Plague

By OughtaKnowBetter

It felt odd, somehow, to be at FBI headquarters without Don. Not that Charlie felt uncomfortable with the other members of Don's team, but Charlie had been brought in by his brother and he was Charlie's connection. The rest of Don's team—David, Megan, and Colby—weren't family. Good people, good agents, and good to work with—but not Don.

Don Eppes himself was home in bed, and had given strict instructions to Charlie not to tell their father. "I'm not an invalid," he had grumbled. "It's just the flu. I'll be in tomorrow." And considering the numbers of people across the entire L.A. basin that were accurately using the same excuse, no one doubted him. Emergency rooms were overflowing with patients looking blearily at that magic door that would admit them to medical care, wishing that they had a family doctor that made house calls or that wasn't sick in bed themselves. The smart sufferers were the ones that simply crawled under the covers to wait it out.

It was an early morning meeting for all agents and personnel, including the odd consultant. The entire staff of the building was either there or scheduled to attend the next briefing or the third since the auditorium wouldn't hold every single member of the L.A. office. That worked for Charlie; he had plans for later in the day. Others would really rather dawdle over their first cup of coffee, but Charlie was eager to get in and out.

He had to admit, he was curious. According to David, the upper echelons of administration had been remarkably close-mouthed about the topic of this meeting but several had noted a team from the East descending on the Area Director late last evening. It was difficult to keep a secret from the staff—this was, after all, the FBI and made up of investigative types—but so far nothing had leaked but the fact that at least one or more from the team was from the Center for Disease Control. And that there was a truck filled with medical equipment parked in the loading dock with another one on the way.

Colby greeted Charlie, handing him a cup of coffee. "Morning, Charlie. They drag you in, too?"

"Yeah. David called me yesterday afternoon, said it was mandatory for everyone connected with the FBI. Said the only written excuse permitted would be a death certificate, and that they'd probably go for an exhumation order if you tried it." Charlie took a sip, switching the cup to his other hand. There was something moist on the outer surface of the white disposable cup, and he rubbed his fingers together until the wet feeling disappeared under the friction.

Colby noticed. "Yeah, sorry about that. Mine, too. Usually I have my regular mug—gotta think about the environment, you know—but the cup is upstairs, and I'm down here, and so are you… There was something on the cups that I didn't notice until I'd picked them up. Dries quick, though; maybe some of that creamer stuff got spilled. You check on Don this morning?" he asked, changing the subject.

Charlie smiled ruefully. "He's alive, and unhappy, and if you try to talk to him he'll take out his gun and shoot you. At least, that's what he threatened me with." He brightened. "I think he's starting to feel better. Last night he couldn't even pick up his gun."

"Good. This flu bug is getting to everyone. I think half the department's out with it." Colby scanned the room, noting who was present, and who wasn't. "If they're really serious about this meeting being mandatory, they'll have to run another session next week to catch all the people out with the flu."

Charlie agreed. "CalSci hasn't been spared. There's been talk of canceling classes for a week. We're running out of professors to cover classes. Not that it makes much difference. We're talking to empty classrooms."

"So how'd you get lucky enough to be off today? I hear you're going camping with Professor Fleinhardt."

"Not camping," Charlie corrected. "I'm helping Larry with some research. He needs to set up some star-gazing equipment somewhere high up so that the light pollution from L.A. doesn't interfere with his data. Don was going to go with us, before he came down with the flu. We'll drive up this afternoon, hike to Larry's ideal site tomorrow, set up the equipment, hike back down and spend the night someplace with beds and a shower before another all day hike to retrieve the data." He grinned. "It would be a lot faster to camp out, but can you picture Larry willingly pitching a tent?"

Colby snorted. "I don't know. You guys come up with the wildest things sometimes. I'm not certain I'd put anything past either one of you. Look, the Area Director is coming in, and I haven't seen any of those other guys before. Must be the ones who flew in last night. What do you think this meeting is about? The rumors have been wild."

"Not a clue." Charlie settled himself on the chair to listen and get it over with. He'd been through this sort of thing before, a meeting where some chair of some department was convinced that his or her agenda affected the school in some dramatic fashion and that everyone located west of the Mississippi needed to be involved. The best thing to do was to sit through the lecture/diatribe, and then go back to more important things. Arguing over lack of universal relevance would only prolong the torture.

Colby apparently came to the same conclusion independently, and lowered himself into the chair next to Charlie.

"I'll be brief," Area Director D'Angelo began. Charlie pasted a tight smile on his face; that didn't bode well. Anyone who had to talk about being brief had no intention of leaving any stone unturned. Charlie began to wonder if he could get a message to Larry that he would be delayed.

"Information has come in, and we are receiving confirmation, that one or more FBI offices on the West Coast have been targeted for terrorist activity. The Rochester, New York office has already been hit."

That caught everyone's attention. The buzz that followed was hushed by the Area Director. Charlie narrowed his eyes. Not just another diatribe. Not just another speech by an overfed flunky.

"Our information suggests that Houston and/or L.A. may be next, possibly Seattle or San Diego, on a much grander scale than Rochester. Yes, I know; your next question is, why haven't you heard about Rochester?" D'Angelo waved down the polite hand. "Bioterrorism, ladies and gentlemen. Four FBI personnel died in upstate New York, and a dozen more sickened. We were able to keep it from the press, and we weren't really certain what had happened until recently or if it had really happened. We believe that Rochester was a test run, that the next attack will be significantly more grandiose. Our intent is to do a better job of prevention and, if needed, containment. I'm going to turn the floor over to Dr. Harrison Marker from the CDC. Doctor?"

The smallish man next to the Area Director rose to take the stand. He reminded Colby of Charlie: the same sort of thirst for knowledge gleamed in those eyes, the burning fervor to conquer selected mysteries of the universe. Much older, though, than Charlie despite the thick black hair that was coiffed within an inch of the man's life.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," he began, even though there were no compliments flowing and no welcoming applause. "I'll get right to the point. My findings in Rochester demonstrated that a trial run of bioterrorism took place. Nearly two dozen people working in the FBI headquarters there were taken ill, and the causative agent is being studied. For those of you conversant with state of the art technology in the field of Infectious Diseases, the culprit organism is suspected to be cholera with significant variations made to its DNA trans-sequencing so that it is both more virulent and more lethal than its garden variety predecessor, as evidenced by the number of fatalities associated with the initial strike. For convenience's sake, we've given it the nomenclature of C-NO4. Because of the comparatively small number of victims, the attack in the Rochester office wasn't recognized until the third fatality. Again, because of the timing of the strike to coincide with the seasonal flu epidemic in that region, recognition was further delayed, which means crucial pieces of evidence went unchecked.

"Which brings us to the current situation," Marker continued, satisfied that he had the rapt attention of all present. "Sources indicate that larger attacks are planned, and that Los Angeles is a potential target. We will be upgrading the surveillance procedures, supplementing your routine camera sweeps with additional patrols, monitoring people coming in and out of the building, and scanning packages as they arrive. You have a substantial employee cafeteria; any and all food items served there will be irradiated prior to consumption. Cholera is a food-borne illness, meaning that you acquire it by eating food contaminated with the bacteria. For those of you unversed in overseas travel, it is commonly found in areas with inadequate public sanitation and unclean public water supplies.

"The sensible among you are now wondering if you have already been exposed, will be exposed in the future and, if exposed, what symptoms to look for. Unfortunately, the flu epidemic is still in full swing in this area, and those are some of the same symptoms that the stricken will exhibit: fever, cramping, nausea and vomiting, diarrhea, and, most importantly, dehydration and electrolyte abnormalities that will lead to lethal cardiac arrhythmias and death."

Colby leaned over to whisper into Charlie's ear. "Never knew the flu could be so lethal."

Charlie shook his head. "Before modern medicine, it was responsible for thousands of deaths. But this isn't the flu; it's not even the same variety of infectious agent. Influenza is a virus, and cholera is a bacterium. Two entirely different organisms."

"Right." Didn't matter to Colby. Getting sick did. "Think Don's got it?"

It was as if Dr. Marker had heard the sotto voce comment. "Department heads, I will require a list of those people who have called out sick today; my people will be taking samples to determine if the bioterrorism attack has already begun. You can coordinate with my assistant. Given adequate medical treatment in a timely fashion, death is less likely despite the enhanced virulence of this strain."

D'Angelo took over. "During this emergency, this office will operate in the usual fashion. It is important that we be seen by the terrorists as taking this event in stride. No mention to the media is to be made, and we will continue to pursue the more mundane avenues that our jobs demand for the public welfare. However, Dr. Marker had made several recommendations: first, hand washing is to be frequent and thorough. I am assured that this is the best way to prevent the spread of illness. Yes, I will be instructing our building maintenance personnel to be more vigilant in refilling the soap dispensers and yes, fifth floor, your soap dispenser in the ladies room will be replaced today. Second, avoid the food vendors that congregate in the public areas around this building. Suspicion, although not proof, was placed on a hotdog vendor outside the Rochester office. Dr. Marker's people will surreptitiously obtain specimens from our local vendors and test them. Third, all personnel will keep scrupulous records of all contacts during the next few days. If this threat becomes a reality, we will need to quarantine all exposed personnel. These daily records are not a request, people. This is mandatory."

"And fourth," Dr. Marker broke in, "all personnel in committed and not so committed relationships are to avoid intimate encounters. Although cholera is a food-borne illness, there are certain aspects of this mutated variety that are unclear and likely to remain unclear until we obtain fresh specimens for testing. Bottom line, we are not certain if this organism follows the rules for cholera." He fixed his audience with a baleful eye. "I suspect none of you would like the humiliation of bringing in either a loved one or a casual one night stand for testing, and we have no intention of allowing this bioterrorist threat to reach the general public. Anyone demonstrating illness will be quarantined until the threat is over. Are there any questions? No? Good; meeting adjourned. Department heads, you can stay behind to discuss additional issues with my assistant." Marker looked around. "I understand there's a Mr. Eppes here?"

Charlie looked up, startled. "He must mean Don."

But the Area Director signaled to Colby: bring him here.

"C'mon, Charlie." Colby grabbed Charlie's elbow. "They're calling your number."

Charlie stifled any number of return comments he could have made. That phone call to Larry asking for a delay was looking more and more like a reality. What could an infectious disease specialist want with a mathematician? But Professor Eppes knew better; biostatistics was a growing field, and patterns of the spread of infection was a daily reality for that sort of investigation. Patterns; that was Charlie's niche.

"Eppes," Dr. Marker said by way of a greeting. "I understand that you're the local math whiz around here."

"I dabble," Charlie said, pulling back his hand that Marker had ignored and likewise ignoring Colby's wince. Dr. Charles Eppes was more than just a 'whiz'. World class mathematicians deserved a better title and substantially more respect, in Colby's admittedly biased opinion.

Marker was oblivious. "Good. I'm going to need you to key in the data that will be generated. Put it into the program that our people developed."

"Ah. You need me to determine the transmission characteristics and spread patterns. A little out of my line, but certainly possible." That cleared up most of the mystery for Charlie, although for a situation of this gravity he would have thought that Dr. Marker would have brought along his own biostatistician with expertise in the exact field. Maybe Dr. Marker's expert was home with the flu.

Marker dashed his expectations. "Characteristics? No. Our people have already developed a computer program that will give us all the information we need. Load it onto your computer, and I'll feed you whatever data I want you to put in. I'll give you the disk."

"Excuse me?" Charlie wasn't certain he was truly hearing what he was hearing. "If you already have an algorithm, and especially if you already have the computer program to run it, what do you need me for?"

Marker goggled at him, and turned with exasperation to Area Director D'Angelo. "Are all your technicians this arrogant? I'd fire this one, if I were you. Get a kid who knows how to follow directions. Did this one even graduate high school?"

Area Director D'Angelo could see the volcano known as Colby Granger about to explode, saw the world class mathematician deciding whether or not to pull together a cutting rebuttal. He hurriedly intervened. "Dr. Eppes isn't a technician, Dr. Marker. He's a—"

"Whatever," Marker said with a wave of his hand. "If he won't follow orders, he's of no use to me. Get rid of him, and get me someone who will. These L.A. types," he said disgustedly, walking away. "Crack heads, everyone of 'em."

D'Angelo tried to repair the damage. He knew how much Charlie contributed to the success of his top investigative team. "Dr. Eppes, I apologize—"

"Don't worry about it." Charlie waved him away with a thin lipped smile. "You have nothing to apologize for, and you've got more important things on your plate. And your hands full." He smiled reassuringly. "If anything, it's a relief. I already had plans for today, and needing to put together an algorithm to track your potential epidemic would have delayed them." He tapped his pocket. "I've got my cell, and Colby and the others have my number if anything comes up."

"Thank you, Dr. Eppes." D'Angelo hurried off to catch up with the out of town dignitary.

"That ass." Colby wasn't ready to forgive and forget. "Doesn't he know who you are?"

"Apparently not." That wasn't an unusual occurrence. Most people didn't keep up with the names in academia. "That's all right, Colby. As I told Mr. D'Angelo, this works in my favor. I really do want to get away with Larry, and the sooner I start, the happier we'll both be." Charlie winked. "Tell the others I said hello, and not to engage in any of Dr. Marker's 'intimate situations'."

Colby allowed a grim smile to appear. "Certainly not with Dr. Marker."

Charlie and Larry pulled in to the motel that Larry had spotted on the Internet, checking in and dumping overnight bags into a room not lavishly furnished but certainly clean and cheery enough. Larry checked his watch. "We made good time getting up here. I'd hoped for the possibility to set up my equipment tonight on the mountain top, but I suspect that would not be consistent with common sense."

Charlie looked around. The sun was already setting behind the mountains now located west of them. It appeared different to Charlie, and pretty; in L.A., at CalSci, the sun always set behind the oceanic horizon, what could be seen of it through tall buildings. He took a deep breath, inhaling the clean and cool air, appreciating the trees that were turning their leavesgolden. "You're right. There could be worse things, though. This is a charming town."

"Yes, isn't it?" Larry seemed pleased. "I've been up here more than once. It's an ideal launching point to hike up the mountain. And they have this little Italian café in town that makes an excellent veal marsala."

"Which sounds like an invitation to dinner. I'll take you up on that, Dr. Fleinhardt."

"My pleasure, Dr. Eppes."

"Feeling better, Eppes?"

Don almost jumped out of his skin when the voice came from behind. He turned around sheepishly, recognizing Area Director D'Angelo's voice. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. It's not every day when your boss makes a house call with a team of doctors."

"Can't be too careful, not under the circumstances." D'Angelo peered closely at Don, who wondered on the spot if a second cup of caffeine-laced coffee would erase the lines on his face. He felt better, now that the next day had arrived, but still far from one hundred percent. But the day was mild, and there was work to be done. One day off turned into three days catch up. Two would cause him to spend a week behind the eight ball, and with a crisis going on Don surely would like to avoid that little scenario. "You sure you feel up to working today?"

"Yes, sir. It really was the flu," Don told him. "Not Dr. Marker's little bug. Any more word on that?"

D'Angelo sighed, and Don tensed. It would be bad news, and he was right.

"Marcy, at Reception," D'Angelo admitted. "I was going to discuss this over an early morning briefing, but there's no harm in telling you now. It's here. We're all at risk. Marcy felt ill just before going home last night; thought it was the flu like so many are getting around now but presented herself to the CDC people as instructed. Marker's team tested her, and she's positive for C-NO4. It hit her like a ton of bricks. One moment she was fine, the next she had passed out on the floor."

"If it started in Reception, Marcy would be the logical person to get it," Don said. "She sees everyone. Someone could have walked in and by her, spreading germs."

"Not the way it works, Eppes." Marker walked up behind them. "Not an air-borne illness. You don't get it through people coughing around you. You eat or drink something with the bacteria present in the food. The only way for your theory to work is if someone came in through the front gate and handed her a box of candy, and yes, we already ruled out that possibility. No, she got it in some other fashion. We still have to figure it out."

"How is she?" Don asked.

Marker shrugged. "She's down in the warehouse that my people have set up as a medical lab."

"She's comfortable," D'Angelo told Don. "Dr. Marker brought some physicians and nurses with him, and they're treating her as best as they can. I saw her this morning."

"That's good." Don meant it. He was fond of the older woman who had run the Reception desk as long as anyone at the L.A. Headquarters could remember. She kept a pistol under her desk for emergencies despite the team of guards and the metal detector at the front door, and she could use it, as she was quick to remind anyone who asked. Remember back in 'seventy-four?, she would ask, knowing full well that some of those present hadn't yet been born. Then she would smile a secret little smile and pass you through to the bank of elevators. And Don would remember standing next to her on the pistol range, putting in his mandatory practice session, watching Marcy step up to the line and put six shots squarely into the center of the target as well or better than most of the field agents.

He never doubted Marcy's story after that. Don resolved to mosey on downstairs to the makeshift hospital ward at his first opportunity to check on her. "Anyone else?"

"No," D'Angelo started to say.

"Three more tested positive this morning," Marker broke in. "I was coming to tell you. You need to get a list of everyone not showing up today. I'll have my people break up into teams to track them down."

At that news, D'Angelo agreed. "It may just be the flu, but it might not. I'll get that list. Don, I'll start with you. Check on your team."

"Yes, sir." It was what Don had intended to do. After being out for a day and a half, he needed to catch up on what his team had accomplished.

He walked into his office, finding both Megan and David already there and waiting for him.

David greeted him. "Hey, Don. Feeling better?"

"Much. Having Marker and his crowd all but bash down my door did wonders for my desire to be at my desk instead of home. Couldn't they have brought you along to pick the lock, if they couldn't wait for me to crawl to the door?"

Megan grinned, handing him a cup of coffee. She'd grabbed his stained and chipped mug when she'd heard that he was on his way up. Don inhaled the first sip gratefully. "Thanks. I needed that."

"Oh, you're gonna need a lot more than coffee as we fill you in on what we've accomplished with the Nelson case," she informed him. "Sit down, while I tell you what eight hours of scanning employee files have told us. Charlie was right, by the way. He told us to look for an employee with access to both the customer files and the machine shop. Only three people meet both those qualifications: O'Brian, Dorn, and Alexander. We got the warrants and have set up wire taps on all three."

"We'll have to wait until one of them makes a move," David said, "but it's just a matter of time." He grinned, and leaned back in his chair, stretching arms behind his head. "I have infinite patience."

"I don't," Don grumbled good-naturedly. "Good work." He glanced around. "Where's Colby? He ought to be here, too."

"I passed him on the way up," Megan said. "He'll be here in a moment. Anyone know if Charlie got off okay with Larry? They're doing their mountain hiking trek?"

"Well, Area Director D'Angelo ordered me to check on my team first thing, so I'll do just that." Don punched in the speed dial on the phone on his desk, aiming for Charlie's cell. Seventh ring, waiting for voice mail to pick up, maybe Charlie was out of range of a tower—

"Hello?"

"Charlie?"

"Don? How are you feeling?"

"Lot better, thanks. You?"

"Great. I'm out in the open, Larry and I are driving up to the way station where we can park the car and hike up the mountain. The air is crisp, the sky is blue, and there's not a student in sight. Life doesn't get any better than this, brother." Then suspicion colored his voice. "What's going on back home? Everything okay? I was at yesterday's meeting," Charlie added, reminding Don that he was well aware of the situation.

"Not so good, buddy. A few people have come down with it. Which is why I'm checking up on you. You sure you feel okay?"

"I'm fine, Don. I'm already away from Ground Zero on this one and have been since yesterday. No risk here. You're the one I'm worried about. You've just been sick, and now you're exposing yourself to this. How are they? They going to be all right?"

"Too early to tell. Marcy is one of them."

"Sorry to hear that." The regret was real. "Tell her I'm thinking about her, okay?"

"I'll do that. Check in with me again tonight."

Puzzlement. "Why?"

"I mean it, Charlie. From what I'm hearing, this thing hits fast and hard. I want to hear from you twice daily until we're certain that the threat is past. And remember: we're keeping this quiet. No talking about it with anyone. Leave Larry out of the loop on this one. There's no reason for him to know, and the fewer the better."

"Little difficult, since he's in the car with me."

Small chuckle in the background noise, above the sound of a smoothly running motor. "Good morning, Don."

"Just do as you're told, buddy," Don grumbled, trying to keep from laughing himself. "You too, Larry."

"Right. You taking lessons from Dr. Marker? Tell him the little math tech said hello. That'll annoy him."

"There's a story in there," Don muttered, shaking his head and hanging up the phone.

"Got that right." David filled him in. "You should have seen Colby's face when he told us about Marker and Charlie. I thought he was going to explode all over again, and he said that D'Angelo looked about ready to sink into the floor with humiliation. According to Colby, Charlie just stood by and enjoyed the whole thing. Your brother is waiting for someone to let Dr. Marker know that he made an ass of himself. That Marker guy is some piece of work."

"He's not a doctor," Megan added. "Not a medical doctor, that is. I looked into his background after Colby finished telling us. Dr. Marker is a pencil pusher, got his Ph.D. in business administration several years ago. That's why he brings a medical team with him, so that they can tell him what to do. He just formulates budgets and wears white shirts and ties. And, apparently, annoys people."

"Whatever. By the time he was finished with me in my apartment, and me in my sweats and unwashed and feeling like something the cat chewed up and spit out, I liked him as much as Colby did. Speaking of whom, where is Colby?" Don looked around, frowning. "I thought you said he was on his way up here."

Colby broke out in a cold sweat riding up in the elevator. Good thing I'm the only one in here, he thought, leaning against the wall, feeling the thrum of the small box rising up on massive cables. Hate for anyone to see me like this. I'm supposed to be the big strong agent type. Must be the flu. I caught it from Don, or any of a thousand other people that I've interviewed over the last few days.

His knees felt suddenly week, his head spinning, and breakfast threatened to make a return performance. Damn flu. Can't stand it. Never had it come on this fast before. Hate being sick. Better not be the bio-terrorism thing. Not when that Marker dude is running the show. That would be too disgusting. It's the flu. Don passed it on to me.

He took a deep breath, swallowed hard, willing everything to stay in place. He could get through this, get through the day and go home and plop himself into bed. He had people to see in the next few hours, sources to squeeze, and an appointment with some high muckety-muck about something so ludicrous that wouldn't have made it past Marcy's desk except that the guy knew some senator in Washington. The extra oxygen put something mildly stronger than pasta al dente back into his legs, and he stepped off the elevator, heading for Don's office, forcing himself to achieve something close to normal speed. They were meeting there, going to bring Don up to speed on the progress over the last two days. Dammit, when had the trek between the elevator and Don's office turned into a twenty six mile marathon? He tried taking another breath, had to grab the edge of the doorframe to keep from toppling over. His brain whirled dizzily, and the next few moments didn't register particularly well…

"Colby!"

Colby clutched at the doorframe, eyes rolling back in his head. They could see him going down, saw his knees buckling underneath him. David leaped and grabbed, Don a moment behind only because he had to circumnavigate the desk. Megan swiveled a chair around, David and Don easing Colby down and off suddenly weak legs.

Megan needed only one touch. "He's burning up!" she exclaimed. "Don?"

"Call the medical team," Don ordered. "Tell 'em they've got another customer."

"It's just the flu," Colby protested, keeping his eyes closed. The merry-go-round in his head refused to slow down. Since when did merry-go-rounds travel at the speed of roller coasters? Every joint in his body chose that moment to begin to ache in asynchronous rhythm. Megan touched a glass of cool water to his lips, and Colby found suddenly himself thirstier than he'd ever been in his life. He gulped at the liquid, resenting the steadying hands that slowed him down.

"A little bit at a time," Don told him soothingly. "Dammit, where's that med team?"

"I'm okay," Colby tried to tell him from behind eyes that refused to focus.

"Sure, you are," Don said, working to keep the concern from his voice. This was striking too close to home. This was his team.

Hands lifted him into the air, and Colby flailed out, frantically trying to make contact with a surface, any surface. Megan caught his hand, held it tight. "Just getting you onto a stretcher, Colby. Just relax."

And there it was, firm and uncomfortable and solid under his back. Colby longed to be able to sit up, to drink more of that wonderful liquid known as water, but all of his strength had chosen to go on holiday. There was little choice: people put him where they wanted him, and where they wanted him was on top of this stretcher. Voices flew over his head. Someone wrapped a cuff around his arm, pumping up the pressure. "He's shocky. Seventy over forty."

"Let's start an IV with dextrose and saline. Leave it wide open, Mike, and hang another liter once that one's in." It was a woman's voice, one that he didn't remember hearing before. There was a sharp stab in the vicinity of his wrist. He tried to pull away.

"Let them do their work, Colby." That was Megan; her voice he recognized. "They're just putting in an IV. You're going to be okay."

This is humiliating, were Colby's last thoughts, riding down the hallway, feet first. Everyone's looking at me. Hell of a time for the flu.