Executive orders - Tom Clancy [484]
Next, he opened the manila folder with the secret-tape borders on it. This document, he saw, was pretty old.
Bastards, POTUS whispered.
They really did it to themselves this time, Cathy said, reading her own paper.
No, SWORDSMAN replied. China.
IT WASN'T AN epidemic yet, because nobody knew about it. Doctors were already reacting in surprise to telephone calls. Excited, if not frantic, calls to answering services had already awakened over twenty of them across the country. Bloody vomit and diarrhea were reported in every case, but only one to a customer, and there were various medical problems that could explain that. Bleeding ulcers, for example, and many of the calls came from businesspeople for whom stress came with the tie and white shirt. Most were told to drive to the nearest hospital's emergency room, and in nearly all cases the doctor got dressed to meet his or her patient there, or to have a trusted associate do so. Some were instructed to be at the office first thing, usually between eight and nine in the morning, to be the first patient of the day and thus not interfere with the daily schedule.
GUS LORENZ HADN'T felt like being in his office alone, and had called in a few senior staff members to join him at his computer. They noted that his pipe was lit when they came in. One of them might have objected-it was contrary to federal regulations-but she stopped short, looking at the image on the screen.
Where's this one from? the epidemiologist asked.
Chicago.
Our Chicago?
PIERRE ALEXANDRE ARRIVED at his office on the eleventh floor of the Ross Building just before eight. His morning routine began with checking his fax machine. Attending physicians with AIDS cases regularly sent him patient information that way. It allowed him to monitor a large number of patients, both to advise treatment options and to increase his own knowledge base. There was only one fax this morning, and it was relatively good news. Merck had just fielded a new drug which the PDA was fast-tracking into clinical trials, and a friend of his at Penn State was reporting some interesting results. That's when his phone rang.
Dr. Alexandre.
This is the ER, sir. Could you come down here? I got a patient here, Caucasian male, thirty-seven. High fever, internal bleeding. I don't know what this is-I mean, the resident said, I mean, I know what it looks like, but-
Give me five minutes.
Yes, sir, she acknowledged.
The internist/virologist/molecular biologist donned his starched lab coat, buttoned it, and headed down toward the emergency room, which was in a separate building on the sprawling Hopkins campus. Even in the military, he'd dressed the same way. The Doctor Look, he called it. Stethoscope in the right-side pocket. Name embroidered onto the left side. A calm expression on his face as he walked into the largely idle ER. Nighttime was the busy period here. There she was, cute as a button putting on a surgical mask, he saw. What could be all that wrong this early on a spring day?
Good morning, Doctor, he said, in his most charming Creole accent. What seems to be the problem? She handed him the chart and started talking while he read.
His wife brought him in. High fever, some disorientation, BP is low, probable internal bleed, bloody vomit and stool. And there are some marks on his face, she reported. And I'm not sure enough to say.
Okay, let's take a look. She sounded like a promising young doc, Alexandre thought pleasantly. She knew what she didn't know, and she'd called for consultation but why not one of the internal-medicine guys? The former colonel asked himself, taking another look at her face. He put on mask and gloves and walked past the isolation curtain.
Good morning, I'm Dr. Alexandre, he said to the patient. The man's eyes were listless, but it was the marks on his cheeks that made Alexandre's breath stop. It was George Westphal's face, come back from more than a decade in Alex's past.
How did he get here?
His personal physician told his wife to drive