The Valley of Shadows - eARC

by John Ringo

  “We aren’t going to start murdering sick people to save our own skins,” he said, forcefully and authoritatively. The mayor looked directly at his head of OEM.

  “Joanna, your plan isn’t acceptable. Our citizens are not ‘harvestable.’ Call me direct,” he continued, then looked off-screen. “Break this down.”

  Joanna smiled inwardly.

  She was a fan of theater. And she already knew that she was going to get whatever she needed.

  * * *

  The audience of senior police officers was already restive, chafing at the unaccustomed security precautions mandated before they could file into the large city conference hall. Only the seniormost NYC cops, down to the precinct captain and lieutenant level and who were also personally vetted by Dominguez, had been allowed in. No support staff had been permitted to accompany anyone.

  The preliminaries had been uncharacteristically brief.

  “The following is not for release outside this room.” The deputy chief got to the heart of the matter. “During the two weeks since the infection was initially recognized and reported by the CDC, we have recorded thirty-two sworn officers and fourteen additional police department personnel who have been infected and already exhibit stage two H7D3 symptoms. Of these only three remain alive, the remainder having died during efforts to restrain them.

  “Despite the adoption of more liberal rules of engagement for confirmed and suspected cases of H7D3, a further three hundred and sixty-eight department personnel—of which two hundred and fifteen are sworn officers—have been exposed. All appear to have stage one symptoms and are in isolation. Of particular note, when the disease is transmitted into an open wound, the onset of symptoms can progress atypically and very rapidly. Several officers have developed stage two symptoms without first presenting flu characteristics and have attacked and infected additional officers and emergency workers.”

  Murmurs greeted the summary. Dominguez glanced around the gathered senior officers. More than a few faces were pale contrasts to the dark navy uniforms they wore. However, he was ready for his role.

  “Further, we have a large number of officers taking sick leave,” the official continued. “Despite injunctions and penalties, the percentage of officers taking sick leave and not returning to duty is over eight percent. This figure, added to the known and suspected cases, approaches ten percent of our total officer corps. Since most of the absences and losses are from patrol officers in active precincts, the impact on patrol density and call service interval is significantly greater than the raw numbers suggest.”

  “When do we get the promised equipment?” An anonymous voice in the back called out. “Our guys are dying, or worse, because we don’t have biteproof equipment!”

  Several more voices, safely anonymous in the large auditorium, rose above the hubbub, expressing violent agreement. One hard case, a Brooklyn accented speaker, added what was on everyone’s mind.

  “When are we gonna get a vaccine! No vaccine, no cops!”

  Even louder yells, clearly in agreement, greeted this sentiment. And this, from senior leadership.

  The deputy chief tried to quell the group, holding his hands up and trying to talk over the crowd. Another figure stepped up to the microphone, and placed a keyed megaphone in front of the mic.

  Loud, painful squeals of feedback overrode even the most determined protest, and the room quickly subsided enough that the next speaker could make herself heard.

  Joanna Kohn gestured to the deputy chief, the “may I?” intent quite clear. He ceded the podium, mixture of annoyance and relief visibly warring on his face.

  She wore a dove gray suit, the severely cut trousers sporting creases sharp enough to shave a police recruit. The matching but plain top was without ornamentation, save for small gold OEM flashes winking from each side of the high Mandarin jacket collar.

  Despite the audible undercurrent of side conversations, Kohn began.

  “Gentlemen, ladies, officers—my name is Director Kohn,” she said. “For those who are not acquainted with me, I run the New York City Office of Emergency Management. I have the beginnings of a solution to procure a vaccine and protect all critical city staff. Do. I. Have. Your. Attention?”

  By the time she had reached the word “critical,” the conference hall was nearly still enough that you could hear a pin drop.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” Kohn said, smiling faintly. “I have information that you need in order to understand and commit to the next steps. First, I worked with Deputy Chief of Police Hammond to ensure that this meeting was tiled. Second, the chief himself is conducting a public press conference to divert attention from this assembly. Finally, I am in possession of an emergency finding, signed by the mayor, granting the OEM executive and controlling authority to take such measures as are required to expedite the fight against the virus. Therefore I shall speak plainly. We can make our own vaccine and protect first ourselves, and then our city.”

  Questions rose from the audience thickly enough to make comprehension a challenge, but the feeling in the room had shifted, subtly.

  “I cannot quite make out individual speakers,” Kohn said. “I will endeavor to answer your questions, if you can put them to me professionally.”

  That was his prearranged cue. Dominguez quickly rose to his feet and stepped into the aisle, so he would be recognizable both to the audience and to Kohn.

  “My name is Dominguez,” Ding called out sharply. “I run One and I’ll ask the question that I think we all have, Director. What’s your plan and just how are we going to make vaccine?”

  He looked around the room, which was full of other senior cops craning their necks to see who had asked what they were all thinking.

  “Christ on a crutch knows that we need it, and now.”

  He remained standing among loud murmurs of assent.

  “Captain Dominguez, thank you,” Kohn said, smiling calmly. She laid her hands on the side of the podium. One index finger began to tap, beating out rhythm of her words. “I will summarize my plan and explain the steps: As some of you might know, there are multiple ways to create vaccine…”

  Kohn outlined the various scenarios including the attenuated vaccine methods without specifically referring to where to find the materials.

  “We have a process,” Kohn concluded, “that can eventually mass produce radiologically attenuated H7D3 vaccine with an optimally incidental exposure rate of under one percent of the inoculated adult population. Therefore, my plan is for the Office of Emergency Management, in cooperation with select staff from the police department and other city agencies, to recruit the necessary talent, lease the necessary hardware and facilities and collect the raw material needed to immediately prototype a vaccine.”

  Joanna paused and glanced around the room, stopping when her eyes rested on Dominguez.

  “And where are we going to get live virus in quantity, Madam Director?” Ding asked.

  “There is only one readily available source of higher order primates in the City, Captain,” Kohn replied, dropping her hands. “Fortunately, a large number of them are available at the Afflicted Care Centers.”

  Now you could hear a pin drop.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Tom Smith strode into the CEO’s office, barely preceded by the startled admin’s announcement.

  Bateman looked up from his desk and then did a double take. The bright morning sunlight streaming through the windows didn’t do Smith’s features any favors. He was clearly fatigued. Something else played across Smith’s face, as well.

  “Well, you are already here, or I’d invite you in Tom. Why don’t you take a seat?” The CEO’s tone was wry.

  Smith nodded, and sat. He leaned forward in his seat and placed a small glass vial on the large desk.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Bateman asked.

  “The pure quill,” Tom said, exhaling. “Ten doses of primer. The vaccine is administered in a two-part series. First, the primer, which dram
atically increases resistance to the neurological pathogen. That’s followed by the booster, two weeks later. This is a quarter of our first production run. We acquired the raw materials yesterday afternoon.”

  Bateman picked up the vial, turning it over in his hands. “Does it work?”

  “I’ll know soon enough,” Smith said. “I had the primer already during a delightful session with our now resident mad scientist. I’ve also authorized the first course for the other two members of my asset acquisition team and for our physical security details that are maintaining perimeter security. But we’re going to need more. A lot more, I should think.”

  Bateman carefully set the vial down, making a slight tapping sound.

  “Is it safe?”

  “Again, I’ll know soon enough,” Tom said with a shrug. “Curry’s already inoculated me. There are various possible sideeffects. Autoimmune reactions, immunological reactions including allergic reactions…all unknown. The live attenuated vaccine made by the big pharmaceutical companies under ideal and controlled conditions has an incidental infection rate well under one percent. You can’t, well, shouldn’t give it to kids though.”

  “Why not?” The CEO looked up. “Dependent children are on the evac plan.”

  “Attenuated virus vaccines aren’t approved for kids; different vaccines have different age limits,” Tom explained. “HPV vaccine is limited to nine-year-olds and up, for example. WHO and CDC recommend that kids under ten get inactivated virus vaccines until their immune systems are challenged enough to have a robust, adult style response. Curry also has the idea that since H7D3 attacks brain tissue, the fact that younger children and even young adults are still increasing the density of the myelin coat on their neurons is a risk factor. If or when the CDC gets inactivated virus vaccine to use we can protect the youngest evacuees. But as for adults, it’s safe. Mostly. It isn’t like we are spoiled for choice, Rich.”

  Tom’s level look communicated fatalism, determination, but there was still something else.

  “Who are you working with to get this?” It was plain that Bateman was thinking though the actual process.

  “I’ve some trusted teammates,” Tom stated flatly. “Besides Curry, only two others who perform the actual collection are all the way in the know. They get vaccine and two seats out, plus hazardous duty pay. I hope that you’re comfortable with this arrangement because we’re behind the curve, and we’re going to need more help, soon.”

  Smith wouldn’t ordinarily present his CEO with that many details in something like this, but Bateman didn’t seem offended. Just…tired. Tom felt the same way. He knew exactly what he was doing and did not care for it one bit. Needs must when the devil drives.

  “I know that we didn’t move on Plan Zeus right away,” Bateman said. “However, in order to assure the number of staff that we must have to evacuate to even a single refuge, the early estimates on evacuees quintupled. I won’t be surprised if they go up again, which means more vaccine.”

  “I know, Rich,” Smith said. He rolled his shoulder and grimaced. “I ran the numbers myself. How do you trust a pilot with an expensive and scarce helicopter if he’s worrying about his family? Even harder, how do you trust any critical staff person who has no familial anchor and effectively has nothing to lose? What keeps him from taking a better offer? We need support staff with something to live for—which means locating that ‘perfect pilot’ with a small family. We’ll host the dependents in the refuge and make the pilot’s best option the one where they keep flying in order to guarantee their share of vaccine. And…we very subtly keep the family under our thumb by ‘ensuring their protection.’”

  He looked out the window.

  “A little polite extortion isn’t new to this job,” Tom said. “But just because it works, doesn’t mean I have to like it any more than I have to like stripping spines out of infected people. But, we all took the money.”

  Bateman tried to reassure Smith.

  “Tom, I know tha—”

  “No,” Smith said, cutting him off. “You don’t know, Boss. You can’t know. You’ve never even taken a life much less cut the head off of some poor woman just to strip out her spine. It’s horrific. And it’s necessary. Our only chance to survive is to dramatically accelerate collection and endure the horror now. It’s the only way we can avoid an even worse outcome. I’ll do it, and I’ll push the security staff to do it—and it will get done. Which brings me to why I am here.”

  “Anything you need, we’ll get for you Tom—you know that.”

  “Glad to hear it, sir,” Tom said, turning back to his boss with a slight, humorless grin. “The first thing is that Curry is going to need an assistant. For obvious reasons, it needs to be someone that we trust, can control, needs the vaccine and ultimately will agree with what we are doing.”

  “I leave it to you, just make damned sure it’s someone we can trust,” Bateman replied.

  Smith grinned for what felt like the first time in days. It felt good.

  “Oh, I think I can promise that much,” Tom said. “We are also going to need more and heavier armament. I have a way to procure it, deniably. However, I’ll be breaking several state and fed—”

  “Didn’t hear that one,” Bateman said, interrupting and waving his hands. “Keep it on a cash basis.”

  Smith nodded again, this time with the ghost of a smile. New York had notoriously over the top antigun laws, at least for those below the millionaire class.

  “The next thing is harder,” Tom said. He inclined his head at the shining vial that Bateman had set back on his desk. “That’s the most valuable substance in the city, maybe the entire country. We’re going to have to look ahead on how we organize and regulate the collection, processing and distribution or we are going to have anarchy. Every organization that hasn’t figured it out yet will do so in short order and start competing for, well, let’s call them, viral assets. Anarchy equals less time to make the vaccine, and maybe a cure. We are going to need help and regulation.”

  “Who would have thought it—a banker calling for oversight and cooperation?” The CEO looked thoughtful. “Who do you have in mind to bring in?”

  “We start with a few other banks,” Smith said. He smiled again, but this time it didn’t warm him. Quite. “Then we’re going to get unconventional.”

  * * *

  Tradittore looked composed. The unfiltered Camel that he smoked irritated Paul Rune.

  “Joey, do you really have to blow that in my face?”

  Tradittore, unruffled, turned his head and exhaled in the opposite direction, sending the smoke across Washington Square Park. An organic fruit vendor jerked his head up, annoyed.

  “Sorry man. But it’s your dime. What do you need?”

  Rune passed over a paper list, which Tradittore began to read.

  “You guys certainly love your acronyms,” the Sicilian said, tapping his ash. “Okay, most of this I recognize and we can get pretty quickly. Rifles, shotguns and pistols are easy. Ammunition, same thing. The explosives and the suppressors are quite a bit harder, as you know. That kind of merchandise attracts an entirely different level of heat.”

  He kept reading.

  “Pneumatic auto-injector, reuseable?” he said, looking up. “What do you want that f— never mind. Don’t want to know. Let’s see. You also want eight sets of something called an A/N GP-NVG-18? That’s a new one.”

  “NODs,” Paul replied. “Sorry, night observation device. My boss says that this model preserves depth perception. Currently Mil/Law enforcement only. We’ve tried to get them through our own channels. No dice. If you can’t get those, we’ll consider other models, at a reduced cost of course. Probably going to end up buying even more.”

  Tradittore whistled.

  “Well, in addition to your love of acronyms, you banks also don’t appear to be scared of big numbers, which is what this is going to cost. I can set up a demo and a pickup for all of it in a week, maybe three.” He refolded the list and tu
cked it away. “How are you going to pay?”

  “Cash, naturally.” Paul was confident on how the conversation would go next.

  “No can do, roomie,” Joey replied instantly. “Cash isn’t what it used to be. Nope—you are going to have to do better.”

  The banker smiled.

  “Bullion.”

  “Keep talking.” Tradittore answered, with a wave of one hand.

  “Figured as much,” Paul said. He pulled a small rubber-topped vial from his own pocket. He carefully did not hand it over, but turned it back and forth in his hand, the sun striking highlights from the glass.

  “Vaccine. First part of a two part series. We’ll add ten complete series of vaccine to sweeten the vig.”

  Matricardi’s man looked…amenable. But he was the mobster’s man, after all. You never took the first offer, or the second.

  “And?”

  “And we’ll teach you how to make more.”

  * * *

  “How much more can you tell us about Smith, Ms. Kohn?” asked Sarissa Gauge.

  “He’s hardly remarkable,” replied Joanna, giving Gauge’s outfit a critical glance. The female half of her personal staff was wearing a severely cut suit close enough in style and color to Joanna’s that it constituted a uniform. Gauge had deferentially chosen heeled ankle boots from Yves St. Laurent that were just one notch less fashionable than those of her director.

  Joanna approved. Detailed oriented subordinates were less likely to make an error when it counted.

  She resumed.

  “Average intelligence, a conventional thinker, the physical type,” Joanna said, continuing to tick off points. “In short, a typical example of the former military banker club, with all the downside that entails.”

  “Downside, ma’am?” asked Ken Schweizer. The formerly junior OEM analyst had taken a chance and hitched his star to Kohn during the 2010 hurricane season and had jumped several levels as a result. His attempt at a neatly trimmed beard, intended to convey maturity, was defeated by his narrow features, reducing the effect to that of a rat with patchy fur.