Paul McKellips - Jericho 3

“Some things never change in the former Soviet bloc,” Finn said as they passed through the gate complex watching the same unmarked car park on the other side of 1984 Street. “You look good today, Camp. Get some sleep, a beer and a hot shower?”

“I look good because you can see my gorgeous face again. Felt great to finally shave the jihad beard.”

As promised, Undersecretary Miller had cleared Ambassador Annette Pfister’s calendar for Camp and Finn. She had been briefed on the rail shipment from the Kirov Oblast down the Trans-Siberian, over to the Trans-Caspian railway and into Ashgabat. Their 9:30am meeting would be a brief get-acquainted session before they would be joined by the Deputy Ministers of Railways and Trade for Turkmenistan and their entourage.

The Ambassador’s scheduler entered the office where the three were having coffee and swapping stories about where they all grew up in America.

“Madam Ambassador, the Deputy Ministers and their staff are seated in the conference room.”

After a few social courtesies, Ambassador Pfister got down to business.

“Allow me to start first with the railways. I sent a letter of request to Minister Seyitgulyyew earlier this week. I hope you have some information for us.”

The Deputy Minister of Railways had never been to the US Embassy before and couldn’t speak a lick of English other than “movie English.” He spoke through a translator.

“Madam Ambassador, we routinely receive freight and rail shipments from all parts of Russia, including the Kirov Oblast. The shipment in question was transported on the Trans-Siberian from Kirov to Koshagyl, Russia. It passed through Kazakhstan where it was transferred to the Trans-Caspian railway, and was rerouted in Beyneu, and then down to Bekdash where it was placed on a cargo vessel, crossed the Caspian inlet and then here to Ashgabat. It was more than 3,700 kilometers for the trip and perhaps a three day transport with switching.”

“Sir, is the shipment still here in Ashgabat?” the Ambassador asked.

“No. A few weeks ago we transferred six boxcars filled with 55-gallon drums onto the IRIR where it was moved through Mashhad. The shipment was transferred to Damghan.”

“IRIR?”

“The Islamic Republic of Iran Railways.”

“How many of these 55-gallon drums were in the boxcars?”

“The bill of lading was for 500 drums.”

“And the contents within those drums?”

“Pesticides. Iran is rich with agriculture, Madam Ambassador.”

Ambassador Dunn turned her attention over to the Deputy Chairman of the Cabinet of Ministers for Trade, Commerce, Textiles and Customs.

“Sir, does Deputy Chairman Gurbannazarow conduct a lot of business with Iran?”

“We are very close trading partners. But Turkmenistan is more of a trading gateway, an intersection of world trade for the region. We collect a tax for all goods traveling between Russia and the region. We take great pride in our rail system.”

Billy Finn nodded to the Ambassador and took the floor.

“Sir, do you ever inspect the contents of shipments that pass through your yards, to verify that the contents match the freight bills?”

“Do we taste the tea to make sure it’s tea? Do we turn on the radios to make sure they’re radios? Do we test the pesticides to make sure they kill the red palm weevil bug that eats away at Iranian date palm trees and pistachios? No.”

“You mentioned Damghan as being the final destination. Isn’t that where the Iranians produce their biological and chemical weapons?” Camp quizzed the Deputy Minister of Trade.

“I know nothing about weapons, Mr. Campbell, but as for trade, Damghan is a manufacturing city. There are many chemical factories and distributors for plastics, petroleum products and additives.”

“Do the IRIR trains come to Ashgabat for switching, or do you transfer loads off the Trans-Caspian onto IRIR once they reach Mashhad?” Camp asked.

“We transfer here… onto IRIR trains in the main rail yard.”

“Do Iranians come here to conduct business often?” Finn asked.

“Of course, we are friends. They especially enjoy holidays close to the Caspian Sea.”

The meeting was adjourned, and the Ambassador thanked the Turkmenistan staff and Deputy Ministers for their time and candor. The Ambassador’s scheduler stepped into the conference room and handed Camp a note as final farewells were being exchanged.

CALL GENERAL FERGUSON AT ISAF ON SECURE LINE ASAP.

Camp and Billy Finn were escorted to a small video conference room. The vapor locked door made a swishing sound as they locked themselves in.

Major Spann answered the SIPRNET line that was ringing less than a foot away from Ferguson.

“General Ferguson’s Office, Major Spann speaking.”

“Major, Captain Campbell and Billy Finn.”

“Please hold, captain.”

Ferguson took another 45-seconds shuffling through the papers that he wasn’t even looking at prior to the call.

“Camp, what did you find out over there?” Ferguson finally asked.

“Sir, the Kirov Oblast shipment passed through here about two weeks ago. Five hundred 55-gallon drums of red palm weevil pesticides transferred over to the Islamic Republic of Iran Railway and moved to Damghan.”

“So CIA was correct; it did originate in Kirov?”

“Affirmative.”

“Okay, well that’s not good then. I just received a classified briefing from the SECDEF’s office. They’ve put a new stealth drone over Iran and were tracking your SkitoMister. The drone was en route from Kandahar when the SkitoMister went airborne. A chopper set it down in the Bourvari District, a compilation of five villages full of Persian-Armenians. The SkitoMister was placed on a maintenance truck that drove all of the roads in the five villages. According to the video feed it appeared as though they were spraying.”

“Spraying what?” Camp asked.

“The SECDEF is adamant that we not jump to conclusions on the whole tularemia thing. For all we know these are pesticides and a legitimate use of the SkitoMister. We don’t have an exactly stellar record of intelligence in the region.”

“Why these particular villages, general? Is this an agricultural area?” Finn asked.

“There’s some agriculture in the Bourvari, Billy, but the only notable thing is the people.”

“Persian-Armenians?”

“Christians, Billy… they’re all Christians.”

Camp and Finn took a few seconds to digest the news.

“What’s next, general?”

“Get yourselves back to Kabul, and we’ll take it from there.”

National Interagency Biodefense Center

BSL-4 Facility

Fort Detrick, Maryland

Lieutenant Colonel Leslie Raines and two microbiologists were suited up and inside the BSL-4 lab. Tissue samples from all 16 dead rhesus monkeys were under the scope. The team needed to reverse-engineer what was clearly a vaccine-resistant strain of tularemia. The dead monkeys were living proof.

The challenge of vaccine development was more than developing suitable antigens, adjuvants and delivery methods. Numerous regulatory, technical and manufacturing obstacles needed to be considered in order to translate a vaccine candidate developed in a controlled lab over to a human setting in a clinic. It was the difference between the classroom and the streets.

Raines was focused on the adjuvants, substances that could be added to existing tularemia vaccines to boost the vaccine’s ability to produce an immune response. If Raines could cook an adjuvanted vaccine, then LyonBio should be able to produce more doses of vaccine with smaller amounts of the antigen, the active ingredient that delivered the immune response.