K
illebrew slid his wheelchair over to the LED screen containing the readout from the electron microscope. Working in isolation gear made the effort extremely cumbersome but he was starting to get accustomed to it. And if he wasn’t yet, he would be soon—this assignment promised to stretch over the course of several months, perhaps up to a year.
Working for prolonged periods with Level 4 hot agents took a special kind of person. Claustrophobia was only one of several factors that kept even the most ambitious technicians from doing it for very long. The main drawback was the lack of motion. Sitting for hours at a time without pause was required, since breaking the work up meant going through decontamination procedures over and over again.
Since he was wheelchair-bound anyway, sitting never bothered Killebrew. If anything, it was the only time the handicap he’d endured since being stricken with multiple sclerosis as a child seemed meaningless. He entered the world of viruses and bacteria and watched them swim about on the slides, immersing himself in the wild ride of motion he could no longer fathom for himself. The potential loss of the rest of his motor skills to another attack of MS made him cherish his work, made him appreciate the menial tasks everyone else took for granted as well as dismiss the risks of the dangerous ones everyone else feared.
Identifying the killer organism from the Cambridgeside Galleria clearly fell into the latter category. All of the remains had been transferred to the high-tech containment facility the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention maintained inside Mount Jackson in the Ozark chain. So many bodies greatly strained the facility’s resources, especially considering the need to keep them in cold storage. They were at present stacked on specially constructed prefab gurneys five deep in the gymnasium-sized primary containment center.
Killebrew’s job was to gain a complete grasp of every facet of the organism’s metastasis. Since this was medical science’s first experience with a genetically engineered programmed organic machine, the potential seemed limitless. For one thing, Killebrew’s work might yield breakthroughs in the area of cancer fighting and prevention. For another he might gain some insight into how to defend against the organism should humanity ever be faced with its release again.
He started work on three bodies which had already been positively identified. He rotated among them, studying tissue samples from matching parts of each to determine how the organism metastasized inside a host and then spread. His next task would be to identify any mitigating factors toward an understanding of precisely how the organism responded to certain stimuli. How, for example, did such random factors as age, gender, size, blood chemistry and a host of other variables affect the disease once it invaded the body?
Killebrew’s first step, of course, had been to isolate and identify the organism itself. It had taken the whole of his first day at Mount Jackson to complete that task, and a single cell of it was presently displayed on the screen, caught in all its glory by the electron microscope.
“Particle of the organism,” he said into the microphone built into his helmet, “seems to possess nine different proteins—nine different molecules—that I am unable to identity. It has the genetic structure of a bacteria, similar in shape and behavior to the anthrax bacteria. This refutes the preliminary hypothesis that the organism was a hot virus that bled out its victims on a scale akin to but well beyond something like the Ebola strain.”
He paused and collected his thoughts.
“Its genetic structure is in keeping with the currently held assumption that it was a
created
rather than salvaged or discovered organism. Since none of the organism was trapped in an organic state, however, it is impossible to make confident judgments about how the strands of protein forming it interact to create metastasis upon encountering certain stimuli within the host.”
Killebrew thought again of those “hosts,” seventeen hundred of them, all killed within one minute of infection inside the Cambridgeside Galleria.
There had been no further decay following that brief duration. Susan Lyle had found them exactly as they had been for the hours prior to her arrival.
“Speed of ingestion of blood enzymes within nitrogen-oxygen proximity contrary to everything previously thought possible. The organism was able to strike all points in its victims simultaneously, this based on the lack of any discernible spasm or locking in the remnants of the muscle. This refutes Dr. Lyle’s preliminary assumption that the organism invaded its hosts using the lungs as a vehicle. More logical would be a transdermal means of entry since the extremities—hands and feet—that blood reaches last were affected with no significant delay. To further demonstrate this point …”
Here Killebrew wheeled himself away from the computer screen and back to one of the corpses laid out on a low table for him.
“ … I will take tissue samples from the extremities of a man identified as a seventy-five-year-old male Caucasian known to have been suffering symptoms of severe arteriosclerosis. If these samples show concentrations of the invading organism consistent with samples harvested from other areas, the theory of transdermal penetration will be supported.”
Maintaining the corpses in cold storage had further complicated their already dried condition, rendering them so brittle that it became difficult to extract samples. As a result, Killebrew had traded his scalpel for an electric cutting device that looked like a soldering iron. Using that “hot scalpel,” he removed four samples of tissue from each of the seventy-five-year-old man’s hands and feet. He placed them in his lab tray, then sliced minuscule layers off with a traditional scalpel, made four slides and started back for the electron microscope.
The right wheel of Killebrew’s chair stuck suddenly and his fresh samples tumbled from his lap to the floor.
“Damn,” he muttered and returned to the table to slice off fresh ones.
Smoke was rising from the tray and Killebrew realized he had neglected to shut the hot scalpel off after putting it down. He quickly flipped the switch and was glad to see the flesh he had taken had been only heated up and not burned by the smoldering tip of the scalpel. He gathered new samples and brought them to the electron microscope, placing the slides in the proper slots for viewing. Then he returned to the screen and activated the initiating sequence.
The enlarged molecules of the invading organism appeared on the screen.
“Molecules harvested from extremities appear to be identical in all ways to those harvested from points in the body closer to heart and lungs. To affirm this fact I will superimpose them over those harvested earlier from the remains of the same patient.”
Killebrew issued the proper commands and the screen split into two, a molecule on either side which the computer shifted toward each other until one had been placed over the other.
“Except for some slight deviations along the edges consistent with manageable decay, the molecules appear to be identical in all—”
Killebrew stopped, something on the screen having frozen his thoughts. A computer glitch, perhaps, or a trick played by his tired eyes.
He wiped those eyes, tried to relax, watched.
And it happened again. Or, more accurately,
continued
to happen.
“This can’t be,” he muttered to himself. “This can’t—”
But then he turned back to his lab table, looking at the sample tray he had inadvertently rested the hot scalpel upon.
“Oh, my God …”
Hands trembling inside his Kevlar gloves now, he wheeled himself toward the main control console and lifted a phone receiver from it that linked him directly with CDC headquarters in Atlanta. He fitted the receiver into a slot that digitally enabled him to speak and hear through his helmet.
“Dr. Susan Lyle. Immediately.”
As the seconds passed, Killebrew kept his eyes fixed on the computer screen showing the two molecules superimposed over each other.
“What do you mean you
can’t
reach her? You’ve got to be able to reach her.
She’s—what?
… What do you mean,
reassigned
? Where the hell is she? Never mind, I don’t care. Just patch me through. Now … . An emergency?” Killebrew’s eyes fell on the screen again as he responded. “You could call it that.”
“T
hank you for coming, Dr. Lyle,” greeted Colonel Lester Fuchs when Susan was ushered through his office door. He tugged on the bottom of his uniform jacket to straighten the folds.”I wasn’t really given much of a choice, Mr. Fuchs.”
“That’s Colonel Fuchs, Doctor.”
“My apologies.”
“Leave us,” Fuchs ordered the subordinate, who had escorted Susan from the main entrance of Brookhaven Labs. “And close the door behind you. Now, Doctor, if you’d like to take a seat, I’m sure I can clear up any questions you may have.”
Susan had plenty. Her superiors had been atypically vague when informing her of her temporary reassignment. They congratulated her on a job well done in Cambridge and told her someone else would be able to pick up things from here. They provided nothing other than the Brookhaven Lab locale in the town of Upton on Long Island and her reason for going there.
“I was told I was being temporarily reassigned to Brookhaven,” she started, “to oversee ongoing research into the cause of death at the Cambridgeside Galleria.”
“That’s correct, Doctor.”
“No, it isn’t, because where I am now, this really isn’t part of Brookhaven, is it?”
“Very observant.”
“Just obvious. Where am I, Colonel?”
“Group Six. We’re government, one hundred percent, which explains how your transfer was successfully arranged and carried through on such short notice.”
Susan fidgeted in her chair, confused. “What exactly does Group Six do, Colonel?”
“Oh, many things. In this case we take accidents and the products of research that didn’t work quite as they should have and refine them to achieve our goals.”
“And just what goals are those?”
“The same as yours in Atlanta, Doctor: to serve the country.”
Susan leaned forward. “Colonel, what does this have to do with what happened in Cambridge?”
Fuchs fingered a folder on his desk. “I’ve read your report.”
“That report is strictly preliminary. It wasn’t meant to be circulated outside of Atlanta yet.”
“A formality. You did brilliant work up there, Doctor. It was brought to my attention because of the possibility of continuing it here at Group Six.”
“Toward what end?”
“Dr. Lyle—”
“Answer me, Colonel. Toward what end?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
Susan tried not to appear thrown. “I’m going to assume you’re in the research business.”
“Quite correct.”
She studied his uniform. “And the fact that you’re army suggests a certain slant to that research.”
“I have been transferred here to serve my country in another capacity, just as you have, Doctor. Don’t judge us or our work prematurely. Terribly important things are going on in this building that may have a profound effect on the future—”
“Weapons,” Susan interrupted. “Group Six’s research is about weapons.”
“Specifically, Doctor,” Fuchs continued, as if she hadn’t said anything at all, “preserving the sanctity of that future.” He pointed to the map of the world hanging behind his desk. “Those areas I have highlighted in red represent the world’s hot spots, Dr. Lyle, simmering cauldrons of discontent releasing violence on an almost daily basis. Somalia, North Korea, Bosnia—I don’t have to tell you about those. But look at all the other sites colored red and the additional trouble sites colored yellow that are currently under watch. The number stretches into the hundreds. The world is notoriously unstable, Doctor, and if the day ever comes when all these spots are colored red at the same time, that may be enough to tip it totally off kilter.”
“Then you’re telling me Group Six is in the stability business.”
“Preserving
stability, yes.”
“Through weapons research.”
“Through whatever it takes and, unfortunate as it may sound, weapons research plays an important role in maintaining stability.”
“That’s military, not science, Colonel.”
“It’s both, the latter serving the former.” He looked at her harshly, no longer the gracious host with a tour guide’s fake smile. “You speak as though you’ve been offered a choice here, Doctor. You have been reassigned. Now, before you protest, you have my word that this transfer will end as soon as your report to us and follow-up on this matter is complete. That could be accomplished in a matter of days, a few weeks at most. I’m asking you to give us a chance. You may even find it mutually beneficial.”
Susan realized her mouth had gone bone dry. “As you said, Colonel, I don’t have a choice.”
Fuchs smiled and leaned toward the speaker on his phone. “Could you come in please, Dr. Haslanger.”
The office door opened and Susan watched a frighteningly gaunt man who must have been in his seventies enter. His skin was a sickly shade of pale yellow, the sun and outdoors looking to be a long-forgotten memory. His face was cadaverous, the cheek and jawbones so pronounced they appeared almost to poke through his flesh.
“May I present the head of our special projects division, Dr. Erich Haslanger,” said Fuchs.
Susan nodded at the old man as she replied. “I would have thought all your projects were special.”
“Some more than others. Dr. Haslanger has some questions for you, Doctor.”
“I have read your reports on Cambridge,” Haslanger started, “along with your accompanying analysis. Not quite complete—”
“That’s because they’re preliminary.”
“I am not speaking of the technical; everything there is quite complete and in order. No, I am speaking of the personal. I want to know why you think the boy went through with this, why he didn’t wait until he was more sure his discovery would work as it was intended.”
“First of all, according to his research, he had no reason to believe it wouldn’t work as intended. Beyond that, I think he wanted to be a hero, to do something that would make him accepted,” Susan said unhesitantly, as if she’d been waiting for someone to share her theories with. “He just wanted to fit in.”
“All this merely to ‘fit in’?”
“Yes, because that’s what Joshua Wolfe craved more than anything else. He grew up isolated from children his own age, developing only the intellectual part of his life. I think he saw the Cambridgeside Galleria as
his chance to change all that. If it had worked, if his organism had destroyed air pollution and nothing more, he would have been the hero he dreamed of becoming.”
“And did it?” Fuchs raised. “Destroy air pollution, I mean.”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“But it didn’t make him a hero.”
“Not yet, anyway,” Haslanger interjected.
Susan turned back toward him. “I don’t think I understand.”
“I think you do, Doctor,” Haslanger continued. “According to you, in spite of all his wondrous abilities, all Joshua Wolfe ever wanted was to be normal. But he can never be that now, even if he could have before. Not after the Galleria. Not after being responsible for the deaths of over seventeen hundred people. Imagine how he must feel. The guilt, the worthlessness. How can he ever recover from what he caused on Sunday?” The old man looked at her long enough to be sure she wasn’t going to answer before he did. “By being shown there was value in what he did, that something can be salvaged from it.”
“Salvaged here, by you,” Susan said, understanding.
“We want to see his talents suitably utilized,” Fuchs picked up. “We alone can offer him a lifeline, Doctor. And we alone can insure that tragedy does not impair or even destroy his future. We can make all this go away for Joshua Wolfe. We can arrange for a wholly different explanation for what happened at the Cambridgeside Galleria to be released to the press.”
The notion that Group Six possessed enough power to accomplish that sent a shiver of fear through Susan. “A lie, in other words.”
“Quite.”
“You’d need my cooperation, of course.”
“And I suspect you’d give it willingly and without hesitation.”
“For what possible reason would I do that?”
“Because your primary concern seems to rest with the fate of Joshua Wolfe now, just as ours does.” The tour guide’s fake smile was back on Fuchs’s face, a mask of compassion that in no way fit him. “When we find this boy, I want you to help us.”
“Why?”
“You seem to understand him. And I believe you could relate to him in so difficult a time far better than anyone else on my staff.”
“Because I’m a woman?”
“You care for him. Yes or no?”
“I don’t see what—”
“Answer. Please. Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
Fuchs came closer to her. “You once experienced a great tragedy yourself, did you not?”
Susan winced as if suddenly in pain.
“There are no secrets from us, Dr. Lyle. We would never seek anyone’s participation in our work without a full understanding of him or her. It was all in your file, information I suspect you did not even realize your CDC superiors were privy to. Tell me, Doctor, how were you able to recover from your catastrophic loss?”
Whatever answer Susan might have managed stayed stuck in her throat.
“I’ll tell you what I think,” Fuchs continued. “I think you found purpose. I think that purpose got you through and made you the strong person that you are. I think Joshua Wolfe, above everything else, needs to find purpose in
his
life right now. You can’t disagree with that.”
Susan remained silent.
“And if we were able to show him that something good can be made of this tragedy,” Haslanger started, “if we could convince him that those deaths were not senseless—that there was purpose to them—he could get past what he is feeling now, just as you did. Here and here alone, at Group Six, Joshua Wolfe would not be the social outcast he has always been. Here and here alone, he would
belong.”
Fuchs tried to soften his rigid features yet again. “You understand the implications of what he’s discovered, yes?”
“I …”
“The principles and potential of nanotechnology, yes?”
Susan nodded.
“That would indicate your interest in Joshua Wolfe is not purely unselfish, either. Molecular machines capable of repairing individual damaged cells? Imagine the possibilities!” Staring coldly at her once more. “The diseases that could be wiped out. The lives that could be saved.”
“Are you offering me a deal, Colonel?”
“I’m merely pointing out that the good Joshua Wolfe does within the walls of Group Six does not have to be limited to weaponry, Doctor. I could arrange for you to supervise research conducted and applied into other areas. No need waiting for the National Institutes of Health or your own CDC to become aware of your true potential and interest. I can make it happen for you tomorrow.”
“And in return all I have to do is …”
“Help us make Joshua Wolfe feel comfortable here. Help us make him realize this is where he belongs and where he can thrive.”
Susan found herself speechless, saved from the effort of a response by the buzzing of a second phone on Colonel Fuchs’s desk.
“W
hat do you mean you ‘lost him’!” the colonel blared into the telephone receiver.
“He’s still in the area, sir,” Sinclair reported from Key West. “I estimate—”
“I don’t give a shit about your estimates, Sinclair! You had the boy and you lost him.”
“Our people are sweeping the area now, sir. I’d like to request reinforcements.”
“You’ve got fifteen men down there now. I could never get more to you in time to do any good at all.”
“I was talking about bringing in some locals.”
“Locals?”
“The cover story should hold. I’m confident I can control them.”
“You were confident you could bring in the boy, Sinclair. You told me that as soon as we realized where he was going.”
“There’s something else, sir.”
“Go on.”
“One of my operatives was assaulted by the boy and has reported his wallet is missing.”
“Did you say ‘assaulted’?”
“Yes, sir. It will all be in my report.”
“I look forward to reading it. And the contents of that wallet?”
Sinclair listed them, one at a time.
“Is it the habit of your men to walk around with such items?”
“This team was assembled posthaste. Many of the members were channeled directly from transit. I don’t think we have to worry. This man was top flight. The contents of his wallet won’t lead anywhere.”
“Just find that boy, Sinclair. Find him before he has a chance to prove you wrong.”