by Dave Edlund
Smallpox is a deadly viral disease for which there is no medical cure. There are several recognized, naturally occurring strains of smallpox, including hemorrhagic, flat type, variola minor, and variola major. The hemorrhagic and flat type have nearly 100% mortality rates, variola major has a mortality rate of about 30% to 50%, and for variola minor the mortality rate is under 10%. Perhaps for these reasons smallpox is the only disease to have been completely eradicated worldwide.
A global vaccination program to rid humanity of smallpox was proposed by the Soviet Union in 1958, and the leadership pledged to provide 25 million doses of vaccine each year to the program. The program began in earnest in 1967 under the direction of the WHO. Historians have stated that without this large contribution of vaccine from the Soviet government, the program would not have succeeded. But this apparent act of generosity took new meaning when, in 1992, a high-level Soviet defector (Dr. Ken Alibek) revealed the depth of bioweapons research and development in his former country.
According to Dr. Alibek, the Kremlin ordered the development of a genetically-modified smallpox virus, derived from the India-67 strain, as well as means to disperse the active virus from ballistic missiles and bombs. And Alibek was certainly in a position to know—from 1987 until he defected in 1992, Dr. Alibek was the Deputy Director of Biopreparat, a pharmaceutical company that fronted for the Soviet bioweapons program.
At the height of the Cold War, the main Russian bioweapons testing range was Vozrozhdeniye Island in the Aral Sea. In 1971, a civilian boat sailed too close to the island, the prevailing wind blowing from the test range to the ill-fated boat. At least one of the crew, and possibly more, were infected with smallpox. The crew went on to spread the disease to the port town of Aralsk. Three people died and the entire populate of 50,000 was vaccinated to stop the spread of the disease.
This is all a matter of public record, some sources are listed here:
New Scientist, 17 June 2002, by Debora MacKenzie, www.newscientist.com/article/dn2415-soviet-smallpox-outbreak-confirmed.html
Science, 18 June 2002, by Martin Enserink, news.sciencemag.org/2002/06/bioweapons-test-fingered-smallpox-outbreak
GlobalSecurity.org, globalsecurity.org/wmd/intro/bio_smallpox.htm
The American Prospect, 20 Nov 2001, by Wendy Orent prospect.org/article/return-smallpox
Why would the Soviet government apparently change their policy from providing enabling support for global vaccination against smallpox, to developing a genetically modified strain of the virus as a weapon? Perhaps the leaders in the Kremlin never were altruistic. Perhaps, they were carrying out a long-term plan to eradicate the disease, leading to a cessation in mass vaccinations and with that, vulnerability of future generations. The truth may never be known.
According to the U.S. government and the WHO, there are only two repositories where samples of live smallpox are stored for experimentation; one is the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta, and the other is the Vector Research Center in Koltsovo, Siberia. However, a shocking discovery on July 1, 2014, refutes this official position. Six glass vials dated to 1954 containing smallpox were discovered in a cardboard box in an unsecured FDA laboratory at the Bethesda, Maryland campus of the National Institutes of Health. Even after sixty years, the virus in two of the vials was still viable and capable of causing infection.
How many other samples are out there, unaccounted for? And given that the Soviets were manufacturing twenty tons of weaponized virus annually in the mid-70s, how certain can anyone be that it was all destroyed?
Given that our youngest generations have never been vaccinated against smallpox, and those who did receive vaccine in the 60s and 70s have a compromised measure of protection, modern population centers have never been more vulnerable to this terrifying weapon.
So far, sane minds have managed to prevent smallpox virus from getting into the wrong hands—but for how long? And with nationalist fervor driving an expansionist Russian Federation, will old Soviet plans be revisited?
-DE
Chapter 1
Sary-Shagan, Kazakhstan
May 18
BUNDLED IN A WOOL SWEATER, scarf wrapped around his neck, and wearing fingerless knitted gloves, Ulan Bayzhanov prepared his workstation. The space was utilitarian with walls constructed of concrete blocks and painted a pale mint green. A few small square windows and one chart, listing the ampacity of copper and aluminum wire pasted to a wall, broke up the expanse of green. Scuffs and rub marks around the doorjambs hinted at the age of the facility. Natural light, forcing its way in through the small windows, was supplemented by overhead fluorescent fixtures that buzzed softly.
Ulan’s workbench was cluttered with pliers and wire cutters, screwdrivers, electrical test equipment including several hand-held multimeters and two oscilloscopes. Scraps of wire were scattered across the surface in no apparent order. Located in a stand above the workstation was a long, horizontal metal rod that held spools of electrical wire, the multicolored insulation offering welcome relief from the otherwise monotone environment.
Summer was still a month away, and without adequate heating the research facility would remain cool until the outside temperature warmed. The thick block walls and small windows helped against the bitterly cold winter weather and the furnace-like summer temperatures. For now, Ulan layered his clothing to stay warm. The fingerless gloves were the only compromise he made, dexterity a necessity for his work.
Ulan Bayzhanov was born in a small house not far from Sary-Shagan. The son of sheep ranchers, he was raised an only child, two other younger brothers having died in their first year. The arid land and sparse vegetation made for a hard life, with a small relief found in the ground water that allowed his mother to grow some vegetables during the hot summer months.
Driven by ambition, Ulan had no interest in following in the footsteps of his father. As a child, his schoolteacher recognized the drive and instinctive intellect behind Ulan’s sparkling brown eyes. He always had questions: how the machines worked; why the sun and stars moved as they did across the sky; why water existed as a solid, liquid, and a gas. But mostly, Ulan was fascinated by electricity.
One day, when Ulan was only seven years old, the schoolteacher brought a simple generator to share with the students. It was made using three large horseshoe magnets and a coil of copper wire that was turned within the magnetic field using a hand crank. A light bulb was connected to the generator, and then the children took turns cranking the handle to make the light bulb illuminate.
Ulan was immediately surprised by how hard it was to turn the crank to make the light bulb shine, but when the light bulb was disconnected from the generator, it was much easier to crank.
“I don’t understand. Why does this happen?” Ulan asked.
The teacher, who had been educated in Moscow, explained that when the light bulb completed the electric circuit, cranking the generator handle caused electricity to flow through the circuit. Since electricity is energy, it requires energy to make it. “That is you, turning the handle. You supply the energy. It is hard, because it is work.”
Ulan thought, allowing a few moments for understanding to take root. “Ah. So, if the light is not connected to the generator, there is no path for the electricity to flow. That’s why it is easier to turn the handle.” Ulan beamed with pride having learned this new lesson.
Whereas other classmates wished they could be doing almost anything other than school, Ulan looked forward to lessons every day. He read books borrowed from his teacher and continued to excel in all his studies, but especially in science and mathematics.
The day Ulan completed school, his teacher met him with a rare opportunity. Facing no hope of further education, and desperate to pursue a path other than tending sheep, Ulan accepted an apprenticeship at the research facility in Sary-Shagan. He was only fourteen years old.
That was the beginning of Ulan Bayzhanov’s career as an electrical technician at the Russian research complex not
far from the shore of Lake Balkhash. For the first three years, Ulan walked to and from work six days of every week. Fortunately, his family home was not too far away, and in good weather Ulan could make the walk in about an hour. When he turned seventeen, the director of the electrical and electronics lab gave Ulan a car. It wasn’t much—with peeling paint, dented quarter panels, and torn and stained upholstery—but the engine ran, most of the time anyway. Still, it was the most beautiful gift Ulan had ever received.
Eight years later Ulan was still driving that same car. It required regular maintenance, but he learned to be a good mechanic and parts were always available, even if he did have to remove them from junked vehicles.
Today, Ulan was working alone to complete the quality assurance testing on two batteries, a test he’d started a week ago. Already he had completely discharged the batteries at the prescribed rate of five amps, and then fully charged the batteries to 13.2 Volts. With the batteries fully charged, he carried out a series of tests to ensure they would provide more than the minimum-rated power at three different discharge rates. Finally, the batteries had been left unattended for three days, and now he was about to measure the degree of self-discharge.
First, Ulan measured the voltage of the batteries and then he sampled the liquid acid electrolyte within the batteries and measured its density. Satisfied that the electrical and chemical characteristics of the batteries were correct, and passing all other minimum acceptance criteria, Ulan placed a self-adhesive seal on each battery housing with his initials and date.
Ulan slapped his hands together and rubbed them, the friction warming his fingers. He glanced out the window, and in the distance he saw a tan amorphous mass at what should have been the intersection of the ground and sky.
“Another dust storm,” he muttered. At age twenty-five, Ulan had never traveled more than 150 kilometers from his family home, the place of his birth. His world was dirt and sand and dust––frigid winters and hot, dry summers. He’d never experienced a large, bustling city, although he had read about Moscow, Paris, New York, Berlin, and other popular metropolitan centers.
Someday he thought for the thousandth time.
With the two batteries tested, his next task was to complete the electrical assembly on the two black plastic cases. He moved to a second workstation on the opposite side of the small room. Here he had bright overhead lights and an illuminated magnifying lens mounted to an adjustable arm, especially handy for detailed soldering.
With one of the cases open, Ulan began to assemble the various electrical components. His job was to install the power supply and electrical system, plus an air blower and an electrically-driven auger; a helical shaft that he thought served the purpose of moving a powder or granular material to the blower. For what purpose he had no idea; the work instruction did not identify the device by name or function, but this was not new to Ulan. Much of the work he performed was secretive.
Once the batteries were fixed within a mounting box, he installed the wiring harness and then inserted the three printed circuit boards—these were the brains of the device. Portions of the wire harness plugged into the circuit boards, as did several sensors that were already in place. Ulan firmly tugged the wires to ensure secure connection.
Finally, he referred to his work instructions on a sheet of white paper within a clear plastic cover. Along with the instruction was the quality assurance report for the three circuit boards, also manufactured at a neighboring location in the complex. It was the job of the design engineers to provide the assembly instructions Ulan was now reading.
With the various parts in place inside the black case, Ulan used special test equipment to ensure the electrical connections were correct. Then, using a signal generator and test leads that he pressed to small metal pads on the circuit boards, Ulan completed the final quality assurance tests.
Satisfied that all was correct, he signed off on the work instruction sheet and inserted it, along with the battery test report, into the plastic sheet protector. Being a technician, Ulan did not have authority to pass the two cases on to the next department. In fact, the work instructions did not mention where the cases were to go next, presumably for final assembly. So, Ulan used the wall-mounted rotary phone to call his supervisor, Nartay Karimov.
“Doctor Karimov, I have completed my work on the two black cases as you instructed.”
“Excellent, I will be there right away,” Karimov answered.
Two minutes later Karimov strode into the electrical lab. He was more than twice Ulan’s age, with gray hair and deep creases furrowing his face. Ulan was leaning over one of the cases with his hands folded behind his back, conducting a thorough visual inspection. His expression was studious and intense, eyebrows squeezed together creating a series of parallel wrinkles in his forehead.
“Is something wrong?” Doctor Karimov asked, startling Ulan.
“Uh, no,” he said, shaking his head as he stepped back. “I was just thinking. I installed a barometric pressure sensor, airflow sensor, and humidity meter. Plus, the air blower I installed there,” he pointed with his index finger, “will draw ambient air inside the case. I think this is an automatic air-sampling device. But I don’t understand what it does that common-place air sampling stations are not already doing?”
Nartay Karimov considered Ulan’s questions. His thin face was severe with a sharp angular nose, chiseled chin, and obvious cheekbones. He squinted his eyes and stared directly at Ulan for an uncomfortable minute.
“You have always been someone I can count on, Ulan.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You do good work, and you get your tasks done on time. You have a future here, provided you continue to do as you have done.”
“Yes, sir.” Ulan dipped his head, uncomfortably holding Karimov’s gaze.
The mentor placed a hand on Ulan’s shoulder and spoke gently. “Do not let your curiosity get the better of you. Some questions are best left unspoken.”
Ulan nodded and shifted his gaze to the floor.
“Now, I have a question for you. I have heard that you have affections for a certain young lady. Is this true?”
With a smile Ulan looked up, his eyes sparkling and his face slightly flushed. “Her name is Aida.”
“Ah, to be young again.” Karimov smiled. “You and Aida have so much to look forward to, and I wish you both a lifetime of happiness.” He paused momentarily. “Now, shall we return to the task at hand?”
“Of course, sir.” Ulan bowed his head slightly.
Doctor Karimov doubled-checked the paperwork while Ulan watched in silence. He then used a digital multimeter to check a few voltages and resistance readings and ensured a good ground had been established. This was normal, expected by Ulan, as Karimov had done this on a hundred other projects he had worked on.
After five minutes of double-checking and triple-checking Ulan’s work, Doctor Karimov grunted approval.
“Take these down the hall to the biochem laboratory. I will phone and have someone meet you there.”
Ulan followed the cart down the hallway. He had never been into the biochemistry lab and wondered why they needed these devices that were obviously meant to measure weather conditions. He stopped outside the door as instructed, and soon the door was opened by a middle-aged woman with platinum blond hair. It was cut short, making her look rather masculine. Beyond her frame, Ulan glimpsed an inner chamber and another glass partition. The inner chamber had several white suits hanging from hooks, and several hoods with large clear face shields. Ulan recognized these as full-body protective suits.
“Under the direction of Doctor Karimov, I’ll take these,” the woman said. Her voice was cold and detached. Ulan thought he knew everyone who worked at the facility, since the total number wasn’t more than about 100, but he didn’t recognize this woman. She wasn’t a native Kazakh, and he thought her accent to be Russian.
Ulan watched as she wheeled the cart into the inner chamber. Just before the door c
losed, Ulan saw her take one of the white suits from the hook. This is very odd, Ulan thought, but he knew better than to ask any questions.
s
With the door closed, Doctor Maria Lukin donned a biohazard suit and then wheeled the cart through an airlock and into the laboratory. “Take this to the assembly lab,” she instructed a technician. “You are to install a canister containing the new strain.”
“The hemorrhagic variation?” the technician asked.
“Yes. The experiments with our primates confirmed the high infection and mortality rates. And last night the autopsies of three human subjects were completed. The results confirmed internal bleeding and organ failure resulting in death 85 to 100 hours after infection. So we can conclude the cell culture-method was successful.”
The technician displayed a blank look, not comprehending the significance of the brief explanation. For a moment, Doctor Lukin considered explaining that growing the virus in a culture of human cells was a breakthrough in mass productivity over using chicken eggs as the growth medium. She quickly dismissed the thought—she was not here in this God-forsaken corner of the world to teach these ignorant fools.
“When you are done, make certain the case is thoroughly decontaminated. If you can’t perform the task correctly, maybe you will find yourself a subject of future experiments.”
Chapter 2
Bend, Oregon
May 21
WITH BON JOVI SINGING ABOUT LIFE ON TOUR, the classic rock radio station provided background music as Peter busied himself cooking breakfast. Bobbing his head to the guitar riff, he threw some diced ham into a hot skillet, already colored with red and green peppers as well as potatoes, when the phone rang.
“Hey buddy, how’s your Saturday morning?” Gary asked. Gary Porter and Peter began their friendship in high school—they had since grown as close as two brothers ever could be. Hearing his friend’s voice, Peter immediately conjured up his image—curly blond hair, infectious smile, and cobalt blue eyes that were at home with his easy-going, gentle spirit. But Peter also knew Gary could be hard and unyielding if pushed too far.
