Douglas Preston - Gideon's Corpse

Smallpox causes one of the most frightening and terrible deaths known. It commences with high fever, muscle pain, and vomiting. A rash develops, covering the body with hard, distended pustules, often forming on the tongue and palate. In its fulminating form, the pustules merge to form a single pustule-like covering to the victim’s entire body. The blood leaks out of the vessels into the muscles and organs, and the eyes fill up with blood and turn bright red. The symptoms of the disease are often accompanied by acute mental distress in which neurological changes cause the victim to suffer an overwhelming feeling of suffocating terror, a dread of impending doom. All too often, that fear becomes reality.

The World Health Organization has stated that a single case of smallpox appearing anywhere in the world would be a “worldwide medical emergency of the highest order” and would require “a complete and total quarantine of the infected region combined with an emergency ‘ring of vaccination’ program as containment. It seems likely that significant military force would be required to implement an effective quarantine of infected areas.”

When Fordyce finished reading there was silence in the car, the humming of the tires filling the space.

“So Blaine had an idea for a novel,” said Gideon. “He worked out all the details, wrote the proposal. It was going to make a terrific thriller. And then he realized it was too good to waste on a book. He decided to do it—for real.”

Fordyce nodded.

“I bet he went for it when he met Chalker and realized what a golden opportunity had just fallen into his lap. I mean, what better scapegoat for his irradiated corpse than a nuclear scientist at Los Alamos who’d converted to Islam?”

“Yes,” said Fordyce. “And another thing: I’d bet we’re dealing with a larger group here—not just Blaine. Novak’s in on it, and there must be others. This isn’t the kind of thing you can pull off solo.”

“You’re right. And I’ll bet one of those others is—or was—an airplane mechanic.”

“But here’s what I don’t get. Without a real nuke, how did they irradiate Chalker?”

Gideon considered this. “There are other ways. The most obvious would be with the radio-isotopes used in medical diagnoses.”

“That stuff’s easily available?”

“Not easily. But it is available to those with the right licenses. The thing is, medical isotopes are generally fission products of uranium or plutonium, the result of controlled criticality reactions. Of course, they’d have to calculate radioactive isotope ratios based on medical radioactivity, due to the fission yields driving these isotopic ratios.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“What I mean is, it could be done. You could fake a nuclear core accident by leaving traces of medical radio-isotopes in just the right ratios. Not only that, but medical radio-isotopes could have been used to irradiate Chalker, as well.”

“What about the U-235 they found on Chalker’s hands?” asked Fordyce.

“If you had an inside contact at Los Alamos—like Novak, say—that wouldn’t be difficult. All you’d need is a few nanograms. Someone could obtain that amount by simply swiping the tip of a gloved finger on a piece of U-235. The glove would bring away many nanograms of material that could then be transferred to Chalker’s hands with a mere handshake.”

“So why didn’t anyone consider the possibility this was faked?”

“It’s so improbable,” Gideon answered. “So…outré. Would you ever have guessed?”

Fordyce thought about this a moment. “Never.”

“Blaine must have rented that Queens apartment, supposedly for Chalker. No wonder Chalker said it wasn’t his place—chances were he’d never been there before. They probably kept him in that basement cage until he was suitably disoriented. Then they irradiated him, put a gun in his hand, and stuck him in Sunnyside with an innocent family. All for blackmail, for money.”

“If you’re talking smallpox, for a whole hell of a lot of money, no doubt.”

Gideon shook his head. “Jesus, that’s cold.”

They flashed past a sign announcing they were entering Virginia. Gideon slowed further.

“N-Day is here,” said Fordyce, glancing at his watch. “And we’ve got maybe five hours to figure out how we’re going to stop this thing.”

They drove through the Appalachian foothills of southwestern Virginia in silence. While the westbound lanes were still choked with fleeing cars, the eastbound lanes they were traversing were practically deserted. Gideon stared straight ahead, hands gripping the wheel, his mind still racing. Should he try calling Glinn back? The man obviously had the right connections. But he dismissed the idea quickly: Garza had made it abundantly clear that Gideon was now completely on his own.

“We know their plan now,” Fordyce said. “What we need to do is contact NEST, have them secure USAMRIID, and we’re done.”

Gideon drove on, considering this.

“It goes without saying,” said Fordyce, “that we can’t do this ourselves.”

Still, Gideon did not reply.

“I hope you agree. I’m calling Dart.” Fordyce took out his cell phone.

“Just a moment,” said Gideon. “What makes you think Dart will believe us?”

“We’ve got the computer. We’ve got the file. If this isn’t proof, I don’t know what is.” Fordyce began to dial.

“I don’t think so,” Gideon said slowly.

Fordyce stopped dialing. “You don’t think so.”

“Dart’s not going to believe us. He thinks I’m a terrorist and you’re a fuckup whom he relieved of duty and who’s now gone AWOL.”

“The proof’s on the computer.”

“In a Microsoft Word file that could easily have been created or altered by us.”

“…But the DES encryption!”

“Big deal. The file wasn’t encrypted—just the computer. Stone, think: this investigation is way too invested in the jihadist plot theory. There’s simply too much momentum for it to turn on a dime.”

“It doesn’t have to turn on a dime. All Dart has to do is redeploy a dozen armed soldiers to guard that smallpox vault. It’s what any prudent investigator would do.”

Gideon shook his head. “While Dart isn’t stupid, he’s a prisoner of the book. He’s not the kind who thinks outside the box. You call Dart now and we’ll be arrested as soon as we show up with this computer. They’ll want to analyze the computer, make sure it isn’t a plant of some kind. They’ll debrief us at length…and meanwhile the smallpox will be stolen. Only then, when it’s too late, will they believe us.”

“Yes, but I know the FBI, and I’m telling you they’ll cover their asses by instantly deploying at least a few troops to guard USAMRIID.”

“This isn’t just the FBI now, or even NEST. It’s a monstrous, hydra-headed, out-of-control investigation that’s no longer acting in a rational manner. They’re drowning in false leads, red herrings, and conspiracy theories. We come in at the eleventh hour, babbling some out-of-left-field talk of smallpox… Think about it. Dart isn’t going to respond in time, and the bad guys will get the virus. You call Dart and they win. Game over.”

Fordyce slammed his fist on the dashboard. “Damn you, so what do you propose instead?”

“Simple. We go into Fort Detrick—I’m pretty sure we can talk our way in, especially with that shield of yours—and ambush the bastards when they come out with the smallpox. Catch them in the act. Then we take away the smallpox at gunpoint, hold them, and call the cavalry.”

“Why not stop them before they get the smallpox?”