Hello, true believers! Welcome to Chapter 10 of Paradise Regained.
It's well overdue, but I really need to give a shout out to my man Kasey "Punkey" Kagawa, who's invaluable for research, plotting and second opinions. The story wouldn't be half as good without his efforts.
Also, you might have noticed that I've reduced the ratings on both this and Rebuilt. Transparent ploys to attract more readers aside, the original ratings were pretty much insurance when I didn't know precisely how far I was planning to go, but after nearly a year of writing for this, I feel like I'm not going to places that need the high rating. If I ever do end up with something that I honestly consider above and beyond, it'll get the higher rating, of course.
This chapter, the commentary is about chemical weapons, with VX in particular. Yes, I'm going to make you all suffer along with me. (If you haven't already given in and read up on the topic by yourself, that is.)
---
Through a decontamination shower and changing into normal clothes, Ruth Truewell's mood had been elevated greatly to just below neutral. To judge from the shouting from another tent, William Anthros had proven rather more combative in the process, now riding a distinctly unpleasant spike of his experimental nootropic cocktail. Truewell had to keep reminding herself that those were extremes of emotion, not the pleasant base state she usually had as a co-worker, but it wasn't easy. Then again, seeing people at their worst was an established occupational hazard of being a psychologist.
The shouting stopped for a moment, failed to resume for another few seconds and finally left the scene completely with Will's entry to the same; despite hitting the shower later, he was already fully dressed while Truewell still had her shoes ahead of her. His hair was wet and slicked back, dripping on his shift, and he wore an expression on his face that his grandmother would not have approved of.
"These idiots!" he exclaimed, standing around like he didn't know which angry gesture to make first.
"What, exactly, is the problem?" Truewell asked diplomatically.
"They will not allow me see Agent Brown's body," Will said. "That much I found merely puzzling, but when I asked why, they said it was flagged for national security reasons. When I asked what they did with it, they said they zipped it up with the victims of his spree and will ship it off in the morning, God knows where, because - and this may come as a bit of a shocking twist - national security! When I begged that they at least put the bodies on ice, they said they have bigger problems! Bigger problems, Truewell? Brown's remains are the best evidence we have and the body could rot away under their noses for all they care! But God forbid I spend three minutes looking at him. That, they were very insistent on."
"You know," Truewell countered, "they probably don't even have enough ice for one, much less all of the bodies here."
"I'm not exactly expecting the US Army to drop everything at once and send twenty tons of medical supplies right this second," Will fired back. "Just a fundamental willingness to do the expedient! At this rate, they will transport the bodies all the way to the South Pole for the autopsy, perhaps even by train! But apparently I am the sole fly in the ointment for insisting that the bodies be examined now - which, I concede, is of course fully secondary before the need that everyone involved can point at orders and abdicate all responsibility!"
Secondary syndrome, Truewell noted, talks like 50s movie scientist.
Truewell retrieved her cellphone and headset from a bag; Will followed her lead wordlessly, now properly keyed-up and perceptive enough to read her intentions. Within the minute, they were back in contact with Wolf Creek.
"Truewell here," she said, skipping the pleasantries. "Brown's dead and we have no access to the body. Marines are getting ready to go in, I've briefed them about the girl. What's our next step, Sir?"
"Anthros?" Bledsoe asked.
"I'm here," Will said.
"Our best guess places the attack threat in San Francisco. We have nine minutes downtime before we can send a helo anywhere. In that time, I want to narrow down our search grid. Anthros, are we sure it's airborne?"
"About 95% confident," Will replied. "You are asking where I would release the contagion, yes?"
"For maximum damage. The attack in Paradise was sub-capacity, but I have no reason to believe that they will pull another punch."
"You could utilize air current analysis," Will suggested. "This would show the most efficient deployment of airborne chemical weapons. The DHS has collected this data for just such a terrorist attack scenario, I believe."
"Sounds good," Bledsoe said, "we'll run with that."
"There are two important limitations. One, it's weather-dependent. Two, it's agent-dependent. The former can, I suppose, be compensated for, but our knowledge of the agent's chemical structure and physical properties is still essentially nil."
"When we drove back," Truewell added, "you talked about DMSO."
"But that is not the agent!" Will insisted. "Aerosolized dimethyl sulfoxide explains a...symptom, Mr. Bledsoe, but it's far from the only possibility."
"Can you run tests for it?" Bledsoe asked.
"We have the portable lab and a handful of samples," Will said. "So, yes, we can test for it."
"Good. You do what you can as fast as you can, we'll try to build a simulation for DMSO spread in the meantime. If it comes up as something else, we'll just have to run another shot. Questions?"
"How's Jaime?" Will asked.
"Miss Sommers is just fine, Anthros," Bledsoe shot back. "Anything relevant to this situation?"
"We'll get right on it, Sir," Truewell said. Will failed to protest.
"Good."
---
Jaime sat crouched against the next wall and stared at Finlayson's body. Her right arm rested on her knees, and her hand - still holding Finlayson's gun - drooped down, lazily swinging to a 4/4 time rhythm. She vainly tried to access the fear, the anger or the bliss she'd felt just a minute ago; all that came through was a vague sense of unease, like watching a mother three tables over try to control her unruly children in a fancy restaurant. There was no nausea, but Jaime wondered idly if, maybe, she'd feel better if she threw up.
"This is driving me nuts," she said to herself, then deliberately looked away from Finlayson and raised the gun. "Alright, lay it on me. Better than sitting around."
The system obliged. Fabrique Nationale Five-Seven, Caliber 5.7x28mm, 4.8 inches of barrel, 20 round magazine. Removable sound suppressor attached. Magazine estimation: full. To begin automated tutorial, place both hands on pistol grip. Jaime moved her left hand up, hesitated, then completed the grip. The voice returned, with a slightly enthusiastic tone Jaime found easy to hate. The automated tutorial can instruct you in how to fire, load, unload and field-strip this weapon. To prepare this weapon for firing - "Tell me how to unload it," Jaime said. To unload the weapon, press down on the magazine release button. You will find it on the left side of the grip at the base of the trigger guard. After removing the magazine, rack the slide backward to clear the chamber, then - "Yes, great. I can take it from there."
The magazine easily slipped into her hands; the long hours of drills at the range suddenly seemed a little more useful. Jaime tucked it into the left pocket of her pants and racked the slide roughly; the single cartridge jumped from the gun's chamber and tumbled to the ground to Jaime's indifference. She looked at the gun's left side to locate the decocking lever, but as the voice helpfully recounted the various controls (vaguely similar to her own SIG), this particular feature seemed to be a no-show. But at least she'd gotten all of the bullets out of the gun, and that gave her enough peace of mind to grab the suppressor and twist it; it unscrewed easily enough, and after a few moments Jaime was left with just the bare gun.
While we're waiting, Nathan's voice suggested, think you could search Finlayson?
"He's dead," Jaime said. "I'm not rifling through a dead man's pockets."
It's not like you're looting him for cash and valuables. A cellphone, receipts and IDs in his wallet, we could use those. But if you would rather face imminent doom with less information...
"Okay, fine, I'll do it," Jaime replied.
I really do appreciate your enthusiasm.
Jaime walked over to Finlayson and crouched down next to him, gun still in hand. It felt like she should be wearing gloves for this, but as long as she wouldn't have to touch his skin, it would be - tolerable. Jaime tucked the pistol into the back of her waistband; her left hand reached for Finlayson's jacket.
I totally get that feeling, by the way, Nathan piped up. It's the lack of movement and breathing. Makes him look just slightly off. Welcome to the Uncanny Valley.
"Ambrose?"
Ever alert and at your service, Madame.
"Just - let me work."
An idea flashed into existence in her head. Jaime took off her own jacket and laid it over Finlayson's head; after a few breaths, the impression of talking to him not ten minutes before began to fade. The body slowly slipped from "human" to "object" on her emotional compass, and eventually it looked enough unlike Finlayson for her to proceed.
The wallet in his slacks was light on coins, but well-stocked with twenty dollar bills.
Yuppie food stamps, Nathan said. Imagine my surprise.
"Less running commentary, please," Jaime said through her teeth. "And - can you see everything I see? All the time?"
Only snapshots. Can't spare the bandwidth for video in a decent quality. After a moment's pause, he added Let us postpone the inevitable privacy debate slash you tearing me a new asshole until after we stop the attack, alright?
Jaime rolled her eyes. "Let there be spaces in your togetherness," she replied with an entire hintbook of annoyance.
I like that. Who said it?
"Ask your parents."
...was it Tupac?
Another pocket yielded Finlayson's cell phone; Jaime flipped it open, and after a little struggle with the keypad lock, she searched the call log. (415)843-0952, 1419 Powell Street, San Francisco, California, 94133. (512)435-0931, disposable cell phone, Oakland, California. (512)733-6331, Benny's Pizza, 1735 83rd Avenue, Oakland, California, 94621. The system worked quickly; as fast as she could read the numbers, the voice filled in the results of reverse lookups and added the results to her navigation. But none of those numbers were particularly useful at the time, save perhaps the pizza delivery. The SMS inbox was a different matter, though: the last incoming message from three hours ago simply read "Jaime Sommers, KR2P5F".
Isn't that - Nathan began.
"My car's license plate," Jaime said, and her face couldn't decide whether to become pale or flushed with red. As fast as her fingers allowed (and that was fairly fast), she browsed the outgoing messages. The fear and anger she had missed were back; the bliss was still a no-show. "That's my address! They know where I live!"
That's not good, Nathan said, for lack of anything more prosaic on his mind. Just...hold on, for a second. Things are crazy around here right now.
"I'm leaving," Jaime said. She dropped the phone and made for the exit. "I need to see that Becca -"
Don't do that - Sommers! - we need you for this, remember?
"For what?" Jaime shouted; the anger rose quicker than before. "So I can go get more people killed?"
Sommers! Don't do this! Nathan pleaded.
The anger in Jaime boiled, and as it did it shifted from a cauldron of pitch to a crystal; it became cold and focused. "Just shut the hell up," she grunted.
She was almost at the door when Jonas Bledsoe's voice returned. Jaime thought she heard Nathan say "Double save".
Your sister is safe, he said. But if we had known that they found out where you live, we could have prepared better.
"Oh, and how exactly..." Jaime began, but her swing stopped when she parsed the second sentence. "Prepared for what?"
I just spoke with Sergeant Olivetti, one of the men assigned to your protective detail. He and Sergeant Frye intercepted an armed man on the way to your house. Sergeant Frye was wounded when they intercepted him, and the man died in a way Olivetti described as similar to your experience with Special Agent Finlayson. I've arranged for a medical pickup for Frye through an...unaffiliated service, but the important part is that the attacker never came close to your sister.
Jaime forgot how to breathe for a second. When she remembered, her next words were unsure. "That..."
Unfortunately, we can't send any reinforcements at this time, but Olivetti's primed and ready to prevent any further attempts on your home.
"That is good," Jaime said. "But it won't stop the terrorists. They're going to kill the entire city, right?"
Not on my watch they won't. With your help, we can stop them.
"But that's just it. I can't help you. I barely know how to use a gun. And even if I did, I'm not going to shoot one at people."
I have four well-trained soldiers in the helo for that part, should it come to that. But you're smart and flexible. You learn fast. That's exactly what we need in an unpredictable situation like this.
"That and 78 million dollars of military-grade human augmentation technology?"
It might come in handy.
"Alright," Jaime sighed. "You're right. The last two days I've done things I thought were flat-out impossible. Maybe I'm good for a few more miracles. You've held up your end of the deal - if nothing else, I owe you. And I don't want to walk away when I could have made a difference. So I'll do it."
I want you to remember that, Bledsoe said. That you can make a difference.
"For they conquer who believe they can," Jaime said. "But if I get out of there in one piece, we're having a talk about the security detail at my home. No more close calls like that."
You'll get it, he said, and it sounded as good as the man's word and his handshake. Two minutes until the helicopter arrives. Get to the roof for the rendezvous. The helo can't land on the roof, but it'll be close enough to jump.
"Let's get this over with, then."
Good luck, Miss Sommers.
Alone with her thoughts again, Jaime looked at Finlayson's body on the floor. With a few quick steps, she walked back to him, bowed down and grabbed her jacket off him. Her next stop was the door again; Jaime stood on her toes, reached up to the wireless access point and yanked it off its mount. It was just small enough to fit into one of the outside hand pockets on her jacket. She opened the door and felt her jacket scrape up against the grip of the pistol; Jaime retrieved it from the back of her waist and looked at it. Fabrique Nationale Five-Seven, Caliber 5.7x28mm "You can shut up now," Jaime said. She dropped the gun on the floor and left it behind on her way to the elevator. She felt just a tiny bit better without it.
---
"I need a table!" Will shouted, carrying the mobile lab in his left and the Paradise samples in his right hand. The tent he'd trundled into was - in theory - the mess, but that didn't matter to him. Truewell followed his mad dash, silently pointed out an empty table at the far end and made apologetic hand gestures to the handful of soldiers inside.
"I'm sorry," she said, hardly audible over the noise of Will slamming his instruments onto the table. The grunts merely glanced at Will's frantic actions and decided that yes, that other table all the way back at the entrance would make for a better location after all.
Truewell barely had time to watch them move when Will's list of demands pierced her eardrums.
"I need three blood samples and the air filter!"
"We didn't take the air filter," Truewell said, doing her best to comply with the rest of his bark.
"Why the hell not?" Will demanded. "I've been going on and on about how important the air filter is!"
"But you didn't take it," Truewell said. "You were there the whole time, and when I came back with the car you rushed us out of town."
"Hmpf!" was Will's response, and the best he could muster with most of his brainpower on a different task. "Blood sample one shows severe AChE inhibition."
Will briefly froze in his actions. With a few button-presses, he started a new analysis.
"...but it's negative for phosphates," he said after another beep from the lab.
"So, what -"
"Let me think!" he said. "It's got to be an organophosphate, it's too strong for any other inhibitor. I need to run this on the other samples, too."
Two more ports opened, two more sample vials inserted, a lot more buttons pressed. While the lab churned, Will looked at Truewell, who fixed him with a disapproving glance.
"What is it now?" Will demanded.
"The only reason I'm next to you and not saying anything is because your usefulness outweighs your attitude, Dr. Anthros," Truewell said. "But your attitude is rapidly gaining weight."
"Look, Truewell, this is a goddamn crisis. Someone has to take charge here, and I'm -"
"- the only one who's qualified? I've no doubt. But then, that's just how you like it."
The lab-in-a-box beeped.
"Same results for blood samples two and three," Will said. "This is a hell of a time to analyze me, Truewell."
"I believe in discussing behavior patterns while they're extant. What's next?"
"Testing for DMSO. Look, Truewell, I know I can be a little abrasive."
"It's not just how you say it, it's why you say it. You've got a rockstar attitude. You're the only one who knows what he's talking about, everyone else is an idiot until proven otherwise, and they should all just do what you say, anyway."
"Borne out by experience. Most people don't know what they're talking about," Will said. Beep. "Positive in all samples. Hmm, what about anthrocyte remains?"
"You think only the mayor had nanobots in his blood?" Truewell asked.
"It's a theory. That would explain how he survived this long, I've designed anthrocyte species that can bind organophosphates." Beep. "Hmm, osmium and iridium traces. Not the same signature as the mayor, but it's there. So much for that, then." After a moment's thought, he added "I need a skin sample."
"But you do realize that this isn't making you any friends, don't you?" Truewell said, handing another sample vial to Will - this one filled with a small amount of skin scrapings from the victims in the store. "You walk into a room with a negative attitude towards everyone. And when that leads to a bad outcome, you just interpret it as another reason not to listen to other people."
Beep. "Skin is positive for anthrocytes, same signature as the mayor. This...hm. Conjecture. Neither of those is the original agent. We're saying two different reaction paths."
"One for the agent by itself, the other for the agent plus the trigger?" Truewell guessed.
"Sounds like a hypothesis," Will replied. "Do we have other liquid samples?"
"Some water from the sink," Truewell said, handing Will the corresponding vial. "So, is this making sense to you?"
"A little. The thing is, playing nice never worked for me." Beep. "Mayor-type nanotech and DMSO. It should have triggered...but no. This type can't trigger anymore. This is decayed."
"The sample is from water," Truewell said, "not blood."
Will gave her a crooked glance.
"Well, what about us, then?" he said. "I need a sample of your blood."
"...that will take a moment," Truewell said warily, eyeing the nearest bench for seating. "Any progress on the DMSO front?"
"It's there, but - did you take an air sample?"
"Yes, it's - there." Truewell pointed to the right vial, being too busy combing the medical kit for an adjustable strap to continue handling the samples. Will hooked the vial into a free port; there were only two ports left, even with the judicious use of different sample vial sizes. But that was the price to be paid for compactness: he'd just have to send this unit off to be refurbished and grab another one for the next deployment. After all, what's a ten thousand dollar refill between well-funded government agencies?
While the lab did its duty with a steadily shrinking supply of reagents and unspoiled lab chips, Will grabbed a venipuncture kit and crouched next to Truewell. She had used the time to roll up her sleeve and tourniquet her arm; his right hand, bearing a plastic sleeve with a needle, hovered close to the hollow of her elbow.
"You could have tested the air for DMSO first," she said. He sprayed a fine mist of disinfectant onto the skin around the target site and wiped it with a piece of surgical cotton. "That was your theory, you could have proven it with one test."
"This will hurt a little," Will replied, and slowly inserted the needle into her median cubital vein; Truewell didn't flinch. "That would have proven airborne DMSO, but not its connection to the operation of the weapon. If the weapon's mechanism had nothing to do with it, I wouldn't have found out that way. You see, science isn't about proving your wild guesses right. It's about killing your darlings."
He inserted the first vacuum vial into the plastic sleeve; blood flowed into it. A measure of confusion broke through Truewell's professional mask.
"Falsify the null hypothesis," he explained. "Take a big sledgehammer to your assumptions. In my experience, humans crave elegance and simplicity. We look for patterns, narratives, just-so stories and few words that explain many things. Unfortunately -" he switched the vial for a second one - "reality is messy. And more often than not, we guess wrong. The worst thing you can do is to be loyal to an obsolete idea. If it doesn't work, it has to be changed."
Beep. Truewell kept quiet. There was no need to engage William Anthros's thought process all the time, especially not when it took a wrong turn at Albuquerque.
"But then, I don't think I have to lecture you on psychology. Hold this for a moment," Will said, then walked over to the table with the lab. "Positive for DMSO in the air sample. Alright, that just leaves the blood."
"Most people don't like being wrong," Truewell said, reaching for just enough of his words to ground the debate. "They prefer certainty."
"Certainty is an illusion," Will said; he took the second vial of blood out of the sleeve, pushed another piece of cotton onto the puncture site and slowly withdrew the needle. A quick move discarded the one-use device. While he kept the pressure on the small wound, he loosened the tourniquet above Truewell's elbow. "All you can draw from a finite amount of data is a degree of confidence. And it's not like we have to throw away everything every time we're wrong. Usually you find that you were on the right track but off on the details. And you know you are getting closer to the truth. That always cheers me up. Keep your finger on that for a minute."
With a click, the second vial of blood slotted into the last unused port on the lab; Will hammered another analysis sequence into the machine and set the daemons to their task.
"Do you like lecturing people?" Truewell asked.
"Hm? Oh, I guess. I keep doing it, anyway."
"Thinking out loud can be useful," she said. "It forces you to clarify your thoughts into words, and creates some distance that makes it easier to spot flaws in your thinking."
"Same here," Will replied. "Am I being less unbearable now?"
"Yes," Truewell said with a cold smile.
Beep.
"That's funny," Will said. "Positive for DMSO and Mayor-type decayed nanotech. So much for that theory."
"Didn't trigger, either?" Truewell said. "So, if the DMSO is a red herring..."
"I don't think it is. But this doesn't add up. So the reaction doesn't take place in air or water, it needs something in blood and...that's it!"
"You've lost me."
"Don't you see?" Will exclaimed, pointing at the lab in an accusatory motion worthy of Joe McCarthy. "The water sample was right next to where people died, so it must have been viable when it got there. It's changing, Truewell! It doesn't just need blood, or DMSO, or to be fresh, it needs all three!" He spun around to face her, right hand balled into a fist. "It only stays active for...minutes, at best! You blanket the target with the agent, and everything that doesn't get into people's bloodstreams decays after a short time. If the people who are exposed then receive DMSO, the agent reacts and exposes its payload. So we're dealing with...three forms, total. The original, the pre-triggered, and the decayed version. DMSO plus number two means you're dead, otherwise nothing happens. And the pre-trigger has to be something in the blood -"
"So if this can only happen in the first few minutes before the agent decays - then Paradise is safe now."
"Not perfectly," Will said. "The agent might stay viable in certain solutions - it has to be transported somehow without degenerating, if it's not a binary weapon on top of that - that would complicate things, you know?" Truewell nodded absent-mindedly. "What scares me most is how long the agent could stay viable in human blood. If it reacts with something in there to gain its pre-triggered form, then god knows how stable that compound might be...you could be exposed to this and only later come into contact with DMSO, and it would send you into severe organophosphate poisoning on the spot. By the time we breathed Paradise air, the agent had already decayed to its harmless form - the same thing with Mayor Peters. He was there until the ambulance came, so he must have stayed alive long enough to breathe both the original agent and its decayed form." Will took a deep breath. "This is it, Truewell! That's how it has to work! I need to do more tests in a proper lab, as quickly as possible..."
"Hold your horses for a moment, Dr. Anthros. Just one tiny thing I need to know. Does all of that mean we're sure now that it needs airborne DMSO to be used as a weapon of mass destruction?"
"On a short timeframe...yes."
"Thank you," Truewell said.
---
Jaime's bad luck with rooftops continued; while there was no gun-wielding Sara Corvus to consider, the harsh wind squeezed tears into her natural eye. The bionic one, of course, took the onslaught without so much as a blink. Her hair whipped against her face, and even her heavy jacket couldn't help but billow in the strong breeze. Jaime found shelter behind one of the ceiling-mounted air conditioning units and looked at the all too close skyline stretching just ahead of her.
She heard the helicopter before she saw it, coming in from the North. It took her eyes a second to work out the exact contours. It was a sleek machine, long and narrow, with a pronounced nose and clean lines. There was no interior lighting visible from outside the machine, and together with its medium gray paint, that made it all the more difficult to work out where the night sky ended and the helicopter began.
Sikorsky S-76D, the voice helpfully offered. After a moment's hesitation, it continued. Maximum take-off weight 11,700 pounds, maximum speed For a second there I thought you had learned to cut that out.
Your chariot, Madame, Nathan said with a surprisingly uncomical French accent.
The closer the helicopter got, the slower it went; the downwash of the main rotor over the building roof tossed some loose dust at her, and Jaime had a hard time deciding between using her arms to shield her face or her ears. Finally, it was right above her, hovering a few meters over the roof; the cabin door opened, and Jaime bent her knees.
Chalk it up to fortuitous limitations of her raw power, her gaze being locked onto the lower edge of the cabin door or even the system knowing that hitting the main rotor of a medium-size helicopter would have dire consequences (in this case, mostly for the helicopter) - but Jaime's jump took her just high enough to grab onto the edge. The triumph was dulled when the helicopter swayed slightly from the sudden weight increase - enough that her left hand slipped off. For a moment, Jaime's momentum spun her around, and she thought that if she'd have to let go, over the roof would be better than over the street. But her right hand held fast, clamped onto the aircraft's fuselage, and when Jaime found the strength to turn around and try to pull herself up, she found the hand of a black-clad Berkut soldier waiting for hers. Between his efforts and her bionic arm, she was yanked into the helo with a single pull, sprawling her onto the sparse floor between the two rows of seats in the cabin. The door closed behind her, and she felt the machine sway forward to continue its flight. The lights inside the cabin flicked back on.
Wordlessly, the soldier helped her regain her feet and shuffled her into an empty seat. She had enough of her wits about her to strap into the seatbelts and put on the large set of earmuffs dangling from the headrest. The cabin was an upscale one, with upholstered seating and smooth contours over the nastier edges of the structural cage.
"Are you alright?" the soldier spoke, and it reverbed in her headset quite clearly; the microphone arm of her own set sat just above her eyes, and she swiveled it into position with a single twisting motion. "Are you alright?" he repeated.
"I'm fine," Jaime replied.
"Glad to hear it," he said. "You're really taking us for a guided tour of the city's rooftops, aren't you?"
"Rooftops, plural?" She looked around. The voice dutifully recounted names, straining to keep up with her gaze, but none of the faces seemed familiar.
"We extracted you yesterday," the soldier said. Jaime briefly retracted her memories of the day before. Logically, she would have to have flown back in the helicopter after the fight with Corvus, but her memory of that period up until finding herself back in the lab was colored by a certain...non-existence. The film reel went straight from guys in balaclavas to guys in surgical masks. Jaime focused her look long enough on the soldier to listen to the voice in her head. Antoine Ginsburg it said. Jaime ignored the rest.
"Ah," she said, trying to force her face to come up with one of those smile things that seemed to be getting harder by the minute.
"I was the good-looking one," he joked.
"So," Jaime said, letting her gaze wander once more, but slower this time. "What exactly are we going to do?" First up was bald man next to Ginsburg's slender frame, with the kind of maybe-tan, maybe-swarthy skin tone and facial features that made it difficult to tell where, exactly, he was from. Maik Jordan, ex-Navy EOD, the voice commented. I bet he gets a lot of crap over that name, Jaime thought. Beside him sat a sullen-looking filipino man with just a streak of purple in his dark hair. Adolpho Sagabaen, ex-Army, Airborne. Finally, there was the sole soldier sitting on her side of the cabin - Thomas Calavera, ex-Army Hey I recognize that guy.
"Assault," Ginsburg said. "150 Pennsylvania, Central Waterfront. We touch down about a quarter mile away, suit up and cover the rest of the distance on foot. We form up outside and breach. The faster we can take them, the better our chances are."
"Uh, sure," Jaime replied, not sure at all. "- so, er -"
"Yes?"
"I can't believe I'm saying this, but why don't we fly there directly, and then we - uh, we fastrope? Is that it? - we fastrope down and hit them before they have time to set up? I mean, that's what we do in Iraq, right?" After a moment, she added "The faster we can take them, the better our chances are."
"Can you fastrope?" Ginsburg asked with a smile.
"No," Jaime admitted. "I mean, my ex-Boss loves to climb and he wouldn't shut up about it - I could figure out a karabiner."
"You're thinking of rappelling," Ginsburg said. "I'm not letting you do either without a cert from Mr. Kim."
"- or I could just jump out of the chopper." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Calavera wince.
"So, no, we can't do that," Ginsburg said. "The problem is, fastrope insertion into a hot LZ means popping smoke and suppressive fire from the helo. It's fast, but it's not quiet - we're operating right next to the 280, so that would definitely wake up the neighbors. And even if this was Basra, this isn't a Blackhawk: No rope mounts, all our gear is locked in the rear cargo hold, and no mounted machineguns."
"Ah, alright," Jaime said, nodding. "I guess that makes sense. Do you guys do this a lot?"
"Used to," Sagabaen threw in. Jaime gave him another look. "Go somewhere, break down doors, kill people," he continued. "Yeah, a lot of that."
It took Jaime a second to find a response to that.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"For what?" he asked, sounding nonplussed.
"Okay, back to the plan," Ginsburg offered. "We're traveling light, so every bullet has to count. Sage, Jordan, you take the Gs. Cal, you're on point with the Benelli. What's in the treat box?"
"Mark 14," Calavera said.
"That's mine, then," Ginsburg said. "Are you armed, Sommers?"
"Just the pistol," Jaime replied. "But that's plenty."
"Then you take glass and spot for me. After we go in, you're three steps behind me like your life depends on it, got that?"
"Yeah. I got that."
"'cause it does," Ginsburg emphasized. "But don't obsess too much over it, nothing gets fucked without killing the point first."
"Gee, thanks," Calavera said.
"Just saying I care," Ginsburg said and grinned.
Tech Commentary: Chemical Weapons
So, if your only exposure (ha!) to chemical weapons was watching The Rock, you'll have heard about VX being an extremely dangerous agent. Unfortunately, while little green balls of death make for a compelling action movie, it's not a very accurate portrayal of real VX. So, let's start with some of the technical stuff. (I'll try not to upset your stomach too much.)
First of all, VX is a nerve agent. Among chemical weapons, this a fairly prolific group, including the G and V series of agents. Other types of chemical weapons include blood agents, blister agents and pulmonary agents. Each of those groups has a different mode of attack. Blood agents attack on a cellular level and prevent oxygen from reaching the body's cells, leading to a painful death by asphyxiation. The infamous Zyklon-B is a blood agent, as is cyanide. Blister agents attack skin and mucous membranes, leading to severe chemical burns and respiratory damage - mustard gas, as used in the First World War, is the best-known example. Pulmonary agents cause fluid build-up in the lungs of victims and attack the eyes - chlorine and phosgene gas are notable pulmonary agents. Finally, nerve agents - among them VX - attack the body's ability to relax its muscles, rapidly leading to loss of muscle control, breathing distress and violent spasms. As with other agent types, a likely cause of death is suffocation.
VX can be recognized as an oily fluid in its liquid form. It can also be aerosolized as droplets, but due to its low volatility, pools of the liquid do not evaporate readily. This makes VX a sessile weapon that can persist for days or even weeks in an environment, requiring substantial decontamination procedures. VX is further described as taste- and odorless. It is estimated as having a median lethal dose (that is, a concentration high enough to kill half of an experiment's subjects) of about 10 milligrams via skin contact and about 30 to 50 milligram-minutes per cubic meter. That means breathing air with a concentration of, say, 40 milligrams per cubic meter of air builds up a lethal dose within one minute, 20 milligrams in two minutes, 80 milligrams in half a minute and so on. For comparison, a single drop of water weighs about 25 milligrams. It's easy to see how even a single droplets of VX coming into contact with your skin can be very dangerous, indeed. The only consolation I can offer is that, in general, skin-based VX poisoning takes longer before it starts affecting your body; you may have have as many as ten minutes before serious symptoms start manifesting.
So, how does a nerve agent work? Essentially, muscles have receptors for acetylcholine: an important neurotransmitter chemical that activates muscles and causes them to contract. The muscle stays contracted as long as the receptors are activated by acetylcholine. To relax the muscle again, the body uses an enzyme called acetylcholineesterase (AChE), which breaks down the neurotransmitter and "resets" the receptors on the muscle. Nerve agents take out this enzyme. With no working AChE, the muscle can't be returned to its relaxed state. Nerve agents are just a subgroup of different chemicals that are called AChE inhibitors, all of whom can take out AChE, but nerve agents differ from other chemicals in that they are hard to reverse and can take out a lot of AChE in low doses.
The standard treatment for organophosphate poisoning (this includes not only nerve agents specifically, but also organophosphate-based insecticides) is atropine, in itself a dangerous compound that nevertheless is extremely important in several medical applications. Atropine does not reactivate AChE or bind loose organophosphates; instead, it displaces acetylcholine at the receptor level, relaxing muscles and thereby inducing the opposite effect of the nerve agent. The chief difficulty in applying atropine is the short window between exposure to nerve agent and the victim's death (sometimes only a minute, for breathing air with a high concentration of the agent). Also, there are the dangers of an atropine overdose, which - among other things - can lead to rapid heartbeat and ventricular fibrillation. This then requires the application of a defibrillator and restarting the heart - a dicey proposition under the best of circumstances. Additionally, pralidoxime can be given, which does reactivate inhibited AChE. Unlike atropine, pralidoxime is considered a mostly safe drug with no serious side effects, but by itself does not act fast enough to save victims of acute organophosphate poisoning, so the two are usually combined. Further, some militaries have experimented with giving soldiers doses of reversible AChE inhibitors prior to exposure - those afford some protection from nerve agent exposure, though it appears to be more in the "takes longer to kill you" than "makes you shrug off low doses" vein of protection.
To simplify the application of those two important drugs under adverse conditions, many militaries issue an autoinjector, which does not require particular precision or expertise to use. The helper merely holds the autoinjector against the victim's thigh muscle and presses the button, which sends a spring-loaded needle into the victim and injects doses of atropine or pralidoxime. The US military issued the Mark 1 NAAK, which is still widespread and uses separate needles for the two drugs; the newer ATNAA has both drugs in one device, simplifying the process and reducing the potential for user error. They teach that used autoinjectors should have their needle bent and attached to the breast pocket of the victim's clothes to tell medical professionals at a glance how many the victim has received, that the helper should wait for fifteen minutes after the first autoinjector before adding a second dose, and that no more than three autoinjectors should be used in total. Because nerve agents are also absorbed through the skin, it is not only important to remove the victim from airborne concentrations of agents, but also to remove his clothes and use surface decontamination to remove any traces of the agent.
The truly horrifying aspect to chemical weapons is that various militaries have used them all the way throughout the 20th century, and although current reported stockpiles are shrinking as agents are destroyed, the efforts to control and destroy chemical weapons often play second fiddle to stopping nuclear proliferation. (Not that stopping the spread of nuclear warheads isn't important, but they command a lot of public attention out of proportion to their dangers. Just ask the people fighting to ban landmines and cluster munitions.) Unlike biological weapons, which were never controllable and predictable enough to see widespread use in modern combat, chemical weapons are an all too real threat, their manufacture and use honed to a fine art.
If you have never worn a gas mask, I recommend you seek out the experience - if only to access a little bit of what it feels like when the air you're breathing could be trying to kill you.