We Were Soldiers

157. Highly Experimental

The entire east wing of the hospital that had once housed Sergeant Barnes during his rocky recovery after falling ill on a mission to Norway had been entirely evacuated, and as she looked down at the comatose figure of Private Morita, Peggy did not think Howard was being overly cautious in this instance.

The private's skin was a sort of white-ish grey, and looked cold and clammy even from a distance. His painfully bloodshot eyes had opened briefly, sending all the doctors in the room into a complete panic, and the lesions that spread over his skin were now starting to ooze. She'd seen dead bodies before, and she'd seen people close to death, but this was the first time she'd seen someone who looked actually dead whilst still being alive. Despite his alleged complaints of cold and the clamminess of his skin, he was running a fever so hot that it was a miracle he hadn't burst into flames already. The poor man must be in agony.

The team of doctors that had been assembled under Howard and Dr Hopkins were working overtime to find a cure, but they were fighting a losing battle. Howard had shipped in what he called an 'EKG', a machine which took up the space of a whole table and monitored Morita's heart rate, and with every passing hour, the beeps were getting slower and slower. Despite that, the four armed MPs standing in the room to watch over things remained vigilant. Howard had told them horror stories about what would happen if Private Morita broke loose, and now they were so jumpy that they'd likely shoot him at the first little muscle twitch.

What had it been like for the Commandos, so far under the ocean, stuck in a U-boat and surrounded by men as sick as—or worse than—Private Morita? The team had done well to come out with only one casualty no matter what Phillips said. The SSR had come dangerously close to losing the entire team, and with them, the funding Phillips so desperately needed to keep the department running.

Of course, Captain America was much more than Steve now. The idea, the concept of the hero would continue even if Steve didn't; almost anybody with the right physique could don the costume and sell war bonds. To the public, it would be the same, but to Peggy, anybody other than Steve would've been a pale imitation of the first and real Captain America. He hadn't wanted the title, but like it or not, it was now his.

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she thought back to their brief reunion yesterday evening. Giving blood had taken a lot out of him, and he looked like he'd gone ten rounds in a boxing ring with someone who punched just as hard as he could. She hadn't meant to take his hand and give his team more incentive to tease him, but she hadn't been able to stop herself. As strong and capable as he was, he still needed that little extra support, and the way he'd gently squeezed her fingers told her that he understood without words exactly what she wanted to say.

How would the team take it if Morita didn't survive? Devastated was the only word she could conjure. Morita was sharp-tongued and witty, well-liked by all the men. He was also generous; he'd been to ask her privately about acquiring a few things for his mom and sister back home… things that he could send back, but which might not reach them if they came from him personally. A package coming straight from the SSR, on the other hand, was far less likely to be intercepted and opened. She'd been only too happy to help.

She would have to find a way to keep them busy. If the worst happened, and Howard couldn't find a cure in time… left to their own devices, most of them would grow maudlin and wallow in sadness. And probably wallow in alcohol, too. Perhaps a training exercise away from London and its pubs and gambling halls. The last thing the SSR needed was its team going off the rails, not when Project Lazarus was so close to fruition.

"See here," said Kaufmann, pointing at something on the blackboard in front of him. He glanced through a microscope on the desk beside him, then nodded. "This protein inhibitor is not working correctly. That is what is causing the lesions."

"The protein inhibitor is a symptom, not a cause," Howard replied.

"I still think the answer is irradiation," said Dr Hopkins. "The virus is so fast-acting and aggressive that treatment must be similarly drastic."

"The virus is already systemic," Kaufmann objected, puffing his chest—and his substantial belly—out. "Irradiation will kill the host before it kills the virus." Howard nodded along.

Agent Pollard took a sidestep towards Peggy, and whispered quietly for her alone. "Colonel Phillips is not going to like this." He nodded to Kaufmann, to make his point clear.

"I know." But there hadn't been anything she could do about it. Whilst she'd nipped out for coffee for the medical team, Howard had made a phone call asking Francis to bring Kaufmann to the hospital with a vial of the serum he'd concocted. Francis, thinking that the request had already been authorised, had obliged. The serum hadn't been mentioned yet—not least because Dr Hopkins was not approved to know about it—but it was going to come up soon. Phillips was on his way. "What's the mood been like, these past couple of weeks?"

"Tense," he admitted. "Kaufmann is pushing hard for human trials. Stark is dragging his feet. He's determined to prove it won't work. I don't think he wants it to work, though I don't know why."

"Howard makes a lot of money developing and selling weapons," she said quietly. "If the serum works… well, in some ways it will make him obsolete. On a level playing field, technological advancement gives the edge. But this serum will mean the playing field isn't level. That it will never be level again."

"That seems a rather selfish outlook, to me."

"Perhaps. But he brought Kaufmann here now, didn't he?" If he could cure Morita with the serum, that would prove that it worked. Sure, it would take away his edge, but it would also save a man's life. Howard did have a heart; it was just buried under quite a lot of money.

The door slamming open announced Colonel Phillips' arrival. He strode in like a bear with a toothache, glanced at Morita, looked at Kaufmann, then turned to Howard. "What's he doing here?"

"Herr Stark asked me to consult," Kaufmann replied in Howard's place. "Your man is in serious condition, and will almost certainly die unless we can come up with a way of combating this infection." He wasn't completely foolish; he didn't outright mention the serum.

The Colonel stared long and hard at Kaufmann. Then, without moving his gaze by even an inch, he said, "Dr Hopkins, I'll need you and your team to give us the room, please."

"But… my patient! This is highly irregular."

"Yes, it is. But it's necessary." He sniffed the air like a dog. "I'm guessing from the fact that I can smell the cold coffee that Agent Carter's brought you from my favourite coffee shop, that you and your team have been working hard through the night. Your effort is appreciated. Take a break, get some fresh air, grab another coffee. We may need your team fresh and alert shortly."

Damn. He knew about where she got the coffee from? Had he had her followed? Or had he visited the café himself and noticed the similarities between what she made for him and what Aggie served? Oh well. At least he never complained about it. Anyway, it didn't matter. Priorities. Private Morita. Kaufmann. The serum. How deeply up shit creek they'd all be if this went wrong.

As soon as Hopkins and his medical team had departed, Phillips dismissed the armed MPs. Stark's eyes widened a little at that, but he didn't object. Kaufmann did not even seem to notice; his staring contest with the colonel was in full swing. Peggy held he breath, and she could tell Francis was doing the same. It was a clash of wills, and Kaufmann knew he had the edge. Phillips was under scrutiny to deliver a working serum. To produce an army of Captain America.

"Stark," the colonel barked at last. "You've had three weeks to go over the data. I've been more than generous in indulging you. Have you found any indication that the serum won't work on a human subject as General Kaufmann has described?"

"No indication that it won't," Howard admitted. "But I can't guarantee that it will. Rats and humans are similar but different. I know this is going to sound uncharacteristically unscientific of me, but we'll just have to try it and hope for the best."

"Hope for the best? Do you have any idea how fast this department will be shut down if our first human trial dies while we're 'hoping for the best'?" Phillips shot back.

"Yes, I do." Howard stepped forward. "Colonel, Private Morita may die if we do this. But he will die if we don't. That much I can guarantee. We've bled Steve almost dry to keep Morita alive up till now; we can't take that much blood from him again without killing him. The longer we leave it, the weaker Morita gets, and the more risky it is. It's now or never."

"Colonel," said Kaufmann. "If it is repercussions you are worried about, then perhaps your report can reflect the outcome. If the private is cured, it is a feather in your cap and more funding for the program. If it does not work… the private is dead anyway. Dr Hopkins has said as much. Perhaps your report need not reflect the steps taken."

"In other words, if it kills him, don't tell my superiors that the serum was a contributing factor," Phillips sighed. "This is not how I'd hoped to test it."

"Needs must, Colonel," said Howard. "There's just one thing we're missing: permission. Normally, this sort of life-threatening clinical trial would require the permission from the patient himself, or his next of kin."

Peggy cleared her throat. "As the team's liaison, and somebody who knows Private Morita well enough to discern his wishes, I can confirm that this potential cure is a path he would wish to pursue." Maybe it was overstepping her bounds, but somebody had to be Jim's voice in this. He still had a family he wanted to take care of. The serum was not a guaranteed cure, but it was a chance. He deserved that much.

"How long did you say the effects will last?" Phillips asked Kaufmann. "Hours? Days?"

"It could be anywhere in between, and may depend on the candidate's individual physiology. But Colonel, that projection was based on the biology of a healthy individual. We may see no other effects in this man than the curing of his illness. At this moment, I would consider even that a win."

Phillips turned to Howard, his shoulders heavy with the weight of the decision that lay upon him. But he didn't hesitate once his mind was made up. "Very well. Let's do it."

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The hospital's waiting room was eerily empty. Normally it would've been filled with friends and family of loved ones, and with daycare patients waiting to be admitted. Now, Peggy was alone. She was the only one here for Private Morita. The only one who could be here. With the ward under strict quarantine, only those with clearance could be permitted, and it was a very short list. Of course, the whole team would've been there if they'd been allowed; they would've camped in the room, if they'd been able. But Project Lazarus was top secret, and that meant it was secret even from Steve and his team.

She hated the secrecy. The lies. That there were certain things she couldn't speak to Steve about. He was so open, so honest, so… Steve. It wasn't fair. He should've been made aware of this project from the start. After all, it was a vial of his blood that had kick-started the whole thing. He was the reason Project Lazarus existed. And also the reason it had to exist. If it wasn't for him, for his success, Abraham Erskine would still be alive.

It was a terrible thing to think, and she knew it. America had gained a hero, and the price of that had been the life of her friend. But it also wasn't a fair trade. She would've taken Steve as he was. The little man with the big heart. The qualities she most admired in him could not be measured in terms of muscles and strength, but in those things which were intrinsically impossible to measure. Bravery. Conviction. Courage. It was easy to stand up and say 'no', to do what you thought was right, when you were strong. But true strength came from standing by your ideals knowing that you might be hurt in the process. And that was the Steve who had first caught her attention a year ago.

The door to the waiting room opened and Francis came in carrying two cups of coffee. He handed one to her as he took the seat beside her. "Sorry it's not as good as the stuff you get; this is just what was lying around in the hospital's kitchen. I would've made tea, but I thought we could all do with something a little stronger right now."

She accepted the cup with a grateful smile. "Thank you. Coffee is exactly what I need right now." She sipped it, letting the bitter-sweet taste caress her tongue. "Have you heard anything?"

Francis offered her a tight-lipped smile. "A lot of screaming. I think… this serum is hard on a healthy person, and Private Morita is not a healthy person right now. You know, I hadn't fully realised how hard it would be. The transformation… I just assumed it would be like something out of a book. A normal man one minute, and the next, a muscle-bound hero. I hadn't considered the toll it would take on the body to get from here to there. Whoever they choose as their first real 'candidate'… he's in for a world full of pain, isn't he?"

Peggy nodded. Francis had seen right to the heart of it. Steve's transformation had been painful but permanent. Sergeant Barnes… Howard suspected Schmidt had been trying to develop his own serum, based on what he could extract from his blood. Sergeant Barnes had been a step on that path. The thirty-sixth step, if his memory could be believed. The pain and suffering he had endured was evidence that some transformative force was at work, but Howard was adamant that what Schmidt had been trying to do was imperfect. That he hadn't gotten the serum right, leaving Sergeant Barnes in a sort of physiological limbo. He wasn't a match for Captain America, but he was a little more than human. Thank God they'd managed to get him away from Schmidt and Zola before they could inflict any further experimentation upon him.

The formula that Kaufmann and his men had come up with, however… it was a bridge. An almost perfect replica of Abraham's work, but without permanency. Whoever took this serum would feel like he was on top of the world for as long as he continued to take it. But when the effects wore off… was it possible for a man to live as a god, and then return to a mortal existence? Would the pain be the worst aspect, or the knowledge that something greater had been taken from him? It was a loss she was not sure many could endure. Like the loss of a limb, it might be too greatly missed.

"I've been meaning to ask," she said, "how are your parents?"

As the youngest of six children, his parents had been in their mid-forties when he'd been born; their mid-fifties when he'd been ten, and their mid-sixties by the time he was twenty. Now he was thirty, and his parents had lived the best part of their lives. It was a reminder of all she had to be grateful for. That her parents were still relatively young. That her brother was safely home and recovering from his ordeal. That no matter how bad she thought she had it, somebody else had it worse.

"They're doing well enough," he replied. "Father's coping so far with the cancer, and mother puts on a brave face. I'm glad I work so close to home, and that Mary and Susan can spend so much time looking after them." His sisters were quite a bit older than he was, with families of their own to take care of. "What about you? How's your family holding up?"

"They're well, thank you." Her only real problem right now was Michael. It seemed he'd adopted a denial approach to dealing with Antje's response to his proposal. He was convinced she just needed time. And maybe he was right. Maybe time would be the panacea for her worried heart. Sergeant Barnes had been very gracious in his response. More gracious than she would've thought him capable, really. In truth, she'd half expected him to leap at the opportunity to ask Antje out for a date, so maybe he really did have her best interests at heart.

Maybe Sergeant Wells' return would not be such a bad thing. Although she disapproved of him in general, he might prove an adequate distraction for Sergeant Barnes if Jim did not pull through his illness. He would undoubtedly encourage drinking and gambling and carousing, which might be enough to keep Barnes from sinking into the same depression that had overtaken him so many times in the past.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Francis offered.

"Just thinking about Private Morita, and his chance of pulling through," she replied. Of course, if Sergeant Wells encouraged too much drinking and gambling and carousing, she might need to inform Steve regardless of her prior promise. They couldn't afford for Sergeant Barnes to go off the rails again. Not when so many important missions lay ahead.

"I really hope this works," Francis agreed. "Not just for Private Morita. Imagine, if we can have a working serum, then this war may be over by the end of the year."

Yes, but at what cost? She had already lost one friend. What else might she lose if Kaufmann's serum became a reality?

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"Hold him down!" Howard instructed. The MPs who'd been brought back into the treatment room as soon as the serum had been injected leapt to obey, throwing themselves across the private thrashing wildly on the hospital bed. He hadn't expected such a violent and immediate reaction. In his mind's eye, the treatment had been a gradual process, allowing him time to take and analyse blood samples. Not this mad, frantic rush of altered biochemistry that had Private Morita twisting and groaning on the bed as if his limbs were being stretched and contorted out of place. The bloody foam around his mouth was another bad sign.

"What the hell's going on, Stark?" Phillips demanded.

Howard ground his teeth. How the hell should he know? This was pretty much all guess work, now. When Abraham Erskine had created his super-soldier serum, it had been a thing of beauty and grace, the transformation controlled by the introduction of Vita Radiation. What Kaufmann and his team had come up with was a sledgehammer to Erskine's surgical knife. A fast and brutal upheaval of a candidate's physiology. There was nothing graceful or subtle about it.

"RAAAAAARGH!" Private Morita's eyes flew open as he let out a guttural cry and strained against both his restraints and the MPs holding him down. The most frightening thing wasn't the Private's response to the treatment; it was that Howard still had no idea how this virus even worked. Whatever it was, this thing Schmidt had created, it was terrifying in its speed and efficiency. And although he was able to appreciate it from a purely scientific point of view, the thought of it being unleashed upon the world made him nauseous. This sickness could not be allowed to spread. If Morita didn't make it, they would have to burn his body and as much of what he had come into contact with as humanly possible.

If only he knew what effect the serum was having on the private! Was it curing him, or making him sicker? Helping him, or hurting him? Were his vitals stabilising, or spiraling out of control? He hated being beaten, and he liked even less having to admit defeat. But this cure was a chance in a million. A Hail Mary that might not have any hail left in it. And as much as he wanted to be able to save Morita… what if he couldn't? What if he had to go to Steve, look him in the eye, and admit that Schmidt had out-smarted him? How could he ever expect Steve and the rest of the team to trust him to do right by them after that?

"We should give him a shot of adrenaline!" said Kaufmann, shouting to make himself heard above Morita's screams. "His heart may give out, if this continues!"

"Alright," Howard agreed. At this point, pretty much nothing could make the private any worse than he already was. "Let's start with a mid-range dose." Medicine wasn't his expertise, but he was proficient enough at chemistry to understand the basics. And really, any biology worth knowing was just organic chemistry. The rest was just needles and coughing on command.

He grabbed a syringe and drew enough adrenaline to affect a man half again Morita's size, then instructed the MPs to hold him steady. Finding a vein wasn't hard; every vein on his body seemed to be standing out right now. He selected one on the arm, and stuck him quickly with the needle, injecting the full contents before Morita could flail again and snap the damn thing clean off.

Within a minute, the flailing had ceased. After another minute, the pained moans died away, and Morita grew still. The MPs released him and backed away, while Colonel Phillips took a step forward. And still, Morita did not move.

"What happened?" Phillips asked at last. "Did it work? Is he alive?"

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"Surely we should've heard something by now," Peggy said. She'd been pacing the hospital waiting room so long that she'd damn near worn a hole in the tiled floor. At this rate she might hit Australia by Christmas.

"Give them time," said Francis. "I don't think this is something we can afford to rush."

"But it's been an hour!" And he was right, of course. But she was so used to being the stoic and reasonable one that, just this once, she wanted to give voice to her impatience.

"Sit," Francis instructed. "Hospital floors don't come cheap, you know."

She sank reluctantly down next to him, afraid to give form to her innermost fears. But if there was anyone she could confide in, other than Michael, it was Francis. "I don't want to have to tell Steve that his friend died on that table."

He reached out to take her hand and squeeze it gently. "Nobody wants that responsibility. But if that is the the outcome, and somebody has to tell him, I know you are the best one to do it. Not because you're the team's liaison, or because you're a woman, but because he will take comfort from your strength."

"Thank you. For never doubting me, even when I've given you every reason to."

"Peggy, I never doubt you because you've never given me a reason to," he said. "You always follow your heart, and I know that it's a good one."

"I appreciate that. Truly."

She stood and resumed pacing. It wasn't constructive, but if the choice between actively pacing and passively sitting and waiting, she could never choose to be passive. The need to do something, even something as pointless as walk up and down, was real.

As she walked, she played the conversation out over and over again inside her mind. How she'd approach Steve. He'd know as soon as he saw her what the news would be. She wasn't very good at hiding her pain, so he'd read it on her face before she even opened her mouth. He might ask, "What happened?" or maybe "Was it peaceful?" Of course, she couldn't lie to him. Could she put a positive spin on it? He's no longer in pain. Or He's at peace, now. Problem was, she wasn't so sure how much she believed those platitudes herself. They were words to comfort the living, and were of no use to the dead. But Steve wouldn't want to be comforted like that. Maybe he wouldn't want to be comforted at all.

Would he cry? She hoped he would. Not because she wanted to see him in pain, but because she hoped he could be open enough with her to let her see the pain. The last thing she wanted was somebody stoically trying to hide it all, to put on a brave face, to pretend it didn't exist. Somebody very much like her, really. And that brave face was good enough for the rest of the world; let everybody else see it. But not him. She wanted him to let her see his pain, share it, and help to heal it. That was the true meaning of love, wasn't it?

The door opened and Phillips stepped out. He seemed to have aged a year in the past hour, his craggy face as unreadable as ever.

"Colonel, what's happened?" she asked immediately. Francis was on his feet only a hair's breadth behind her.

"The serum seems to have worked," Phillips replied.

A tidal wave of relief washed over her. Thank God. "Private Morita is cured?"

"Stark's running the fresh blood samples now, but initial indications seem to be that the virus has been stopped completely." She saw the but coming before he even said it. "But Morita isn't out of the woods just yet. He was very sick, and the serum has taken its toll as well."

"Have there been any side effects?" Francis asked. "I know Kaufmann's team was concerned about how easily a body could adapt to rapid muscle gain and loss. Some of the rats went into shock, when they stopped administering the serum."

"So far it seems that the serum has had no greater effect than to neutralise the virus." Phillips seemed pleased about that. Of course, if he had to go back to the men who held the SSR's purse strings and tell them that their new Captain America would be a Japanese man from Fresno, they wouldn't be happy. "Kaufmann believes that the serum couldn't do any more than it has because of the level of viral activity in Morita's body. That merely negating that illness used all of it up. Which is probably a good thing, because I don't think the private could've withstood a full transformation in his state. As it is, the last remnants of the serum seem to be boosting his immune function and metabolism, so he's going to be on a drip for a day, then Stark will wean him onto solids."

"That's such a relief," she said. "I know Captain Rogers and the rest of the team will be thrilled to hear Private Morita has pulled through. Can I go and deliver the good news, or am I needed further here?"

"Please do go and deliver the news," Phillips said wryly. "It'll stop Rogers from calling my office from his hotel every hour to ask for updates. You can let them know that once Morita's awake, he can have guests—but only two at a time."

"I'll pass that on."

"One more thing." The grim tone in his voice sent a chill down her spine. "The virus is not yet completely gone. It still exists in a blood sample that Stark took from Private Morita, before he began treatment."

"Then toss it in the furnace and have done with it," Francis said. "From everything I've been told, this virus could be a new Black Death. Worse, even."

"If it were my call, I'd have tossed it in there already." Another but was coming, and this did not sound promising. "But the brass are worried that Schmidt might actually use what he's created, and they want to keep working on a cure for it. A real cure, one that can be administered to any civilian who might become infected. To that end, they've informed me that they've created a top-secret facility at which this, and any other dangerous Hydra-related technologies we come across during the course of our hunt for Schmidt, can be safely isolated and studied without risking exposure to the rest of the world."

"That doesn't sound like somewhere Howard would willingly choose to work," she said. Such a facility would have to be remote, and Howard liked cars, women and money too much to dedicate himself to something like that.

"As of right now, you two are the only other people in this city who even know about it, and I'm only telling you in case something happens to me. When I say top-secret, I mean top secret. Top-level. They'll draft in scientists to study whatever we find, experts in their fields. Whatever Stark doesn't have the time or expertise to study in detail will go to them, and this virus is the first thing going there. Personally, I hope they put it in a little box and lock it away somewhere that it'll never again see the light of day."

"I share that hope," said Francis, and Peggy nodded her agreement.

"If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll go and deliver that good news to the team now. I know they could use it." She paused at the door to the hospital corridor, and turned back to address the colonel. "Sir, can I ask if this top-secret facility has an official name yet?"

"That it does," said Phillips. "They're calling it The Fridge."