The Quisling Covenant

by Jerry Ahern

  Rourke filled in the blank, “They will destroy us. Okay give me your address.” He copied the address onto a scrap of paper. Rourke thought for a moment, “I can be there in about thirty minutes. By the way, VBB, is that some kind of scientific designation; what does it stand for?”

  “No, we haven’t decided on a scientific name. In the lab we’re just calling it a Very Bad Bug,” Kirby said with a wry smile and broke the connection.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  John pulled into the parking lot and noticed a black sedan with Medical Examiner on the door. He walked into the lobby and to a wall directory, finding the number for Kirby’s office on the third floor. A short elevator ride later, he entered Kirby’s office and found two men. “I’m here to see Mr. Kirby, I’m John Rourke.”

  Kirby stood and they shook hands. “This is Dr. Stevens, the County Medical Examiner. I’ve already briefed him.”

  “Okay Doc.” Rourke turned to the medical doctor. “What exactly is this about?”

  “A genetically modified hantavirus or HPS,” Dr. Stevens said.

  Rourke thought for a moment, “Wait a minute; if I am remembering my epidemiology classes correctly, the Hantavirus is transmitted by rodent urine, rodent droppings, and saliva of infected rodents, not bugs.”

  Stevens nodded, “You are correct. Early symptoms include fatigue, fever, and muscle aches, especially in the large muscle groups... thighs, hips, back, and sometimes shoulders. These symptoms are universal. There may also be headaches, dizziness, chills, and abdominal problems, such as nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, and abdominal pain. Four to ten days after the initial phase of illness, the late symptoms of HPS appear. These include coughing and shortness of breath, with the sensation of, as one survivor put it, a ‘tight band around my chest and a pillow over my face’ as the lungs fill with fluid.”

  “The old strains could be fatal, right?” Rourke asked.

  “Yes, a mortality rate of thirty-nine percent,” Kirby said; Stevens nodded his head in agreement.

  “It is a serious infection that gets worse quickly. Lung failure can occur and may lead to death. Even with aggressive treatment, more than half of the people who have this disease in their lungs die.”

  “Are you saying this strain is different?” Rourke asked.

  Stevens nodded, “Yes, much more virulent and aggressive. The symptoms can start in as little as a few hours from original exposure. Most deaths, as near as we can tell, are occurring within twenty-four to thirty-six hours after exposure.”

  Rourke thought for a moment and said, “Alright, you’re telling me this is being spread by these VBBs. Do you know where they came from or where they first appeared?”

  Kirby walked to a map and pointed to one of the smaller islands in the Hawaiian chain. “We are not absolutely positive but right now we think they first appeared somewhere in this area.”

  John frowned, “Are you absolutely sure about the rest of this information?” Both nodded. Rourke continued, “I mean are you 100 percent sure of these facts, will they stand scrutiny by the highest authorities?” Again both nodded. Rourke wiped his face with both hands, “Okay, may I borrow your phone?” Kirby slid the phone across the table; Rourke picked up the hand piece and dialed Michael’s private number.

  “Hello...”

  “Michael, we have to talk, now. I’ve got two gentlemen who you need to hear from.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Rain was falling slowly as Darrel Jackson crawled into his shelter; a discarded cardboard shipping container covered by a piece of plastic sheeting taped into place. Inside was a small discarded mattress he had found along the street; it was his only degree of cushioning from the cold, hard concrete beneath him. A spasm of coughing erupted as he rearranged the filthy blankets that smelled as bad as he did. For days he had been hacking up dark globs of yellow/green phlegm from his lungs. He reached inside the old field jacket and removed his only companion; an ugly, small, mixed breed puppy he had found wandering in the alley. Darrel lay down and the pup squirmed close for warmth next to his chest.

  His life was not supposed to turn out like this, but it had. Bad decisions, drugs, alcohol, and gambling debts had reduced him from a young successful business man with a college degree, to a homeless bum eking out an existence on the streets. He had lost it all—wife, kids and a future. Destitute didn’t cover the malaise and squalor of his life any more than misery described his loneliness.

  The puppy looked up and gave Darrell a lick on the nose. Smiling, Darrell petted the pup and said softly, “Ah, puppy breath, the magic elixir.” Suddenly, he felt a sharp stinging pain in his right leg, just above the worn out ankle boots he had found last week. He hollered, “Son of a bitch...” as he slapped at the pain. “Damn, that hurts,” he told the puppy. Pulling up his pants leg he saw his attacker, “What the hell... a damn scorpion!”

  His attacker was not killed by the impact, the bug kept stabbing its stinger into the man’s leg. “Crap!” he shouted as he struck again with no effect. He grabbed the scorpion and ripped it from his leg throwing it across the alley way. It struck the brick wall and fell to the ground and crawled off. “Damn son of a bitching bug, must have hit me six times,” he told the puppy while rubbing his injured leg. He pulled the pup closer and the two settled down; the pup was shivering. The man snored deeply and sweated.

  Had he been awake, he might have heard the humming of wings approaching during the night; he didn’t. The scorpion had returned with reinforcements; sixteen of them landed close to the man’s shelter. Almost as though they had a plan in mind, the aggressive predators silently moved inside the shelter and up the man’s pant leg. They stung him again and again before they crawled off looking for another victim; but the man didn’t react.

  Thirty minutes later, the coughing returned. His immune system, almost ten years of a lifestyle fraught with drugs and malnutrition, was unable to fight off the venom from the stings. Less than an hour later, the man, unconscious rather than asleep, choked on several massive globs of phlegm his labored lungs expelled, and died.

  The pup, unharmed and unaware of the attack, slept on. Finally, he stirred. He was cold and something was wrong with the man. There was no heat coming from him. The puppy stayed until the rain quit and crawled from the dead man’s grip, turned and gave a last lick to the man’s cold dead face and left to find another benefactor.

  It was three days later before someone noticed the stench coming from the cardboard box and called the city sanitation department. The two city workers gagged as they pulled the container down and looked at the bloated body. “I ain’t touching this,” one said as he pulled his radio. “Yeah, Central, this is McClannahan. We have a dead body here, better notify the Coroner.” The radio crackled, McClannahan said, “No, looks natural. Homeless guy; been dead for a while. Get a wagon down here to pick him up.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Two hours later, three men approached the Secret Service agent at the gate of the presidential mansion. After checking their identification he said, “The President is expecting you.” Ten minutes later, they were sitting in the small conference room in the west wing. Dr. Stevens was laying out the reports when the President, Michael Rourke, entered.

  Walking over to his father Michael said, “Dad, I only have a few minutes. I hope this is important, my calendar is pretty full.”

  John nodded, “Son, you are probably going to have to clear it. I suggest you call in the head of the CDC and the head of the National Security Agency. At least have them standing by on a secure phone line to listen to this. We have a problem.”

  Michael looked at his father, “Let me hear it first, then I’ll make those arrangements if it is necessary.” Thirty minutes into the presentation Michael punched the call button on the intercom and a Marine guard knocked on the door and entered. Michael rose from the table and handed a note to the guard, “Take this to the Chief of Staff and tell him I want a secure phone line set up immediately with the firs
t person on this list. Tell him to contact the others and get them over here right now.”

  The Marine saluted, about faced and marched out the door. Michael turned back and looked at the three men, sadly. “Gentlemen, on one hand I hope you know what you’re talking about. On the other hand, I pray you don’t. In either event, that is about to be determined.” He checked his watch, “We probably have about thirty minutes before we start again. I’d suggest you may want to take a bathroom break; if what you’re telling me is accurate, it will be a while before you get another. I have to adjust my schedule. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes.”

  Michael walked into his personal office. After calling his secretary to clear his calendar he dialed another number. Several short beeps sounded in the ear piece; Michael spoke the activation code, “Lockout, Papa Baker,” and hung up.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The Marine guard knocked on the door to the small conference room and entered, “Gentlemen, the President has asked for you to follow me to another location.” Kirby and Stevens gathered their information and followed John Rourke and the Marine down the hall to the elevator. They descended three levels below into the ground. We’re going to the War Room, Rourke thought. He was correct.

  When they entered, Michael directed them to chairs at the large conference table. As the last man entered, Michael told the Marine guard, “Unless there is a national security matter of the highest order, we are not to be disturbed.” The Marine saluted and went to parade rest.

  Michael closed the door, went to his seat and punched a button on a large speaker box on the conference table. “Dan, can you hear us alright?”

  Dan Hasher of the Lock Out Team said, “Yes, Mr. President, I can.”

  Michael introduced the Director of the National Security Agency, Harmon Knowles who turned and introduced his Deputy Director of Intelligence, Darrell Cooper and the Deputy Director of Operations, Dave Sheppard.

  Michael turned to his father, “Dad, let’s get this started.”

  John Rourke nodded, introduced Kirby and Stevens and said, “These gentlemen have a story you need to hear. They are saying we have been attacked... we don’t know by whom, but they believe they have identified the what and the how.”

  “Hold it,” NSA Director Knowles interrupted, looking at his two subordinates who shook their heads, “Attacked? I have no word of any attack.”

  John nodded, “That sir is the problem. Dr. Stevens and Mr. Kirby have indications that the attack has already begun and we have been targeted by a genetically engineered biological threat. Mr. Kirby, please tell them what you told me and the President.”

  Kirby cleared his throat as he passed out a series of photographs. “This is what I know right now...” He began.

  When he was finished, he turned to Dr. Stevens, “Your turn Doc.” His briefing was short and not very news worthy.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  That evening, as Michael and Natalia sat alone in her hospital room, he asked, “What do you know about Russian development of biological weapons?”

  She thought for a long moment, going back through memories from before the Night of the War. “I know that the Soviet Union began a BW program in the 1920s although they were a signatory to the 1925 Geneva Protocol, which banned both chemical and biological weapons. During the second World War, Stalin had moved his biological operations out of the path of advancing German forces and may have used tularemia against German troops in 1942 near Stalingrad.”

  “By 1960, numerous BW research facilities existed throughout the Soviet Union. Although the USSR also signed the 1972 Biological Weapons Convention, the Soviets subsequently augmented their biological warfare programs. Over the course of its history, the Soviet program is known to have weaponized and stockpiled the several bio-agents and pursued basic research on many more.”

  “These programs became immense and were conducted at 52 clandestine sites employing over 50,000 people. Annualized production capacity for weaponized smallpox, for example, was 90 to 100 tons. In the 1980s, many of these agents were genetically altered to resist heat, cold, and antibiotics. We know that a scientist named Igor Domaradskij and Colonel Kanatjan Alibekov, who both defected, were in charge of several of these operations. Alibekov admitted a biological weapons accident in 1979 had resulted in the deaths of at least 64 people. Another outbreak of weaponized smallpox had occurred earlier during testing in 1971. There was a professor…” Natalia said, frustrated and unable to remember his name, “Damn, my head hurts.”

  “Do you need to rest?” Michael asked, concerned.

  “No, it’s on the tip of my tongue… Burgasov, that’s his name, Burgasov. Hand me your phone Michael, I need to search something.” She typed into a search engine. “Here it is; a report from General Professor Peter Burgasov, former Chief Sanitary Physician of the Soviet Army, and a senior researcher within the program of biological weapons. Let me read this to you; it’s a report he wrote on an incident he witnessed.”

  “‘On Vozrozhdeniya Island in the Aral Sea, the strongest formulations of smallpox were tested. Suddenly, I was informed that there were mysterious cases of mortalities in Aralsk. A research ship of the Aral fleet had come within fifteen kilometers from the island, it was forbidden for anyone else to come any closer than forty kilometers. The lab technician of this ship took samples of plankton twice a day from the top deck. ’”

  “‘The smallpox formulation, 400 grams of which was exploded on the island got her, and she became infected. After returning home to Aralsk, she infected several people, including children. All of them died. I suspected the reason for this and called the General Chief of Staff at the Ministry of Defense and requested to forbid the Alma-Ata train from stopping in Aralsk. As a result, an epidemic throughout the country was prevented. I called Andropov, who at that time was the Chief of the KGB, and informed him of the unique formulation of smallpox obtained on Vozrozhdeniya Island.’”

  “I personally know,” Natalia said, handing Michael his phone, “that by the Night of the War the program had been massive and still existed. An agreement was signed with the US and UK promising to end bio-weapons programs and convert BW facilities to benevolent purposes, but compliance with the agreement—and the fate of the former Soviet bio-agents and facilities—is still mostly undocumented.”

  “We think,” Michael said, “someone named Yuri Burgasov is the bad guy. His grandfather, several times removed, died of Marburg virus disease.”

  “The Marburg virus’s name is derived from Marburg, where the virus was first discovered. It is a hemorrhagic fever virus first noticed and described during small epidemics when workers were accidentally exposed to Chloroce-bus aethiops, at the city’s former main industrial plant—the Behringwerke, then part of Hoechst. During these outbreaks, if I remember correctly, thirty-one people became infected and seven of them died. Marburg virus, or MARV, causes severe disease in humans and nonhuman primates in the form of viral hemorrhagic fever. Marburg virus was first described somewhere around 1967.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “Paul, we need to talk in person,” John Rourke said into the phone. Paul had been released from medical care except for the cast on his leg. He’d be wheeling around in a wheelchair for the next several weeks—his mobility was limited. “Are you feeling up to a visitor, can I come over?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good, do me a favor and call your pal, that emergency services guy you know,” John said.

  “Randal Walls?”

  “Yeah, that’s his name. Ask him if I can pick him up on my way over. If there’s a problem, let me know. Do you have his address? Also, give him a high-level heads-up about the bugs so he’ll know what this is about.”

  Paul gave Rourke the address and called Walls to let him know John was on his way. Forty minutes later, Rourke and Walls knocked on Paul’s front door. “Thanks for having us, Paul. Randall,” John said, “I need to pick your brain.” They walked into Paul’s study as he wh
eeled in behind them. Annie came in and gave her dad a hug. “Can I get you gentlemen anything?”

  “No Honey, we’ll just be a minute,” John said. Annie kissed Paul and tossed a “If you change your minds...” over her shoulder. Rourke explained what he could about the threat. Finally, John asked, “So, what do you think, Randall?”

  Walls scratched his head, “Well, if you are correct, this is not going to be simple. You’re talking about searching almost 6,500 square miles. Remember, in addition to the eight main islands—Hawaii, Maui, Kahoolawe, Lanai, Molokai, Oahu, Kauai, and Niihau—there are 152 separate islands listed in the Hawaiian chain. These include smaller island chains such as the French Frigate Shoals, which includes thirteen islands of its own.”

  “This list didn’t number the uninhabited islets, rocks, coral reefs, and atolls. On Oahu alone, it would be necessary to activate at least twenty-eight local agencies in response to such an outbreak. Those would include the Capital City Fire and Police Departments, County Sheriff’s Offices and School Districts, County Health Departments, Air Quality, and Emergency Management, just to mention a few. Add to that mix the Red Cross, pharmacies, Medical Examiners, Hospitals, and the rest; it adds up pretty quickly.”

  “What about on the national level?” Rubenstein asked.

  Walls said, “Those numbers don’t even come close to addressing the numbers related to the national level if the outbreak went to the epidemic level. Looking at the possibility of a global pandemic, the word ‘daunting’ doesn’t come close to describing the situation. In that event, the level of coordination, not to mention implementation of recovery and mediation activities, has never been designed; much less practiced. There simply has not been such an outbreak since the Dark Ages when bubonic plague wiped out over a third of the population of Europe. That had also been a vector borne disease—rats. Rats couldn’t fly; you’re saying this vector can.”