So far, there had been three fatalities on the summit: a male Japanese botanist, a female Scandinavian zoologist and a female American intern. But the illness had spread quickly through the camp’s population.
The first symptoms were stomach cramps, headaches, vomiting and diarrhoea, followed by severe skin irritations which on many of those infected had quickly developed into painful ulcerations. Several reports also mentioned hair loss as a symptom which had raised concerns in Langley about some sort of radiological exposure. The impromptu medical team on the summit, however, had used Geiger-counters and radiation detectors to ensure this was not the case. Also, he had since read the medical report on the German woman who had been evacuated several days earlier.
John Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore had diagnosed Karen Weingarten as suffering from a rare and extremely aggressive strain of leptospirosis or Weil’s Disease. Apparently, the condition was caused by coming into contact with water contaminated by animal urine and caused fever and severe flu-like symptoms along with skin irritation. The strain the expedition was suffering from was far more aggressive, exaggerating all of those symptoms, to the point of death. While minor cases could be treated with strong antibiotics, severe cases, like most of those on Sarisariñama, required dialysis. It was therefore imperative that the sick scientists received medical help as soon as possible and, to do that, Langley would have to pull in a few personal favours of his own.
He finished explaining the situation to the president and sat back, trying to look relaxed.
Before a bullet to the knee cap had brought a sudden end to his military career four years earlier, Langley had been the rising star of D.C. But the scandal that had surrounded his injury had almost crushed him. Nevertheless, for a man who had fought enemies with guns, the slimy agents of Capitol Hill weren’t going to keep him down. He had manipulated his way into the U.S. seat on the Security Council and since then had fought enemies far more cunning than Taliban fighters.
He knew when something was ‘up’ and, expecting the president’s detached query of ‘what can we do about it?’ and instead being met by awkward silence, he knew that something was most certainly ‘up’.
“Mister President,” he said. “There are American citizens on that mountain. And unless we act now to get them the medical attention they need, they are going to die.”
Langley watched the president’s eyes flick towards Jason Briggs. The CIA Director subtly nodded his head. The Sec Def did the same.
Harper took a breath then rose to his feet, straightening his grey suit jacket. “We’re already well aware of the situation developing on Sarisariñama.” He looked significantly at Langley. “More aware than you, I dare say, Alex.”
This didn’t come as a major surprise. As American citizens were involved, he knew the president would have been keeping apprised of the situation. But, once again he wondered what the Secretary of Defense and the head of the Central Intelligence Agency had to do with a group of sick scientists.
“We already have a team en-route to the base,” Briggs spoke up. “But there is much more at stake than a handful of American lives.”
Langley frowned. What was he talking about? He looked again at Harper and noticed how grave his expression was.
“A Special Forces team should be arriving inside of three hours,” the president continued. “And an emergency medical evac is being arranged, but I’m sorry to say that the lives of those scientists are a secondary concern.”
“Secondary?”
“Alex, I agreed to this meeting because I need something from you.”
“Sir?”
Harper’s eyes bored into his own. “I need you to convene the Security Council. I need you, and the U.N., to help prevent the secret of Sarisariñama from falling into the hands of those who would use it against us.”
Langley’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “What secret, Mister President?”
7:
The Demons of Sarisariñama
“Your people are suffering from a rare strain of the leptospirosis virus.”
Benjamin King listened to the voice emanating from the sat-phone’s speaker. He had identified himself as Rudolph Nebrinkski, one of the Assistant-Directors of UNESCO’s World Heritage Committee and the man directly in charge of the Sarisariñama Expedition.
He stood inside one of the labs and struggled to hear the crackling words over the thunderous pounding of giant raindrops against the canvas. The storm which had broken had only soured the expedition’s morale further. Three were dead, another seven were in a critical condition and everyone else was suffering from the illness to one extent or another, showing symptoms of vomiting, diarrhoea or the angry skin irritation.
Everyone except himself and Nathan Raine.
In the hours since the horrific discovery of the affliction on the summit, neither man had demonstrated any symptoms. The only one hundred per-cent fit-and-able bodies on the mountain, they had been press-ganged into becoming Nadia Yashina’s reluctant nurses.
The Russian woman’s previous studies in medicine and her current application of osteoarchaeology made her the most logical candidate to tend to the sick, despite her lack of bedside manner. She had set up an impromptu hospital in the mess tent, dividing her patients into categories depending upon the severity of their illness. Nevertheless, she was the first to admit that her studies in medicine were purely from an academic point of view and she had no practical knowledge of how to tend to so many sick and dying patients.
They needed help. And they needed it fast.
“Is it connected to Karen Weingarten?” Sid asked. King glanced at her, concerned. Her normally olive complexion had turned sickly and pale. He knew she had vomited on several occasions and even now she was scratching the skin irritation that had appeared on her left hand. Nevertheless, she had insisted on listening in to the briefing from UNESCO, along with Raine, King, Nadia, McKinney and Raphael del Vega.
“It is,” Nebrinski’s voice confirmed. They all knew about Karen’s emergency. Raine had flown her to a hospital in Caracas but, when the doctors there had been unable to diagnose her illness, UNESCO had flown her on to John Hopkins hospital in Baltimore. But word had not yet reached the isolated expedition about her condition. “A specialist confirmed the diagnosis only last night. She has been treated with dialysis and is expected to make a full recovery.”
A sigh of relief passed through those present, both for Karen and for all their sakes. If Karen had been treated, then they all could. It was only a matter of time.
King noticed Nadia’s face crease into a frown. She seemed unconvinced by the Assistant-Director’s report.
“What can we expect?” McKinney asked irritably. Her auburn hair was matted with sweat and a large blister had developed on her cheek. She held the desk upon which the sat-phone was located and was hunched over. The whites of her eyes had gone blood-shot and her hands trembled. She was not well at all, King knew. For all their differences, he couldn’t deny a certain respect for her determination. She was like a captain on a sinking ship, still trying to steer it when patients in better condition than her lay in their sick beds.
“Flu-like symptoms,” Nebrinski answered from the sat-phone. “Fever, chills, headache, muscle-fatigue, followed by abominable pain, vomiting and jaundice.”
“So what caused the three deaths?” McKinney asked.