by James Barney
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. Which I can’t.”
Finally, they arrived at the door to the “Logistics Analysis” office. Kathleen read the placard on the door aloud, unimpressed.
“Don’t let the name fool you,” said McCreary, unlocking the door with a simple metal key. Considering all the security measures they’d just passed through, the key seemed downright quaint. The three of them entered the room, and McCreary closed and locked the door behind them.
“Okay,” said Kathleen in an exasperated tone, “now can you tell me what this is all about?”
McCreary spoke in a serious, emphatic voice. “Kathleen, what I’m about to tell you is highly classified. It’s considered Special Compartmented Information, which means this information is deemed extremely sensitive and vital to the security of the United States. Do you understand?”
Kathleen nodded, though she really didn’t appreciate the preachy tone.
“The SCI code name for this program is SERRATE, and only a handful of people in the entire government know about it. Even the director here at DARPA isn’t fully read into the program.”
Why all the drama? Kathleen was wondering.
McCreary nodded to Goodwin, who responded by handing Kathleen a small stack of papers. “So, before I begin, I have to ask you to sign these forms, acknowledging that disclosure of this information is a felony, punishable by up to ten years in prison and a fine of up to fifty thousand dollars, or both.”
“Whoa! Hold it right there!” Kathleen held up her hand in protest. She’d lost patience with all of this nonsense. “I’m not signing anything, okay? I mean, if you want to play super-spy and call your program ‘SERRATE’ or ‘Team Methuselah’ or whatever, that’s your business. But don’t try to drag me into it, okay? I’m a private citizen. I run a private company, engaged in private-sector research. I’m not affiliated with NIH or the government anymore. Thanks to you.” She couldn’t resist taking another dig at McCreary. “So either tell me what’s going on here . . . or take me back to Rockville.” She glared at her former colleague, beaming her displeasure. “Do you understand?”
McCreary and Goodwin exchanged troubled glances. Finally, McCreary tossed the paperwork onto Goodwin’s desk and reluctantly motioned for Kathleen to have a seat. “Fine,” he said with a sigh. “Have it your way.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Interstate 270 East, Maryland.
Luce Venfeld threaded his car aggressively through eastbound traffic on I–270, thankful that the afternoon exodus from Washington was not yet in full swing. In any event, he was heading in the opposite direction. With luck, he’d be in Bethesda in twenty minutes. As he zipped from lane to lane, he listened intently to the deep, accented voice broadcasting over the car’s speakerphone.
“When will I have it?” asked Elias Rubin. His voice was guttural and croaky.
“Soon,” Venfeld replied. “I’m on my way to get it now.”
“We must have it by tomorrow morning,” Rubin said. “Is that clear?”
“You’ll have it.”
There was a long, uncomfortable pause. “I trust you understand just how much money’s at stake.”
Venfeld tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Of course he knew how much money was at stake! Hundreds of millions of dollars, perhaps billions. “Yes,” he said stoically, “I understand.”
“Then you’ll understand why I’m very concerned about this situation. You told me three days ago I’d have that sample. And I still don’t have it.”
“I told you, I hit a snag. But it’s been taken care of.”
“I don’t want to hear about snags, Mr. Venfeld.” Rubin’s dictum was precise and slow. Deadly serious. “A meeting of the foundation has been convened based on your representation that the sample would be delivered three days ago. The members are on their way as we speak. If I don’t have that sample by tomorrow morning—”
“You’ll have it,” said Venfeld assuredly. “I’m on my way to get it right now.”
“Very well, then. You know where the meeting is.”
“Yes.”
There was another long stretch of silence. “Mr. Venfeld, I’m also very concerned about that newspaper article.”
Venfeld sighed. “Yeah, me, too.”
“This technology only has value to us if it’s exclusive. If the sequence becomes publicly disclosed, the deal’s off. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“I expect to have that sample tomorrow morning,” said Rubin, hanging up abruptly.
Venfeld frowned. He’d almost had that sample in his hands an hour ago, but that stupid cop screwed it all up. He punched the accelerator and swerved sharply around a lumbering FedEx truck in the left lane.
As Venfeld merged his BMW onto the inner loop of the Capital Beltway, his thoughts drifted back—as they always did—to the money. Yachts and villas and airplanes suddenly materialized in his mind. He wanted that money. He needed it, like an alcoholic needs a drink.
Nobody was going to stand between him and a hundred million dollars. Least of all some idiot cop.
Chapter Fifty
Arlington, Virginia.
Bill McCreary paced back and forth in front of the conference table in his office, where Kathleen was seated. “When I started at NIH,” he said, “I was working directly under Dr. Andrew Wilson, one of the first scientists to study DNA. A certifiable genius. A legend . . .”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of him,” said Kathleen sarcastically.
“Of course. But do you know why Dr. Wilson left NIH?”
“I remember it had something to do with patent rights.”
“Well, that was part of it. Dr. Wilson was concerned about what was happening with the Human Genome Project. He was concerned about private companies being allowed to obtain patents for human gene sequences. He was also concerned about the sheer amount of data NIH was publishing about the human genome. He perceived certain dangers inherent in making such a huge amount of data widely available to the public, particularly to other researchers. In confidence, he once likened it to publishing the blueprints for the atomic bomb. Some things, he said, are just better kept secret—even at the expense of scientific progress.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Kathleen interrupted. “The human genome is nothing like the atomic bomb.”
“And that’s exactly what Dr. D’Angelo and the other higher-ups at NIH said. So, eventually, Dr. Wilson left NIH in protest. And you’ll recall that he died just a few months later.”
“Sure, I remember. But what does this have to do with the . . . SERRATE program, or whatever you call it?”
“Just think about it for a second. The man who practically discovered DNA—arguably the most renowned geneticist in the world, an undisputed genius—was gravely concerned about disseminating the sequenced human code to other researchers. Why? Why would Dr. Wilson, of all people, be concerned about disseminating that knowledge?”
Kathleen shrugged. She didn’t care why. She didn’t like the idea of anyone standing in the way of scientific progress, certifiable genius or not. “Bill, stop with the riddles, and just get to the point.”
“The point,” said McCreary curtly, “is that science can sometimes be its own worst enemy.”
Kathleen rolled her eyes. This was typical McCreary nonsense. “Bill, what the hell does that even mean?”
“It means,” said McCreary, leaning over the conference table toward Kathleen, “that science is relentless. It moves in one direction, and that’s forward . . . relentlessly, unwaveringly forward. It never slows down; only speeds up. It’s an uncontainable, uncontrollable, unstoppable force. And the more enticing the goal—the shinier the brass ring, if you will—the more unstoppable it is.” McCreary pushed himself away from the table and stared at Kathleen intensely, arms crossed, apparently trying to gauge her reaction.
“Sorry, Bill, you lost me. Science is . . . science. And everything you’ve just said is a complete abstraction withou
t context or meaning. Can you give me an example of how science has ever been ‘its own worst enemy,’ as you say?”
“Nuclear weaponry,” said McCreary without missing a beat.
“Ah.”
“Arguably the most important scientific achievement of the twentieth century,” McCreary continued, pacing again. “Yet the United States has spent the past sixty years, and untold billions of dollars, trying to contain it. Simply trying to control it. Not just the technology itself, mind you, but the science behind it. But how do you control science? How do you dissuade scientists in other countries, for instance, from researching atomic weapons? From improving them? From making them better, faster, cheaper, more powerful? The answer is: you can’t. At least not peacefully. So, instead, we destroy foreign weapons programs that pose a threat—sometimes overtly, sometimes covertly. We impose economic leverage, political leverage, military leverage to thwart civilian nuclear research programs. We overthrow unfriendly governments that show too keen an interest in nuclear technology. Whatever it takes to stem the tide of nuclear knowledge—channel it, confine it, contain its spread as best we can. And that’s just one example of how difficult it is to control the progress of science. Are you following me?”
“I understand the dangers posed by nuclear proliferation, Bill,” said Kathleen flatly, annoyed by McCreary’s condescending tone. “What I don’t see is any link between that and human genetics. So, no, I’m not following you at all.”
McCreary rocked back on his heels and pondered her reply for a moment. “Kathleen, you and I both know there’s a genetic key to longevity and that, given the pace of research into the human genome, it’s just a matter of time before someone else discovers it.”
“Sure. You already did . . . two years ago.”
McCreary placed both hands on the table again and leaned toward Kathleen. “I’m going to put it bluntly. A rapid and widespread change in human life expectancy would create catastrophic problems around the world. It will destroy this country and maybe even humanity itself.”
Kathleen stared blankly at McCreary, who had just said perhaps the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard in her life. “Bill, you have got to be kidding!”
“No, I’m dead serious. And I should know. The SERRATE program is all about the study of dangerously disruptive technologies. I’ve been studying the potential impact of the INDY gene technology for two years now, and there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that its effect would be devastating . . . and irreversible.”
“That’s ridiculous. How could extending people’s lives be devastating?”
McCreary threw up his hands and shook his head. “It’s hard to know where to begin. Let’s start with something easy. Take Social Security.”
“Okay, I’m listening.”
“Since the 1930s, Social Security has provided an important safety net for senior citizens. Millions of seniors depend on it for their monthly expenses—basic needs like food and shelter. Problem is, Social Security is built on a ‘PAYGO’ model, which means pay as you go. Are you familiar with that?”
“Sure. Current workers pay social security taxes to support current retirees. A dollar in payroll taxes goes immediately to pay a dollar in benefits to a retiree.”
“Exactly,” said McCreary. “And the system works fine as long as the demographics remain constant, which, of course, they don’t. For instance, even the modest increase in life expectancy we’ve experienced in the U.S. since World War II has placed an incredible strain on the social security system. Not to mention the whole baby boom phenomenon.”
“Yeah, I’m aware of that.”
McCreary continued, picking up steam. “When social security was originally created in the 1930s, there were more than forty workers for every retiree. Today, there are just over three workers per retiree. As a result, payroll taxes have gone up considerably, benefits have declined, and the entire system is in danger of collapsing within the next fifteen to thirty years. The culprit, Kathleen, is demographics, pure and simple.”
“Okay, but—”
McCreary cut her off. “More people are retiring each year than are entering the workforce. And those who are retiring are living longer than originally projected. Which puts a huge strain on the PAYGO system.”
“I see where you’re going, but—”
“So just imagine what would happen if life expectancy in this country were to suddenly increase by ten years, twenty years, fifty years. Overnight. Thanks to a new wonder drug, a new gene therapy . . .”
“I get it,” Kathleen conceded with a shrug. “The system would implode. But that’s only one example . . .”
“Exactly!” McCreary exclaimed, thrusting a finger at Kathleen. “That’s just one example of the devastating impact the INDY gene would have on this country. And, by the way, this isn’t just a U.S. phenomenon. Most of our European allies depend far more heavily on government-funded retirement than we do here in the U.S. Think about France, Germany, Sweden, Great Britain . . .”
“That’s true,” said Kathleen.
“And social security is just the tip of the iceberg. Medicaid and Medicare would be overrun almost immediately.” McCreary nodded toward Goodwin. “We’ve designed some very sophisticated computer models here to study the impact of the INDY gene technology. And even using the most conservative of assumptions, every projection shows that those two programs alone would quickly balloon to more than ninety percent of GDP—clearly an unsustainable situation.”
“Okay, I get it,” Kathleen said. “But we’d simply adjust, right? I mean, people would work a few years longer; some retirees would go back to work, whatever it took. Congress could change the law, revamp the whole program, whatever. Things would work out.”
“Yes, things would eventually work out with Social Security and healthcare,” McCreary conceded, “but not before a period of tremendous social upheaval, perhaps lasting decades. Our models consistently indicate escalating unrest, political turmoil, massive economic depression, and, in many parts of the world, widespread violence. All the ingredients for revolution. And remember, we’re not talking about only the U.S. This would be a worldwide phenomenon.”
“But those are just models, Bill. You can’t—”
McCreary cut her off again. “The strain on the economy isn’t the only problem. Imagine if access to this life-extension technology were controlled by one particular person, or one particular group or country.”
Kathleen resorted to nodding. It was obvious McCreary wasn’t going to let her get a word in edgewise.
“Imagine North Korea, or Al-Qaeda, or some religious cult—pick your villain—having exclusive control of this technology, picking and choosing who got the treatment and who didn’t. How much do you think people would pay to extend their lives or the lives of their loved ones?”
“A lot,” said Kathleen, thinking about her own grandfather.
“You’d better believe it. So, as you can imagine, the transfer of wealth in such a scenario would be massive and instantaneous. And our models indicate that it would be nearly impossible to regulate. The flow of money would transcend national borders, bypass every conceivable law, skirt around every obstacle. Sales of a life-extension drug would make the cocaine trade look like a bake sale. And with all that money would come a dangerous concentration of power.”
“Okay, Bill. But this is all just supposition. Computer models can’t predict the future, you know that.”
McCreary ignored her. “There’s more. What happens if some people have access to the technology while others don’t? What kind of society would we have, for instance, if only the wealthiest people could afford to have their lives extended by forty or fifty years? Our projections show something like a serfdom society arising in many parts of the world—particularly in underdeveloped parts of Africa and Asia—with wealthy people living longer and acquiring more and more wealth and power, while the short-lived class toils for day-to-day subsistence, unable to live long enough to accu
mulate any significant long-term wealth.”
“Okay, I get the picture,” Kathleen announced. “There are concerns . . .”
“And I haven’t even touched on the environmental impact of this technology. Did you know there are nearly seven billion people living on earth today? And that number is growing by more than one percent a year. What do you think the global effect of the INDY gene technology would be on those numbers?”
Kathleen shrugged. “The population would go up.”
“Yeah, a lot. The crude death rate would go down, at least for a period of thirty to fifty years. And, at the same time, birth rates would go up because the human fertility window would increase—people would be having babies well into their sixties and seventies. Even using conservative estimates, we’ve calculated an explosion in the human population of anywhere from ten to forty billion people in the next fifty years. That’s clearly an unsustainable population for this planet, even assuming vigorous advances in food and resource management. In fact, our models consistently indicate widespread starvation, a subsistence standard of living throughout most of the world, including in the U.S. and Europe, and, toward the end, all-out war as desperate nations vie for dwindling resources. Kathleen, I’m not making this up. This is the consistent outcome of every simulation we’ve run using the most sophisticated modeling programs and computers in the world, which happen to be located right here at DARPA. It’s not a pretty picture.”
Kathleen didn’t know what to say. It certainly wasn’t a “pretty picture,” at least not the way McCreary had painted it. Her mind momentarily flashed back to the passage Dr. Eskridge had read the other day from the Book of Enoch, which described the Nephilim as having “devoured all which the labor of men produced; until it became impossible to feed them.” Similar to McCreary’s prediction of dwindling resources and mass starvation. But, on the other hand, there seemed to be a lot of guesswork involved in his predictions. How could anyone really know the outcome of this technology on a global scale? There were far too many unknowns . . . too many variables. Still, she had to admit, McCreary had raised some legitimate concerns—issues she hadn’t really considered before.
