by Hank Parker
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This book is dedicated to all scientists and public health professionals who work tirelessly and often in obscurity to protect the world from emerging infectious diseases.
CHAPTER ONE
JULY 29
LANCASTER COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA
Amos Lapp moved slowly but purposefully on this late-summer day in Amish-country Pennsylvania. He had thirty head of Holsteins to milk before supper, and acres of fields to harvest in the coming days, but he’d completed both of these tasks often enough over the past forty years that he knew exactly how much time it took to do them.
He angled toward the barn doors that, like the rest of the building, needed a fresh coat of paint. The cows were there already, milling around outside the entrance, lowing softly, impatient for the feed that they knew awaited them inside. Amos leaned into the heavy doors. Slowly they slid open, steel wheels squeaking on the rusty tracks. He stepped aside as the cows filed in and instinctively took up stations at the individual stalls that were arrayed in rows along both sides of the barn’s length. As he waited by the open doors, Amos noted a dark band of clouds on the western horizon. He sniffed the air—heavy, damp, with a faint, electric odor. He watched the clouds for a moment. It looked like the storm would miss them, but another could crop up at any time. Even so, he wouldn’t rush the work. The cows always seemed to sense it when he was anxious and tended to produce less milk.
With the herd in place, Amos moved along the stalls and fastened steel locking stanchions around the cows’ thick, sweaty necks. He spoke softly to the animals and gently stroked their heads. He could distinguish them individually, and had given a name to each: Molly, Bessy, and all the rest.
He reached the last stall and swung the stanchion lever into place. As he snapped it shut he pinched his right index finger in the locking mechanism. Dime-sized drops of blood spattered onto the concrete floor. Suppressing an oath, he dabbed at the finger with his bandanna and told himself he’d put some mercurochrome on the wound when he got back to the house. Lord knows he’d seen worse.
With the cows secure, Amos shoveled feed from a large cart into feeding troughs in front of the stalls. He varied the amounts; he knew just how much to give each cow. He then moved to the first cow to begin milking.
Amos dipped a clean rag into a bucket of sudsy disinfectant, swabbed the cow’s udder, and directed a steady stream of rich white milk into a waiting bucket. Amos milked by hand. Many of his Amish peers still generally shunned electricity, but most of them had taken to using automatic milking machines, powered by diesel, propane, or natural gas. Amos couldn’t afford these aids, and he preferred using his hands. He liked the direct contact with his animals. When the bucket was full, he carried it to an adjacent shed and dumped the contents into a stainless-steel, thousand-gallon tank with an attached chilling unit to retard the growth of bacteria. This was Amos’s one concession to modernity: the apparatus was powered by a rack of propane bottles.
Ninety minutes later he’d worked through two thirds of the herd. He paused after milking a stout, eight-year-old cow. “Not too productive today are we, Bounty?” he asked. A healthy milker in her prime should produce seven or eight gallons per milking, but today Bounty had yielded only half that amount. Amos ran his hand along the cow’s neck and head, slippery with perspiration. A little warm, maybe. He looked in her nose and eyes. No watery discharge. Grasping the animal’s muzzle with his left hand, he rolled back the cow’s lips from her teeth and exposed the gums. No rawness or signs of bleeding. He probed gingerly with the fingers of his injured right hand, feeling for roughness or blistering. Everything seemed okay. If Bounty was under the weather—cows, like humans, suffered innumerable mild infections from time to time—she’d be back to normal soon.
Amos finished the milking by six fifteen. He’d leave the cows in the barn overnight. They’d be ready to milk again at first light. He washed out the utensils and hung them on wooden pegs, experiencing, now and again, a twinge of pain from the cut in his hand, but he continued on with his chores. He shoveled manure from concrete retaining troughs behind the cows and tossed it into a nearby manure spreader. When he finished, he closed the barn doors and began the slow walk toward home and a waiting supper.
* * *
Three mornings later Charity Lapp awoke to the sound of her husband’s racking cough. It had started the previous evening but had now become much worse. She rose from their wooden-framed, Shaker rope bed and groped through the darkness to the small, adjoining bathroom. She turned up the gas in a dimmed lantern, drew a glass of water, and returned to the bedroom.
She handed the glass to Amos. He tilted it toward his mouth and swallowed. With a groan and a suppressed cough, he settled back down on the sheets. Charity positioned her own pillow under her husband’s head. Maybe the extra elevation would make him feel better, help the mucus slide down instead of pooling in his throat and causing him to cough.
She felt his forehead: warm and slick with sweat. It reminded her of when her firstborn had been sick, almost forty years ago now. The baby girl had only been two, and her skin had somehow felt both hot and clammy at the same time. Charity had sat up with her all night while Amos brought in a steady supply of cool, damp cloths to mop the girl’s forehead. But the child’s fever had ticked upward with every hour that went by. She’d died just before dawn.
Charity and Amos had had two healthy sons soon afterward, but the loss of her firstborn left an emptiness in her heart that had never been filled. Amos was a grown, healthy man, hardly sick a day in his life. The grippe must have gotten him, Charity thought. She’d heard that something was going around. But Amos would be fine in a couple of days, with her nursing. No need for a doctor. And anyway, like many of the Amish, the Lapps didn’t have health insurance and didn’t put a lot of stock in the medical profession.
In the meantime, there was still the milking to do and other farm chores that couldn’t wait. She wouldn’t ask for help from her two sons, who were living and working in town. As teenagers, they had defied Amos and left the farm and the faith, and they had their own lives now, and seldom even visited.
Her husband coughed again and tried to sit up. Charity put a gentle hand on his shoulders and eased him back down. Amos pushed her arm away. “Leave me alone, woman!” he yelled at her. He wrenched himself out of bed and started toward the wooden freestanding clothes rack in the corner of the bedroom.
Charity rubbed her arm and watched. What had gotten into Amos? Was he planning to get dressed, to head out into the murky dawn, fever and all? She moved between her husband and the clothes rack in the dim, shadowy light, trying to make out the expression on his bearded face.
With a guttural growl Amos grabbed his wife by the shoulders and flung her aside. Charity fell against the edge of the bed, cracking her left elbow against the frame, and toppled to the floor. She lay there in pain but remained silent as her husband pulled his coveralls on, not bothering to remove his nightshirt. Still in his bare feet, he lurched out of the room.
Seconds later, Charity heard a door slam. Did she dare go after him? What choice did she have?
She found him a hundred yards from the house, sitting in the cold mud of the rutted driveway, clutching his sides in a spasm of coughing. “I’m sorry,” he croaked. “Don’t know what got over me.” He struggled to his feet, and Ch
arity took his arm and led him back to the house.
* * *
Four nights later, Charity was frantic with worry and fear. Amos’s condition had steadily gotten worse. Small, reddish rashlike spots had appeared on his arms and chest, and now many of these had merged into large purple-brown bruises. His gums were starting to bleed and he was passing blood in his urine. His stool now looked like tar balls and the coughing had given way to frequent vomiting. His violent behavior had ceased, but Charity suspected that this had more to do with a lack of energy than any kind of improvement in his health.
She was doing all she could to comfort him, but when she finally admitted to herself that she had to get him to a doctor, it was past midnight and too late. She had no phone to call for an ambulance and didn’t dare to leave her husband to walk to her nearest neighbor’s house, over a half mile away, in darkness.
Amos was mumbling to her. He needed to use the bathroom again. She pulled the rough wool blanket off his torso, wrapped her arms around his lower legs, and swiveled them over the edge of the bed. Bending low, she grasped her husband under his armpits, braced her knees against the side of the bed, and began to pull him upright. “Amos, you’re going to have to help me some,” she muttered. Her face was next to his. It looked as if he was trying to say something. She leaned closer to hear his low words.
He vomited, spraying her face with stomach contents the color and consistency of used coffee grounds.
Charity hastily wiped herself off with the sleeve of her nightgown, raised her husband’s limp body, and half dragged him into the bathroom. She positioned him on a stool in front of the toilet, then went to the sink and splashed cold water onto her face until it was clean again. She turned back to the toilet.
Amos was lying on the floor, on his left side. His right hand dangled over the lid of the toilet. He was perfectly still. Blood and vomitus trickled out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes were open but blank.
Charity Lapp screamed.
CHAPTER TWO
AUGUST 7
CHESTER COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA
A stocky, broad-shouldered man drove slowly down a cornfield-bordered lane and rolled to a stop in front of a weathered farmhouse. He eased out of his late-model sedan, stretched, and looked around. Frayed curtains looped across the house windows. No fresh tire tracks other than his own. Green plastic chair still propped against the front door. Beware of Dog sign tacked to a leaning post in the overgrown front yard. He glanced back down the lane. No sign he was followed. No one else knew what went on here, but you could never be too careful.
Satisfied that he was alone, the man strode to a large, freestanding garage of whitewashed cinder block, which made it decades newer than the house, but the paint was faded and stained gray-green with mold.
He reached the front of the garage, ignored the heavy overhead door, and inserted a sturdy key into the lock of a smaller, adjacent metal door.
The space that greeted him inside was in stark contrast to the garage’s decrepit exterior. Built and fitted out to his personal design and specifications, it was brightly lit and spotless—floors, walls, ceiling, even the long, stainless-steel lab bench in the center. The room housed state-of-the-art scientific instrumentation. A large machine that resembled an oversized refrigerator stood against the far wall. It was a thirty-three-cubic-foot Caron Insect Growth Chamber, a potential terrorist weapon more powerful than an army of soldiers. He peered through the clear glass at shelves holding metal trays filled with small capsules with perforated caps.
The capsules contained ticks. Most people found ticks to be abhorrent creatures, but the man considered them his pets. Not that he blamed others for detesting them. They harbored a rogues’ gallery of bacteria, viruses, and parasites, and transmitted some of the nastiest diseases known—Rocky Mountain spotted fever, tularemia, Lyme disease, and a host of others. That made them vectors—organisms that transmitted diseases between species. He had given himself the name Doctor Vector. He had read a number of comic books as a kid, and even though he believed he was doing something for the greater good, he also got a certain thrill from imagining himself as a comic-book villain. Except this time, the evil scientist was going to prevail.
Doctor Vector admired ticks. They’d been around for three hundred million years and more than eight hundred species inhabited the world. You didn’t get to be that successful unless you were good at surviving—and ticks were exceedingly good at that. They fed on blood, lying in wait by clinging to grass blades or leaves, forelegs outstretched. When an animal brushed by, they climbed aboard and sought a suitable patch of skin. Once settled, they’d cut a tiny hole in the skin, secrete an anticoagulating chemical, insert a feeding appendage, and engorge themselves. A well-nourished female tick could produce thousands of eggs at a time. Even the larvae were bloodsuckers, feeding on birds and small mammals. As they molted, first to the nymph stage and then to adults, they dined on increasingly larger creatures. And at every stage, on every host, the germs they carried were passed along.
Doctor Vector checked the gauges on the growth chamber, confirmed that temperature and humidity were within prescribed limits, and recorded the readings. After a last look at his charges he turned and headed toward the exit. His work was done for now. He would be busier tomorrow. Tomorrow was feeding day.
* * *
The next day, Doctor Vector donned a white lab coat with stockinette cuffs, pulled on a pair of gloves, securing sticky tape around the wrists, and walked over to the insect growth chamber. He retrieved a small plastic capsule and carried it to the lab table in the center of the room. The table was equipped with a small moat around the perimeter, filled with an inch or so of water, which would trap any ticks that tried to escape. As an additional precaution, he smeared a layer of petroleum jelly around the edge of the table and placed the capsule into a petri dish with a layer of water on the bottom. Multiple defenses were in place so that no tick escaped. Each was infected with a deadly virus, a pathogen that would not affect the tick but would almost certainly kill any human that it bit. Every tick had to be accounted for at every stage of the procedure.
He gently removed the screened lid of the capsule, placed the petri dish and capsule on the stage of a stereo microscope on the table, and examined the contents.
Each capsule held ten black-legged or deer ticks, Ixodes scapularis, the species that carried and transmitted Lyme disease in North America and was also an excellent carrier of the deadly virus that Vector was working with. The growth chamber held a hundred labeled capsules. A thousand infected ticks were more than enough to establish a widespread epidemic, as healthy ticks in the wild would breed prolifically, provided there were adequate hosts for their blood meal. And in the days ahead, the population of the lab ticks would multiply several times, especially since each capsule contained a mix of male and female ticks to facilitate mating. Even a single gravid female could spawn a large population.
An hour later, the scientist had worked through all the capsules, counting all healthy ticks, removing and disposing of the few dead or unhealthy ones, and placing the capsules into a container. He then carried the container to the far side of the room, where a number of small cages were arrayed on broad shelves.
The cages contained laboratory mice. Doctor Vector’s experiments had revealed that the mice were suitable hosts and blood sources for his pet ticks. He’d tried a number of small mammals and had initially been leaning toward white lab rabbits. Easier to handle, gentle, and passive. All in all an appealing animal to work with. But they’d turned out to be highly susceptible to the virus and lived only a few days after exposure to it. He’d found that mice were resistant to the disease even though they hosted the pathogen and could pass it along. They took up a lot less space and there was never a supply shortage. But the problem with mice was they were difficult to work with. Fast, unpredictable movements, and they’d bite. Handling them required uninterrup
ted concentration and great care, especially once they were carrying the virus.
He retrieved one of the mouse cages, opened the door, and reached inside with a gloved hand. This was the tricky part. He’d devised a method to securely attach each capsule of ticks to a corresponding mouse to enable the ticks to feed, but the procedure demanded absolutely focused attention. He grasped the mouse with his left hand, pinching it behind the head between thumb and forefinger to reduce the chances of being bitten. With his right hand, which was ungloved for improved dexterity, he picked up a capsule, uncapped it, and quickly attached its open end to the mouse. When he was satisfied that the attachment was secure and that the contained ticks were free to feed, he moved on to the next mouse and capsule.
He’d give the ticks a couple of days to feed to repletion and then return them to the growth chamber. Doctor Vector smiled to himself. Soon his soldiers would be ready for battle.
CHAPTER THREE
AUGUST 13
SAIPAN, NORTHERN MARIANAS ISLANDS
Fifty feet above the limestone floor of a tropical forest, Curt Kennedy braced himself as a gust of wind nearly dislodged him from his perch on the limb of a Pacific banyan tree. Kennedy had worn a few titles in his life, not all of which he was permitted to divulge, and arborist was not one of them. But Marianas fruit bats often roosted in the branches of banyan trees, and Kennedy’s mission was to capture a few of these “flying foxes.”
He rubbed the two-day stubble on his lined, tanned face. He’d settled into the tree the previous night while the bats were off foraging, and had secured himself to the trunk with a harness and rope. At first he’d slept well, but as the large bats—eight to ten inches long from head to rump—returned to the tree with the first graying of the dawn, seeking perches, they often crashed into the branches, disturbing other roosting bats, sometimes causing noisy fights. So Kennedy had given up on sleep and concentrated on capturing some specimens.
