Executive orders - Tom Clancy [479]
That's Ebola, Dr. Quinn said, adding, That's not possible.
How thorough was your physical examination? the senior man asked again.
Could have been better, but-no bite marks, no needle marks. Mark, it's Chicago. I had frost on my windshield the other day.
Professor Klein pressed his hands together, and pushed his gloved fingers up against his nose. Then he stopped the gesture when he realized that he was still wearing a surgical mask. Keys in her purse?
Yes, sir.
First, we have cops around the ER. Get one, tell him we need a police escort to go to her apartment and allow us to look around. Tell him this woman's life is in danger. Maybe she's got a pet, a tropical plant, something. We have the name of her physician. Get him up, get him in here. We need to find out what he knows about her.
Treatment?
We cool her down, we keep her hydrated, we medicate for pain, but there isn't anything that really works on this.
Rousseau in Paris has tried interferon and a few other things, but no luck so far. He frowned at the display again. How'd she get it? How the hell did she contract this little bastard?
CDC?
You get the cop up here. I'll get a fax off to Gus Lorenz. Klein checked his watch. Damn.
THE PREDATOR DRONES were back in Saudi, having never been discovered. It was felt that having them circle over a stationary position, like a divisional encampment, was a little too dangerous, however, and now the overhead work was being done by satellites, whose photos downloaded to the National Reconnaissance Office.
Check this out, one of the night crew said to the guy at the next workstation. What are these?
The tanks of the UIR Immortals division were grouped in what was essentially a large parking lot, all evenly spaced in long, regular lines so that they could be counted-a stolen tank with a full basic load of shells was a dangerous thing to have on the loose, and all armies took security of the tank laagers seriously. It also made things more convenient for the maintenance personnel to have them all together. Now they were all back, and men were swarming over the tanks and other fighting vehicles, doing the normal maintenance that followed a major exercise. In front of every tank in the first row were two dark lines, each about a meter across, and ten meters long. The man on the screen was ex-Air Force, and more expert on airplanes than land-combat vehicles.
His neighbor only needed one look. Tracks.
What?
They're rotating the tires, like. Tracks wear out, and you put new ones on. The old ones go into the shop to be worked on, replacing pads and stuff, the former soldier explained. It's no big deal.
Closer examination showed how it was done. The new tracks were laid in front of the old ones. The old ones were then disconnected, and attached to the new, and the tank, its motor running, simply drove forward, the sprocket wheel pulling the new track in place over the road wheels. It required several men and was hot, heavy work, but it could be done by a well-trained tank crew in about an hour under ideal conditions, which, the ex-soldier explained, these were. Essentially, the tank drove onto the new tracks.
I never knew how they did that.
Beats having to jack the sumbitch off the ground.
What's a track good for?
On one of these, cross-country in a desert? Oh, call it a thousand miles, maybe a little less.
SURE ENOUGH, THE two couches in Air Force One's forward cabin folded out to make beds. After dismissing his staff, Ryan hung up his clothes and lay down. Clean sheets and everything, and he was weary enough that he didn't mind being on an airplane. Flight time to Washington was four and a half hours, and then he'd be able to sleep some more in his own bed. Unlike normal red-eye travelers, he might even be able to do some useful work the next day.
In the big cabin, aft, the reporters were doing the same, having decided to leave the issue of Plumber's astounding revelation to the next day. They had no choice in the matter; a story of this magnitude was handled at least at the assistant