Grim Reaper: End of Days

by Steve Alten

  The microbiologist faced the remote cameras, her image appearing on secured monitors inside the Pentagon, White House, and aboard the two rapid-response-team helicopters racing to Manhattan. “The case that was removed from our Bio-Level 4 facility was part of a top secret project called Scythe. In short, Scythe is a self-administered biological weapon that allows an infected insurgent to rapidly spread bubonic plague throughout a military or hostile civilian population.

  “Scythe is Black Death at its absolute worst, combining bubonic, pneumonic, and septicemic variants in a form that can be spread quickly across both animal and human populations. During the bubonic pandemic of 1347, the bacterium, Yersinia pestis, lived inside the stomach of its primary vector, the rat flea. Plague bacteria multiply quickly inside a flea, blocking off its foregut. This stimulates hunger and more biting. Each time the flea bites its host, it gags on undigested blood and plague bacilli, vomiting them into the wound. Infected fleas lived off their rat hosts, creating an epizootic spread that devastated Asia and Europe. While the most treatable, bubonic is in many ways the nastiest of the Scythe bacilli, leaving the victim looking and smelling like death. Symptoms include fever, chills, and painful swelling of the lymph glands, called buboes, which turn red then black. Historic bubonic also disrupts the nervous system, causing agitation and delirium. If left untreated, bubonic plague has a 60 percent mortality rate.

  “Pneumonic plague is an advanced stage of bubonic. It occurs when the bacilli infect the victim’s lungs, allowing it to be transmitted directly from human to human. The lungs become agitated, stimulating coughing and the spitting up of blood, followed by interminable vomiting. Inhale an infected person’s breath or come in direct contact with their bodily fluids, and you contract plague. In colder temperatures, the expelled sputum can also freeze, allowing for greater range of transmission. Left untreated, the mortality rate among pneumonic plague victims is between 95 and 100 percent.

  “The last variant — septicemic plague — is the most lethal of the lot. It occurs when bacilli move directly into the bloodstream, killing the victim within twelve to fifteen hours. Again, Scythe contains all three variants. It spreads rapidly, tortures its victims while eliciting fear, and kills within fifteen hours. Only our specifically harvested antibiotic can inoculate the public or cure an infected individual… assuming you can get to them in time.”

  “Tell us about the woman.” Vice President Arthur M. Krawitz was seated next to Harriet Clausner. The president’s secretary of state grimaced on the White House monitor.

  “Her name is Mary Louise Klipot. We’re e-mailing her photo and bio to everyone now, as well as to the FBI and New York police departments. Mary is the microbiologist who developed Scythe. She’s the one who brought plague samples back from Europe.

  “Mary is eight months pregnant. She is engaged to her lab technician, Andrew Bradosky, believed to be the father of her unborn child. Mary and Bradosky have both gone missing as of 2:11 A.M. this morning, when Mary left her BSL-4 lab. Security videotape reveals she was carrying a BSL variant transport case.”

  The vice president interrupted. “Dr. Gagnon, these attaché cases? Scythe was being readied for deployment, wasn’t it?”

  Lydia Gagnon looked away from the White House feed, hoping to avert a drawn-out debate. “We don’t make policy decisions, Mr. Vice President, we simply follow orders. Our department has been following a 2001 directive to develop a system to subdue a hostile population. Those orders have never been rescinded.”

  “Who even knew the orders existed? I didn’t, and I served on the Foreign Relations Committee for twenty-two years. This directive is not only illegal, Dr. Gagnon, it’s genocide!”

  “It’s warfare, Mr. Vice President,” Secretary Clausner interjected. “As I clearly stated in the last two PDBs, our military lacks the manpower to invade another country. Biological weapons offer us options.”

  “Wiping out 40 million Iranians is not an acceptable option, Secretary Clausner.”

  “Neither is allowing nuclear weapons to fall into the hands of terrorists.”

  “With all due respect, this isn’t the time or place,” Colonel Zwawa snapped. “Dr. Gagnon, where’s the missing Scythe attaché case now?”

  Using her laptop mouse, Dr. Gagnon clicked on a satellite map of New York City. A red circle zoomed in on 46th Street between First and Second Avenue. “It’s in an alleyway located sixty meters west of the United Nations. Once our A.I.T.s are on the ground, Delta team will retrieve the attaché case while Alpha Team coordinates with Homeland Security and Albany’s CDC to set up a secure perimeter around the plaza. We’ll establish the UN Plaza as a temporary gray zone, at least until we can determine whether Scythe has been released. A.I.T.s are equipped with enough antibiotic to treat upward of fifty infected individuals, with more antidote being readied.”

  “Show us the worst-case scenario,” Colonel Zwawa ordered.

  Dr. Gagnon hesitated, then clicked her mouse on another link.

  A black circle appeared over the UN Plaza and the southern tip of Manhattan. “Assuming the spread is limited to foot traffic during its first thirty to sixty minutes of insemination, we may be able to keep Scythe contained inside Lower Manhattan. If it gets off the island and is limited to vehicular traffic, hours two and three look like this—”

  A second circle appeared, encompassing Connecticut, New York, the eastern half of Pennsylvania, and New Jersey.

  “If, however, a human vector boards a train, or God help us, a commercial airliner, then Scythe could spread across the globe within twenty-four hours.”

  VA Medical Center

  East Side, Manhattan

  9:51 A.M.

  “What does he want with me?” Patrick Shepherd hustled to keep up with Leigh Nelson as she hurried through the congested hospital corridor, weaving her way around patients in bathrobes pushing IVs on wheeled stands.

  “I’m sure he’ll explain. Keep in mind, he is President Kogelo’s new secretary of defense. Whatever he wants with you, I’d approach it as an honor.”

  Patrick followed his doctor into her office, the familiar sanctuary violated by the presence of the white-haired DeBorn, who had situated himself behind Dr. Nelson’s desk.

  The defense secretary dismissed his two Secret Service agents, allowing Leigh and Patrick to sit down. “Sergeant Shepherd, it’s an honor. This is my personal assistant, Ms. Ernstmeyer, and this fine gentleman is Lieutenant Colonel Philip Argenti. The colonel will be your new CO.”

  “Why do I need a new commanding officer? I’ve already served my time.”

  DeBorn ignored him, squinting to read the file coming across his BlackBerry. “Sergeant Patrick Ryan Shepherd. Four tours of duty. Abu Gharib… Green Zone. Reassigned to the 101st Airborne Division. Says here you received some on-the-job training to be a chopper pilot.”

  “Blackhawks. Medevac choppers. I was wounded before I could test for my certification.”

  The secretary of defense scrolled down his screen. “What’s this? Personnel file says you played professional baseball. That true?”

  “Minor leagues, mostly.”

  “The sergeant also played for the Boston Red Sox.”

  Shep shot Dr. Nelson a look to kill.

  “Really? Outfielder, I’d guess.”

  “Pitcher.”

  DeBorn looked up. “Not a southpaw, I hope?”

  “Shepherd? Patrick Shepherd? Why does that name sound familiar?” Colonel Argenti tugged at his rusty gray hair, wracking his brain. “Wait… you’re him! The kid they nicknamed the Boston Strangler. The rookie who no-hit the Yankees in his first start in the big leagues.”

  “Actually, it was a two-hitter, but—”

  “You shut out Oakland your next start.”

  “Toronto.”

  “Toronto, right. I remember watching it on Sports Center. That one went extra innings, they pulled you in the ninth. That was crazy, they should have left you in.” Argenti stood, pumping his fist excitedly
at DeBorn. “Been a season ticket holder going on thirty years. I know my baseball, and this kid was a beast. His fastball was okay, a cutter in the low nineties, but it was his dirty deuce that was outright nasty.”

  DeBorn frowned. “Dirty deuce?”

  “You know — the dirty yellow hammer… the yakker. Public enemy number two. A breaking ball, Bert! This kid had a breaking ball that was like hitting a lead shot put. Groundout after groundout, it drove hitters crazy.” The priest leaned back against Dr. Nelson’s desk, hovering over Patrick like an adoring fan. “You were a phenom, son, a nine day wonder. Whatever happened to you? You disappeared off the map like nobody’s business.”

  “I enlisted… sir.”

  “Oh, right. Country first, but still. Crying shame about the arm. How’d you lose it?”

  “I don’t remember. They called it a traumatic amputation. Buddy of mine, medic named David Kantor, he found me… saved my life. D.K. said it was an IED. I must’ve picked it up, thinking it was a kid’s toy. Woke up in the hospital six weeks later, couldn’t remember a thing. Probably better that way.”

  “Ever think about pitching again?” Argenti smiled, offering encouragement. “That pitcher, Jeff Abbott, he managed pretty well with only one arm.”

  “Jim Abbott. And he was missing a right hand, he kept his glove on his wrist. All I have left is a stub where my left biceps used to be.”

  “That’s enough baseball, Padre.” DeBorn motioned for Argenti to return to his chair. “Sergeant, we need you for a new assignment, one that will help America combat our enemies overseas while keeping the homeland safe. Your job will be to help us recruit a new generation of fighting men and women. This is a great honor. You’ll be traveling around the country, visiting high schools—”

  “No.”

  The secretary of defense’s complexion flushed red. “What did you say?”

  “I won’t do it. I can’t. My wife’s dead set against it. I couldn’t do that to her again, no, sir.”

  “Where’s your wife now? I’d like to have a word with her.”

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you. She doesn’t want to talk with me. She left me. Took my daughter and… well, she’s gone.”

  “Then why do you care what—”

  “She’s in New York.”

  Everyone turned to Leigh Nelson, who squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she hadn’t spoken.

  The blood rushed from Patrick’s face. “Doc, what are you saying? Did you speak to Bea?”

  “Not yet. Her address was e-mailed to me this morning. I haven’t had a chance to tell you. It’s not a hundred percent, but everything sure fits her description.”

  Shep leaned back in the chair, his entire body quivering.

  “There’s a phone number. We can call and make sure. Shep? Shep, are you okay?”

  The anxiety attack hit him like a tidal wave. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. White spots obscured his vision. Sweat burst from his pores in cold droplets as he slid onto the floor, his body convulsing.

  Dr. Nelson yanked open her door, and shouted, “I need a nurse and an orderly!” She knelt by Shep, feeling for his pulse. Rapid and weak.

  “What the hell’s wrong with him? Is he having a heart attack?”

  “Anxiety. Shep, honey, lie back and breathe. You’re okay.”

  DeBorn glanced at Sheridan Ernstmeyer, who shrugged. “Anxiety? Are you saying he’s having a panic attack? Good God, man up, Sergeant. You’re a United States Marine!”

  A nurse rushed in, followed by an intern pushing a wheelchair.

  Dr. Nelson helped lift Shep into the chair. “Elevate his feet. Get a cold compress on his neck and give him a Xanax.”

  The intern wheeled Shep out of the office.

  The white-haired secretary of defense stared down Leigh Nelson, his hawkish look meant to intimidate. “Where’s the wife?”

  “Like I said, she’s in New York.”

  “The address, Dr. Nelson.”

  “Mr. Secretary, this is way beyond reuniting a broken family. Shep’s unstable. His memory is fragmented, his brain is still affected by his injury. We deal with these things all the time. You can’t keep redeploying GIs three and four times without tearing their families apart. Spouses relocate, sometimes because they find someone else, sometimes out of fear. The military no longer detoxes its returning vets properly, they go from combat to civilian life in a week. Some of these guys are walking time bombs, their minds still immersed in war. They can’t enter their homes without doing a search of the premises, and they keep weapons by the bed. I’ve seen way too many cases of returning soldiers stabbing or shooting their loved ones while in the throes of a nightmare. I’m guessing that won’t look too good on the new recruiting poster.”

  “I didn’t ask you for a dissertation on warfare, Doctor. Now give me the wife’s address.”

  She hesitated.

  “With the economy still struggling, it must be nice to have a well-paying government salaried job. Of course, we could probably bring in two residents for what you’re being paid.”

  Leigh’s back stiffened. “Is that a threat, Mr. DeBorn?”

  “Ms. Ernstmeyer, contact the Pentagon. Have them locate the sergeant’s family.”

  “Wait. Just… wait.” Reaching into her lab-coat pocket, Leigh retrieved the e-mail printout, reluctantly handed it to the secretary of defense.

  DeBorn squinted as he read aloud. “Beatrice Shepherd. Battery Park, Manhattan.”

  “She’s close by,” Sheridan remarked. “Seems too coincidental. Maybe she’s here because he’s here.”

  “Find out.”

  “Whoa, slow down a minute,” said Leigh, her ire drawn. “Shepherd’s my patient. If anyone’s going to approach his wife, it should be me.”

  “You’re too close. Spouses who feel scorned by the military require a deft touch. This wife of his sounds like another bleeding-heart peace activist. Is she?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Women who place morality above family are the worst kind of hypocrites. Take that Cindy Sheehan. She loses her son, spends the next three years protesting the Armed Forces he risked his life to join, then she ends up deserting her family to pursue a political career. I suspect this Beatrice Shepherd is cut from the same cloth. Ms. Ernstmeyer knows how to handle their kind.”

  “Fine. Handle it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other patients to tend to.”

  “In a minute. I need you to fit the sergeant for a prosthetic arm.”

  “He was fitted three months ago. We’ve been told there’s a four-to-six-month backlog.”

  “Colonel?”

  “He’ll have one by this afternoon.”

  Leigh Nelson felt like she was drowning. “With all due respect, slapping on hardware and forcing Shep to confront his wife won’t even begin to address his psychological problems.”

  “Let us deal with his family, Doctor. You arrange for the psychiatric help.”

  Leigh balled her fists, her blood pressure soaring. “And where should I find this psychiatrist? Conjure him out of thin air? I’ve got 263 combat veterans in serious need of psychiatric care, a third of them on suicide watch. We’re sharing two clinical psychologists between three VA hospitals and—”

  “It’s handled,” interrupted Father Argenti. “By this afternoon, Patrick Shepherd will be speaking with the best shrink taxpayer money can buy.”

  Secretary DeBorn’s eyebrows rose. “Any other challenges, Dr. Nelson?”

  She sat back in her chair, defeated. “You want to hire your own specialist — fine by me, just keep it quiet. I don’t want the other men in Shep’s ward knowing about this. It’s bad for morale. Shep won’t go for it, either.”

  “Duly noted. Colonel, set up private sessions at the psychiatrist’s office.”

  “That won’t work. We had a situation last week. I took Shep out of the hospital as a first step to reorient him into civilian life. It didn’t go well. You’re better off doing sessions
in the hospital.”

  “Then arrange for him to have his own room. Tell him it’s a gift from the Pentagon.” Secretary DeBorn stood, ending the meeting. “I’m due at the UN this afternoon, but I’ve got one more stop to make first. Colonel, you’re in charge. Be sure the psychiatrist you hire knows Shepherd needs to be in Washington for January’s State of the Union Address. That’ll give him four weeks to get our boy in decent mental shape.”

  DeBorn headed for the door. Paused. “You like Shepherd, don’t you, Doctor?”

  “I care about all my patients.”

  “No. I see how you look at him. There’s something there. Maybe a physical attraction?”

  “Sir, I never—”

  “Of course not. But it wouldn’t hurt you to be there for the sergeant… you know, to ease his mind when his wife officially terminates their relationship.”

  Leigh Nelson snapped, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I happen to be happily married with two beautiful children. And you can forget about Shep. Whatever happened between him and Bea, whatever fallout they may have had, he loves his wife and daughter intensely and would say or do just about anything to get them back.”

  DeBorn nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

  United Nations Plaza

  10:14 A.M.

  The suddenness of the assault had blindsided the protesters. The combatants — three hundred members of New York’s highly trained Emergency Service Unit (ESU), all wearing hooded gas masks and Homeland Security apparel, had stormed the plaza in one expedient, overwhelming wave. Working in teams, the troops had quickly subdued the crowd, binding their wrists behind their backs using trifold, single-use restraints before laying them out in organized rows along the cold concrete expanse.

  Having taken out the mob, they turned on the media.

  With little regard for camera equipment or Constitutional rights, the assault team physically herded the stunned reporters and their television crews to another section of the plaza, where they, too, were placed in restraints.

  “This is America! You can’t restrain the press!”