Fortunately, Patient 3’s blood pressure was stabilizing.
Taeho turned his gaze to another bed.
Bed 5, male, forty-five years old. Third day since onset.
Taeho observed the patient through the helmet of his protective suit.
His breathing was rapid. His chest was heaving.
“Sir, open your eyes.”
The patient slowly opened his eyes.
His eyeballs were sunken. Even through the helmet, Taeho could see the orbital hollows had collapsed.
‘Severe dehydration.’
Taeho took the back of the patient’s hand with his thickly gloved hand.
He gently pinched up the skin.
A sensation came through even the gloves.
No, it would be more accurate to say there was no sensation.
The skin remained standing like a tent. Its elasticity was completely gone.
Jean-Paul checked the urine bag beside the bed and said,
“Less than 20 mL in four hours.”
Taeho examined the back of the patient’s hand. The veins were barely visible. They had constricted from dehydration.
But there were no IV fluids left.
Taeho slowly exhaled.
“I’ll make oral rehydration solution.”
Taeho came out of the isolation tent.
He headed to the decontamination area to remove his protective suit.
Following decontamination protocol, he showered in chlorine disinfectant, disinfected the outside of his gloves, removed the protective suit, disinfected the inner gloves, and finally washed his hands.
It took five minutes.
Inside the container, it was cramped and dark.
Taeho took a water jug, salt, and sugar from the shelf.
Following the WHO oral rehydration solution recipe: one liter of water, half a teaspoon of salt, six teaspoons of sugar.
The bare minimum combination to replenish electrolytes and glucose.
He poured the solution into a sterile plastic bottle.
He tightened the cap, then disinfected the outside.
Then he put his protective suit back on and returned to the isolation tent.
An ORS bottle in one hand, a disposable cup in the other.
“Sir, can you sit up?”
The patient shook his head. He had no strength.
Gihwan raised the patient’s upper body.
With his thickly gloved hand, Taeho carefully supported the patient’s chin.
With his other hand, he brought the cup to the patient’s lips.
“Drink slowly. Just a little at a time.”
Taeho supported the patient’s head and brought the cup to his mouth.
The patient barely managed to swallow a few sips.
“You’re doing well. Good.”
Taeho took the cup away.
“We’ll wait five minutes. If you don’t vomit, I’ll give you more.”
Five minutes passed.
The patient suddenly coughed.
“Prepare for vomiting!”
Jean-Paul quickly placed an absorbent pad under the patient’s chin.
Gush.
The patient vomited.
All the fluids he had just drunk came pouring out.
A dark red liquid.
Blood mixed with stomach acid, like coffee grounds.
Jean-Paul caught it with the pad. Some splattered onto the bedsheet.
“Change the sheet.”
Gihwan brought a plastic bag. He carefully put the contaminated sheet into it.
Taeho wiped the patient’s mouth with clean gauze.
The patient’s trembling came through his gloves.
“Let’s try one more time.”
This time, more slowly. One spoonful at a time.
Ten minutes later, he vomited again.
Once again, with blood.
The third time, and the fourth. Each time the patient drank, he vomited.
His body would no longer accept anything.
Taeho set the cup down.
There was no point anymore.
This patient’s stomach had already lost its function. No matter what went in, it only came back out.
He needed intravenous fluids.
Taeho sat down on the chair beside the patient. Then, with his thickly gloved hand, he held the patient’s hand.
But no warmth was transmitted.
All he could feel through the two layers of gloves was the cold, hard texture of rubber.
Still, Taeho did not let go of his hand.
“I’m here.”
His voice was all he had.
A face hidden by a helmet, warmth blocked by gloves.
All a doctor could give a patient was his voice.
“You’re not alone. I’m right beside you.”
The patient did not answer.
He did not even open his eyes.
Only his chest rose and fell faintly.
Taeho wrapped the patient’s hand in his gloved hands.
Though no physical warmth could reach him,
at least that he was not alone.
That someone was by his side.
He wanted to convey even that much.
The patient’s chest stopped.
Taeho pressed his gloved fingers to the carotid artery.
He could not feel a pulse through the rubber gloves.
He could see that the veins in the neck were no longer beating.
“Death confirmed. 6:47 a.m.”
Taeho carefully lowered the patient’s eyelids.
It was the eighth.
When they had first arrived, there had been twenty-six patients.
In two days, eight had died.
Including the patient who had arrived yesterday, eight remained.
Taeho rose from his seat.
His legs wavered.
The inside of his protective suit was soaked with sweat. He had been wearing it for two hours.
His body felt as heavy as lead.
Still wearing the protective suit, Taeho stepped outside the tent.
The dawn sky was beginning to brighten.
At that moment, Lieutenant Okeke came running over.
“Dr. Kang!”
Taeho turned his helmet.
“What is it?”
“New patients!”
Okeke said, panting for breath.
“Fifteen more people in the village are showing symptoms.”
“Fifteen?”
“Yes. And there are twelve more suspected cases. Their fevers are starting to rise.”
Taeho looked back.
Inside the isolation tent were nine beds and eight patients.
It was almost full.
‘As expected, we can’t save patients without supplies.’
Taeho drew in a breath.
Hot air entered his lungs.
The air inside the protective suit was already over thirty degrees.
“Lieutenant, what happened to the blockade line?”
Okeke shook his head.
“The residents are trying to flee. People gripped by fear will do anything. We can’t stop them with the personnel we have now. There’s no choice anymore. We’ll have to use the last resort.”
“The last resort?”
“We will fire on them. Even if we must sacrifice a few, we have to stop this epidemic from getting out.”
The young soldier’s lips pressed together firmly.
“Lieutenant.”
Taeho’s voice lowered.
“If you fire on them, it’ll be on CNN. The headline will be something like, ‘Congolese Army Opens Fire on Epidemic Patients.’ By the next day, the international community will condemn the Congolese government, the UN Security Council will be convened, and you will stand trial for war crimes.”
Okeke’s face turned pale.
“But if the virus spreads…”
“That’s why we use a method other than guns.”
Taeho turned to Jean-Paul.
“Is there a loudspeaker in the village?”
“Yes, there is.”
“Broadcast this immediately. Tell them a WHO emergency medical team has arrived and that a treatment will be available within forty-eight hours. Tell them only those who remain in the village can receive treatment, and if they run, they won’t be treated.”
Gihwan, who had been listening beside him, asked carefully,
“Director, will it be possible within forty-eight hours?”
“We’ll have to make it possible.”
Taeho looked at Okeke and said,
“Put up a banner at the blockade line. Write, ‘If you cross this line, you will be excluded from treatment.’ People will fear missing the treatment more than they fear bullets.”
“Ah…”
Okeke opened his mouth, then nodded.
“Understood. Dr. Kang’s method seems far more effective. I’ll go back and put it into action immediately.”
“Wait a moment.”
“Yes?”
Taeho listened closely.
Tat-tat-tat-tat—
The sound of rotors came from far away.
At first, he thought it was the wind. But it drew closer and closer.
It was not an illusion.
Taeho looked up at the sky.
Two black dots were visible in the eastern sky. They grew larger and larger.
Two helicopters.
Everyone there stared blankly at the sight.
Whipping up a storm of sand and dust, the helicopters landed in the open ground in front of the hospital.
The doors opened, and people in white protective suits disembarked.
One, two, ten, twelve.
Then supply crates came pouring out.
Large, heavy silver crates. Medical equipment marks were clearly visible on them.
Gihwan muttered beside him.
“Director. Have the supplies arrived?”
Taeho could not answer.
His throat had tightened.
He saw the insignia engraved on the side of the helicopter.
The UAE royal crest, a crescent and a falcon.
‘Amira…’
One of the medical staff who had gotten off the helicopter approached Taeho. He looked to be in his mid-fifties.
“Are you Dr. Kang?”
Taeho removed his helmet.
“Yes.”
“I am Dr. Ali. I am the head of the Dubai Center for Infectious Diseases. I came on Prince Faisal’s orders. We have brought twelve medical staff and seven days’ worth of supplies.”
“Wow! My God!”
“Putain!”
“Oya!”
Gihwan, Jean-Paul, and Lieutenant Okeke all cheered.
Supplies were being unloaded from the helicopters.
Boxes of IV fluids. Oxygen tanks. Medicine cases. Testing equipment. Bundles of protective suits. Boxes of masks.
And the twelve newly arrived medical staff stood in a line.
Taeho looked at Dr. Ali.
“Welcome, Doctor. Mr. Gihwan, please begin the briefing now.”
“Director, where are you going?”
Gihwan stared in confusion at Taeho as he took off his protective suit.
“I’m going to bring in the supplies being held at the Congolese airport.”
***
Thirty kilometers north of Ngili, General Mbeki’s headquarters.
Taeho sat in the back seat of the jeep, looking out the window.
Red dust rose from the earth. It was an unpaved path that hardly deserved to be called a road.
“Dr. Kang.”
Lieutenant Okeke, in the driver’s seat, looked at Taeho through the rearview mirror.
“General Mbeki is a dangerous man.”
“I know.”
Taeho answered briefly.
He knew because he had searched through Rema.
General Mbeki, the warlord who effectively controlled Ituri Province in eastern Congo. He had once belonged to the government forces, but fifteen years ago he had staged a rebellion and become an independent power.
He was the real power in the region, controlling the gold mines and cobalt mines.
“The general doesn’t listen to the Kinshasa government. He thinks he’s a king.”
“Then why did he arrange negotiations?”
“Because after it became known that this infectious disease was out of control, international pressure began.”
Okeke sighed.
“According to rumors, President Tshisekedi personally pressured the general. He told him that if he didn’t cooperate this time, he would be finished too.”
The jeep stopped in front of a checkpoint.
Four soldiers carrying AK-47s approached.
Okeke rolled down the window and spoke in French.
“WHO medical personnel. The general summoned us.”
The soldier glared at Taeho once, then stepped back and gestured.
They passed through.
The old concrete building had once been an administrative office during the Belgian colonial era.
The meeting room was dark, and the windows were half covered.
People sat on both sides of a long table.
When Taeho entered, the air inside changed.
On either side of the long table.
At the far left sat General Mbeki. He was a giant of a man in military uniform, in his mid-fifties, his face covered in scars.
Two adjutants stood like pillars on either side of him.
Everyone knew the AK-47 slung over his shoulder was not the only weapon in the room.
Across the table, Dr. Mbuga adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses and looked at Taeho. He was the Congolese minister of health.
Beside him sat Martin Leclerc, his face tense.
He was a Frenchman in his forties, the WHO Africa officer.
Taeho noticed that the lapels of Martin’s suit were damp with sweat.
At the end of the table, on a large monitor, the face of President Félix Tshisekedi appeared through a video connection.
The interpreter stopped his fingers in front of the laptop.
When Taeho entered, every gaze turned to him.
“I am Dr. Kang.”
Taeho sat in the empty seat.
General Mbeki looked Taeho up and down.
“You’re the WHO special adviser?”
“Yes. Kang Taeho.”
“Korean?”
“That’s right.”
Mbeki snorted.
“Not white, not African, but an Asian. What do you think you’re going to do here?”
Taeho did not answer.
Mbeki slammed the table.
“Good. Then let’s begin.”