by Robin Cook
“He had a gun,” Jack said. “And he didn’t seem too reluctant to use it.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have come out here empty-handed neither.”
As the group walked they couldn’t help notice that the whole area was deserted. They saw no one, not even any dogs.
“This is kinda weird,” Warren said. “Like we’re all alone.”
Just as the group had been advised, they found a red tent in the middle of a completely deserted avenue.
“Where did everybody go so fast?” Warren questioned.
“I don’t think they had any trouble getting people to leave,” Jack said. “People are terrified of contagion. I shudder to think of the panic in lower Manhattan right now.”
“It reminds me of an old science fiction movie,” Flash said. “I think it was called The Day the Earth Stood Still.”
The group was greeted by a small team of people in lower-level biocontainment dress than those in Yuri’s house. The person in charge was a woman who introduced herself as Carolyn Jacobs. She had the group strip and stand under makeshift showers of weak bleach solution where they were forced to scrub themselves. Then, after dressing in government-issue coveralls, they were immunized against anthrax and started on a course of ciprofloxacin.
“Man, I never expected all this,” Warren complained.
“You should feel thankful for the vaccine,” Jack said. “They don’t have a lot of it, and I’m sure they are going to run out in Manhattan. There’s no way there’s enough for everyone.”
The flap covering the entrance to the decon tent was suddenly pulled aside. In walked a lean, clean-cut, martial-appearing African-American man in his thirties. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit with the acronym CIRG on his left upper arm. Sewn above a zippered breast pocket was a name tag: Agent Marcus Williams.
“I’m looking for Dr. Stapleton and Dr. Montgomery,” he said crisply.
Jack raised his hand. “I’m Stapleton.”
“I’m Dr. Montgomery,” Laurie said.
“Excellent,” Marcus said. “Would you come with me?”
Jack and Laurie immediately got to their feet.
“What about us?” Warren questioned.
Jack looked at Marcus and raised his eyebrows.
“Your name, sir?” Marcus asked Warren.
“Warren Wilson, and this is Frank Thomas.” Warren pointed at Flash. Flash raised his hand.
“Sorry, I have no orders for you people,” Marcus said. “I would assume you should remain here.”
“Damn,” Warren said. “Doc, make sure they don’t forget us.”
“Don’t worry,” Jack said.
Jack and Laurie emerged back out in the daylight. They had to hustle to catch up with Marcus, who’d strode off toward the waterfront.
“Where are we going?” Jack asked.
“I’m to escort you back to the temporary command center,” Marcus said.
“Where is that?” Jack asked.
“Lower Manhattan,” Marcus said. “In a trailer in front of City Hall.”
“Can we slow down a little?” Laurie questioned. She was having to run every couple of steps.
“I was to get you back there ASAP,” Marcus said.
“What’s happening in the city?” Jack asked.
“I’m not privy to the latest developments,” Marcus said. “There is a lot of chaos.”
“I can imagine,” Jack said.
“Are you FBI?” Laurie asked.
“I am,” Marcus said.
“What does CIRG stand for?” Laurie asked.
“Critical Incident Response Group,” Marcus said. “We’re specially trained to handle NBC incidents.”
Laurie looked at Jack. She hated acronyms, especially when the definition of one led to yet another.
“That’s nuclear, biological, and chemical,” Jack explained.
Laurie nodded.
They crossed a mostly deserted Brighton Beach Avenue and passed under the el, which was part of the New York City subway system. A spiderweb of yellow caution tape blocked one of the entrances. Jack suspected that the transit system had been shut down.
After another block they came to the waterfront. Setting on the beach and boardwalk were a number of helicopters with various markings. Marcus headed for one of the smaller ones. It was an FBI Bell Jet Ranger.
He opened the door and motioned for Jack and Laurie to climb into the back. The pilot was already starting the rotors. Marcus made sure the doctors donned headsets to permit conversation.
After they’d gotten airborne, the trip to Manhattan was shockingly short, particularly for Jack, who was aware how long it had taken him on his bike the day before. The pilot landed on the green in front of City Hall. The makeshift helipad was cordoned off by firemen in hazmat suits. As the aircraft descended, the chaos that Marcus had mentioned was painfully apparent to both Jack and Laurie. In contrast to the deserted calm of Brighton Beach, there were crowds of panicky people streaming west, heading into the wind. Parked along Broadway were a number of National Guard trucks. The soldiers in protective gear had disembarked, but they were aimlessly milling about with their rifles in their hands, apparently unsure of their role.
“When the initial announcement was made, there was mass panic,” Marcus explained. “The police thought they’d be able to control it, but they couldn’t.”
Jack shook his head. Pandemonium was only going to make the situation that much worse, with contaminated people mixing with those initially uncontaminated.
Marcus didn’t wait for the rotors to stop. He opened the door and motioned for Jack and Laurie to disembark. He set off at the same rapid pace that had left Laurie behind in Brighton Beach. Jack and Laurie ran to catch up.
The construction trailer that was serving as the field command post had been placed in the plaza in front of City Hall, about six city blocks directly south of the Jacob Javits Federal Building. In that location it was safe from contamination since the day’s moderate wind was blowing from the southwest, vectoring to the northeast.
Marcus opened the door. Emanating from the interior was a loud babble of voices coming from a milling confusion of Department of Health officials, police, FBI agents, firemen, and Department of Defense officers. The Department of Defense personnel were from the army’s USAMRIID, the Marines’CBIRF, and an interservice unit designated as CBQRF. Laurie knew that USAMRIID stood for the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Disease, but she had no idea what the other two abbreviations stood for.
“Please,” Marcus yelled over the noise. “If you wouldn’t mind.” He pointed through the throng and led Jack and Laurie to an interior door. He knocked, stuck his head in, then gestured for Jack and Laurie to enter.
As the door closed behind the two medical examiners, relative peace descended. They were in an office about eight by twelve with three other men. Dozens of temporary phone lines had been brought in. Phones littered the desk running the length of the right side of the room. In contrast to the confusion in the outer office and the pandemonium outside in the streets, the three men were seemingly calm. All were sitting down. Jack recognized only one. It was Stan Thornton, the director of the Mayor’s Office of Emergency Management.
“Sit down,” Stan suggested. He pointed to two empty desk chairs. Jack and Laurie sat down as requested.
Stan’s height was apparent even while sitting. The tall man was dressed casually in a tweedy jacket. With his tousled hair, rumpled clothes, and intellectual mien, he looked more like a college professor than a high-level civil servant.
Stan introduced Jack and Laurie to the other two men: Robert Sorenson, an FBI Supervisory Special Agent, and Kenneth Alden, an officer of FEMA, the Federal Emergency Management Agency.
“Would you like some coffee?” Stan asked. “You must be famished after your ordeal.”
Jack and Laurie declined but were surprised to be offered coffee so casually during such a crisis.
“Can I
ask how things are going?” Jack questioned.
“Certainly,” Stan said. “With as critical a role you two have played in this event, you are more than entitled to know. As you can see from outside, we’ve done a poor job maintaining any semblance of order. There was widespread panic that frankly overwhelmed us and proved beyond a shadow of doubt that a real event is far different from an exercise. We couldn’t keep the people in the building. And because a plume developed from the building’s vent, the whole section of Manhattan west of here became contaminated with the powder.”
Stan paused. Jack and Laurie looked from one face to another. What Stan had just related was terrible news, yet the men seemed curiously unconcerned.
“But there has been one significant development that is undoubtedly in our favor,” Stan said. “Would either of you have any idea of what that might be?”
Jack and Laurie looked at each other quizzically, then shook their heads.
“At first we thought that this was too good to be true,” Stan continued. “Our HHAs or hand-held assay instruments were not giving us a positive reading for anthrax,” he said. “Certainly not like we got out in Brighton Beach where you were. Now, of course these hand-held units only test for the four most commonly expected bioweapons. So we had to wait for more comprehensive backup technical support before we could be sure. Just a few minutes ago we got final confirmation. The powder is not anthrax. In fact, it is not a biological at all. It is merely very finely milled flour—cake flour—colored with cinnamon.”
Jack’s and Laurie’s mouths dropped open in disbelief.
“Now, it is our general consensus that this was not meant as an elaborate practical joke, especially given the pest control truck in Brighton Beach filled with weapon-grade anthrax and a dead body in the house. Therefore, the FBI is extremely interested in apprehending the perpetrators, and any information you can give us about these individuals and the People’s Aryan Army will be enormously appreciated.”
Jack and Laurie looked at each other and shook their heads in shocked surprise.
“That crazy Russian!” Jack said.
“It’s fantastic!” Laurie marveled. “He double-crossed the People’s Aryan Army and inadvertently saved the day.”
“What exactly do you mean?” Robert Sorenson asked.
“There was apparently some disagreement about the target or targets,” Jack said. “Yuri Davydov wanted to drive the pest control truck around Central Park ...”
“Good Lord!” Stan said with a shake of his head. “That could have caused a million casualties.”
“But the People’s Aryan Army wanted to do the federal building,” Laurie said. “And apparently there wasn’t enough bioweapon for both, so Yuri Davydov must have improvised with cake flour and cinnamon.”
“He knew what he was doing,” Stan said. “Some people think weaponized anthrax is white, but it isn’t. It’s a light tan or amber color.”
“Obviously what Yuri Davydov did not expect was to be killed by his co-conspirators,” Laurie added. “I guess the People’s Aryan Army considered him disposable after they’d taken what they thought was their share of the anthrax. Actually, from what we overheard, the People’s Aryan Army wanted it all, but Yuri Davydov had put it into the pest control truck so they wouldn’t be able to get it out.”
The three men looked at each other and nodded.
“That seems to fit the facts as we now know them,” Ken Alden said.
“We lucked out with this one,” Robert Sorenson said while stretching. “That’s all I can say, and that said, it doesn’t speak well for all our planning and exercises to date regarding bio-terrorism. Our counterintelligence didn’t block it, and our response system didn’t contain it.”
Jack and Laurie looked at each other. Spontaneously they leaped to their feet and threw their arms around each other. After the tension and fear engendered by their incarceration, the good news filled them with joy. They hugged and laughed, unable to contain their relief.
“Whenever you’re ready, we’d like to debrief you immediately about the People’s Aryan Army and their alleged fireman leaders,” Robert Sorenson said. “The bureau is going to put the highest priority on their apprehension and prosecution.”
_________
EPILOGUE
Thursday, October 21
1:30 P.M.
“Try another station!” Curt said.
Steve leaned over and twirled the dial until the radio came in reasonably clearly.
They were in an old Ford pickup truck that Steve had bought for five hundred dollars under an assumed name. They were about fifty miles from New York City, and the radio signals were getting progressively weaker. They’d heard one news flash soon after getting into the truck a half hour earlier, just when they were starting westward on Interstate 80. The news flash had been brief. It had only said that there had been a major bioweapon event in lower Manhattan, resulting—so far—in general panic.
At the time, Curt and Steve had cheered wildly and high-fived in a delirium of excitement. “We did it!” they’d shouted in unison. But now they wanted more details, but they were having trouble finding any follow-up reports.
“There’s probably a government-sponsored media blackout,” Curt said. “They never want the public to know the truth about anything: Waco, Ruby Ridge, even who shot JFK.”
“I’m sure that’s it,” Steve said. “The government is afraid to let the public know.”
“God, it went perfect,” Curt commented. “A goddamn perfect military operation!”
“It could not have been any better,” Steve agreed.
Curt looked out at the rolling countryside, resplendent in fall colors. They were in western New Jersey approaching the Pennsylvania border. “Jeez, what a beautiful country,” he said. He gripped the steering wheel harder. He laughed. He felt great. In fact, he felt as if he’d had ten cups of coffee.
“Do you want to stop for lunch in Jersey or wait until Pennsylvania?” Steve asked.
“I don’t care,” Curt said. “As excited as I am, I’m not hungry.”
“I’m not hungry either,” Steve said. “But I sure wouldn’t mind washing my hands. I know Yuri said it was safe touching those plastic sausage things, but it still bothers me knowing what was inside.”
“Hey, where’s that envelope?” Curt asked.
“You mean Yuri’s?” Steve asked.
“Yeah, the one with the directions on making the bio-weapon,” Curt said. “He told us he also wrote some pointers of what we should do after the laydown.”
“I got it with all the maps and shit to get us to the various safe houses,” Steve said. “You want me to get it out?”
Curt shrugged. “Why not. Let’s see what we should do for our protection.” Curt laughed again. “As if we need that little prick’s help at this point.”
Steve reached back behind his seat and pulled out a folder closed with an elastic cord. He opened it, shuffled through the contents, and pulled out Yuri’s envelope.
“Whoa! This thing is thick,” Steve said. “What’d he do? Write a book?” He extended it toward Curt so he could take a look.
“Open it, for crissake,” Curt said.
Steve got his index finger under the sealed flap and tore it open. From inside the envelope, he pulled out a thick card sealed with another flap.
“What the hell?” Steve said.
Curt took his eyes off the road long enough to take a gander. “What does it say on the front?”
“To Curt and Steve from Rossiya-matoshka,” Steve said. “Whatever the hell that means.”
“Open it up!” Curt said.
Steve tore through the tab and as soon as he had the card leaped in his hands and snapped open. At the same time a coiled spring mechanism propelled a sizable puff of powder into the air along with a handful of tiny glittering stars. “Shit!” Steve yelled, startled by the small explosive device. Curt had started as well, mainly because Steve had. He had to fight to keep co
ntrol of the truck. Both men sneezed violently and their eyes watered briefly. Curt brought the truck to a stop by the side of the road. Both men were coughing, the powder tickled their throats. Curt grabbed the card away from Steve, who then got out of the pickup to whisk the glittering stars off his lap.
Curt examined the card. There was nothing written inside. He looked in the envelope. There was nothing there either. Then, all of a sudden, he had a terrible premonition.
_______________
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Unfortunately, much of what the characters in Vector say about bioweapons and bioterrorism is true. This holds most notably for Detective Lou Soldano’s comment concerning the potential for a major bioterrorism attack in the United States or Europe: it is not a question of whether one will occur, but rather, when. Indeed, there have already been several minor bioterrorist events in the United States.
In 1984, there was an intentional contamination of restaurant salad bars in Oregon, causing an outbreak of salmonel-losis in 751 people. In 1996, there was an intentional contamination of muffins and donuts in a hospital laboratory in Texas, causing an outbreak of Shigella dysenteriae in forty-five people.
The threat of bioterrorism has risen progressively in the world, particularly over the last decade. Consider the example of Aum Shinrikyo, the apocalyptic sect that released sarin gas in the Tokyo subway in March 1995. At the same time the cult unleashed its chemical attack, it was engaged in an active bioweapons program involving both anthrax and botulinum toxin, just like Yuri Davydov was in the novel. They’d even gone so far as to send a delegation to Zaire to explore the possibility of obtaining the Ebola virus for weaponization.
The Soviet Union had maintained an enormous covert bio-weapons program prior to its dissolution in 1989, despite being a signatory to the 1972 Biological and Toxin Weapons Convention (BWC) strictly forbidding such activity. At its height, the program employed more than fifty thousand scientists and technicians in research and production facilities. It was administered under the aegis of Biopreparat, which was under the Ministry of Defense. The program purportedly has been dismantled by the Yeltsin government (although many experts fear not completely), resulting in a diaspora of tens of thousands of highly trained bioweapon personnel. Considering Russia’s current economic dislocations, the question invariably arises: where are these people now and what are they doing? Some, perhaps, are driving taxis in New York City like Yuri Davydov, the disaffected emigre in Vector, and meeting up with equally disaffected members of the violent far right.