Sara paused to make sure all eyes of the stone-faced team were on her, and then continued, “The president caught the disease from someone else, so we knew there was a source. We traced all of the president’s meetings over the past few weeks, backtracking the itineraries of anyone he came into contact with. We got a red flag one week back. Daniel Brentwood, owner of Elysian Games, met with the president after spending some time in Asia, incubator for most of the world’s emerging bird flus.”
“And Brugada,” King added.
“Yes.”
“So this is what? A new bioterror weapon?” Rook asked.
“That’s possible, but we have yet to determine a motive or goal and no one has claimed responsibility. But we know one thing for sure: if someone gave Brentwood Brugada, they took a huge risk. If this had gotten out in the open it would have been a pandemic that would make the Black Plague look a light shade of gray.”
“Was this created in a lab?” Queen asked.
“We don’t think so, but it seems likely someone is now weaponizing it.”
“Have you warned anyone?” Knight asked.
“Warning people would only complicate things at this point.”
“Are you saying,” King said, “that the majority of people in the United States . . . in the world, could contract this genetic-disease-carrying bird flu, which could kill them at any time, and you’re not telling anyone about it?”
“You need to understand that there is no cure for this. And we believe the new strain is contained for the time being. Telling people would be counterproductive. Picture a world where every person might just drop dead at any moment. Can you imagine what kind of chaos revealing this threat would create? We’d see more people being murdered than actually dying from the disease. There is no quick fix here. It’s more than a simple virus. The disease alters genetic code. Permanently.”
“I didn’t think that was possible,” Knight said.
“Under normal circumstances, it’s not. Most of us die with the genetic code we were born with, and if we’re not hit by a truck or struck by lightning, it’s the same genetic code that determines the time and method of our death. But mutations do occur. Overexposure to radiation, the sun, or ingestion of certain chemicals can alter our genetic code.”
“You’re talking about cancer,” Queen said.
Sara nodded. “That’s the typical manifestation, yes. When a mutation occurs in a cell and it’s not repaired, and the cell divides, that mutation will be carried on so that all cells duplicated from the one will contain the DNA change. This is an acquired mutation, and is generally not passed on to our children, but that doesn’t hold true with Brugada, which is typically passed down through generations.
“To find a cure, we need to find the source, or a person near the source with an immunity. Even then, our chances are slim, but if we don’t succeed, within a week, people—mostly men—are going to start dropping dead. The president’s aides, Secret Service agents, senators, most of the White House staff. They’re all going to die, very soon. Never mind the possibility that this has already been deployed in other parts of the world. Half the world could have contracted the disease and no one would be the wiser.”
“So the disease doesn’t affect women?” Knight asked.
Sara shook her head no. “It does, but not nearly as frequently. We’re not sure yet how this new strain will act, but we believe it will hold true. All that has changed from the original disease is the time frame in which it kills—the president and Brentwood both died within a week of contracting flu symptoms. Women, for the most part, are unaffected.”
“Which is why you need the Chess Team,” Queen said.
Keasling cleared his throat. “You’re the only woman in the Special Forces, Queen. If all these guys drop dead, you’ll still be around to finish the job.”
“But she won’t be alone,” King said, eyeing Sara. “Will she?”
“No,” Sara said. “I’m going with you.”
Rook frowned. “No offense, but I think that’s a really bad idea.”
That was just the kind of macho garbage Sara had expected. And she wasn’t going to take it. There was too much at stake. “Just because I’m not a soldier—”
“I’m not trying to bust your chops,” Rook said. “I just don’t like—”
Sara raised her voice. “I can watch out for myself.”
“But you don’t have to watch out for yourself,” King said. He looked back at Rook. “Because that’s our job.”
Rook shrugged and leaned back. “Just don’t want her getting hurt is all.”
“And you won’t let her get hurt,” Keasling said. “She’s your mission. Keep her alive long enough to complete her mission.”
“To find the cure,” King said.
“Yes,” Sara said.
Knight squinted his almond-shaped eyes. “But why just her? Why not a team of scientists?”
“The first reason,” Keasling started, “is that we need to keep as low a profile as possible. A whole team of scientists would be hard to miss. And Miss Fogg is—”
“Better than any team of scientists you’ll find. I have two doctorates. One in molecular biology. Another in genetics. And an under-grad in biochemistry. I’ve published on molecular evolution and analytical morphometry. When I got bored with the research labs I joined the CDC and pursued fieldwork. I’ve been in outbreak hot zones around the world. Kenya. Congo. India. I’ve handled cases of bluetongue, malaria, cholera, dengue fever, and leishmaniasis. And I’ve spent the last week studying Brugada, which is more time than anyone else physically capable of joining this mission.”
“Been shot at?” Rook asked.
Sara sucked in a quick breath. “No. But you won’t find anyone with my credentials who has been.”
“You’re probably right about that,” King said, then flashed an honest grin. “And what you deal with is more deadly than bullets, anyway, right?”
Sara’s lips curled in a slight smile. “Right.” She composed herself, stepped forward, and opened the top of her blouse, revealing her sternum and a small stitched-up incision. “If we’re just about finished with my interview, you all need to have some minor surgery. Each of you will have a cardioverter defibrillator implanted on your heart. Without getting technical, if your heart stops beating it will deliver a shock that should bring you back.”
“Should?” said Knight.
“Mortality rates in Brugada patients with cardioverters has been zero percent for the past ten years, but this new strain may affect the body in different ways. We haven’t had long to study it, so I can’t make any promises.”
Keasling stood. Time was short. “Wheels up in two hours. Get squared away and to the Pope airfield by . . .” Keasling checked his watch. “Thirteen hundred hours. We’ll debrief in detail there.”
“What about the surgery?” Queen asked.
Keasling smiled. “It’s a long flight.”
“Where are we headed?” King asked.
Keasling’s smile fell. “Brugada’s birthplace. Annamite Mountains . . . Vietnam.”
SEVEN
Pope Airfield
THE BEAST ROARED and surged forward, gaining speed and tensing the muscles of the two people clinging to its back. The Harley-Davidson Night Rod Special not only looked badass with its straight-shot dual exhaust, all black-and-chrome body and sleek design, but it moved like a fighter jet, or at least as close as you could get with wheels touching the ground.
With the throttle opened up, King and Queen tore down the black tarred road that led to the Pope Air Force Base. King had saved for five years and had bought the 2009 motorcycle just three months previous. Since he’d bought it, Queen had become a regular occupant at the back, holding King’s waist loosely, her blond hair rippling in the wind. In the first week they’d suffered a barrage of jokes inferring the deadly duo were now a couple, but a few bloodied noses and broken fingers put that rumor to bed long before King and Queen would ever share one
.
The two were close friends, perhaps closer than many lovers, as they’d saved each other’s lives on numerous occasions, but the bond between them was closer to brother and sister than anything else. They fought together as King and Queen, he outsmarting while she moved in for the checkmate. They couldn’t be stopped.
But they could be late. Which they were now.
Late to saving the world. And for what? A quick stop at 7-Eleven. But King knew the supplies he bought there would come in handy.
Rook, Knight, and Bishop had gone ahead, taking King’s and Queen’s gear with them, so they’d be prepped to depart, but Sara’s briefing was scheduled to start five minutes ago. There might be hell to pay, but it was her best interests he was looking out for. She’d thank him later.
They pulled up to the security gate five minutes later, having covered the distance to the base at an average speed of ninety miles per hour. Queen was all smiles. The guard checked their IDs and opened the gate. “They’re waiting for you in Decon,” the guard said with a salute.
Decon was a room inside hangar 12, Delta’s personal spot on the airfield, which housed their classified transport. Though the room had been deemed “Decon” by the less-than-creative powers that be, Rook had renamed the room Limbo, the place between Heaven and Hell where missions began and ended.
King offered a slight salute in return and pulled into the 2,194-acre base, home to the 43rd Airlift Wing, the 23rd Fighter Group, and the 18th Air Support Operations Group. It served as a launch-pad for many major U.S. military mobilizations, but more frequently was utilized by the mass of Special Forces units based at Fort Bragg.
They drove into the open hangar toward Limbo, which was little more than a glorified conference room featuring potted plants (fake), a long conference table, and a ring of executive chairs. The room’s technology lay hidden behind the walls and beneath the surface of the table. King pulled up in front of the open door and found Sara, arms crossed, waiting in front of the high-def flat screen that not only fit seamlessly into the wall, but when turned off faded to the color and pattern of the wall, making it effectively disappear. He and Queen entered Limbo without a word and took their seats at the oval table. Keasling stood at the back of the room, waiting with his patented scowl.
Sara quietly closed the door and dimmed the lights. She wiggled the mouse attached to her laptop. The screen came to life, as did the flat screen embedded in the wall. Two horizontal squiggly lines appeared on the screen. The first image, labeled NORMAL, featured a small hill, a deep valley, and then another hill.
The second image, labeled RBBB, featured three peaks, each taller than the previous.
“These images are from President Duncan’s echocardiogram,” Sara said. “The image labeled normal is just that. This is what his QRS complex—the visual representation of his echocardiogram—looked like when he took office.”
Sara pointed to the second image. “This is what the president’s QRS complex looks like now. RBBB typically represents a variety of common medical conditions affecting the right side of the heart or lungs. This includes blood clots, chronic lung disease, atrial and ventricular septal defects, and cardiomyopathy. But that’s not all. When RBBB is detected in an individual who suffers from none of the above, it is seen as having no medical significance, is labeled a “normal variant,” and discarded. The point is that even when an echocardiogram is employed to detect health risks, Brugada slips through the net.”
Sara clicked the mouse. The screen showed an image they all recognized. A double helix. “DNA. Home to our genetic code, and birthplace of the mutations that sometimes create adaptations that help a species thrive. It’s also the home of countless genetic disorders that kill and disable more people every year, and with far more efficiency, than all of history’s wars. Brugada is even worse. It has the potential to be an undetectable pandemic. It could wipe out most of the male population within a single year. Without a male population, the human race will cease to exist shortly after . . . even with the judicious use of sperm banks.”
The image zoomed in to a specific strand of code. It was labeled SCN5A. “This gene, SCN5A, is an encoder for human cardiac sodium channel on chromosome 3p21. You don’t need to understand that, you just need to know that this is your enemy. This is the cause of Brugada. But most of us aren’t born with this gene. This new strain of bird flu is delivering the gene to our DNA, then flipping the ‘on’ switch. We’re after the ‘off’ switch. If we can find the source of this new strain, perhaps in a female carrier, we might be able to understand it better, and in turn, learn how to shut it off. Even better would be discovering a male carrier living with the new strain, but not succumbing to it. Studying his immunity would provide the solution we’re after.
“But it won’t be easy to find. Brugada first emerged in the modern world in Asia. Joseph Brugada discovered the symptom in 1992, but it’s been around for a long time. In the Philippines it’s known as Bangungut, translated as “scream followed by sudden death during sleep.” The Japanese called it Pokkuri. In Thailand, Lai Tai. And in Vietnam, cái chê´t bâ´t thình lình. The Sudden Death. Its roots have been traced to the Annamite Mountain region where deaths from Brugada have been common enough that it is part of the local folklore.
“Vietnam is also one of the most active breeding grounds for avian influenza. It’s likely that a villager in the region carrying the SCN5A gene was infected by the virus, which picked up the gene as it mutated within the host’s body. When the infection was passed on, the gene went with it. Five years ago, a scientific expedition to the region described one village in particular that reported a far larger occurrence of Brugada in its history. This is where we’re going.”
Sara advanced to the next slide. A satellite image of a small village surrounded by vast jungle appeared on the screen. “This is Anh Dung. The village we think might be the birthplace of the Brugada syndrome and quite possibly the source of this new strain.”
Sara glanced at each of the stone-faced Chess Team. They were attentive, she’d give them that. She advanced to the next slide. A photo of Daniel Brentwood in his younger days, looking youthful, very nerdy, and full of mischief, filled the upper right portion of the screen. The rest was a world map.
“Daniel Brentwood was exposed to the new strain of bird flu, we believe, in Hong Kong. But, thank God, symptoms didn’t present until after he returned to the States. Had Brentwood been hacking away in the tight confines of a 747 cabin that pandemic I mentioned would already be under way. With a nasty habit of sneezing into his hands, Brentwood was the perfect way to spread the disease.”
Keasling cleared his throat. “Which is why we believe that the disease has been weaponized. It was no coincidence that a man publicly scheduled to meet the president was exposed at the perfect time to transmit the disease to the president, but not a plane full of people. The odds of this being random are slim. This took intelligent planning. Military planning.”
“You’re saying this was a hit on the president?” King asked.
Keasling nodded. “Most likely.”
Sara continued. “Everyone else infected so far is an unlikely target surrounding the president, or a part of Brentwood’s personal life. We believe everyone he came into contact with is now under quarantine.”
Sara’s last sentence was followed by an uncomfortable twitch of her cheek. She wasn’t positive and Queen noticed. “You believe?”
“It is possible someone was unaccounted for. A bank teller. The mailman. Girl Scouts delivering cookies. Only God knows for sure.”
“Assuming the worst,” King said, “how long do we have before Girl Scouts start dropping dead?”
“A week.”
“From now?”
“From two days ago. Which brings us to the scenario I would like you all to consider. This is not only what could have happened if Brentwood had been sneezing on that plane, but also what could be happening right now if someone was missed. Brentwood is the blue dot.”
The world map came to life. The blue dot representing Brentwood bounced around Asia, producing flowering red dots as it went. Some moved to other countries where other red spots appeared, those moving onward as well.
“Brentwood took a flight to London, with two hundred fellow passengers. It’s likely that a large number of them, if not all of them, could have been infected. We’ve confirmed that they’re not.”
The blue dot streaked across the map, stopping in London, where a mass of red dots appeared, some moving around the small island countries, others moving to more distant locations in Europe, some to Africa, and still others to South America. The blue dot, however, stretched across the Atlantic and came to a stop in Washington, D.C. A new bloom of red dots appeared. Then a green dot.
“The green dot is Duncan. Just seven days ago,” Sara said.
The animation continued. The blue dot moved up to Boston, where new blooms began. Then from there, several red dots streaked to various parts of the country. Los Angeles, Houston, Miami, Denver. Others entered Canada. Some went to Mexico. Several large blooms emerged around most of the major cities in the United States and around the world. The animation paused.
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