Chaney listens for a while longer, then eases his chair back and closes his eyes. Racal suits. Crash and bleed outs. What the hell am I doing here?

Four hours later, the Sikorsky slows to hover over a white beach blotted with a black, tarlike substance. Sections of the infected shoreline have been cordoned off with orange, wooden barriers.

The helicopter follows the deserted shoreline to the east, approaching a series of Red Cross Army tents that have been erected along a secured stretch of beach. A massive bonfire burns fifty yards from the site, its dark brown smoke leaving a thick trail, miles long, in the cloudless sky.

The Sikorsky slows, then touches down on a cordoned-off parking lot adjacent to the tented area.

“Mr.Vice President, this suit looks to be about your size.” Colonel Ruetenik hands him an orange space suit.

Chaney sees Dean pulling on a suit. “Wrong. Sit your ass down, Papa, you’re staying here. The press and security men, too.”

“My job is to assist you—”

“Assist me by staying here.”

Chaney emerges from the copter twenty minutes later, accompanied by Teperman and the colonel. All three are wearing the bulky orange Racal suits and air tanks.

A physician greets them outside the main tent. Chaney notices a green ooze dripping from the man’s white environmental suit.

“I’m Dr. Juarez. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

Colonel Ruetenik makes the introductions.

“Is that the toxic substance on your suit, Doctor?” Chaney asks, pointing to the green liquid.

“No, sir. That’s envirochem, the good stuff. We use it as a disinfectant. Make sure you douse your suit in it before getting changed. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the bad stuff.”

Chaney feels beads of sweat drip down the side of his face as he follows the others into the quarantined area.

Beneath the Red Cross tent are dozens of people lying on plastic cots. Most are in bathing suits. All are covered in black blotches of blood and bile. Those who are conscious are moaning in agony. Workers dressed in plastic bodysuits and heavy rubber boots and gloves are removing body bags from the tent as fast as newcomers are being led inside.

Dr. Juarez shakes his head. “This place has turned into a real hot zone. Most of the damage occurred during the early-morning hours before anyone realized how contagious the sludge was. We had the beaches quarantined by noon, but the first wave of physicians and volunteers just kept getting contaminated, making things worse. We’ve resorted to identifying the victims, then burning the bodies just to slow the spread.”

They enter an adjacent tent. A pretty Mexican nurse in an environmental suit is seated next to a cot, holding a middle-aged American man’s hand in her gloved palm.

Dr. Juarez gives the nurse an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “Nurse, who do we have here?”

“This is Mr.Ellis, an artist from California.”