by M. K. Gilroy
Nicky hated to leave the uneaten food behind, but it was time to get out of Yemen with his head intact.
“It is a sin to waste food, Labeeb. Refresh yourself and then do your duty.”
Labeeb was already out the door.
He and the Chechnyan walked to the door, checking all directions for ambushes. Nicky scanned upstairs windows across the street. Nothing. All was clear.
He took a quick step back in the café and grabbed a skewer of shish tawook before trotting out the door and jumping in the jeep to head for the pier.
14
The Isle of Patmos
IN GREEK AND ROMAN MYTHOLOGY, the Chimera combined parts of the lion, goat, and serpent to form a monster.
What better base to build a three-headed Chimera on than Ebola? First discovered in the Ebola region of the Congo, scientists knew that like rabies, salmonella, tuberculosis, Lyme, and a long list of other zoonotic diseases—diseases transmitted from animals to humans— it was hosted by an African animal. But which animal? Lyme came through tics, so treatments could be designed. But finding the exact source of Ebola wasn’t nearly so easy to identify—and that made prevention and treatment protocols much more difficult.
More than thirty years after Ebola first grabbed international headlines no one actually knew its source and natural incubator. Despite spending hundreds of millions of dollars on research, scientists also didn’t know how to treat the hemorrhaging disease that killed 80% of those it infected. Scientists still didn’t know why some people survived it either. But that was a small matter, Dr. Claire Stevens thought. Close counted in horseshoes, hand grenades, and Ebola.
It met all reasonable standards of successful lethal application to major population concentrations.
The most significant research into Ebola, at least for her needs, was done in the Soviet Union in the 1980s and early 90s at the State Research Center for Virology and Biotechnology, secreted away in Siberia. While everyone else worked on a vaccine, Soviet scientists worked on finding a solution to weaponize Ebola. The exchange of bodily fluids within human contact was a wonderful conduit of disease but not efficient enough. It was too easy to stop through quarantine. To survive you simply didn’t go near anyone bleeding their guts out and didn’t let them near anyone else. Fifteen million people were going to die through mass quarantine with a new outbreak in West Africa—she didn’t think, she knew—and that had nothing to do with their operation that was going to infect a new part of the world before anyone knew what was happening.
Before the collapse of the USSR, one of its best scientists had come close to putting it in an aerosol form. When the Berlin Wall fell signifying the death of the Empire, the program was disbanded.
Or so it seemed.
In 2004, Dr. Antonina Presnayakova, a scientist at the same facility, now privatized and heavily funded by American and European biotech companies, accidentally pricked her thumb with a needle laced with Ebola. She was purportedly working with Ebola infected guinea pigs to discover the elusive vaccine. She died ten days later, suffering convulsive hemorrhaging by herself in a quarantined white laboratory room.
Claire knew that Presnayakova was—despite the protests of conspiracy theorists—indeed working on a vaccine. But one of Presnayakova’s colleagues, Dr. Dimitri Dolzhikov, had resumed working on the aerosol version—the weaponized version—and she knew for a fact that he had sold his documentation and his services to Claire’s employer.
Her generous employer’s identity was a secret to everyone in the Patmos labs, except for the director, Dr. Rodger Patton. Shortly after arriving, Claire proffered a guess, but the second she broached the subject with Patton, Rodger told her that such a line of inquiry was a certain path to termination. She wanted to ask what he meant by termination but held her tongue. That was the first time she understood the full implication of her decision to bring Mariama to the world. Did she regret it? Not in the least. Doing something great always conveyed a price. She kept her mouth shut on her suspicions.
It was irrelevant after she met Nicky. He was using a different first name and no last name. But she recognized him from a tabloid story she had read years before. Even before the pillow talk with Nicky began, she knew almost as much about their employer as Patton did.
Claire’s specialty was biological chemistry and to the delight of the small team she worked with, she quickly made her mark by dramatically increasing the absorption rate of airborne Ebola. Her lab partners had already enhanced the Ebola strain with the addition of anthrax to increase the kill rate from eighty percent to almost ninety percent. They were killing chimpanzees like clockwork in the lab. But results in open air spaces were desultory, threatening the project’s timetable.
She introduced an updated version of DMSO to the chimera. Dimethyl sulfoxide had little power to heal or harm in and of itself— though many a racehorse and Olympic athlete would swear to its effectiveness in reducing swelling and easing pain, thus speeding up the body’s recovery process. But what was absolutely known was that nothing penetrated both membrane and tissue damage-free, aiding in the body’s absorption of other medications, like the wood-based drug. It was so effective that any biological impurity in the ointment spread through the body like wildfire. It was a deadly disease’s best friend. It was banned by the FDA in the United States for anything other than transporting human organs, though the European Union allowed broader uses. It didn’t matter. Claire worked in a private lab located on a remote island in the Aegean Sea where it was impossible for curious eyes to figure out what they had and what they might be doing—how can you observe something you are unaware of?
That was another reason her team had an almost unlimited supply of chimpanzees and gibbons to work with. Those were the two primates most susceptible to the HIV/AIDs virus, the benchmark for contagion, which meant no other research animal was more important to an epidemiologist, no matter how politically incorrect it was to run tests on them—or kill them.
When she first mentioned adding DMSO to the recipe her colleagues looked at her like she was crazy and scoffed at the idea, even the legendary Dr. Dolzhikov, the man who had aerosolized Ebola to a nascent level. DMSO had to be in a topical form to be efficacious they protested. But to Claire it was a simple matter of cells and molecules.
When she killed a gibbon with the toxic spray in an outdoor setting, not even downwind, rare bottles of the 1988 Dom Perignon were uncorked with dinner and Dolzhikov was the first to toast her.
Her recruiter, Rodger Patton, was subdued that night. Was he jealous? Possibly. A typical male response.
The only downside of adding DMSO was that no matter how it was introduced to humans, there was an immediate—and mysterious— taste and odor of garlic. Even her synthetically enhanced variant reeked of the bulb. Maybe she would look for causes. Or not. The odor symptom would barely be noticed by those who were to experience its ability to deliver the biological payload.
Claire Stevens had always known she was smart but still marveled at things she knew and could do that few other scientists would ever experience. How sad and mundane for them. She was working on the vanguard of technologies that would change the world. Correct that. Save the world.
Stevens earned an undergraduate and master’s degree in biology at University of Chicago. She stayed on Chicago’s south side to get a Ph.D. in biological chemistry. She then traveled south to Nashville to get a second Ph.D. in epidemiology from Vanderbilt University.
That was ten years ago. She left Vandy wanting to get her hands dirty saving the world. She landed an ideal job in Boston with an NGO, GlobalHope, which was associated with Harvard University and Massachusetts General Hospital. The NGO funded a state of the art medical research lab and annual get-your-hands-dirty fieldwork for the small team of scientists. The $65 thousand starting salary was paltry, but GlobalHope also paid off her student loans. Nine months in the lab, three months in the field, and constant access to the greatest research university and hospital in the w
orld. What could be better?
Through hard work and an open mind, she discovered a cause and support system that was so much grander than raking in big bucks. Money never was her motivation.
Patience, Mariana. Our time is coming soon.
15
Devil’s Den Hiking Trail,
Ozark National Forest
THE SOUND OF RUSTLING AGAIN. Pauline looked up. Nothing. Her nerves had her imaging things.
Just finish and tell Burke to get you out. Tonight. Just be finished.
JULES HAD BEEN TRAINED TO stalk prey silently in all terrains and topography. Forest was the hardest. He left his shoes to the side of the trail a mile back. That helped his stealth. The problem was if she saw him coming and got a jump, it would be nearly impossible for him to run her down without shoes. He had watched her closely for the past six months. She ran like a deer. If she got a jump on him, he couldn’t catch her—with or without shoes—and would have to call for backup. They would have to bring in freelancers, never as reliable, to mount a search. There would be uncertainty. Not good.
He would just have to assess what course of action was best when he reached her—or she reached him doubling back. Alexander would want to talk to her. That thought almost made him smile. That would be one interesting and painful conversation.
But nothing would be worse than her escaping into the woods with Mr. Alexander’s property. Though he had warned Mr. Alexander that something wasn’t right with his new girl, the man hadn’t listened. If he had, Jules would not be treading silently through a lush forest in Northwest Arkansas in his bare feet.
That also meant Mr. Alexander was unprotected at the moment, something that made him equally nervous. Jules took pride in how well he did his job of protecting the man.
He needed to get a clean shot off.
CLAIRE’S STOMACH DID A SOMERSAULT and she thought she was going to vomit. Her hands were shaking.
I don’t know if I can do this. I thought I could but maybe I can’t.
This job was to be her exit from a life she had come to hate. There was a moment when she thought Burke would be the one to free her. That hadn’t quite panned out. Him sending her to another man’s bed was a pretty good clue that he wasn’t the man she hoped he was. Now all she wanted was for him to reach for her so she could rebuff him. Or not. Why had the man she thought she might be able to trust drop her into the lion’s den? Whatever she thought he might feel for her was all in her imagination.
Don’t dwell on it. It will only add one more hurt to your pain-filled life. Just concentrate. If you want a new life, you must do this. There is no one else you can count on. No one. Same as always. You should be used to that. Live with it.
She took a long slow breath. She willed her nerves to calm.
I can do this.
She shifted positions, turned the page, lowered her head, and aimed. Before she took the picture, Pauline heard a phhhht of air and felt an explosion of pain in her shoulder. She fell forward and heard another deadly puff of air race by her head, followed by the sound of leaves and twigs crunching behind her. She looked up and saw Jules sprinting toward her, gun raised.
She rolled and scrabbled forward; desperate to do the only thing she knew might save her life.
Run.
16
New York City
BURKE KNEW THE DAY HE had become a new man—and not all for the better. June 25, 2003.
He spent a semester at the University of Missouri in Columbia. It was his first time away from the strict and protective world of his childhood in Nixa, Missouri, where there were two—and only two— approved activities: church and sports. Baseball in spring and summer, football in the fall, and wrestling in the winter. Church every Sunday morning and night, every Wednesday night if he didn’t have a game, and all week if there was a revival.
The first and only time he drank beer before college, the girl from his church youth group got a pang of conscience and told her parents everything that happened. Her dad, a fellow elder in the church with Burke’s dad, made a beeline to the small ranch house Burke grew up in. He didn’t mind the hell his dad gave him that included a nice left jab to the jaw when he dug in to fight it out. It was his mom sobbing for days over the thought of him spending an eternity in hell.
He almost smiled at the memory. It was a different time in his life. Harsh … but somehow sweet.
He wondered if his parents still thought of him. They would have to. Missing in action and presumed dead. There was a plaque for him in the lobby of Nixa High School and a headstone in the Nixa Memorial Gardens. He visited the cemetery once. But he didn’t visit his parents. Would he ever see them again?
Unfortunately, his mother’s worse fears had come to fruition. He had gone to hell and never come back. His was not a sweet life.
After getting booted from the University Missouri, Burke pursued the only option he could envision. He joined the Army. Even patriotic folks like the fine people of Nixa were never quite clear on whether joining the United States Army was an honor or punishment for a kid who had got himself into some trouble, drinking and fighting his way to expulsion from college.
It didn’t take long for Burke to figure out that if you were going to do the military, you might as well do it right—if you’re going to be a bear, might as well be a grizzly. He got on track for Army Ranger Training Brigade the day he left boot camp at Fort Leonard Wood in St. Robert, Missouri.
Sixty percent ofArmy Ranger prospects that begin in Fort Benning failed the 61-day combat course and were reassigned. The physical hardship, including sleep and food deprivation, was something you couldn’t prepare for ahead of time. Heck, two-thirds of those who didn’t pass muster never made it through the first month. Burke graduated with the William O. Darby Award, signifying he was the best of the best. The 3rd Battalion, 75th Regiment was deployed for the War on Iraq, but as they liked to joke, they took a wrong turn and spent two years in Afghanistan where they fought a series of harrowing battles against the Taliban.
His battalion was finally moved to the Iraq theater of operations two years later on April 25, 2003, but then George W. Bush ordered a cessation of major operations on May 1, just as they were landing.
Burke didn’t need to have worry about job security.
On June 15, he was assigned to Operation Dessert Scorpion, still under the command of Colonel Arnold Grayson—“just call me Arnie”—their job was to defeat remaining “non-compliant” forces in the “post-hostilities” phase of the invasion. One day they would deliver humanitarian aid to a village, the next day they would rain fire on forces still loyal to Saddam Hussein. Even a college dropout like Burke could understand the three simple principles of waging war against guerillas: identify, isolate, and destroy. Isolating enemy combatants was not always possible—using civilians as human shields was the enemy’s best defense—but they were making lightning fast progress on destroying the Iraqi resistance.
The moment that changed his world came ten days into the operation. Burke got back early from a reconnaissance mission to the city of Najaf. The neighborhood where they were to find bad guys was already a rubble heap from internecine fighting the night before. No one complained about a day off from painstakingly slow movement from house to house and room to room, always wondering if you would be looking down the barrel of an automatic weapon.
His buddies wanted to stop for a very illegal beer at a very illegal bar—the black market was coming to life, a sure sign their efforts were not in vain, before returning to base. Burke hadn’t had even a sip of beer since his college expulsion and wanted to head back anyway. He said he’d cover for the team and get back to HQ solo. Still a stronghold of former Republican Guards posing as bankers and bakers who transformed into cold-blooded killers at night, Burke made his usual wary and stealthy approach to a back entrance of their camp within a city. He still didn’t know why he did it—it wasn’t his job and others were doing a fine job of minding the perimeter—but he decided
to take a circuit around the wire to make sure no hostiles were looking for a hole in their defenses. Maybe he was simply delaying his return to the boring routine of living in a confined space.
At one of the remote barricades he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see. Colonel Arnie Grayson and two other commanding officers were loading two crates of M4s in the back of a truck. It didn’t look right—he’d never seen an officer loading crates—but he wouldn’t have thought anything of it had he not got a good look at the man standing by the passenger door of the truck who stared straight ahead, puffing on a cigarette. Burke stepped back in the shadows and studied the face. He was sure of it. The man was a prime target to be identified, isolated, and destroyed by Operation Desert Scorpion.
Burke was smart enough to know that allegiances of individual Iraqis changed constantly and that he was a grunt who didn’t know much of anything happening above his pay grade. So he kept what he saw to himself and made his way back to his platoon. He downed a Budweiser—his first in nine months—and trudged to the front gate with the others when they were expected.
But his antennae were up and Burke started watching what was happening inside the command center with the same intensity he watched what was happening outside the fence. When he overheard the extent of the shrinkage of M4s and other tactical gear from the battalion’s armory, he knew he had to report the incident.
On a routine escort assignment to Baghdad, he filed his report to the MP ADCON unit. Little did he know that the colonel who received his statement was a fellow classmate of Colonel Grayson at West Point—and part of Grayson’s scam to pocket a boatload of money in service to Uncle Sam. Two days later he and five other team members were dropped near the town of Tikrit. Their job was to destroy a way station for guerilla forces who rarely slept in one place more than a night or two.
