman heard static. He repeated the call.

Sherman heard the overhead PA system come to life. Ladies and gentlemen, this train must be put out of service to assist a sick passenger. Would you please exit the train now and take the next train on the express track?

Sherman heard the shuffle of a few passengers on the platform. The conductor hadn’t closed the doors to his car yet.

This way please, the conductor called. Wait here, please. The F train will be here momentarily.

William 7 K-9, 10-52, 71rst-Forest Hills, do you copy? Sherman said yet again. He thought her future looked pretty lousy, but any damsel in distress deserved an honest try.

He heard footfalls echoed in the station, getting louder. Sherman turned, his hand still on his shoulder mike, and saw the conductor again.

That radio don’t work down here. Where’s your transit radio?

Damn, Sherman answered, remembering what he had neglected for this impromptu assignment. They gave me an old handheld. It’s back in the SUV over on 67th Road.

How long have you been down in the subway? the conductor asked.

Too long, Sherman admitted sheepishly.

Your dispatcher could have been trying to reach you.

I know. I finished two tours before they sent me here.

Are you serious? the conductor asked. Isn’t that against the…

Yeah, I’m serious, Sherman cut him off. Transit District 20 has a bunch of guys out sick, on National Guard duty, on vacation, in outer space, whatever, and I can’t go home.

Fuck that, the conductor sympathized. And I thought my life was bad. And I like overtime.

Two young men with purple streaked hair and eyebrow piercings interrupted the conversation.

Dude, one said. When’s this train going?

It’s not going, the conductor said. Take the F across the platform.

But we gotta pick up my friend at the LIRR, the teenager objected. F don’t go there.

Sherman had asked the conductor to close the damn doors for a reason. He held his tongue, hoping the conductor would persuade these twits to go away.

Take the bus. the conductor said.

Dude, that’s not running now, the teenager persisted.

Sherman finally lost his temper.

Hey dude! Sherman interrupted, pointing his index finger at the young man. Can’t you tell we’re working on somebody here?

She looks hot. What’s wrong with her?

None of your business! Sherman said. Take a hike.

The other young man started to argue.

If I arrest you for obstruction, Sherman asked him, will your buddy at the LIRR come to Rikers Island and pay your bail?

The two friends sprinted down the platform and disappeared.

Sherman sighed, then looked at the conductor. He acknowledged the conductor’s apologetic expression.

Don’t worry about your radio now, the conductor said. I’ve been there. Just watch the girl. I’ll call the Rail Control Center and get you an ambulance.

Thanks, Sherman said.

Sherman returned his attention to the stricken passenger. He shook the woman’s shoulder, trying again to wake her up, to no avail. He felt the pockets of her windbreaker and found nothing. Pulling the windbreaker back, he saw LE ARRENOIS in bold letters across the back of the basketball tank top.

Across the platform, a train stopped on the express track. Sherman heard a few footsteps, then the conductor’s voice instructing, Keep walking! This way please. Use the stairway in front of you.

Sherman squatted in front of the seat and felt around her sweatpants. His fingers found the outline of a soft belt, and reached to follow it until they encountered Velcro. Sherman reached inside the fanny pack and pulled out an empty billfold; he reached further into the fanny pack and pulled out a passport, inscribed, République Français:. Liberté, égalité, fraternité.

Opening the little booklet, Sherman found her full name: Francine Le Arrenois, 22 years old, along with a large number of stamped impressions. He noted the most recent one: Immigration and Customs Enforcement, Kennedy Airport. Was she here by himself or on a visiting basketball team? Or was this just a fan wearing a jersey of a player no one in New York had ever heard of?

He dug further into the fanny pack, looking for anything that might be helpful to his colleagues or to the paramedics. He pulled out a small bottle of Advil. Snapping off the top with one hand, Sherman shook the pills out onto his other hand, and counted four of them.

The K-9 officer kept searching. Strangely, she had no cellular phone, no digital assistant, no iPod. Rankin was a bit surprised; no one under the age of thirty went anywhere without those basic necessities of life. He scraped around the fanny pack one more time, finding a small side pocket. From it, he pulled out a MetroCard, the subway system’s fare payment card.

Sherman heard two sets of door chimes; then the express train pulled out of the station, its clatter increasing in volume and pitch as it barreled into the tunnel. His helpful conductor returned.

Thanks for keeping the crowd off of me, Sherman told him.

No problem, the conductor replied. I reached Control. They put this track out of service and told me the Fire Department should be here any minute.

Do you remember seeing this lady board the train? Sherman asked, looking over his shoulder. Where did she get on? Was somebody with her?

I’m sorry; no, I didn’t. I have no idea, the conductor replied. He stepped out of the car and peered toward the opposite end of the train.

Gabriel, he called out. Could you come here? He turned back to Sherman. Let’s ask my train operator if he saw her get on.

Sherman heard footsteps approach along the platform.

Is this the sick passenger? the train operator asked.

Yeah, the conductor confirmed. Did you see her get on the train?

Honestly, no, I can’t say I did.

Thanks anyway, Sherman said, standing up and facing the crew. I found her MetroCard. We can get it off of that.

Sherman heard additional rapid footsteps echoing from the stairway and approaching the train. As they came closer, Kayo turned around and faced the open subway car doorway attentively. He barked a greeting at Sherman’s sergeant when he appeared in the doorway. Two other officers were with him.

Rankin, are you OK? the sergeant asked.

Fine, Sherman answered.

Did you forget your transit radio?

Yeah, Sherman admitted. It’s in the SUV. Sorry about that. How many calls did I miss?

Only one. Two falling down inebriates, smacking each other in front of a cheering section at Briarwood-Van Wyck. The one oh three sent a dog to handle it, the sergeant reassured him. What’s up?

Sherman handed him the passport, MetroCard and Advil bottle. Sarge, this girl’s really sick. I can tell she’s burning up. She landed at Kennedy yesterday."

You couldn’t wake her? the sergeant asked.

No way.

The sergeant pulled out a hand radio. NYPD supervisor. 10-52 at 71-Continental. Urgent. What is the ETA?

A woman’s voice answered, Medic 40 is en-route; ETA is three minutes.

The sergeant put the radio away and asked Sherman, What else do we know about this girl?

She’s got no money on her, no iPod, no nothing, Sherman said. Nothing except what I just handed you. Train crew didn’t remember her boarding. Dunno where she was going.

Robbery?

Her billfold was on her, Sherman answered. Nothing in it.

A mugger wouldn’t take the time to empty it and then put it back, the sergeant said, completing Sherman’s logic for him. He reached to pat Kayo, then prepared to leave. I’ll be up on the street to greet the medics, he told Rankin. Oh, and I have good news for you. You can come into the stationhouse, write this one up and then go home. The lieutenant found you some relief.

Thanks, Sarge.

Fredericks, the sergeant turned to one of the officers who accompanied him. Would you accompany Rankin to his SUV and drive him back to the station? Rankin will make sure the dog behaves for you.

You got it, Sarge.

The sergeant looked at both sides of the MetroCard.

Let me know what you find out, Sherman asked him.

I’ll do that, the sergeant promised. Looks like a very sweet young lady. We gotta help her out.

CHAPTER TWO

Harold Sutton watched the strange, gray airplane with oversized propellers approach the Plum Island Animal Diseases Center on a clear, cold, early spring day. The plane approached him from the south, zooming past the historic lighthouse that had guided ships through Long Island Sound since the early 19th century. It flew over the dense woods next to the center’s building complex, and circled Building 101. Harold put his right hand up to his brow to protect his eyes from the morning glare as the two engine nacelles swiveled up and the plane dropped straight onto the beach. Its two turboprop engines treated him to a deafening scream and the wind from two sets of long rotor blades kicked sand into his clothing, hair, eyes, ears, and mouth. Harold’s white hair blew straight back in the gusts. Spitting grit out of his mouth and blinking furiously, he put both his hands up in a vain attempt to deflect the sandstorm attacking him. Nothing would keep him from his precious cargo.

The plane’s cargo ramp dropped. Harold walked toward the airplane, his six foot three inch frame moving deliberately and defiantly. His tearing eyes saw MARINES on the side of the plane in faint lettering. He reached the rear, and saw a familiar woman walk slowly off the ramp onto the sand, accompanied by another woman and two men in dark suits. The woman cradled a large chest in her arms marked CAUTION – DRY ICE INSIDE.

Harold felt his heart starting to race. At long last, it was finally here! Behind the four people approaching Harold, was a man in military fatigues with a pistol strapped to his waist.

You have quite an escort there, Susan, Sutton greeted the woman, who wore a jacket over a turtleneck sweater. The jacket flapped vigorously in the wind.

What? she asked, yelling, to be heard over the engines.

Quite an escort! Harold yelled back, leaning close to her and pointing at the other people who had stepped off the plane.

Susan nodded in recognition. Yes! she said, carefully holding the chest in front of her.

Harold couldn’t believe the beautiful sight. Months of debating and arguing and stress led him to doubt he’d ever see it, and here it was. He eagerly took the precious parcel from Susan.

Susan kissed him on the cheek.

As they walked further from the plane, Harold remarked, still having to raise his voice, I realize that Plum Island is a high-crime neighborhood, but still…

I was told to expect a helicopter, Harold said.

They didn’t want us in the air too long, Susan explained, so they borrowed a tiltrotor from the Marine Corp. It flies twice as fast. I think it must be twice as loud. They call it the Osprey.

"Just to cross Long Island Sound?’

You probably noticed we approached from the south, Susan said. CDC and Homeland Security decided they didn’t want a flight into a civilian airport. They flew us in a Gulfstream to McGuire Air Force Base in south Jersey, then put us on that thing.

All right, Harold acknowledged. He led the group off the sand and over to a double-cab pickup truck. He carefully handed the chest back to Susan and grabbed a brush from the truck bed to sweep sand off the windshield. Susan sat in the front seat; her government escorts climbed in behind her. Harold drove the pickup truck onto the paved road leading to Building 101. He parked the truck near the west side of the T-shaped white building. He waived his ID smart card in front of a reader. The indicator light on the door changed from red to green, and Harold opened it. He stepped through, holding it open for the rest.

---------

Harold flubbed the combination on his safe three times. His hand shook. Dialing for the fourth time, he opened it and retrieved a manila folder stamped Top Secret. He swiveled to his desk and unwound the string. He lifted out a paperback volume and scanned the top of the first page: US Army Biological Laboratory, Frederick, Maryland. Below it, in larger print, was Variola: Genetic Sequence and Virulence.

Harold stood next to Susan Penn. She had, at forty two, just a few strands of silver hair. That and a few wrinkles around the eyes were the only clues that she was out of her thirties. She was quite trim, having handled horses while pursuing degrees in biochemistry and public administration. They stared at the trees from Harold’s office window. The sun was setting; it placed the trees, which were just beginning to bud, in sharp relief. They covered most of what would be the bone of the pork-chop shaped island. Their branches created an odd drawing, like a bunch of sharp pencil marks drawn within round outlines.

What is Dean going to say when he gets back from medical leave? Susan asked Harold, turning to look at him. Well? You never actually cleared the smallpox transfer with him.

Yes, I did, Harold protested, putting one hand on his hip and waving the other for emphasis. Susan hated that; he looked arrogant and pompous. He spent weeks bitching and moaning that all our work would end up in some university lab in Manhattan, Kansas and he didn’t feel like retiring yet. Hell, that man doesn’t have a life except for this place. How many meetings did the three of us have before he signed off on the proposal?

Dammit, Susan thought, will Harold ever learn anything? She clenched her fists in disgust. A time like this made it hard to remember she owed him. They owed each other.

. She had run a number of offices at the state government in Albany, but ran afoul of the Governor’s Chief of Staff. Fortunately, she found Harold, who decided he needed her to be part laboratory technician, part administrator, and part political adviser. God knows, she knew, he needed political advice. It was too bad being associated with him was as much liability as benefit. His ambition had far outrun his political ability.

But that’s not the proposal he signed, and you know it, Susan said, Her fingernails dug into her palms, but she felt no pain. He wanted you to start with simulations using varicella and CDC data. Then if that worked out you could ask for the actual smallpox samples.

That’s just semantics, Harold said, waving his hands. He signed that assuming we wouldn’t get access to the real thing. You know we can’t do jack with chicken pox. So I sent my proposal amendment into the CDC after he left. Well, lo and behold – the agency said OK.

It’s not just semantics with him, Susan said, staring at Harold. He was there when President Nixon cancelled all of all the biowarfare programs, including Plum Island’s; it was a sacred moment for him. It’s as if it came out of the Bible. That’s why every time you came to him with an idea that even remotely looked like biowarfare research, he turned you down flat. When he sees this, he’ll have a cow. And that’s not even counting that you were openly insubordinate behind his back.

Susan despaired. When the Department of Homeland Security told Harold Sutton he would become Associate Director at the Plum Island Animal Research Laboratory, Susan didn’t believe it. He had spent nearly twenty years fighting first the Department of Agriculture, and then DHS, about funding for defense related biological research. Seen as headstrong and inflexible, with a political tin ear, he had lost several chances for promotion over those two decades. And today he was in exceptionally rare form.

Insubordinate? Harold shouted. Plum Island is in real danger of closing. Closing. And this is his baby. Does he want to save it, or not?

You keep pretending Dean actually thinks that’s any of your business. Look, I think your idea of bringing the sequencing, cataloguing and variant analysis project here was brilliant. But Dean is closed-minded. He’s succeeded in confusing this lab with himself. ‘I am the lab; the lab is me.’ He’d close this whole place in a second if he thought it stopped completely reflecting his values, Susan retorted. Yeah, he’s selfish, short-sighted and stupid that way. And you’re not going to change that. Too many people believe in him, and not enough support you.

Then how do we survive? Harold asked; he tried to look incredulous, but all Susan saw was his disingenuity. "Susan, we’ve been over this a hundred times. If Congress has its way, this beautiful place is going to be a yuppie colony, with a mention in a history book and, if we’re lucky, a National Historic Site marker if we don’t bring a project here that nobody would take on the mainland. I hate Dean’s hypocrisy. But Dean’s retiring next year. He couldn’t care less. Would you like to apply for a new job? I know – how about a park ranger over in Jamaica Bay? You could do the guided tours.

"Anyway, it won’t matter. Dean won’t be back here for a while. By the time he does show up, we’ll