While Bob was in mid shake, an announcement came
across the PA system above their heads. “Colonel Aiken, you have a
call on the Sat-phone.”
“Excuse me.” Bob
said as he turned and headed toward the elevators. Bob stepped into
the elevator, pressed one, and leaned against the back wall in time
to see the doors slide closed. He closed his eyes for a moment, and
realized this was the first time he had been alone in the last 24
hours. Through the plastic suit hood, Bob heard the faint rhythm of
the acoustical version of Tie a Yellow Ribbon around an Old Oak
Tree. He thought to himself, maybe we will beat this thing Tony.
Just maybe.
The elevator door
opened, and Bob was again met by a soldier slinging an M4 rifle over
his protective suit. “This way, Sir.” Bob followed the soldier to
the main lobby of the hospital and through the glass doors passing
the Sergeant and his makeshift office. The soldier turned and headed
straight towards a Humvee that was parked next to a state of the art
V-22 Osprey. Bob hadn’t had the pleasure of flying in one yet, but
he knew when this thing was over, it would be on the top of his list.
They reached the Humvee. The driver’s side door opened and out
stepped another rifle slinging Sergeant holding a Sat-phone up to
Bob, “General Strong, Sir!”
“Thank you, Sergeant”
Bob said as he lifted the phone to his ear trying to find it through
the bio suit.
“Hello General.”
“Bob, what’s the
status of the P.A. Site?” the General asked.
“Sir, we’ve just
finished administering the serum. Dr. Marcil tells me we should start
seeing results in 12-24 hours.”
“That’s excellent!”
the General exclaimed. Bob could hear him teething his pipe as he
spoke. “We have been in contact with Dr. Marcil’s staff, and
they’ve supplied us with enough ZMapp to guarantee that every
American citizen has a chance of beating this thing. We’ve had
flights in and out of Montréal all day. Every military base foreign
and domestic should have the ZMapp within the next six hours, with
instructions to start dosing all drinking reservoirs, water
filtration plants, and storage tanks two hours after. By this time
tomorrow, every civilian should be protected against this terrible
affliction.”
Bob watched the suited
soldiers walking around the hospital grounds, as he played out
possible scenarios in his head, “General, don’t you think we
should make sure the serum works here first?”
There was a slight
pause on the other end of the secure Sat-phone, “Now Bob, I
understand your concern, but we need to get the jump on this bug. Dr.
Marcil’s staff in Montréal have assured me that this serum will
work. Now I have to go with my gut on this thing and its telling me
this is our best option.”
Bob was too tired to
debate and asking the General to hold off for 24 hours would be
useless anyway. It was easier to respond with an automatic, “Yes,
Sir.” The line went dead.
He handed the phone
back to the sergeant and began making his way back towards the Ebola
floor. As Bob rode up in the elevator listening to the wordless music
coming from the speaker above his head, he couldn’t help but think
that maybe Gordon Lightfoot had it right and this Ebola outbreak was
Bob’s Edmund Fitzgerald.
The doors opened and
Bob made his way to Dr. Marcil, who was still standing in the window
laden nurses station. He worked his way through the patients and for
the first time, felt a sense of uneasiness. Bob froze and felt the
hairs on the back of his neck raise just a bit. He scanned the room
and saw that nothing had physically changed in the ten minutes he was
gone, but something certainly seemed different. Bob shook it off,
blaming it on a simple case of the willies and headed on, “Dr.
Marcil, how sure are you that ZMapp is going to work?” Dr. Marcil
gave Bob a curious look and made his way over to the desk where a
full bag of ZMapp lay. Dr. Marcil picked up the bag and rubbed it
through his
across the PA system above their heads. “Colonel Aiken, you have a
call on the Sat-phone.”
“Excuse me.” Bob
said as he turned and headed toward the elevators. Bob stepped into
the elevator, pressed one, and leaned against the back wall in time
to see the doors slide closed. He closed his eyes for a moment, and
realized this was the first time he had been alone in the last 24
hours. Through the plastic suit hood, Bob heard the faint rhythm of
the acoustical version of Tie a Yellow Ribbon around an Old Oak
Tree. He thought to himself, maybe we will beat this thing Tony.
Just maybe.
The elevator door
opened, and Bob was again met by a soldier slinging an M4 rifle over
his protective suit. “This way, Sir.” Bob followed the soldier to
the main lobby of the hospital and through the glass doors passing
the Sergeant and his makeshift office. The soldier turned and headed
straight towards a Humvee that was parked next to a state of the art
V-22 Osprey. Bob hadn’t had the pleasure of flying in one yet, but
he knew when this thing was over, it would be on the top of his list.
They reached the Humvee. The driver’s side door opened and out
stepped another rifle slinging Sergeant holding a Sat-phone up to
Bob, “General Strong, Sir!”
“Thank you, Sergeant”
Bob said as he lifted the phone to his ear trying to find it through
the bio suit.
“Hello General.”
“Bob, what’s the
status of the P.A. Site?” the General asked.
“Sir, we’ve just
finished administering the serum. Dr. Marcil tells me we should start
seeing results in 12-24 hours.”
“That’s excellent!”
the General exclaimed. Bob could hear him teething his pipe as he
spoke. “We have been in contact with Dr. Marcil’s staff, and
they’ve supplied us with enough ZMapp to guarantee that every
American citizen has a chance of beating this thing. We’ve had
flights in and out of Montréal all day. Every military base foreign
and domestic should have the ZMapp within the next six hours, with
instructions to start dosing all drinking reservoirs, water
filtration plants, and storage tanks two hours after. By this time
tomorrow, every civilian should be protected against this terrible
affliction.”
Bob watched the suited
soldiers walking around the hospital grounds, as he played out
possible scenarios in his head, “General, don’t you think we
should make sure the serum works here first?”
There was a slight
pause on the other end of the secure Sat-phone, “Now Bob, I
understand your concern, but we need to get the jump on this bug. Dr.
Marcil’s staff in Montréal have assured me that this serum will
work. Now I have to go with my gut on this thing and its telling me
this is our best option.”
Bob was too tired to
debate and asking the General to hold off for 24 hours would be
useless anyway. It was easier to respond with an automatic, “Yes,
Sir.” The line went dead.
He handed the phone
back to the sergeant and began making his way back towards the Ebola
floor. As Bob rode up in the elevator listening to the wordless music
coming from the speaker above his head, he couldn’t help but think
that maybe Gordon Lightfoot had it right and this Ebola outbreak was
Bob’s Edmund Fitzgerald.
The doors opened and
Bob made his way to Dr. Marcil, who was still standing in the window
laden nurses station. He worked his way through the patients and for
the first time, felt a sense of uneasiness. Bob froze and felt the
hairs on the back of his neck raise just a bit. He scanned the room
and saw that nothing had physically changed in the ten minutes he was
gone, but something certainly seemed different. Bob shook it off,
blaming it on a simple case of the willies and headed on, “Dr.
Marcil, how sure are you that ZMapp is going to work?” Dr. Marcil
gave Bob a curious look and made his way over to the desk where a
full bag of ZMapp lay. Dr. Marcil picked up the bag and rubbed it
through his
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