“I do, Carl. Try anyway, will you? We can’t afford to overlook any possibility.”
“Sure, Alex. I’ll give you a list of what and whom I need. And by the way, if you know a good minister, priest or rabbi, ask him to pray for us, will you? I hope the Lord is up on His bacteriology.”
thirteen
Alex Kahn lay on his bed in the dark room and thought. Everything had led to a dead end. They had the talent, the equipment, and even what appeared to be the microorganism. All they needed was time—at least enough time to find the treatment for the damned disease. But there were only four days left. It might as well be four seconds.
He couldn’t sleep. His thoughts turned suddenly to Lori and the children.
“My God!” He sat upright in the darkness. “She doesn’t even know where I am!” He realized, for the first time since that last day in the office when Max Schwartz had called, that he had been unable to leave a message for her and that she had no knowledge of his whereabouts. “She must think I’m in New York and forgot to call her,” he thought, feeling little guilt since Lori was accustomed to not hearing from him for a day or two when he was traveling. He lay down again, promising himself that he would call her in the morning. Then he remembered—he couldn’t. The only communications allowed from Detrick were those related to the national emergency. His concern grew rapidly. Although he felt that Lori and the children were still safe in the mountains, he knew she must have heard by now of the cities suffering the ravages of this plague, and New York was one of them. She might think that he was ill—or dead—and be hopelessly trying to get in touch with him. There were so many things he had to tell her. She didn’t even know about Max Schwartz’s death or that he was now Chief. The thought suddenly occurred to him—he’d write to her; Marion Slade would see that she received the letter.
He got up and turned on the gooseneck lamp on the desk to look for some stationery and a pen.
The red ink caught his eye. It was the article—his memento from Max Schwartz. He picked it up. He hadn’t had time to read it before. He glanced at it and was about to put it down to continue looking for writing material when he noticed the author’s name, Ahmed Machdi; it was underlined in red, like the title and the inscription. His mind suddenly became alert. This article was by the same scientist whose paper he had found in the library. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t been able to find this one, too.
“No wonder I couldn’t find it,” he muttered, noticing the date of publication. “It hasn’t been published yet.” Still he was bothered. Most preprints showed the name of the journal in which the article was to be published at a future date; this one did not.
He was puzzled by the lengthy and rather flowery words of the inscription. He couldn’t remember Max Schwartz ever having mentioned the man. And it was unlikely that the author had sent the article for Dr. Schwartz’s opinion before submitting it for publication since the Professor had never been an authority on bacterial mutants. Odd, too, that someone should send this paper halfway around the world to a man who had little interest in the subject.
What bothered Alex even more were the heavy red lines beneath the title. Max Schwartz was a man of habit, and Alex knew that he always filed his articles by the subject heading written in red pen in the upper right-hand corner of the first page. Alex had seen hundreds of Max’s reprints, and all were marked in exactly the same way. Not once had he seen a title underlined like this, though the broad red lines were made by the same type of felt-tipped pen Schwartz used.
What was so important about this article that even coma had been unable to wrench it from Max Schwartz’s grasp?
Alex turned up the shade on the gooseneck lamp for more light and started reading, his mind dwelling on certain sentences and paragraphs.
The purpose of this paper is to describe the steps utilized to induce a mutant strain of Staphylococcus aureus (80/81)….
The induction of such a mutant will allow studies of the rapid adaptation of certain species of bacteria to antibiotics….
The induction phase consists of several individual steps each known to affect the transfer of genetic information at a different site…. Each of these steps is outlined below.
Alex read faster.
The ultimate characteristics of such a mutant, therefore, include a high degree of resistance to the antibiotics utilized in its preparation, the ability to reproduce rapidly under suboptimal conditions of growth and …
But who was this Ahmed Machdi? What role did he play?
Suddenly he remembered the words of Mark McKitridge, and the pieces began falling into place. That was why the article had been a “gift.” This Ahmed Machdi, whoever he was, had sent Max Schwarz the article, knowing he could put the pieces together. But why? Alex’s euphoria was short-lived. Was this the answer, or was it a trick?
He glanced at his watch. 4 a.m., Friday. In less than two days the President would be sending his messages. After that, it might all be too late.
He reached for the phone.
To save time, Alex had xeroxed a copy of the article for each of them. Now he sat and watched the face of each man as he read from the sheets of paper.
Carl Stafford was the first to speak. “Well, Alex, there’s certainly enough information here,” he nodded to the pages he had just read, “to enable us to determine if the staph you’ve recovered is the organism described by this fellow Machdi. I’ve heard of him. He was awarded the Pasteur Medal for his work with bacterial mutants. He manipulates induction to produce strains with the characteristics necessary for his work in bacterial metabolism. Very unique. I’ve read his book and most of his papers. He’s a careful investigator.
“With regard to your theory, Alex, if anyone could invent a bug like that, this guy could. He’s probably the world’s greatest expert in developing mutants with specific characteristics. He’s even been able to convert aerobes to anaerobes. The guy’s a genius. There’s no doubt his work can be reproduced. I’ve done it myself a couple of times. What he publishes is good stuff—really significant contributions to bacteriology.”
“How long will it take you, Carl? I mean to tell us if the organism is the same?”
“If we have the equipment and the material to reproduce the induction of the mutant, probably a couple of days. That won’t be time enough to get absolute proof, but enough to say that they’re probably the same. For the present, I think that will be good enough.”
“As far as the possibility of a toxin is concerned, Alex,” Raleigh added, “if Carl can produce the mutant described in this paper, I think we can find out if it produces an unusual toxin.”
“I’ve made some notes, Alex. There’s still one thing that bothers me.”
“Yes, Sam?”
“Knowing the identity of the bug and how it causes this disease is only half the problem--the less important half. Coming up with the treatment is what’s most important now.”
“I know, Sam. I’ve already got sensitivity tests for single antibiotics and combinations set up to see just what the hell will kill the son of a bitch. It’s got to be sensitive to something!”
“If it’s not, Alex, I suggest we all take Carl’s advice.”
“Huh?”
“That a quick prayer may be all we’ll have time for.”
fourteen
The conversation ended abruptly as Mark McKitridge, appearing anxious and distraught, entered the conference room. He was dressed in neatly pressed army fatigues, with four white cloth stars on both ends of his collar; he wore a web cartridge belt around his waist and a holstered revolver over his right hip. Just behind him walked a captain and a sergeant, both wearing steel helmets and fatigues similar to the general’s. In addition to side arms, each carried an M-16 rifle.
To Alex Kahn, the intrusion of the three armed men seemed somehow comical, especially the sight of a four-star general in fatigues, packing a revolver. “You here to arrest us, Mark, or are you going to line up the bugs and shoot them?”
McKitridge didn’t seem to hear the remark. Motioning to the two soldiers to wait outside, he closed the door, sat down at the table, and removed his cap and cartridge belt, laying the holster down carefully in front of him. There was no change in his expression.
Sam Ross leaned toward Alex and said softly, but loud enough to be heard by all, “I think this is one of those times Max would have said your joke seems to be out of place.”
“Right, Alex, this is no time for jokes.” Mark McKitridge paused, glanced at his watch, and folded his hands on the table. “Gentlemen, we’ve got trouble. Big trouble. I guess I’d better start at the beginning.
“Once every year or two during the sixties—usually in July or August—there were demonstrations outside of Detrick’s front gate. Nothing serious. Usually thirty or forty college students and a mixture of professional rabble-rousers would camp outside the fence to protest against the biological warfare program. They never did much more than carry signs and pass out propaganda. Once in a while they’d sit around in gas masks for an hour or two, but they looked so silly and the weather was always so hot that they usually gave it up. As long as they made no attempt to get on the grounds, we did nothing; and they usually left when they ran out of money or when a good thundershower cooled them off. They were more of a pain in the neck than anything else. We had to set up a special group of intelligence agents to follow their movements and develop a plan in case they decided to rush the gate. In 1967 or ‘68—I forget exactly which year—a few did try to get in, but the MP’s chased them off with some threats. The whole thing ended without any injuries. And after the BW program was dropped, they had no reason to come back. We haven’t been bothered by them since—until now.
“But let me digress for a minute. By any chance have any of you noticed the names of the streets on this base?”
Alex Kahn was becoming annoyed. He had better use for this time than to waste it listening to a history of the problems of Fort Detrick. “To tell the truth, Mark, we’ve been involved with other things besides city planning. I’m sure the army has good taste in naming streets.”
“Yes, Alex, it does. On most bases, streets are named for famous generals.” He looked straight at the young physician. “At Fort Detrick, however, the streets are named for accidents.”
“Accidents?”
“Not really accidents, Alex, but for the people who have had them.”
“You mean if I drive my car into the flagpole, you’ll name a street after me?” The entire group laughed—even McKitridge.
“You do that, Alex, and I’ll see to it that the army sends you a bill for the flagpole.”
Alex reached over and patted the general on the arm. “I’m sorry, Mark. I guess I don’t know when to lay off. Go on. I’ll shut up.”
“Anyway, the streets are named for civilians who have worked at Detrick and who have died as a result of being accidentally exposed to some agent. To save reading the street directory, for the present the only one that’s important to us is Beck Place.
“Jerry Beck was a general maintenance man here. In 1964 he accidentally got a whiff of some cultures while he was fixing the ceiling in one of the ‘hot’ labs and was dead in twenty-four hours. As was the custom, one of the new streets was named for him. Unfortunately, Jerry Beck had a brother who also worked here. Martin Beck had been in trouble a couple of times, but we kept him on because of his brother. When Jerry died, Marty really went off the deep end. He blamed the army and the program for his brother’s death. He made such a pain in the ass out of himself that we had to let him go. Two days after he was fired, we found every street sign on the post torn down except the one at Beck Place. For a couple of months we got threatening letters from him; but we took the advice of our security people and ignored him. It seemed that he had forgotten about us, too—until last night.”
“What happened, Mark?”
“I’ll get to that in a minute, Marion. It must have started earlier. Evidently Martin Beck did not forget about us. He reorganized the radical rabble-rousers, and they’ve been waiting for just the right moment to strike—and I do mean strike. Well, when this damned disease started, Marty Beck and a few of the other ringleaders who’d seen more than the usual amount of activity here decided we’d never really stopped our BW program and that all the disease and deaths they were hearing about were due to some bug that leaked out of Detrick.”
“They really believed that?”
“I don’t know, Alex. Maybe it was just the excuse they were waiting for. It doesn’t make any difference; they now had their cause. In just a couple of days, they’ve gathered together a small army.”
“That’s all we need—a bunch of armed protestors demonstrating around here.”
“They aren’t just demonstrating any more, Marion. They’ve become a band of marauding killers!”
“What do you mean?” Slade leaned forward to look at McKitridge.
“They hit Edgewood Arsenal last night. At about 11 p.m., about three hundred of them broke through the main gate. They killed a hundred and forty people and wounded a couple of hundred more. They broke into General Peterson’s quarters, bound him and put three bullets into the back of his head.” Mark McKitridge’s face grimaced with anger and sorrow.
“They executed the commanding officer of Edgewood Arsenal?” Marion Slade slammed his fist on the table. “The dirty, rotten bastards!”
“Why weren’t they stopped, Mark?”
“Because, Alex, the public doesn’t like the army facing civilian demonstrators with loaded guns, remember? After they got through the gate, the MP’s scuffled with them with clubs and rifle butts. Who the hell knew the bastards were armed? It was plain, unadulterated slaughter. They shot up everybody and everything in sight. The place looks like a bloody battlefield.”
“Are they still at Edgewood, Mark?”
“No, Marion. They disappeared as fast as they came and are now on their way here.”
“How do you know that?”
“From reports of intelligence agents and helicopter spotters.”
“Excuse me, Mark. I’m no soldier; but if you know where they are and where they’re heading, why don’t you just go out and get them?”
“Because, Alex, as soon as they left Edgewood, they weren’t under Army jurisdiction; and the Chief of Staff won’t let us touch them outside government property.”
“What about the police—or the National Guard?”
“It would take too long to activate them. Besides, the bastards have divided up into small groups and are scattered all over the countryside. They’ll probably regroup somewhere around here before hitting us. But I’ll see Martin Beck and his friends hang if I have to quit the army and campaign for ten years to see that the death penalty is reinstated just for those scum.”
“Cool it, Mark. That kind of talk just brings you down to their level.”
“Bullshit, Marion! This army belongs to you as much as it does to me—and to those poor bastards who died for nothing last night. Jack Peterson was a good friend of mine.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “When somebody breaks into a man’s home—any man’s home—ties him up, and executes him because someone doesn’t like his uniform or what he represents, they’ve lost the right to be treated like human beings. They’re animals, goddamn it, and they’re going to be treated like animals.”
“Look, Mark,” Alex tried hard to choose both his words and his tone. “Don’t ruin my respect for the army and its officers. You don’t mean what you just said. Do something besides putting on your gun and shouting for vengeance.”
“You’ve got to be kidding, Alex. Kidding or crazy. What should I do, take off my gun and throw rocks at the bastards when they come through the gate? Or just turn around and wait for the bullets?”
“‘Bullshit!’ to quote you, Mark. Have a little more faith in the American people. Tell the country this disease is no leak from Detrick. Tell them we’ve been attacked. Maybe they won’t pani
c; maybe they’ll get mad and fight. In addition, you’d certainly make Beck look like a goddamned fool and liar. His so-called army would fall apart. Have you ever thought of that? Or is it so important for you to pull the trigger on that goddamned thing?”
“Alex, have you really been so locked in your ivory tower that you haven’t had time to see what’s been going on around you? I have strict orders”—he held up his index finger—“one, not to engage this group except on government property; and two, under no circumstances to reveal anything about the biological warfare attack.” He paused for a moment. “It’s not just Martin Beck or Jack Peterson. It’s the whole idea that a few hundred mad dogs can kill right out in the open, and I have to worry about the publicity and image of the army, not about stopping the killing and restoring law and order.
“Anyway, enough philosophy. Here’s the situation. Intelligence tells us that they’re heading this way and that a large part of this group are some of Marty Beck’s original bunch. They’ve just been waiting for someone to tell them what they wanted to hear.” He looked at his watch. “They’re planning to attack around 11 p.m., when most everyone is in the sack except for a token security force. But this time we’ll be waiting.”
The 11th Plague Page 12
