Sea of Greed

“There has to be a weakness,” Kurt said. “Otherwise, Tessa wouldn’t have risked trying to stop Paul and Gamay from delivering the samples.”

“That may be so,” the President said. “But time is still our enemy.”

“I know someone who can speed that process up,” Kurt said. “His name is Millard. He’s a French scientist who was working with Tessa. If anyone knows how the bacteria was put together and what its weaknesses are, it would be him.”

“And where do we find this Millard?”

“Bethesda Naval Hospital,” Kurt said. “And before you ask, he’s here because I abducted him from a hospital in Bermuda, used my possibly dead friend’s name and ID to get him past security at the airport and then rushed him onto a NUMA plane before anyone learned the truth. Rudi knew nothing about it, not until I landed twenty minutes ago. That’s why he never briefed you.”

The President stared at Kurt, incredulous for a second.

“Millard was on the production ship,” Rudi explained. “Kurt thought it wise to bring him back here, where we might learn what he knows.”

“We have to wake him up,” Kurt said.

“Wake him up?”

“He’s in a medically induced coma.”

The President paused, his expression opaque for the moment. “Going after Tessa directly would be fruitless at the moment even if this man implicates her. But that doesn’t mean we’re helpless. I’ll try and put some pressure on the SEC to put a hold on her IPO paperwork and ask them to request all manner of documents and data above and beyond the usual. In the meantime, we could use Millard’s help. You go wake him up.”

45

BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL

MILLARD WAS HELD in a private room with two stern-looking Marines at each end of the hallway and another pair guarding his door.

Kurt was glad to see the level of security.

After checking on Millard and finding his condition unchanged, Kurt began a conversation with Bethesda’s Director of Medical Services and the hospital’s chief doctor.

A discussion about the risks of waking Millard went several heated rounds. It ended when an Executive Order from the President arrived. The chief doctor, a resolute woman with short white hair, a stern demeanor and teal-rimmed glasses, chose to do the task herself rather than have any of her staff deal with potentially difficult decisions.

She worked on Millard with the help of a nurse and an anesthesiologist. Kurt took a seat, watching from afar.

Bringing Millard out of the coma was a slow, tedious process. First, they had to undo the effect of the drugs Millard had been placed on, then they had to deal with his injuries.

As the effort progressed, the doctor spoke to Kurt. “You’re a conundrum to me, Mr. Austin.” She spoke while monitoring the patient and not bothering to look Kurt’s way. “I’m told you risked your life to save this man. Pulled him off a burning ship. Is that true?”

“Something like that,” Kurt admitted.

“That explains why you smell of diesel oil and why both of you are singed in places,” she added. “It doesn’t explain why you’re willing to take a risk with his life this way. You do realize he has swelling in his brain? Trying to wake him up now is dangerous. You may end up killing him. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not,” Kurt said. “This is not an easy decision, but we need to know what he knows. So please, just do the best you can.”

The doctor said nothing more to Kurt and concentrated on Millard. She checked his vitals, as new drugs were added to the IV drip, and double-checked the contents of an injection that was being prepared.

Over the next twenty minutes, Millard moved closer to consciousness, his heart rate and respiration increasing, his blood pressure coming up.

“He’s getting closer,” the nurse said.

“The EEG shows no change,” the chief doctor replied. “Brain activity is still in a vegetative state.”

Another drug was administered and finally the brain waves began oscillating.

“He’s coming around.”

Kurt stood up and moved closer. Millard was waking up, but something was wrong. Tremors were running through the man’s body. They began in his left hand, progressed up his arm into his shoulder and moved quickly to his head and neck.

Without warning, Millard kicked violently and then straightened.

“He’s seizing,” the doctor said. “More Epitol.”

With the doctor and nurse holding Millard as still as possible, a second nurse pulled a small vial from the cart and prepared another injection. With the hypodermic filled, she held it up, flicked its side with her finger and pushed the plunger a fraction to get any bubbles out.

“Quickly.”

She handed the hypodermic to the doctor, who injected it.

Millard’s seizures faded almost instantly, though his hands continued to shake. After a minute of quiet, he began to stir again. This time, his movements were more conventional. Finally, he opened his eyes.