While he tried to calm himself, Shannon forced his mind to think more clearly. Still not fully awake, he reached for the phone. The line was dead. The short hairs on the back of his neck began to rise. He sat up, turned on the night-light, and momentarily lost his balance when the ship lurched to one side and then righted herself.
His hands trembling, Shannon quickly pulled on a pair of trousers and donned a sport shirt. He hesitated a moment and then gingerly opened the door to his suite. As he stepped into the deserted passageway, Shannon felt a wave of panic sweep over him. His security guard was on his hands and knees, barely able to move.
Shannon's own forehead was damp and his breathing was shallow and ragged. What's happening? He walked to the nearby elevators and stabbed the buttons several times. They were not working. Shannon backed against a bulkhead, afraid to move, afraid of the unknown. His mind was trying to sort through the various possibilities. Why was the phone dead and why were the elevators not operating? Nothing made sense, especially the rough ride and the sudden increase in speed. Someone needs to tell us what's going on.
Shannon turned toward the stairway and froze in mid-stride when he saw a familiar couple staggering up the steps. Nerve agents. Omigod. In shock, the revelation hit him a second before the disheveled man spoke.
"Don't go down there," the man said, and coughed several times. He was having difficulty breathing and his wife was suffering convulsions. "Everyone below this deck is dead or dying," he said, in a weak, whispery voice. "We have to get fresh air." His wife suddenly passed out and the man collapsed to his knees.
Reeling from adrenaline shock and absolute panic, Secretary Shannon raced forward in the passageway leading to the Queen Anne Suite and the Queen Victoria Suite. They were locked.
Shannon had no way of knowing the former occupants were dead or dying by their own hand in the machinery spaces and on the bridge of the ship. He pounded on the door and no one answered. He had to get in and break the windows. Maybe the fresh sea air blowing through the suite and down the passageway would save him.
He was kicking in the door of the Queen Anne Suite when a member of his staff opened his door.
"Brett, what s going on?"
"WeVe been gassed. Get everyone up!"
"What?"
"Just do it, George! The ship is filling with nerve gas!"
"Oh, God, no."
Other people began poking their heads out, wondering what the racket was about. Many wondered why the ship was plowing through rough waves and going so fast. Their surprised looks turned to fear when most sensed a serious emergency.
Five more kicks and Shannon was inside the elaborate suite. But something was wrong. His production of saliva suddenly increased and his nose began to run. He felt a tremendous pressure on his chest, making it difficult to breathe. Tripping over a small table, he fell sideways, landing heavily on his right arm.
When he struggled to get up, Shannon felt pain in his eyes when he attempted to focus across the room. Seconds later a headache developed and his head began to throb. He felt tired and his tongue was thick. Random thoughts began flashing through his mind, adding more confusion to his inability to concentrate.
George hurried into the suite and knelt beside him, but Shannons staff member was himself experiencing the initial symptoms of the nerve agent.
"Geor, you hafa help me."
"I cant do anything — cant do…" George stared at his boss for a few moments and then awkwardly sat down next to him. He was familiar with the autoinjectors containing the combined antidotes HI-6 and atropine, but it was too late for that remedy. The fast-acting sarin had already killed most of the passengers.
Shannon began hallucinating. His staff member looked like a multi-eyed creature that had come to kill him. "Get away from — get back aw way—"
"Okay."
Shannon experienced extreme nausea and coughed twice before paralysis claimed his respiratory muscles. Seconds later, his central nervous system ceased functioning and he died of suffocation. George remained by his side, awaiting his own death. Through teary eyes, he folded his hands and began praying for his family.
The lone survivors of the attack were a doctor and his bride near the bow of the QM2. They had decided to take a stroll after finishing their room service breakfast at 2:45 A. M. The newlyweds remained at the bow after they observed scores of people pouring out on the decks, yelling for help.
While the ship was accelerating, the couple watched more than three dozen passengers stumble out of hatches leading to the bow. All of them fell and crawled until their last death rattle. The honeymoon couple surmised what had happened, but they were powerless to help the dying victims.
The frightened pair were soaking wet from the cold spray coming over the bow, but neither of them budged. Entering the ship would mean certain death, obviously a cruel and agonizing one. Suffering from the first stages of hypothermia, the newlyweds knew they were in for the ride of their young lives.
Fast asleep in Prosts guest quarters, Jackie and Scott were startled awake by the loud thrashing of helicopter rotor blades. Scott reached for the small lamp on the nightstand between their queen beds. Something must be wrong. Unfamiliar with his surroundings, he fumbled for the switch, turned on the light, and picked up his wristwatch. "It s almost four-fifteen. What the hell is going on?"
Jackie tossed her covers aside and sat up. "There's some kind of problem."
They crawled out of their beds and went to the window facing the dimly lit helicopter pad. A VH-60 Sikorsky Black Hawk from marine corps squadron HMX-1 was gently settling on its landing gear.
"It s a marine white top," Scott said.
"Not a good omen at this time of morning."
The VIP helicopter was on the ground less than twenty seconds when Hartwell Prost appeared out of the shadows and got on board. The power came up and the VH-60 leaped into the air, turned on its axis, and headed in the direction of the capital.
"We better get dressed," Scott suggested. There was a knock on the door. "I'll get it."
Zachary, his usual smile absent, was standing outside. "I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Dalton, but there's been an emergency What it is, I don't know, but Mr. Prost would like you and Miss Sullivan to make yourselves at home here until he can contact you."
"Okay." Scott darted a look at Jackie and then eyed Zachary. "Do you know where he went?"
"Yes, sir. He was called to the White House."
"Thanks, Zachary"
"Yes, sir." The butler saw the kitchen lights flick on and knew Molly would have fresh coffee brewing in a matter of minutes. "Would you and Miss Sullivan care to have breakfast?"
Scott looked at Jackie.
"Just coffee and juice for me," she said.
"Same here." Scott rubbed his eyes. "Well be up in a few minutes."
"Yes, sir. We'll have it ready."
As Zachary turned to leave, Scott closed the door, turned on the television, and adjusted the volume. "Better see if we have any breaking news."
Jackie covered her mouth and yawned. "Let's get dressed and go have coffee."
Minutes before the secretary of defense arrived at the Oval Office, President Cord Macklin was awakened. He was told about the perilous situation aboard the Queen Mary 2. A dying passenger managed to use his satellite phone to call the coast guard and report the emergency The man explained that hundreds of passengers and crew members were afflicted by a suspected chemical or biological agent. He also mentioned the ship was traveling at a high rate of speed.
After that, his speech became slurred, followed by a spate of coughing and then silence.
Macklin put on fresh khaki slacks and a golf shirt, combed his hair, and headed straight for the Oval Office. His face was pale when he walked into the brightly lighted room. uHave a seat, gentlemen."