McKean 02 The Neah Virus

by Thomas Hopp

  “There is,” McKean replied. “Call the CDC and tell them to maintain their preparedness to distribute a cure. Only this cure will be the real one!”

  Sean McKean played with his father’s molecular models on the office floor, looking healthy and boyish in every way. The sea spinach had done its work well. Bubbling with energy, he constructed a complex molecule with hundreds of plastic ball-and-stick atoms in red, black, white and blue. It was clear that the father’s proclivity for molecular structures had been passed to the son.

  We left the boy playing on the floor and went to the lab, were Janet and the others were already bustling around, carrying out McKean’s specified tasks. Near the back of the main lab there is a side room behind a glass wall with glass door. Inside, the walls were lined with banks of electronic equipment, and in the center a large mass spectroscopy machine stood on an isolated bench. As we entered, McKean said, “Robert is our mass spec specialist. He’s been making some remarkable headway.” Robert, seated at a desk with computer monitor near the mass spectrometer, nodded an acknowledgement of the compliment but kept at his task of entering commands on the keyboard. McKean explained, “His machine will give us the molecular masses of the sub-fragments of the molecule, once Janet and Beryl have purified them.”

  Suddenly Sean McKean raced in, terror-stricken. “Daddy!” he cried, rushing to cling to McKean’s long legs.

  “What is it - ?” McKean began, but he was answered by a loud crash from the main lab. “Dave Curman!” McKean shouted. We hurried back in, just as Curman, in the maniacal phase of the Lost Souls disease, swept an arm across a bench full of scientific apparatuses and glassware, which clattered down and shattered on the floor. “Wrroaaah!” he bellowed, and then staggered in a stiff-legged charge, straight for Janet. She screamed and dodged aside. But his real objective was instantly clear. He went after the machine on which she had been working. “The liquid chromatograph!” McKean cried with uncharacteristic panic in his voice.

  Curman slammed both palms into the machine, which was about four times the size of a large microwave oven. It slid over the bench top on which it was stationed. But it stopped, teetering on the edge. “Wrro-aahh!” Curman bellowed again, circling the bench to get at the uncooperative machine, going for it with both hands. The others hesitated, but my military training had taught me to move toward the source of an attack. I was in motion after Curman’s first push and I reached him before his second had even connected with the machine. I swung my right fist with every ounce of momentum I could muster, catching him on the side of his jaw with a brutal blow. Without touching the machine, he sprawled on the floor unconscious.

  Fifteen minutes later, while an ambulance crew in pressurized isolation suits collected the still-unconscious Curman, McKean’s team returned to their tasks. The attack hadn’t damaged the liquid chromatograph or any other essential equipment. I followed the EMTs and their strapped-down gurney passenger out to their emergency van waiting at the curb. As they loaded Curman into the back of the van, he revived and howled like a wolf at bay.

  I asked one EMT, a fit-looking African-American woman with scared dark eyes, “How many cases like this have you had?”

  “This is our fifth call today,” she said. “Three yesterday. And that’s just our unit. Things are getting worse.”

  The Vaccine Now protesters watched somberly as Curman was loaded into the van. Suddenly, a beefy man came forward and jabbed a thick finger at my chest. “Hey,” he growled. “I’ve got a score to settle with you.” It was the man I had hit on the way into the building with McKean. He looked bigger than I remembered. He doubled a fist and hesitated as if deciding where to plant it.

  I parried verbally. “You ought to thank me,” I said. “Dr. McKean can save you all by working on what was in that bucket.” I pointed at Curman hooting his forlorn wolf-wail as the EMTs rolled him inside the van. “Or would you rather have a dose of what that guy got?”

  The big man shut up. I turned and walked back inside unmolested, while the crowd absorbed the full meaning of what I had said.

  McKean was busy at his desk. After studying screen after screen of data he sighed and sat back. “Well, well,” he murmured. “It looks like we may have a thornier problem than I anticipated. The active principle is not present in any of the herbal medicines Gordon Steel sent back with us. Nor is it present in whale oil, except in trace quantities. Given its virtual absence in the source materials, I am quite baffled by its presence in sea spinach. This is an unanticipated wrinkle.”

  “I thought it would be in the klochtap,” I said. “But how can a trace in the whale oil turn into a lot when you add something that doesn’t have it at all?”

  “It must be created in the cooking process. Either that or I may have to admit the cure lies in that magic spoon Gordon Steel gave us.” He paused with his eyes blank, deep in thought. “Catalysis!” he murmured after a moment. “It must be catalysis. But that’s a whole other problem to solve.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something in the klochtap converts the whale oil into the active principle by acting as a catalyst, a chemical-conversion molecule. That’s why adding more klochtap increases the potency!”

  He turned back to his desk and began studying several of his many photocopies, mumbling to himself in scientific jargon that escaped me. I settled into my chair as he keyed search terms into the Library of Congress website, looking for obscure references. He occasionally summoned Janet or Beryl to propose new experimental approaches. As the day’s laboratory exertions wore on I found myself marginalized, and I began to wonder whether even Peyton McKean’s prodigious mind could avert the looming apocalypse.

  I excused myself and went out to take some fresh air on the waterfront. The day was sunny, rare for the time of year and in fact rare for any season in Seattle. Alone on a waterfront promenade that normally bustled with people, I strolled the length of the empty sidewalk, hearing only the occasional call of a seagull. People had deserted the city to keep to their homes as the authorities had admonished.

  I stopped for quite some time leaning on a concrete balustrade overlooking the green waters of Puget Sound. As the sun set beyond the Olympic Mountains, I pondered the uncertain future and thought about Tleena in Neah Bay. I wondered if she were still safe from maniacs. I wondered too, if I had crossed her mind.

  As darkness fell, I returned to ImCo and went to the third floor. McKean sat in his office in chipper spirits.

  “Excellent!” he exclaimed to Janet and Robert as I entered. When he saw me, he added, “And you are to be commended too, Fin.”

  “For what? I missed the beginning of the conversation.”

  “In your case, for having saved the liquid chromatograph from our mad colleague, David Curman. In Janet’s case, for having used that chromatograph to isolate sub-fragments of the substance that contains the active principle of sea spinach. And in Robert’s case, because he already has Janet’s material loaded on his mass spectrometer. We should know the molecule’s structure before dawn. We are running low on sea spinach again, but close enough to a solution to be optimistic.”

  “That sounds fabulous!” I said. “I’m glad I could help.”

  “Yes,” McKean said. “And you can help me with another problem, Fin.”

  “Just ask.”

  He pointed to a guest chair, where Sean sat with his head laid back and his eyelids fluttering.

  “He needs dinner and some rest. I don’t trust the streets outside - but the cafeteria, perhaps?”

  “I’m your man,” I replied. “I could use some food and rest myself.”

  “There are vending machines and couches,” said McKean. “If you’ll look after Sean, I can make this an around-the-clock effort.”

  I led Sean by the hand to the cafeteria on the second floor, which was deserted. I got us some sandwiches and soft drinks, and then bedded Sean down on a couch under a couple of clean white lab coats. I took two more and laid down on a couch near hi
m like a watchdog protecting him against the unlikely appearance of another madman. While the lab team pressed on, the night passed without incident in what proved to be an almost deserted building - with the exception of the bustling experimenters on the third floor.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  When I awoke in the morning I got some yogurt and granola from the vending machines and fed myself and Sean after he awakened. We went to the third floor and found McKean in his office chatting with a visitor, Kay Erwin. She was eating some sea spinach from the otter-shaped spoon. “Ucch!” she complained. “You’re sure this is good for me?”

  “You look a little purple around the eyes,” McKean replied. I could see he was right. Erwin was on the brink of the viral disease.

  “Go ahead, Kay,” he encouraged. “Eat a couple more big mouthfuls and you’ll be safe against any level of viral contamination.”

  Kay scooped a large gob of the remedy from a bowl and ate it with a wry face.

  McKean explained, “It’s bitter because it contains a big dose of klochtap and probably more than is necessary. You might feel a little woozy from the psychotropic effects of the klochtap. But don’t worry, the inebriation will dissipate within hours and the antiviral effect will protect you for days. Now, tell me what’s happened since we spoke yesterday. I’m appalled by the prospect of mass immunizations with that foolhardy vaccine.”

  Kay choked down the last of the dose and shook her head. “I spent a lot of time on the phone with the White House yesterday. But I didn’t get anywhere. The President is still committed to the Holloman vaccine.”

  “Incredible!” McKean exclaimed. “Holloman himself is proof of its danger.”

  “The President has personally authorized the National Guard to distribute doses to every public official in the state, including mayors, city councils, police, fire departments, and emergency response people.”

  “Those are all the worst choices, of course,” McKean muttered. “Perfect choices if he wants to cripple the response to a catastrophe in the making.”

  “It gets worse, Peyton. He’s directed the CDC to make a million more doses of Holloman vaccine, and Fort Detrick’s biowarfare division will make another million doses on top of that.”

  McKean shook his head. “Two million doses in addition to ImCo’s and Virogen’s materials. That’s enough to annihilate the entire population of Seattle and half of Western Washington. Or make them into maniacs.”

  Erwin said, “At this point it’s still just preparation and distribution of vaccine. But the clock is ticking, and we still don’t have an alternative.”

  McKean shook his head. “How long have I got to come up with an alternative?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. How long can we expect the President to wait while things get worse on the streets?”

  McKean changed the subject. “Tell me more about Stuart Holloman’s condition.”

  “He’s restrained and raving, despite being sedated. We still can’t find a trace of the virus in his bloodstream. But it looks like the vaccine stimulated his immune system to attack his own brain tissues. Just like you said it would.”

  “And Leon Curtis? How is he?”

  “He’s recovering just fine. We’ve got him off sedation and resting comfortably.”

  “Is his mind intact?”

  “It appears to be. He’s one of a small group of patients who seem to be recovering.”

  “Maybe he took more than just a taste of sea spinach after all,” I suggested.

  “Whatever the reason,” Erwin said, “he’s recovering with a strong antibody response against the G2 protein.”

  “But not G1?” McKean asked.

  “Correct,” she replied. “What little G1 antibody there was, has faded as his G2 response grew. That’s exactly what you said would happen, Peyton. His anti-G1 response is almost undetectable now.”

  “The correct and natural response to the virus,” McKean observed. “Not Holloman’s unnatural anti-G1 response. How many Holloman vaccine immunizations have already been given?”

  “That first small batch Curman made for the press conference was the only one used so far. About a thousand doses. Five hundred are being held at ImCo for dosing the mayor, city council, and other public officials. The other five hundred doses were already dispensed to the public, right at the front doors of this building.”

  “What?” McKean cried. “My God, how? And why? And who got them?”

  “Holloman got FDA approval to open the doors of ImCo to the general public in response to a huge crowd of protesters. I believe he was hoping to get rid of them by giving them what they wanted. He asked them to line up, first-come, first-served.”

  “How many doses were given?”

  “All five hundred, in the space of a couple of hours.”

  “So the protesters got what they were asking for,” McKean murmured. “A dose of an incompletely tested experimental vaccine.”

  “Poor fools,” I said.

  “Their ranks have thinned this morning,” McKean observed. “The small group out there now probably missed the first doses. They’re the lucky ones. Those who got a shot are already sick, I’m sure. So Holloman got rid of the protestors, but not in the way he intended. It’s always a poor idea to stage protests demanding early release of a vaccine.”

  * * * * * * * * * *

  Kay left for the hospital. The day was filled with unceasing efforts in the lab but, alarmingly, the amount of sea spinach dwindled as each new experiment consumed a portion of what remained. In the late afternoon, as Sean played with his molecules and McKean read at his desk, Janet brought some printout sheets from the lab and laid them in front of him. She and McKean leaned close together over a graph plot with dozens of spiky peaks on it. “That’s it!” McKean exclaimed. They both burst into triumphant smiles.

  “Congratulate us, Fin,” McKean exulted. “We’ve identified the antiviral molecule!”

  “That’s wonderful!” I cried. Joy welled in my chest to match that written on their faces.

  “It’s definitely a component of whale oil,” said McKean. “A tri-glycosylated cetyl derivative of - ” He stopped. He cocked his head and regarded me thoughtfully.

  “Go on,” I prompted, pulling a pen and a small writing tablet out of a coat pocket and beginning to scribble. “Aren’t you going to finish that sentence?”

  “Answer: no.”

  “Come on Peyton. You’re not worried I’ll report it inaccurately, are you?”

  “Answer: no, again. You see, Fin, it’s exactly because you are such an accurate recorder of my discoveries that I can’t complete that statement.”

  “This is unfair! Are you going to give the scoop to someone else?”

  “Answer: no, again.” He looked at me sympathetically.

  “But I’ll need the full name for completeness. Everyone will want to know.”

  “Exactly. Everyone, including ImCo’s competitors.” He broke into a puckish smile.

  “But this is too big a discovery to keep secret - “

  “All will be revealed in good time. But not before ImCo’s intellectual property attorneys have staked a claim with the Patent Office. Remember, Fin, I work for ImCo and they own my discoveries.”

  “And take credit for them, too!”

  He shrugged his angular shoulders. “While you were out, I had a visit from James Scarborough, ImCo’s Chief Legal Counsel. He asked about my progress and then reminded me of my obligation to not let word out about what we’ve found. So, I’m sorry, but your story will have to wait until the patent is filed. ImCo’s legal beagles are wrapping this project in a veil of corporate secrecy.”

  “At a time like this? You should shout it to the world!”

  “I wish I could. But if I go up against them I’ll be fired again before I can come up with a procedure for mass-producing the stuff. Sorry.”

  McKean could see the frustration on my face. He nodded sympathetically. “I’ll tell you a little, Fin. Enough
to make an interesting story, but not enough information to help our competitors. It’s a complex fat, a glycoglycerolipid found only in gray whale blubber, as far as I know. It incorporates the cetylol substituent Janet identified, as well as glucose and two other very interesting hexose sugars. The role of klochtap is to provide an enzyme that removes a fourth sugar, sialic acid, from an inactive four-sugar form. That increases the amount of three-sugar, active substance above the levels whale oil normally contains.”

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “It is,” he agreed. And then he stopped.

  “So, that’s all you can tell me?”

  “All for now. But don’t worry, Fin. Our legal department will start writing a patent application today. After it’s done and the Patent Office confirms our filing has priority over our competitors, I’ll be free to give you a definitive structure.”

  I sighed. “Okay. So, what’s your next step? There can’t be enough of it in an entire whale to treat millions of people.”

  “No. Most certainly not. But knowing its structure, I can develop a way to make it synthetically using off-the-shelf chemical ingredients. However, the synthesis appears to be no trivial matter. If only I had several months to perfect a method, I could say with certainty we can provide the necessary doses. We’ll get started immediately, of course, but the timeframe is uncertain.”

  “Then don’t let me hold you up. I’ll get out of your way and let you get to work.”

  “Not likely,” he replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s already past 5 pm. I need some quiet time to reflect and come up with an effective synthesis protocol. I could batter my brain against the problem for hours in my current exhausted condition and get nowhere. Instead, I think I’ll declare a moratorium. Janet, tell Robert and Beryl that you all can go home and get a good night’s sleep. Come in by 6 am and we’ll start the day with fresh minds.”

  “Gladly,” Janet said, rising to go to the lab.

  “But Peyton,” I resisted, “matters are getting worse by the hour.”