“Earliest would be one hour, four hours at the latest. First your eyes will swell and itch. Then the itch will spread to your entire body. After that the skin will start to blister from the exposure to the gas, which can create second- or third-degree burns.” Howell rubbed the Betadine on his face while he listened. Smith couldn’t help but notice the grim expression there.
“Painful?”
Smith nodded. “Horribly so. But we acted fast, getting into the water and washing it off. I’m hoping the skin eruptions will be lessened. It’s the eyes and lungs that I’m worried about. They’re particularly sensitive.”
“Will it blind us?”
“Temporarily, yes. After a while, though, it should clear. While people can die of severe exposure, many recover completely.”
“How long for the eyes to clear?”
Smith hesitated. He didn’t want Howell to worry. There was nothing more to be done for them that they hadn’t already done. Even a hospital could do no more. There didn’t exist a shot, pill, or antidote to halt the symptoms. One just had to endure them. But Howell had taken a far worse hit than Smith had. His symptoms would be severe.
“How long?” Howell pressed for the answer.
Smith sighed. “Thirty days.”
52
Klein saw the incoming call from Howell.
“Peter, what happened?”
“It’s Smith. I’m using his phone. Did Nolan call you?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“What about Russell?”
“No. What’s going on?”
“Switch off the third rail. My hypothesis was right. And block all traffic to the target stop and one stop in either direction. Dattar threw mustard gas. The NYPD is going to have to send in a decontamination crew.”
Klein was on his feet and headed to his second secure phone.
“On the rail shutdown. Station only? Or system-wide?”
“System-wide. I don’t think we can take the risk. The rail’s been on for twenty minutes while I was in the tunnel.”
“Do you have Dattar?”
“I’m sorry, but no. He got away.”
“Does he have more of the bacteria? Can he spread it elsewhere?”
“I don’t know. It’s still imperative that we get him.” Klein heard the screaming of sirens in the background.
“What’s that?”
“Probably the NYPD. I just broke into a pharmacy. I needed something to wash off the gas.”
“I’ll ask for a hazmat crew to be sent to the location.”
“I’ll stay here until the hazmat team comes, but then I’m going after Dattar,” Smith said. “Can you call Ohnara? The clean-up crew may need his expertise.”
He hung up and handed Howell the phone. The sirens were increasing. Howell was busy putting on the clothes of another dead terrorist. Smith dressed as well. His shoes were only slightly wet, and Smith wondered how many gas molecules were embedded in them, but decided that the protection from the soles outweighed any risk from the gas.
When Howell was finished, he wore green cargo pants and a gray T-shirt, both two sizes too big for his slender frame. His eyes were still red and his cheeks raw looking. “I’m going to go get Russell. There’s no gain in my being here. You can handle the NYPD. Staying here will just blow my cover.”
Smith nodded. “Can I have the phone?” Howell handed it back.
“I’ll pick up another,” Howell said. “Russell’s one station away?”
“I hope so. Neither she nor Nolan checked in with Klein. I don’t like it.”
“I’m on it.” He slapped Smith on the shoulder and took off, cutting around the corner of the screen. Smith waited in the screened-off section for the NYPD. The canvas walls turned red with a flashing glow as the spinning lights threw their color.
The first police car blew by without stopping. The second and third followed suit. Smith picked up his gun and stepped out from behind the canvas just as a fourth car went screaming by. Two ambulances followed. All drove by. Smith dialed Klein.
“They’re not stopping. Do they know the gas is here?”
“They know exactly what to do. The president called the governor and he briefed the antiterrorism unit, but they received a call from Harcourt, the CIA’s liaison with the NYPD. He said that he received some intelligence that Dattar is at the 215th Street station. That’s where they’re going.”
“Is the subway off?”
“We’re doing it in sections, with the stations closest to the infection point shut down, and those farther away allowed to enter a station and unload before turning them off. Too many people would be trapped in the cars if they shut the entire system down. It would be a nightmare to evacuate. They’ve cut power to four stations on each side of the 191st Street station.” Smith ran a hand through his hair and started to pace.
“What about a hazmat team? They need to get down there and start scraping away the biofilm and figure out a way to stop it from spreading. I can’t go back down without a suit, the bacteria are active and so is the mustard gas.”
“It was notified. It’s not there?”
Smith looked up and down the streets. Only four cars and two cabs were on the road. The pharmacy alarm still shrieked.
“I don’t see anything.”
“I’m going to check. Hold tight.”
Klein rang off and Smith went back behind the screen. His left eye felt itchy and he rubbed it, relishing the feeling. He paused. In the distance came another siren, growing louder. This time he stepped out to greet it, waving his arms as the boxy emergency vehicle from the Fire Department of New York approached. It pulled to the side and two men stepped out.
“What’s going on? I’m Carter and this is Rolly.” Carter was a large, paunchy forty-something with a sharp nose and a buzz cut. His arms were huge. He wore a uniform and standard-issue shoes that squeaked as he walked. Rolly was the exact opposite, slender, with graying hair and a hawklike nose that took up a ton of acreage on his face. Smith pointed to the subway entrance.
“Mustard gas. Thrown twenty minutes ago. The entire station is contaminated.”
“Who are you?” Carter said.
Before Smith could answer, an NYPD patrol car came screaming around the corner. It angled halfway into an open area at the curb before coming to a halt. The officer catapulted out of his car with his weapon drawn, and Smith saw that it was Manderi, the same suspicious officer Smith had spoken to right after Jordan was found shot in his car.
“Down on the ground. Now!” he said.
Smith stood his ground. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith of the United States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases.”
“I know who you are, asshole. You’re the one who killed the lady at Landon. I said get down!”
Smith felt his fury rising. He pointed a finger at the cop. “You get on the phone to your superior, now. Because every minute you delay, the gas is filling the tunnel.”
“Get down or I’ll shoot you down,” Manderi said.
Smith kept his eyes on Manderi while he lowered himself to the ground. The grit from the asphalt bit into his cheek. He felt Manderi jerk his arms behind him and seconds later the cold metal of handcuffs tightened around his wrists.
Manderi glanced at the canvas screen. “What’s that?” He walked around the canvas and Smith heard him give an oath. He came back in sight. “There’s three dead guys here!” Carter and Rolly went around the screen. The squawk of a radio came from inside Manderi’s car.
“Watch him,” Manderi said to Carter when he came out from the screen.
Smith could see the car from his prone position, and he watched as Manderi crawled back inside. Manderi slammed the door and began a conversation on the radio. The words were unintelligible. After a moment he emerged.