The Genesis Plague - Michael Byrnes [84]
Not the flu? How could it not be the flu? Or perhaps, not the common flu, he’d thought dreadingly. That prompted him to unpack a second test kit recently made standard equipment for combat medics to simultaneously detect H5N1 avian flu and H1N1 swine flu. With a sterile swab stick pinched between the fingers of his right hand and a fresh test tube in his left hand, he slunk over to Al-Zahrani’s bedside and inserted the swab’s foam tip one inch into the patient’s runny nose.
Crawford paused and cocked his head sideways disdainfully. ‘Couldn’t pick his nose right the first time, Corporal?’
‘Just need to run another quick test.’ He twirled the swab tip around Al-Zahrani’s nostril, pulled it out, and dropped it into the reagent solution that filled the bottom of the glass test tube. ‘There. All done.’ He retreated quickly and Crawford huffed before continuing on with his questioning.
Sitting at his makeshift lab table, Levin twirled the swab stick in the solution and pulled it out. Then he slid the coated test strip that came with the kit into the solution. The results would take ten minutes, so he noted the current time on his wrist-watch.
His left leg bouncing nervously up and down, Levin tried to focus on Crawford to alleviate his mounting anxiety. It seemed that Crawford was brushing away the concerns of everyone around him, including Jason Yaeger. After the tense exchange Levin had witnessed earlier, Crawford still hadn’t called for the backup platoons Yaeger had sensibly demanded. If Yaeger hadn’t been successful in breaking Crawford’s blind stubbornness, Levin had little hope that the colonel would heed a request to have Al-Zahrani airlifted to the nearest hospital for proper treatment, which was what Levin’s gut was telling him the situation might warrant.
He peeked down at the test strip, saw nothing. Checked his watch - five minutes left. He shifted his gaze back to Crawford.
Normally Crawford was cool and collected - a proven leader who performed best under pressure; a guy whose impressive career had placed him on every battlefront in the Middle East over the past two decades. Crawford’s ostensibly prophetic insight into the mind of Islamic terrorists made him an indispensable asset in Iraq. But everything Levin had witnessed thus far today was completely out of synch with the colonel he’d thought he knew. Crawford’s behaviour seemed borderline schizophrenic. Even now he seemed in denial as he persisted in interrogating a man who was barely coherent.
Levin passed his clinical eyes over Al-Zahrani again. Ethical concerns aside, he would prefer nothing more than to disregard Hippocrates’ primary directive, ‘above all, do no harm’, and personally see to it that this most undesirable patient slowly choke to death on his own sputum.
Above all, however, Levin wanted to avoid at all costs Al-Zahrani unleashing a viral Trojan Horse on the platoon. The battlefield was a cesspool of bacteria. Even with decades of technological advances in trauma care, modern warfare was still plagued by more casualties associated with biological infection than friendly fire and hostile gunfire combined. Though troops lived in close quarters to promote comradeship, that thoughtful arrangement also provided a perfect breeding ground for communicable diseases. Particularly since the troops didn’t enjoy the luxury of daily showers or clean toilets.
With a steady flow of US troops moving back and forth between the Middle East and domestic military bases, the Department of Defense had gotten very aggressive in containing even the smallest of outbreaks. Prophylactic treatments for contagions ranging from flu to anthrax were mandatory for all troops deploying to the Middle East - six inoculations over an eighteen-month period, followed by annual booster shots. Yet these measures were far from