A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [38]
“I don’t know how much experience you’ve had in a hot zone before,” he said. “This virus is lethal. Aren’t you the least bit curious as to what they’ve thrust you into?”
“No one thrust us into anything,” the soldier to his right said. “We volunteered. Our orders are to shadow you every step you take, and to protect you if anyone tries to … to—”
“Go ahead, say it.”
“To take you out.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll do great in there,” Griff said.
Just as I’m sure you’re not all coming out alive.
Griff pulled the flexible butyl hood over his head. What little vapor condensed on his visor evaporated as soon as he got the PAPR breathing system running. Without a built-in microphone, he had to raise his voice to be clearly heard. Even though the gloves and boots were essentially welded to the suit, he still wrapped his wrists and ankles with tape. None of the soldiers took that added precaution.
“I’m taping up,” he said. “I’d suggest you do the same.”
“Why?” one solider asked.
“To shore up your weak points, that’s why.”
The soldiers stared at him numbly.
“I don’t see any weak points.”
“Wrists and ankles. Look, this virus doesn’t care how careful you think you’re being. It has one mission, just like you do. Its mission is to find a way into your bloodstream, locate the organ it was born to make its home in, and replicate. If it were a perfect organism, it would use you up just enough to keep you and it alive forever. It would be so much easier that way. But this virus isn’t perfect, so it will kill you whether it wants to or not, and in ways you can’t even imagine.”
The soldiers eyed each other. Finally, one nodded. Griff tossed him the roll of duct tape.
“I’m ready when you are,” Griff said.
Minutes later, the seven emerged from the field tent and made their way across the frozen ground toward the visitor center entrance. Spacemen on the move. As always, the suit made Griff feel mildly claustrophobic, despite it being loose-fitting and pliable. He had no doubt that the sensation was brought on in part by the invisible assassins separated from him and unimaginably violent death by only four mils of vinyl.
He scanned the faces of the soldiers flanking him, checking them through their clear plastic visors for signs of distress. Clearly they were tough and focused, but then again, none of them had contracted a Level Four virus like Ebola or WRX3883 before. In all likelihood, that fact would change before too long.
As they walked, Griff could again hear spectators shouting at them, though his hood muffled their voices. Suddenly, he heard the woman’s voice calling his name—once, then again. But before he could locate the source, General Egan emerged from behind an armored troop transport vehicle. He ordered the guards to halt a few feet shy of the portable airlock.
“Sergeant Stafford, you’ll keep me informed of your progress by radio.”
“Yes, sir.”
The husky soldier, who introduced himself to Griff as Sergeant Chad Stafford, draped the bulky radio, tethered to a low-hanging strap, around his neck. Three others were handed M16A4 assault rifles, and two were given high-powered flashlights. Griff noticed that none of them was given a first-aid kit.
“Be sure to leave all this gear inside when you return,” Egan said.
“General,” Griff said, “those weapons will just add to the risk of a suit puncture.”
“With all due respect, Dr. Rhodes, I’ll be the judge of that,” Egan said. “Our orders are to keep an eye on you and a lookout for anyone who might cause you trouble.”
Following the general’s order, two soldiers guarding the airlock entrance stepped aside. Griff paused to make a careful inspection of the hastily built structure. The unit had two distinct parts—the airlock and a connecting tunnel. Both were comprised of vinyl panels set upon heavy-duty integrated aluminum frames that formed a transparent enclosure. The airlock was large enough to accommodate all seven of them. The tunnel, however, which was accessible through a vinyl door inside the airlock,