“The whole population of the planet could be wiped out in less time than that,” Ming said.
“That’s true,” Lee said, “which is why the lab was looking into the genetic engineering of vaccines. You don’t manufacture the vaccine but instead produce the molecule that makes it work.”
“And what were the results of this research?”
“I don’t know. The lab had moved to its new location by then. I didn’t have clearance for the final phase.”
“Dr. Kane would understand the procedure?”
“Yes, but he wouldn’t know the final test results, which he would have been informed of had he been able to return to the lab.”
“To put it bluntly, Dr. Lee, even if we find the lab and produce the vaccine, it may be too late?”
“To put it bluntly, yes.”
Colonel Ming turned to the others.
“Any questions? No? Well, thank you very much for your time, Dr. Lee. We will be in contact with you again.”
The screen went blank. Song Lee was terrified at being alone in the room with her thoughts. She bolted out the door and onto the deck, where she looked around frantically for a glimpse of Kurt Austin’s reassuring face. She needed an anchor to keep her from drifting over the edge. She climbed to the bridge, and asked Dixon if he had seen Austin.
“Oh, hello, Dr. Lee,” the captain said. “Kurt didn’t want to interrupt your meeting. He said to tell you that dinner has been postponed. He left the ship.”
“Left? Where?”
Dixon called her over to look at a chart and jabbed his index finger down on the wide expanse of ocean.
“Right now, I’d say that Kurt is just about here.”
CHAPTER 41
“WAKE UP, TOVARICH!”
Joe Zavala floated in a netherworld just below consciousness, but he was awake enough to know that the cold liquid being poured on his lips tasted like antifreeze. He spit the liquid out. The roar of laughter that followed his instinctive reaction jerked him into full consciousness.
Hovering over Zavala was a bearded face with a fourteen-karat grin. Zavala saw a bottle again being tilted toward his lips. His hand shot up, and he clamped his fingers in a viselike grip around the man’s thick wrist.
A startled expression came to the blue eyes at Zavala’s lightning-quick move, but the gold-toothed grin quickly returned.
“You don’t like our vodka?” the man said. “I forget. Americans drink whiskey.”
Zavala unclenched his fingers. The bearded man pulled the bottle away and took a swig from it. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
“Not poison,” the man said. “What can I get you?”
“Nothing,” Zavala said. “But you can give me a hand sitting up.”
The man put the bottle aside and helped Zavala sit on the edge of the bunk. Zavala looked around at the cramped quarters.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“Where are you?” the man said.
He turned, and, in a language Zavala recognized as Russian, translated the question for the benefit of three other similarly bearded men who were crammed into the tight space. There was laughter and the vigorous nodding of shaggy heads.
“What’s so funny?” Zavala asked.
“I told them what you said, and what my answer will be, that you are in hell!”