CHAPTER 5

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."