Jeff Buick - Lethal Dose

“Terrorists?”

“It’s a definite possibility, Mr. Under Secretary. They could be testing the proverbial waters to see if there’s any collateral damage or if only the primary infected target dies. They may want to know how many strikes are necessary to infect our population before unleashing the main attack. Or they may be willing to play a game of terror by paralysis. If the news were to seep out that items we take for granted, like stamps, could be infected, panic would be sure to follow. And with that panic will come a huge blow to how efficiently we run the country. It could easily outstrip the anthrax scare of 2003.”

“So where did this virus come from? How is it possible that a new hemorrhagic virus just suddenly shows up? How was it created?” Rothery asked the pathologist.

“You’re sure you want an answer to that? It’s pretty technical.”

“Try me.”

“I suspect that some group has developed it by mutating Ebola or Marburg,” Henning answered. “But that said, the manner in which this virus binds to the host cell is quite different from Ebola or Marburg. We’ve isolated a unique set of proteins on the outer viral membrane, which we think are targeting chemokine receptors for the bonding process. But how it enters the host cell is a complete mystery at this point. Once it’s inside the victim, at the human cellular level, it uncoats and its nucleic acid undergoes transcription into mRNAs. Genome replication follows, which is standard, except we suspect it’s a DNA virus that uses only the de novo pathway and somehow does not require the salvage pathway.” He stopped for a moment to let the string of technical jargon sink in, then addressed Rothery’s question. “So how was it created? We’re not sure. There’s still a lot about the virus we don’t understand.”

Rothery rubbed his forehead. “Why? Why would they bother to create a new virus? Why not just use Ebola?”

“Ebola is unpredictable and incredibly dangerous. I’m running tests on the virus we found in Hughes and English to see if whoever mutated this thing mellowed it a bit, but that’s not overnight work. It’s going to take a lot of tests to find out those differences.”

“What extent of damage could this cause if the wrong people are controlling it? Give me an educated guess, Dr. Henning,” Rothery said.

He was pensive, choosing his words carefully.“If I was in their shoes and my intentions were to unleash a virus on the United States, I’d want one that was controllable until I released it. After that, maximum destruction. Easily spread through contact, possibly even aerosol contamination. I’d look for a fast-acting bug with ugly symptoms and no known cure. And so far, from what I’ve seen, they’ve got check marks next to most of those. And if they have enough of the virus and the manpower to spread it quickly when they actually start, I’d say we could see deaths numbering into the hundreds of thousands, possibly millions. And very quickly-within days, not weeks.”

“Jesus Christ,” Rothery snapped. He turned to his FBI counterpart. “Jim, what have you guys got on any groups acting inside our borders that may have this technology and the facilities necessary to develop and store the virus?”

Allenby glanced quickly at his files. “A handful of possibilities, J. D. I’ll get entire dossiers on each one to your department by end of work today. We’ll be approaching this problem with total interdepartmental cooperation. Anything you need, just ask.”

Rothery nodded his approval. “Thanks, Jim. What’s going on outside our borders, Craig?”

Craig Simms, Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, had been quiet, assimilating information. He was a thoughtful, academic man with intelligent gray eyes and a full head of silver hair that matched his eyes perfectly. He was a veteran of the espionage community, and his knowledge of terrorist cells operating worldwide was renowned. He shifted his gaze to the people at the table as he spoke, ignoring the thick file he had brought with him to the meeting.

“We have identified twenty-seven possible locations in nine countries where there is what we consider to be the right mixture of personnel and facilities. There are thousands of buildings that could be used to create and breed this virus, but only a few molecular biologists that would have the expertise and hate the United States enough to actually do it. We’ve spent the last few weeks tracking these experts and we know where most of them are. Getting into some of these labs will be easy; others will be next to impossible, but we’re ready to begin covert ops if necessary. Seventeen of the labs are in countries where our operatives can move about in relative anonymity, but the other ten are in very hostile territory. At present, we’re using satellites to watch every vehicle that leaves these labs and we’re trying to intercept them whenever possible. We’ve had some success, but to date we haven’t found anything that resembles this virus.”

“What about the seventeen labs you could gain access to?” Rothery asked. “Have you done anything about that yet?”

“You mean have we sent in operatives to terminate operations?”

“Yes.”

“No. We suspect at least twelve of these labs are al-Qaeda, and we’ve been monitoring them, trying to identify al-Qaeda members as they come and go. It’s working very well. We’d rather not go busting down their doors and lose the information trail we’ve spent months, sometimes years, putting in place.”

“But if you had to…”

“If we had to, we would cooperate, Mr. Under Secretary,” Simms said evenly. “But let’s try to keep that avenue as a last resort. Identifying al-Qaeda operatives is our top priority right now, and I’d hate to lose what we’ve worked so hard to put in place.”

Rothery nodded and pursed his lips. “I understand, Craig,” he said.“Let’s let the status quo remain intact for now. I’ll let you know if we need to shut down those labs.”

“Thank you.”

“Tony, what does the National Security Agency think about all this?”

Tony Warner, the youngest of the four and just into his thirties, shook his head. He had GQ looks, and his jet-black hair, which he wore just touching his shoulders, swung back and forth with the motion of his head. “We don’t know what to think at this time. Our people at NSA are analysts, and we need time and data before jumping out on a limb.”

Rothery nodded and glanced about the room. “Anything else?” he asked, closing his folder. No one spoke. “Then let’s get working on this, gentlemen. I want whatever group is behind this shut down.” He locked eyes with each person individually.

“Shut down or dead,” he said. “Either is fine with me.”

Twin Pines Sawmill was tucked into a dense stretch of forest about twenty-two miles south of Butte. Signage was good and the main road into the mill was paved and well maintained. The rugged foothills of the Beaverhead Mountains framed the smokestacks that rose above the trees and quietly released thin trails of white smoke against the crisp blue sky. Aside from a low droning sound and the occasional high pitch of a saw slicing into cut timber, the woods were quiet.

Jennifer Pearce parked in one of the assigned visitors’ spots near the front door and stared at the sawmill. What was she doing here? It had taken her seven hours of flights and connections to arrive in Butte, and another hour to rent the car and drive to the mill. It was five o’clock Saturday afternoon and she was tired, irritated with airlines and airports, and apprehensive about meeting Gordon Buchanan. She ran a comb through her hair and stepped from the car into the warm Montana sun. It felt good on her skin.