At midnight I awoke suddenly. My mind was alert and bright, with that
extreme clarity which comes sometimes after working hard on a problem.
The moon was pouring a pale light over the window sill. It bathed my
face in its lambent glow as I lay there for a moment, wondering what
chemical time bomb had exploded in my brain. I looked at my watch. It
was midnight.
I got up and looked out. Spreading up from the delta, curling over the
fishing fleet and the canneries, flowing between the houses and filling
the streets as the incoming tide runs in the channels and covers the
stones of a rocky shore, the fog filled the hollows and smoothed over
the humps of the city, until at last all but the higher tops of the
buildings sank under the woolly wave.
The sense of urgent discovery had faded from my mind. There was
something I had to remember, I knew, something that my mind had worked
out as I slept, but, though I searched for a clue, it would not come.
Idly, in my wakefulness, I watched the fishing fleet as it slowly
sank in the mist, until at last even the tall masts were gone. A bad
night to be out fishing, I thought, but a good night for smugglers or
anybody who didn't want to be seen.
"By God ... that's it! That must be it!"
The key had turned. The clue had been found. The sudden excitement of
discovery set the pulse pounding in my ears until I thought it must be
audible, like the ticking of an alarm clock. I opened the closet and
rummaged in my suitcase for the sweater and light windbreaker and my
old, cut-down paratrooper boots that I had brought from my apartment.
It would be cold where I wanted to go, and go I must, virus or no virus.
I had just finished blousing my pants over my socks, GI style, and was
moving towards the door when it opened, and Pat, holding a book in one
hand, yawned in my face.
"What's all the noise about?" she said, standing there sleepily in her
rumpled pajamas. The yawn froze in amazement and then snapped shut as
her eyes travelled over me.
"Well, I declare!" she said. "Where on earth are you going?"
"I haven't time to explain," I said in a low voice, afraid of waking
Hallam.
She suspected as much. "Have you told the Chief?"
"No, I don't want to tell him just now. I've got a hunch on this virus
warfare idea of his. It's only a wild guess and I've got to go out to
follow it up. He might not want me to take the risk of catching flu."
"I don't want you to either."
"I'm sorry, Honey, but I've got to do it. There's too much riding on
this thing to let our personal affairs interfere."
"But you said yourself it's only a wild guess. Why risk our whole
future on that?"
"Look, I'm going to keep away from people as much as possible, but I'm
going out just the same. This may be the last chance I'll ever get to
see if the boss is right."
"Then I'm going with you."
"Oh, hell! This is no job for a woman."
"It's no job for one man! Either I go or I wake up Dr. Hallam."
"All right," I said resignedly. "On your own head be it."
* * * * *
We trotted down the stairs and over to the parking lot. The Ferguson
started easily and picked up speed quickly as the hydraulic drive fed
power to the four wheels. I watched the center strip and wished for the
radar control that was now being installed on the turnpikes south of
the border. We didn't have it here yet so I had to rely on what little
my eyes and ears revealed as we tunnelled through the fog. Over the
Burrard Bridge it seemed thinner and we made better time. We dived back
into the depths along Georgia and I used the curb as a guide as we
curved through Stanley Park and over the Lion's Gate bridge. The tunnel
would have been quicker but I wanted to see the extent of the fog. At
the center of the bridge it was too deep to tell but that in itself was
encouraging. We swung around the cloverleaf and on to the old West Van.
road.
"Where are we going? Horseshoe Bay?" Pat said quietly, as she drew on
a cigarette. It was the first time she had spoken since we started. I
liked that about her; she could wait better than any other woman I knew.
"Yes, to the wharf."
"I'd like to know why, if you don't mind telling me."
"I don't mind at all. You should know," I said, and paused to reflect.
"Light me a cigarette and I'll give you the whole picture as I see it."
I was lining up the facts in my mind as she put the burning cigarette
to my lips.
"The first thing we have to do," I began, "is to assume that Hallam is
right. If he is, if this is biological warfare, then how did it get
started? There are several possible ways. The virus could be brought
in by agents; it could be sprayed, or floated, or in some fashion sent
ashore from ships or submarines; or it could be seeded from the air,
either by aircraft or by something like those balloons the Japanese
sent over on the air currents during World War II. Now, it started
right in the city of Vancouver, so it seems to me that would rule out
some of these possibilities."
"The balloon theory for one," Pat murmured.
"Right. Balloons drift as they please and anyway none has been
reported. The same is true of airborne mists or floating devices. They
would hardly have such a localized effect to begin with; that seems to
rule out air or sea propagation, at least in the general sense."
"You mean except for agents coming by air or sea?"
"Exactly! Let's look at the air entry possibilities. The Russian air
lines are now running regular over-the-pole flights that land here, but
our customs people are quite strict and our mechanics help to service
their planes. I doubt if they'd take a chance on bringing in stuff that
way."
"What about freighters docking here or in New Westminster?"
"A very good possibility, but here too they have to evade customs and
harbor police, and with the occasional seaman jumping ship to claim
political asylum, the RCMP must keep a close watch on the movements of
the crew. I think we have to rule this out."
"Then the only other way is agents coming overland; but that doesn't
make sense," she objected. "Why would they come all the way out west,
or if they sneaked in from Mexico, why start the epidemic up here in
the north where we are so much stricter?"
"I don't believe these agents came by land, for the reasons you've
mentioned. I believe they come in by sea."
"You mean by submarine?"
"No, although that would seem likely at first thought. There have been
too many reports, in the last few years, of unidentified submarines off
the coast. The Royal Canadian Navy and the United States Coastguard and
Navy are watching all the time. It would be too big a risk." I stopped
for emphasis. "You must remember Dr. Hallam's second postulate. The
first was that this is a war. The second, that it is a hidden war. The
presence of submarines along the coast would almost certainly cause
suspicion ... and that must not be, if the war is to succeed."
"Then I give up, John. How else could it be done?"
"By deep sea fishing boats."
"You mean Russian ships?"
"No, that would be obvious."
"Gracious, John, you are being obscure," she complained. "Then they
must be communist Chinese."
"Wrong again! Still too obvious; and with the measlepox raising Hell
in China we wouldn't let any Chinese boat near the coast right now."
"For Goodness sake, stop being so mysterious. You sound like a murder
mystery where the hero turns out to be the murderer."
"Not that either," I smiled and patted her silky knee.
* * * * *
She laid her head on my shoulder and sighed. "Sometimes, darling, I
just give up on you. I'd be real annoyed if you weren't so sweet."
"All right, I'll tell you. It's Japanese fishing boats."
She lifted her head again to look at me in amazement. "Japanese! You
mean the Japs are helping the Russians?"
"No, I mean the Russians are using Japs."
"Dear Lord," she murmured, "the man's gone nuts." She turned to face
me. "And you were accusing the Chief of being fantastic."
"The whole thing is fantastic, but if we start by believing Dr.
Hallam's assumption, incredible though it may seem, then we arrive, by
elimination, at the solution I've just stated."
"You may have arrived," she said. "I haven't even started."
I butted my cigarette and threw it out. "Here's how it works," I said.
"We always think of the Russians as coming from Europe and of Russian
agents approaching from the Atlantic side. That was largely the case
until World War II, at least until the end of that war, when the
Soviets moved out of Siberia and took over some of the old Japanese
territory in Manchuria. Since then, as you probably know, they've
really developed their naval bases on the North Pacific. Also, on the
civilian side, they have developed a strong interest in the fisheries
of the Aleutian area and they take part in the international agreements
that control the salmon, halibut and other fishing in the North
Pacific, as well as the fur seal trade. The result is that boats of
all four nations, Soviet, Japanese, Canadian and American, plus some
others, move freely about the waters of the North Pacific and along the
shores of Alaska and British Columbia. As long as they abide by the
Fisheries Commission regulations and stay out of territorial waters,
they are free to move about pretty much as they please. That means
that a fishing boat, or a floating cannery, could be out there right
now, ostensibly looking for salmon, or tuna, or whatever is in season,
and nobody would pay much attention to it among all the others. This
coast is still wild and relatively unpopulated. I believe such a ship
could creep in at night, close to shore, especially in a fog. The radar
screens would have a hard time picking it out among these islands,
especially if it had anti-radar devices. It would be a relatively easy
matter to put a few men ashore from a fast motor boat almost anywhere
around here."
"Where do the Japs come in?"
"That's the beauty of the whole idea. When I was in Hokkaido with the
Japanese Defense Force, during the Korean War, I used to visit their
defense positions in sight of the Kurile Islands and Sakhalin ... the
Japs called it Karafuto. The officers, many of whom had served in the
Imperial Japanese Army, used to tell me about doing garrison duty there
on Sakhalin before the Second World War, when the southern half was
Japanese and the northern half Russian. They told me that many Japanese
fishermen stayed behind when the islands were evacuated in 1945. What
could be easier than to equip a ship and man it with an experienced
communist Japanese crew?"
"You mean that ship that almost ran us down?"
"Yes, I do. That ship was flying the Japanese flag. The crew talked
Japanese ... but the man I saw looking over the stern at me was a Slav.
Even if the ship got picked up they could claim Japanese origin and
would be accused only of poaching on restricted fishing grounds, which
happens all the time. Any Slavs aboard could pass as White Russians,
residents of Japan, with forged papers."
"I remember that white man too," Pat said. "I got a glimpse of him just
before the stern wash knocked me flat." She paused. "But surely you
don't expect to go out and find that ship tonight?"
"No, I don't," I said thoughtfully. "The epidemic has been moving
slowly inland and south. Dr. Hallam suggested that agents must have
started it in the Interior of B.C., because of its explosive character.
That makes sense, because they would want to get it started across the
mountain barriers and the sparsely settled areas, so that the whole
of North America would be affected: but they would still have to come
back to the coast for supplies, and they probably arrange to do that
when the satellite long-range forecast says fog conditions are likely.
Then, too, this is the last night before the curfew and they can still
move freely. However, I'm afraid they are almost finished in this part
of the world and will probably move on. I hope to see some evidence of
them out at Horseshoe Bay. It's a wild chance," I concluded lamely,
"like trying to throw boxcars in a crap game; but what else can I do?"
"What are boxcars?" she said.
"Double sixes ... and an outside chance."
"It isn't even an outside chance," she argued. "Suppose you guess right
and this is a good night for it, what makes you think out of all this
long coastline they would pick Horseshoe Bay? I'd think a lonelier spot
more likely. Why not between here and Squamish on the new highway, or
farther south or north?"
"In the far north there are few roads. Closer to Vancouver the coast
road has ferry crossings in it that would be time consuming and also,
on a small ferry, strangers might be noticed more, coming and going.
The same applies to the Vancouver-Squamish highway. A car parked along
that road might attract attention and the little hamlets where they
could land are too small for them to pass unnoticed. South of Horseshoe
Bay are the busy shipping lanes and then the United States border
country, so, to me, Horseshoe Bay seems the best bet. It's big enough
that people come and go in their boats, even this late in the year, and
don't attract too much attention. Cars are often left parked in the
lots while the owners go fishing up the coast or visit their cottages
for a weekend. Also, the floating docks for the small boats are beside
the main jetty where we can see whoever passes, while we sit in our
parked car. And there are a few lights, enough that we can see them
without drawing attention to ourselves."
"You have it figured, don't you?" Pat yawned, but the yawn was more
excitement than boredom.
"Yeah," I muttered, "but who knows how a communist thinks?"
* * * * *
It was about one-fifteen when we rode down the steep incline to the Bay
and, after circling about the little beach park to look around, pulled
in not far from the restaurant where the first dock light illuminated
a small circle in the fog. We were far enough away under the trees to
be safe, and, with the windows up, in that light, it isn't easy to see
into a Ferguson anyway.
"Better not smoke," I said. "We can pretend we are here on a necking
party."
"No pretense needed," Pat chuckled, and gave me a hug that nearly
pulled off my right ear.
* * * * *
A heavy dig in the ribs jerked open my eyes and I came back out of my
doze in a hurry.
"I hear somebody coming," Pat was whispering.
There had been a few late comers pass by, either to or from the dock,
but all of them were obviously families, or couples, or fishermen. At
any rate, nobody like our thickset friend had appeared in the hour
past. Cuddling up to Pat's sweet-scented warmth, I'd fallen asleep in a
matter of seconds. I could hear footsteps now, of several people, and
shortly three men passed close by the car, going towards the water. One
was tall and thin. He was wearing the heavy Squamish Indian sweater,
made of unbleached wool, so popular with fishermen, a battered fedora
and heavy work pants. As he passed he was speaking English with a
slight European accent. The second man, of average height, wore an old
dark windbreaker and slacks. His face, like that of the first man, was
shaded by the hat he wore, a long peaked baseball cap. The third man
was short but very strong looking. His head was bare, and, as they
passed under the light, I saw a crop of close-cut, light-colored hair,
and that unmistakable heavily boned face that had come so close to
me out on the Straits. All three were carrying ruck-sacks over their
shoulders. It was a clever disguise. They looked like campers, or
perhaps transient workers, on the move from one lumber camp to another.
Even their accents would be no hindrance with the country full of
D.P.'s since the war.
"That's the man, John, the short one." Pat was pulling feverishly at my
sleeve. "It's the same guy, I'm positive."
My heart was settling down after its first great leap, but my throat
still felt like the ostrich who swallowed the grapefruit. They had gone
on past the shore lamp now, and were almost lost in the darkness and
fog of the main pier. I opened the door quietly and stepped out.
Pat grabbed at me. "John, don't be crazy! You can't handle three men
alone."
"I don't intend to," I whispered, "but I've got to stop them somehow.
We may never get another chance. They must be about through around
here."
I broke loose and moved down the gravel road on to the wooden platform.
I hadn't the faintest idea of what I was going to do. There wouldn't be
time to call the police, and, even if I did, it might not do much good.
Nobody outside of the Civic Hospital knew about the biological warfare
theory. If I got involved in an argument I might end up in the police
station, probably get the flu, and not be able to prove a thing. No,
I'd have to handle this myself, play it strictly by ear and wait for
the breaks.
The men were busy now over the canvas cover and mooring ropes of a
fast-looking pleasure cruiser tied alongside the big jetty, with its
bow to the open sea. There were hundreds like it on these waters and it
would attract little attention. The short man was directing operations
from the dock and his speech was perfect, colloquial American, from
somewhere in the Northern United States or Canada.
"This one is probably the leader," I thought. "With an accent like that
he could cross the border and never be noticed as he moved about the
whole Pacific Northwest."
The fog seemed to be lifting in spots. It was getting lighter and a
moon halo could be seen through the drifting clouds of mist. The three
men were in a hurry. They didn't notice me until I was opposite their
boat.
"I'd like to talk to you," I said to yellow-hair, who was bending over
a bollard.
He started and straightened up quickly. I saw his head lift a little
more as he got a good look at me.
"I'm busy; what do you want?" he grunted.
"I want something done about the damage to my boat," I said loudly.
The other two had stopped to watch me. At a nod from the leader,
the second man went on getting the boat ready. The tall man stepped
from the bow on to the main dock so he now stood a little behind
yellow-hair and off towards the middle of the dock. I still had a clear
line of retreat, but I didn't care for the setup; it isn't good tactics
to be out-flanked.
"I don't know what you are talking about." He had made the obvious
answer.
"You know damn well," I said hotly. "You were on that Jap fishing boat
that ran me down in the Straits of Georgia."
"You are mistaken. I know nothing about it." He turned away from me to
get back to the mooring rope. I grabbed at his left arm. I think he
was expecting it. He spun around with my pull, his right hand coming
up and over, fast, for my head. I let go his arm and swayed to the
right, hoping he wouldn't be too quick with a left hook. As his fist
went by my neck I stepped across in front of him with my right foot,
swung my backside hard into him and whipped downwards, using his right
coat sleeve as a lever. His forward rush lifted him and he went over my
back, high and fast, in the Judo version of the flying mare. I heard
the gasp and the thud as his breath was driven out of him by the fall.
Still crouching, I spun around, and, as I had hoped, the Russian bean
pole was coming for me, hands out to shove me over the edge. It was
simple. As he came in I fell back, gripping his arms, while my feet
found his belly. He rocked over like a seesaw and I shoved up strongly
with my legs to flip him. The Japs had clobbered me with that trick so
often in the Judo classes that I had it down pat. This fellow really
sailed. I heard his feet hit the water, but the splash was drowned out
by the harsh aa ... h of his scream when the small of his back smashed
down on the edge of the dock.
* * * * *
"One down, two to go," I was thinking as I scrambled to my feet; but
I had slowed down since the war. Too late, I saw that familiar thick
shape above me, silhouetted against the clearing sky. In his upraised
hand there was something round and black. Once again I glimpsed that
dull red sparkle of the ring in the now bright moon.
"This proves it," I thought, so I lunged forward desperately, tackling
him at the knees. Then the side of my head split and I dropped.
Dimly I heard a high-pitched screaming. I wasn't out cold; I could see
but I couldn't seem to get up enough steam to move.
"That damn Russian surely is noisy," I thought dully. I looked up from
my knees. Yellow-hair was on his feet again and he and the second man
were scrabbling frantically over the side of the boat, dragging the
tall man by the shoulders. I heard him groan, "Nyet, nyet!" as they
tumbled him into the cockpit, limp as a pithed frog, and started the
motor. I suppose the shock of the broken back had cut through the long
indoctrination in the English language he must have had, for that
was the first and last word of Russian I heard. The screaming kept
up and then I realized it wasn't the injured man, but Pat, who had
followed me down to the water. Being a really smart girl, she hadn't
tried any heroics and had stayed too far from the fight to be caught,
so, realizing that they couldn't dispose of the evidence, namely me,
without a witness, the Russkis abandoned all pretense in a desperate
scramble for safety in the fog that still blocked the harbor entrance.
The cruiser foamed away from the dock with a deep roar, rocking the
boats down the line of buoys.
The moment they were safely away, Pat was down on the planks, running
wildly towards me. As she came close, she stubbed her foot on that same
black cylinder that had downed me, and sent it rolling. She reached
down and began tugging at my arms to lift me.
"Wait! Where's that thing? It may be evidence," I cried out, my head
clearing fast.
"Oh come on! We must get out of here. Quick!" Pat was pulling at me
as she spoke. "We can't afford to stay here and explain this to the
police. They'd hold us for questioning and we mustn't risk any more
exposure to the virus."
"The hell with the virus," I moaned as I stumbled along the deck,
looking for the black cylinder. "Get the car started. I'm coming."
She turned and ran and, a moment later, with the cylinder in my pocket,
I followed her. The Ferguson was already roaring as I jumped in beside
Pat. She stamped on the accelerator and we went out of there and up the
hill in a tire-ripping start that almost broke my neck. The engine has
never been the same since.
The ride back was a painful haze. Every bump accentuated the throbbing
in my head. Pat, grimly intent on getting well away from the area, held
the pedal down as hard as she dared and the Ferguson whipped around the
curves, its independently driven wheels screeching and scraping against
the asphalt like the claws of a frightened dog on a waxed floor. The
fog was gone except for little patches drifting down the gullies or
hanging in dead air pockets between the hills. We reached a more
brightly lit area and she slowed down. There was no pursuit.
We went back up the stairs of the Lab and into the showers. I felt safe
again like a wounded rabbit diving into its burrow. She helped me strip
and, kneeling beside me, held me in her arms as I sat under the spray.
The soft fullness of her breasts and arms, dripping with the cool
water, made a nest of peace and comfort. For a long minute I let go and
retreated back to childhood and the contentment of a mother's arms.
"My poor darling," she crooned, and rocked me gently, her slender hands
smoothing my hair and caressing my face.
Suddenly I struggled to my feet and, slopping water over the floor,
lurched back into the anteroom.
"The cylinder! I forgot the cylinder," I groaned, and flung open the
door of the supersonic cabinet. The warning buzzer stopped. I fumbled
agitatedly in the pocket of my windbreaker and drew out the thing that
had hit me. For the first time I really looked at it. It was like an
old-fashioned army aerosol bomb with a trigger mechanism on one end. I
slammed shut the cabinet; the buzzer and warning light went on again.
* * * * *
Pat stood beside me anxiously, dripping heedlessly on the floor rug.
"What was it, darling?"
"This thing," I held it out to show her. "There might be virus in it
and I put it in the supersonic cabinet, like a damn fool."
"What will that do to it?"
"I don't know for sure. Ultra-sound kills some organisms. Maybe it will
be all right. It wasn't in there long." My stomach began to churn and I
leaned on her weakly. "Oh, my head," I moaned. "I feel sick."
She put her arm around me and led me back to the showers. I sat down
again, dropping under the spray, until the nausea had passed. Then I
raised my head. "We've got to get this aerosol bomb to the culture room
and start making tests. Hand me the soap darling."
Silently she reached it to me. I soaped the cylinder carefully, trying
to sterilize it at least in part; then, after washing myself, I rinsed
it off thoroughly. A few minutes later, in clean whites, we entered
the living room. I slumped into a chair, elbows on the dining table,
my head in my hands. Quietly efficient, Pat handed me two aspirin and
codeine tablets for my pain and dialled strong coffee into a cup. She
put in cream and sugar and pushed it over to me.
Hallam came in, in his pajamas. A light sleeper, he must have been
disturbed by my heavy-footed entrance. He looked at us and his eyes
puckered as he tried to see clearly without his glasses.
"John's been hurt, sir, but not badly," Pat said swiftly. "He'll tell
you all about it in a minute. Let him recover a bit."
Without a word the Chief went to his room and came back. He had added
a gown and glasses to his pajamas. He walked over to me and I showed
him the goose egg on my head. He checked it and then looked at my eyes.
Satisfied, he said his first words.
"Were you knocked out?"
"No sir, just dizzy. I think I'll be all right soon."
"Well, you know what to do. Let me know if you need help."
"I will."
He took the coffee Pat handed him and sat down opposite me.
"The bomb, Pat," I said. "You'd better take it now and get some
cultures going." I took it out of my pocket and handed it to her. She
reached for it and I thought she had it and let go. She fumbled.
"Watch out!" I shouted in alarm, and grabbed for it.
Either I startled her and she triggered it or my own hand struck the
release. It doesn't matter now. A thin white stream of gas hissed out
of the end and hit me squarely in the mouth. Pat stood there, rigid,
the cursed thing still in her hands, and slowly her lips began to
quiver and a big tear formed in the corner of her right eye.
"John.... Oh, God! ... the virus!"
"I'm afraid it is," I said quietly. I felt let down; finished; the
same way I had when I watched the wounded die in the Aid Station and I
couldn't help. Only this time I was the patient. Oh, I wasn't going to
die, or even be very sick, but no man likes to think that he can never
have a son to follow him, and I knew, beyond doubt, that in another
week I'd be completely sterile.
I'd never seen Pat cry before and it brought me out of my daze. I went
to her and took her shoulders in my hands and there, right in front of
the Chief I told her, "Darling, I can't kiss you now, but I want you to
know I love you and this will make no difference at all. It wasn't your
fault."
She couldn't speak. I looked at Hallam. He sat there staring at the
bomb in her hands.
"I think I can guess what has happened," he said, "but how?"
Quickly Pat sketched the story while I washed my face as well as I
could. She finished and he stared into space. A few seconds later he
put his big hands on the table and hunched to his feet.
"We still have to analyze the contents of this thing to see what kind
of virus is in it ... if there is. We might as well get started on the
preliminaries. No sense in isolating ourselves any more. It's likely
we'll all get the disease now." He looked at Pat's tear-stained face
and said kindly, "Why don't you two go home for a rest before the day
staff gets here. I can handle the beginning of this job myself."