Hybrid

by Brian O'Grady

  Simpson’s only response was to hand Martin a ballpoint pen.

  Martin scribbled his signature and returned the pen and paper back to the colonel. “Okay, I’m listening,” Martin said, becoming serious.

  “A little more than seven years ago, the United States attacked and destroyed a terrorist compound in Libya. We had reliable intelligence—”

  “Reliable intelligence? For God’s sake, not that excuse again,” Martin said with contempt.

  “Doctor, neither of us is here to have a geopolitical debate. Your views on past events are a matter of public record and have no bearing whatsoever on the here and now. I need you to focus on what I am saying and keep your personal opinions to yourself.” Simpson’s eyes bore into Martin.

  Martin accepted the rebuke; he knew he had made an illtimed and inappropriate comment. “I’m sorry, Colonel. Please continue.”

  “A network of Arab extremists had rather blatantly built a camp in the southern desert and began to train in full view of our satellites, which was somewhat unusual. They are usually more circumspect about their activities. It was a small camp, much smaller than others throughout the region, and seemingly of little concern. At first, we thought that this represented a shift in the Libyan government, back towards state sponsorship of such activities; later we found that that was not the case.

  “No one seemed all that eager to deal with them, so for a long time they went about their business, and we simply watched them. In an ideal world, we would have demanded that the Libyans handle the problem, or conversely, allow us to deal with it. However, neither side had enough political will, so the camp remained.

  “Just about eight years ago, we began to hear rumors that this camp was more than it seemed. Eventually, someone took an interest, and a disturbing pattern of activity was found— unusual purchases, deliveries of electrical and mining equipment, but most importantly, medical equipment.” Simpson paused and reached into his briefcase. He retrieved a folder and passed it over to Martin. “These are some photographs taken inside the camp seventeen days before it was destroyed.”

  Martin shuffled through a dozen black and white eighty-twelves, most of which showed only sand and dirty boots.

  “Nothing much to get excited about with those, but these are a good deal more interesting.”

  He handed Martin six more photos, and Martin stared at each one closely. The quality was much better, and it was clear that they had been taken inside. Incubators, autoclaves, and isolation stations were readily identifiable. The last photograph clearly showed the arm and paw of a small ape.

  “It’s too much to hope for that they were just doing some cosmetic testing,” he said, returning the pictures to Simpson.

  “No, they weren’t,” the colonel said and passed over a final photograph to Martin. “Do you recognize anyone in this picture?”

  Two men stood side by side, almost as if they were posing for the picture. A tall, thin, dark man dressed in desert fatigues was listening to a much smaller man with a riot of black hair, bushy eyebrows, and a cleft lip. “The tall figure I’ve never seen, but the other man is Dr. Jaime Avanti. I’ve met him many times, but I don’t think I’ve seen him for a few years. A Russian, if I remember correctly. A microbiologist who grew up in the Soviet system, but defected to West Germany years before the collapse of the USSR.”

  “Actually, he was Ukrainian, and it’s probably a good thing you haven’t seen him in years, because back in the nineties he began working for Al-Qaeda, long before they were fashionable. In 1998, he tried to buy some anthrax using his old university credentials. Security wasn’t what it should have been, and he came very close to taking delivery of seven vials of weapons-grade anthrax. The FBI managed to intercept the shipment and apprehend several of the individuals involved. Unfortunately, Avanti wasn’t one of them. He was convicted in absentia, and for a number of years, he stayed underground; I’m guessing in this very secret lab that he and a few other disenfranchised researchers developed.

  “The other gentleman is an intelligence officer, formerly with the Russians. We think that he was brought in for security purposes. When we entered the camp, neither this fellow nor Avanti could be found. Everyone else was already dead. The interesting thing is that we didn’t kill them, and neither did the Libyans. Apparently, they did it to themselves. We think that they had a rupture in one of their isolation rooms and something ran through the entire camp over a two-day period. Probably some form of Ebola.”

  “What do you mean, some form of Ebola? Either it was Ebola or it wasn’t.” Martin was sitting high in his seat, anxiety beginning to grow in his chest.

  “It was definitely Ebola, Doctor. We recovered samples from the bodies and the lab. Unfortunately, we couldn’t do any nucleotide sequencing back then. We can now, and a month ago, we traced the source of the Ebola. It came from your lab.” Simpson waited for a response.

  Nine years ago, someone had breached the security of the CDC. They had gone straight to Martin’s lab and vandalized it. Nothing had been taken, at least at a macroscopic level, but anyone with the expertise to reach his lab undetected could very easily have taken enough samples to stock a number of bioterrorism labs. There hadn’t been any public comment about it, but Martin and his staff had come under intense scrutiny. Everyone, including Martin, assumed it had been an inside job, and over the next few months, his research team was pulled apart by external pressures and internal suspicions. “So, this is what it sounds like when the other shoe drops.”

  “That’s not why you’re here,” Simpson continued. “We know how the Ebola got from Atlanta to Libya. It’s what happened after the virus was stolen that’s interesting.” Simpson produced another photograph and passed it to Martin. It was a very good electron micrograph of a hexagon with six appendages at each corner. “This is why you are here. You recognize it, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. You got this from Libya?” Martin’s voice was artificially controlled, but inside he was shaking badly. He was finally getting answers to questions that had been haunting him for years, and they were only confirming his worstcase scenarios.

  “Yes, and you got yours from Honduras. Any idea how it went from the deserts of North Africa to the jungles of Central America?”

  “Carrion birds,” Martin said after a moment’s thought. “You said that you didn’t kill the terrorists or the researchers. They were dead before you got there. I’m guessing that the vultures got to the bodies before you did. Hurricanes form off the African coast, and I’m betting that some infected birds probably got a free ride to the New World—which means that birds can carry the virus and disseminate it.”

  “You see our problem then,” Simpson said.

  Martin looked at the colonel. “No, I don’t. These pictures are seven years old. What does this have to do with anything now?” It was a transparent bluff, and Simpson looked disappointed.

  “Don’t try and play me, Dr. Martin. You contacted the FBI this morning after Amanda Flynn contacted you. We have the file from Colorado Springs and pictures of the new mutation. We have the report from your department wrongly identifying this new pathogen as a benign arbovirus. I have been honest with you, and I request the same in return.”

  “All right, so you know everything that I know. What’s the reason for the plane ride?” Martin asked defensively.

  “Look at the picture again, Doctor.”

  “I don’t have to look at it again, Colonel. I’ve got it burned into my memory.” Martin tossed the pile of photographs back at the marine officer. “I see it in my sleep. What I want to know is if you people knew what this was seven years ago, why didn’t you share it with us? Why did you let us release Subject Zero back into the population?”

  “Look at the picture again, Doctor,” Simpson ordered, tossing the micrograph of the virus back at Martin. “Now ask yourself: is this an Ebola virus?”

  The disconnect in his thinking finally became apparent, and Martin looked again at both of th
e photos. “No, it’s not,” he said, looking up at Simpson, recognition painted across his face. “You found Ebola in this? That’s not possible. Ebola doesn’t have DNA; it has RNA, the next step in the formation of proteins. This is a DNA virus, there’s no question about it. What else did you find with the sequencing?”

  “The original virus contains both DNA and RNA. The RNA is the Ebola stolen from your lab. The DNA is from the common herpes simplex virus. This is an entirely new form of life. It is not viral or bacterial. We are in the process of collecting some of the mutation for sequencing, but our best guess is that it has reverted back to a classic viral form. We think that somehow it has managed to drop the Ebola RNA along the way, which would explain why people aren’t dying by the thousands.”

  Martin’s head was swimming with questions. How did they get DNA and RNA to coexist in the same virus? Did it have replicate proteins, stabilizing proteins, ribosomes? How did they splice herpes DNA with RNA back then? Dozens of other scientific questions swirled in his mind, but the most important question remained unanswered by Simpson. “If you knew about this virus, why did you let us release Amanda Flynn? She is the only carrier of this virus. Not only that, but she is also the only survivor of the infection. She is both the problem and the solution.”

  “Amanda Flynn is not the originator of the Colorado Springs Virus. She is also not the only survivor of the original EDH1 virus.”

  “Then who is?” Martin asked, wide-eyed, not knowing if he should feel relief or fear.

  “This is what we need you to find out from Jaime Avanti. Five days ago, he walked through the front doors of the Pentagon and turned himself in. He gave us just enough information to prove credible, most of which I’ve shared with you. However, he won’t say anymore until he talks with you.” Simpson closed his briefcase. “Buckle your seatbelt. We’ll be landing in just a couple of minutes.”

  Rodney Patton started for the door the instant he heard the shots. It always amazed him that every time he faced potentially lethal situations he had the most unusual thoughts. Instead of worrying about his own safety, or the safety of his men, he was struck by how gunshots sounded more like firecrackers than the sharp, echoing reports Hollywood was so fond of. The .44, now that sounds like a real gunshot, no mistaking that baby, he thought while yanking on the handle of the glass doors. It rattled on its hinges, but didn’t open. He pulled and pushed, but the door remained locked. Johnson was already outside, having gone through the revolving door. Patton watched him streak across the parking lot to the crumpled form that could only be Yaeger. Patton squeezed himself around the rotating door and followed the younger man to the fallen cop.

  Yaeger looked bad. His right leg was broken high up in the thigh, and it lay twisted at an unnatural angle. His face was as pale as the snow he lay in, which meant that his pelvis was probably also fractured and that he was bleeding internally.

  “I didn’t see it coming, Chief,” he babbled. “I was helping this guy who had a stroke, and the next thing I know he’s trying to kill me.” His voice was strong and his eyes were clear. Johnson was standing over the two of them, screaming at dispatch to get an ambulance down there right away.

  “Was that him in the BMW that just drove outta here?” Patton asked, while doing a trauma survey.

  “Yeah, that was him. Six feet six inches. Black overcoat, black pants. Medium to light build. Walked with a limp, and couldn’t use his right arm. I’m pretty sure I hit him with one of the shots.” He began to rush his words.

  “So you fired before he hit you? How was a guy who couldn’t walk well or use his arm trying to kill you? Was he armed?” Patton’s questions became somewhat accusatory.

  “No, he wasn’t armed. It’s hard to explain, but he sort of reached into my head and started to squeeze my brain. I could tell he was trying to kill me, because I could hear him . . . in . . . inside,” Yaeger stammered. “It doesn’t make sense, I know, but that’s what happened. I woke up under that truck, and he was trying to get away. I fired into the glass, and then he ran me down. I know I hit him. I felt it in his arm.”

  “Yaeger, you’re not making sense—” Patton said with a good deal of frustration, but Yaeger interrupted him.

  “I know it doesn’t make sense,” the young man said, grabbing Patton’s arm. “His name is Reisch, Klaus Reisch. He’s German, and he killed Mr. Van Der this morning, just as he tried to kill me, only he couldn’t because someone named Amanda stopped him. She hurt him, that’s why he couldn’t move his arm.” The words rushed from Yaeger’s mouth, and his eyes pleaded with Patton to believe him. An ambulance siren began to screech nearby.

  “All right, Yaeger,” Patton said while trying to pry the young man’s grip off his arm. “The ambulance is right around the corner, and we’re gonna get you to the hospital.”

  “Chief, you’ve got to believe me. I’m trying to be as clear as I can. He’s different from everyone else. I’m not even sure he’s human.” Yaeger began to cry. The ambulance pulled up and the motor almost obscured the last thing he said: “Don’t let him get her, Chief.”

  The EMTs pushed Patton aside, and he watched only for a moment longer before turning to find his other charge. Johnson was standing in front of a gathering crowd, openly crying as his friend was loaded into the ambulance. “Pull yourself together, or take off the uniform,” Patton whispered in his ear. Johnson wiped his face and followed his new boss inside the hotel lobby. “Did you see the vehicle that drove outta here as we were running outside?”

  “Black BMW. Windshield was starred, and one of the passenger windows was shot out,” Johnson said with growing vigor. “A Taurus was also parked nine cars from where Officer Yaeger was injured. I’ve already called in for an APB and a forensic team.”

  Patton stopped and regarded Johnson. “Good work, Johnson. Did you get a look at the driver?”

  “All I saw was a blur of black, sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You saw more than I did, and you handled yourself well. Don’t be ashamed of crying, just don’t do it in public,” Patton said gently. These men had potential, and for better or worse, he had accepted the responsibility to shepherd them and develop that potential. Even Yaeger had kept enough of his head to give a reasonable description of his assailant. Patton still didn’t understand what had happened, but it was clear that Yaeger had fired his weapon before he had been run down. The question was, why? He stopped for a moment and focused on what Yaeger had told him: he had been helping a man who had had a stroke, and then that man had tried to kill Yaeger by reaching into his head and squeezing his brain. At face value, it was ridiculous, but it wasn’t unusual for someone with a head injury to come up with a distorted, but nearly accurate, account of events. Patton guessed that the dark man had spotted Yaeger watching the Taurus, and then feigned a disability to lure the cop out of his car, where he had hit him over the head. Yaeger must have come to just as the man was driving away, which was why he shot into the car. It was a believable story, and probably enough to keep Internal Affairs happy. The last thing he needed right now was an officer-involved shooting investigation. Johnson shifted nervously as Patton thought about the situation. Then Patton said, “Okay, we need to find out who owned that Taurus, and the BMW. I’m fairly certain at least one of them is missing.”

  Johnson’s lapel microphone squeaked into life. “Johnson, are you still with the chief?” The young policeman winced at the lack of radio protocol. “This is Officer Johnson, please identify yourself.”

  “This is Detective Mayer. Please inform the chief that we have a gentleman here who claims his car was just stolen. He says it was a dark green BMW. He says that he saw the guy who stole it and what happened to Yaeger.”

  Patton bent down to Johnson’s mike. “Hold him there. I’ll be right out.” Patton straightened back up and looked at Johnson, shaking his head. “This shit just doesn’t happen in real life. Come on, Johnson. Let’s go talk with our witness. Is Johnson your first name or last?” he asked as he
went through the revolving door.

  “Last, sir. I’m Henry Jackson Johnson,” he said with more pride than Patton thought he should have for such a name.

  “Did your parents hate you, son?” He chuckled while walking over to a group of plainclothes detectives.

  “Chief, this is James Michener,” Mayer said as Patton got close.

  “No shit,” he answered.

  “I’m only a nephew,” the balding, middle-aged man said. “I saw the man who stole my car, and what he did to the other police officer. I was getting ready about a half hour ago when I happened to glance outside at my car. A very tall man, dressed all in black, was sweeping the snow off the roof when your cop came over and began to help him. I thought that they had just made a mistake, and once they figured it out, they would move over to the right car. Only the cop suddenly grabs his head and starts screaming, and this tall guy just stands over him, watching. His eyes were bugging out—”

  “Whose eyes?” Patton asked.

  Johnson was busy writing everything down.

  “The tall dark guy. I don’t know what he was doing, but it was definitely something.”

  “So, when did the officer start shooting?” Patton asked.

  “Well, this tall guy rolls your cop under that truck over there and starts kicking snow over him. That’s when I tried to run outside, but I got lost in the hallway. I should have gone out through the lobby, but it seemed too far out of the way. I ended up in the pool area, and by the time I got outside, you and the other officer were already there.”

  “Could you tell what this tall guy was doing to Officer Yaeger?”

  “He never touched him. He just stared at him, very closely, and after the cop goes down, this tall guy stands back up, panting like a racehorse. To tell you the truth, I don’t know what he did to the cop.”

  “Did you get a good look at the tall man?” Mayer interjected.

  “Yes, I did. He turned towards my window several times. Very tall—taller than you.” He pointed to Patton. “But, not nearly as wide. He was thin, but not skinny. Pockmarked face, that’s for sure, and very light eyes. I think he had black hair, but I can’t be completely sure because of the hat. He had a limp, and one of his arms was just hanging there.” He stopped and thought for a moment. “The right arm. His right arm didn’t move. His right leg, too. He tried to kick snow with it and nearly fell. That’s about the last thing I saw.”