A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [39]
The airlock met Griff’s standards for safety, but only for a Level 3 or less microbe. Neoprene cell foam gaskets sealed the frame-to-frame connections. Ceiling-mounted HEPA air filters produced the optimum negative pressure airspace. There were three portable chemical showers inside the airlock chamber itself, which they would use to decontaminate before they could exit.
The rudimentary structure, designed to allow entry into the Capitol with the minimal risk of viral escape, was not up to the safety standards of a BSL-4 containment facility. But despite his reservations, Griff knew the setup was better than nothing and best for these circumstances.
Once inside the airlock, he used the gauge he had requested to measure microns of airborne contaminate. As soon as he got three satisfactory readings, he pulled open the door sealing the airlock from the tunnel. On the way out, each of them would be required to take a twenty-minute chemical shower, following which Griff would measure the air quality again. Three more safe readings and he would risk opening the airlock door for them to exit.
Simple enough.
“The visitor center entrance to the Capitol should be unlocked,” Sergeant Stafford yelled. Griff could barely hear over the noise of the ceiling-mounted air purifiers lining the tunnel walkway. “You’ll be met by the president’s personal physician and escorted to President Allaire by his Secret Service people.”
“Roger that,” one solider replied.
The team entered in single file. No one spoke as they passed through the visitor center door. Once inside the Capitol, Griff paused, adjusting his senses to the new environment. All was silent.
Deadly silent.
After a delay of two minutes, a team of four agents appeared—two men and two women. Their expressions suggested they hadn’t been briefed to expect the biocontainment suits. Or maybe it was Griff’s Unibomber appearance.
“Where’s the doctor?” Sergeant Stafford asked.
“Detained. People are starting to get sick. We’ve got medicine and supplies coming in by tram to the House subway station.”
Griff turned to the agent.
“I’ll need access to those tunnels so I can sample the atmosphere. We might have to seal them off. We have no idea about their air flow patterns.”
“What is this virus?” an agent said.
“Nothing good,” Griff answered.
The agents introduced themselves, but Griff paid no attention to their names. Instead he studied them for signs of strain. Then he asked to check their hands. Chen’s test animals had reportedly developed bizarre patterns of redness on their palms as their infections intensified—crimson swirls or concentric, targetlike lesions. Of the four agents, only one of the men, tall and angular, had a slightly increased respiratory rate. He could have been hyperventilating because of the tenseness of their situation, or he could have been incubating virus.
It had been just over ten hours since the initial exposure.
“Why are you wearing jackets?” Griff asked. “It’s hot inside these suits and we have fans going. You guys must be baking.”
“We’re wearing shoulder holsters,” one of the women said. “The people in there are upset enough without having obviously armed guards parading about.”
“What’s the room temperature?”
“No idea, but it’s up there. We just got the AC running again. It already shut down on us once. We’re trying to keep the House Chamber and other rooms cool. Body heat wants to turn the place into a sauna.”
“Well, radio somebody right now and tell them to shut that AC off. It’s bad enough there are openings around every window in this creaky old place. We’re talking viruses here, as in small—unimaginably small for most people. And like I said, we don’t know about airflow or how the germ will spread. Let’s not help it along through the ventilation shafts.”
The Secret Service agent sent the order on via radio, and the biocontainment team and their guides resumed their descent into hell. They crossed a polished marble floor and then headed down a short flight of stairs into