Paul McKellips - Jericho 3

“Why Aberdeen?” Raines asked.

“Vervet monkeys, mostly. SHAC got a hold of some training video a couple of years ago, and every few months they pull it back out to gin up discontent.”

“Nerve agent training, wasn’t it? I thought the Army stopped doing the training program with vervets several months ago.”

“They did. But protesters aren’t inclined to let facts get in the way of a TV news camera and some potential donations now are they? Then they got wind of a USDA report that mentioned 94 guinea pigs and 54 rats. Nothing unusual, all by the book really, but written by a clueless science geek who forgot the reports are public domain. His written report came across like he was a heartless bastard.”

“BIO or CHEM?” Raines asked.

“Chem for these. They were checking lethal doses for inhalation. You don’t know what’s really lethal until, well, you know. Anyway, the guy cites a 1984 Clement and Coperman study in his report and asserts that even though the chemical agent-induced convulsions and death that did not necessarily mean the animals went through any pain or suffering. Well, they certainly weren’t enjoying a Saturday afternoon playing in the park! The American Humane Fund gets the report, goes international with all of the animal rights underground, some groups align, and today they trot out the vervets. When the Army denies, it comes across as the liar.”

Raines took another pull on her latte.

“I don’t like the use of guinea pigs and rats, but how would they like us to protect our troops, or the innocent Kurds in Anfal, or the Serbs or any other group? So why Detrick, why today?”

“Aerosolized inhalation. A young community newspaper reporter has apparently been getting some pillow time with one of our scientists who apparently forgot he had an oath along with a single-scoped, polygraph security clearance when he just happened to mention that we would be conducting aerosolized Ebola tests on primates this week. Front page story in the Bethesda Weekly this morning; local citizens are going nuts.”

“I don’t subscribe.”

“Well, there are plenty of copies around today so help yourself. It’ll be unusually quiet as everyone speculates as to the identity of our sex offender with the big mouth.”

“Pretty remote, isn’t it?”

“What?” Groenwald asked, as they got up and headed for the elevator.

“That a band of terrorists could aerosolize Ebola effectively as a WMD? They’d have to get the appropriate strain of the disease pathogen and know how to handle the organism correctly. They’d have to grow it in a way that would produce the appropriate characteristics, and then they’d have to store the culture and scale it up to production capacity. Aerosolized or not, dispersing a perfectly lethal recipe for inhalation and widespread destruction is next to impossible.”

“That’s what we thought, too, until three weeks ago. An Illinois company gets an order for two commercial misting machines for pesticides, something called SkitoMister. The municipality in Hamburg, Germany buys them for mosquito control. Hamburg takes delivery last April just in time for mosquito season. But there’s a problem. The two 101-pound machines are nowhere to be found in the maintenance garage when the mosquitoes start to hatch. The city officials get busy with other work, get sloppy and finally file a police report in September. The Bundespolizei contact the American company to verify shipping and get the serial numbers. Next thing you know BPOL says the serial numbers showed up at a port in Jakarta, Indonesia. The local Polri checks out the importer who quickly compensates the Indonesian National Police with an appropriate bribe and confesses to shipping both machines black market to Islamabad.”

Stunned, Raines asked, “Oh my God, could this really work? I mean, do they have the competence to formulate the organisms to really be able to facilitate aerosolized particles?”

The elevator door opened and Groenwald swiped his card as did Raines. They both did their biometric scans and the elevator without floor buttons closed and climbed to their floor.

“That’s the million dollar question, Colonel Raines. We’re not running a Dark Winter or a Top Off, but that’s why we’re testing aerosolizers this week.”

“Do we have any clues on the biologicals? Ebola? Smallpox? Marburg’s?”

“No clue. But two American-made, high performance, aerosol misters, sold to Hamburg, stolen and shipped to Jakarta before black market transit to Islamabad, can’t be a good thing.”

“And the protesters?”

“Right now, the least of our worries… they’re just the detritus of our storm.”

FOB Lightning — Level 1 Clinic

Paktya Province, Afghanistan

Ashort-straw Army specialist was about to end his evening shift guarding the prisoner-patient when Camp walked through the doors of the clinic.

“Good morning, specialist. How’s our patient?”

“She seems fine, sir; she woke up about an hour ago.”

“She’s awake?” Camp asked as he moved quickly toward her private room.

“She said something all whacked out in that Afghani shit and then, all of a sudden like, she says ‘my son’ in like perfect English, you know?”

“I’ve got it from here, specialist. Go hit your rack.”

“Doc, I was wondering if you could get me some Ambien. I’m having a real hard -.”

“Big bottle behind the counter, little round blue pills, help yourself. One per night. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Miriam’s face was crusted and more swollen. Blotches of red covered her neck and forehead. Her arm was heavily bandaged from the escharotomy, but Camp could feel a pulse. The IV bag kept a constant flow of antibiotics, pain meds, sedation and fluids flowing. The intubation tube was uncomfortable, but it was better to have it in, especially if the airway should close from swelling. The Level 1 clinic on a Forward Operating Base was intended for PT sprains, colds, diarrhea, flu and Ambien. It was hardly a burn center, but Miriam was luckier than most burn patients. Camp and the medics got the fire extinguished quickly. The patient would be in recovery for several weeks; there would be scarring, but she would live.

“Miriam, can you hear me?”

Her eyes were swollen shut with bandages and ointment covering them.

A weak raspy whisper pierced the silence.

“Yes.”

“How are you feeling?”

“My son… my husband will kill him if he finds out that I lived.”

Camp walked around to the other side of her bed.

“You’re dead, Miriam… we sent reports to the Afghan media about the suicide bomber who killed herself and several others at the hospital. So relax… you’re dead.”

“I wish I was.”

“But your son may not be as lucky as you, Miriam.”

Her body writhed, and she grew agitated.

“What have you done to him?”

“Nothing yet. But I intend to hunt him down and kill him myself unless you tell me what I want to know.”

Camp heard the clinic door open. He saw Billy Finn walk into Miriam’s room just as Camp bent over toward Miriam’s ear.

Miriam became still.

“Mr. Finn is here,” she said to their mutual surprise.

“How are you, Miriam?” Finn responded though not really caring if she was feeling well or ever would.

“Your husband, Miriam, who is he? Why did he make you do this?” Camp continued the interrogation.

Miriam did not speak.

“Did he have something to do with Major Banks’ kidnapping?” Finn asked.

Miriam stayed silent.

“Does he live in Khost? Does he live there with your son and his family?” Camp asked.

She did not respond.