by Matt Miksa
Olen waited a beat, then tried again, this time in his deep, reporter-man voice. “I’m with the Associated Press, and—”
Her stinger finger sprang up again. Olen sighed. This woman was clearly accustomed to putting noisy boys in their place. He tried not to take it personally. Judging by the three Red Bull cans lined up in a neat row on the desk, labels out, her intensity was borderline compulsive. And then there was the Fitbit on her left wrist, jewelry for the step-counting, five AM CrossFit warrior. Olen knew the type, evidenced by a growing list of hypercompetitive ex-girlfriends.
Olen watched her fluttering fingers and attempted one final thrust. “I’m supposed to meet the team leader. Is this his plane?”
The pitter-patter typing stopped. “What makes you think this isn’t my plane?” the woman said.
“Oh, I just assumed—”
“This aircraft belongs to General Huang Yipeng,” she snapped. “It’s on loan.”
“I see. Well, I’m looking for the man in charge of the field investigation. Is he onboard?”
“She’s right here. I’m Dr. Zhou Weilin, the lead investigator. Unless you brought me more caffeine, then scram. I have very little time.” She spoke pristine English.
Olen doubted Beijing would assign someone so young to lead an investigation of such significance. Either the woman was a scientific savant or the Chinese were jerking him around. “Jo? That’s an unusual name. Is it short for Josephine?” Olen asked.
“Zhou is my family name. We introduce ourselves differently in China,” the doctor responded.
“Oh, my apologies, Miss … uh, how do you spell it?”
Dr. Zhou grabbed a ballpoint pen, scratched out a few Chinese characters on a yellow legal pad, and slid it across the table without looking up.
Olen squinted at the pad.
The doctor exhaled slowly. “I allow foreigners to call me Jo. Keeps things simple, and at least it’s pronounced the same way.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Jo,” Olen said. “And it’s an honor to be included on such an important assignment. I promise to stay out of your way, as much as I can help it.” Olen flashed his signature smile and settled into a leather chair. He marveled at the pages of handwritten notes sprawled across Jo’s desk—mostly tangles of complex equations. An iPad peeked out from the pile. On the screen was a diagram that looked like a bell curve.
“What’s this? Is it part of your investigation?” Olen, like most spies, cherished working under media cover. A reporter could ask the most intrusive questions without raising suspicion.
Jo shot him a piss-off look that made his skin tingle.
“Hey, your buddies took all my stuff,” he said. “I’d ask Google if I could, I swear.” Olen played the American ignoramus quite well. Most likely, President Li’s staff had promised to send the doctor a wallflower who could work as a passive observer. Olen had never liked walls. Or flowers.
“It’s the epidemic curve—a model of the disease’s progression,” Jo said. “Well, it’s my hypothesis, anyway.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
Jo leaned over the desk and traced the graph’s smooth line with her finger from left to right. “The line rises gradually with the first few cases. A handful of patients get sick, but at that point, hometown doctors generally don’t know they’re dealing with something out of the ordinary. Cases mushroom, and the disease feeds on the locals. That’s what you see here.” She pointed to the sudden rise on the graph. “That’s when we know we have an epidemic.”
“But then the line drops again,” Olen remarked. “Why does the curve decline? Wouldn’t the outbreak just continue to spread faster and faster with each newly infected person? What stops the contagion?”
Slow down, cowboy, Olen thought. Pull her in gently.
“Not necessarily,” Jo answered. “Most of the time, an epidemic will taper off naturally as the virus depletes the pool of easy victims—children, the elderly.”
“You said it’s just a hypothesis. How—”
“This is complicated science, Mr. Stone. A hypothesis isn’t just a wild guess. Our models are based on empirical data,” Jo explained.
“How do you get your data?” Olen asked with genuine curiosity. He’d spent most of his career preventing terrorists from weaponizing biological agents before they created a public health crisis. He had no experience with outbreaks and epidemic curves.
“Simple. We count the sick. A full epidemiological survey of the region began six days ago,” Jo said. “Research teams from the Ministry of Health record every new case. We track the disease’s progression and determine how long it takes to overcome the victim.”
“Overcome?” Olen questioned.
“To kill them,” Jo responded clinically. She recounted her work with such emotional detachment that others would probably call her heartless, but Olen understood. Some jobs required clearheaded objectivity, especially when death was routine. For this woman, it was just another day at the office.
“So, where are we on this curve now? Have the cases peaked?” Olen asked.
“New cases are still emerging rapidly, so we can’t yet predict the epidemic’s apex.”
“Why not?” Olen was pleased by how easily Jo was opening up, but he was quickly getting out of his depth with the science talk.
“I based this hypothetical curve on the assumption of a fixed population—the people living within the Tibetan Autonomous Region. The TAR spans a half million square miles, but it is home to barely three million people—a relatively small population by Chinese standards. That’s why quarantine is so crucial. If contained within the TAR, the virus will burn through most victims in a few weeks, and the crisis will be over.”
Jo paused her rapid-fire explanation. Olen sensed she was holding something back.
“But this bug won’t die out so easily, will it?” he asked.
“If the virus escapes the TAR and gets loose somewhere with a larger population—a major city, for example—it will explode. The massive pool of new, vulnerable targets would feed the contagion. Twenty million people live in Beijing alone. Complete isolation of a city like that would be impossible. We couldn’t contain it. The constant flow of tourists and business travelers would carry the disease to Tokyo, Seoul, even as far as London and New York.”
The doctor tapped the iPad, and the epidemic curve shifted. Olen’s eyes widened as he studied the adjusted graph. The line rose rapidly, as in the first model, but this time it had no peak. The curve continued off the screen in a perpetual climb. The worst-case scenario.
“In the fourteenth century, the bubonic plague wiped out one in five humans on the planet,” Jo said. “Five hundred years later, the Spanish flu claimed another one hundred million. Blood River virus tears through human hosts, and it mutates quickly. It has the potential to be one of the deadliest infectious diseases mankind has ever encountered, worse than the plague and the Spanish flu combined. If we don’t figure out how to stop it, the virus could annihilate the human race. This isn’t just about Tibet. The entire world is at risk,” the virologist warned soberly. “So, you see now why I’ve got to get back to work.”
* * *
Jo thought about the new patients in Beijing and Chengdu. They were the only cases of BRV45 outside the TAR so far, but there would be more. The government had slapped a top-secret classification on all of it. If people knew how fast the virus was spreading, panic would erupt around the world. Governments would first point fingers, then missiles. Ultimately, someone would pay for the catastrophe.
True, her epidemiological models were theoretical. A whole host of variables could change the outcome. Unpredictability came with the territory, but her equations gave her a feeling of control. Better yet, her computer models ignored the depth of suffering, allowing her to stay focused on the big picture. Her data tables and graphs made no reference to the pain of watching a bright-eyed teenage son degenerate into a stinking heap of flesh or an infant daughter suck in h
er last breath. Jo blocked out the dread, choosing to concentrate on the dispassionate science. With a tap, her iPad could calculate the rate of the disease’s transmission and the rate of an infected person’s recovery as a function of time. Just math, neat and tidy.
Jo wondered if she’d become too callous over the years. Had she completely lost the ability to empathize with the sick and dying? And what about the grieving families? Jo knew the pain of loss. She’d felt it herself as a six-year-old girl. You remember that feeling, don’t you? That pang in your heart muscle when your parents never came home?
Jo pushed the memory from her mind. To hell with empathy. There was a ticking clock to worry about. Her iPad told her so.
* * *
Throughout the interview, Olen tested the doctor. He asked probing questions about the crisis and the government’s response, and Jo answered with remarkable candor. Scientists often struggled with the concept of state secrecy. They were hardwired to believe that knowledge belonged to all humankind and no nation held the exclusive right to scientific discoveries that could advance humanity. Secrecy hindered progress and made research annoyingly cumbersome.
The doctor’s enthusiasm was also operationally convenient. Utterly engrossed in her explanation of viral vectors, Jo never noticed Olen attaching a listening device to the surface of her desk. It was easy to miss. The NSA’s tech team had built the bug using revolutionary nanotechnology—some real-deal spy shit. While Jo shuffled through stacks of papers, hunting for a specific data report, Olen pressed a small, round sticker about the size of an aspirin into the tabletop. The thin plastic melted into the smooth surface as it bonded with the wood grain on a molecular level. After three or four seconds, the difference in texture and color was indiscernible.
The device picked up vibrations in the wood caused by sound waves. It could separate human speech from ambient noise and then send the data to Maryland via a wireless satellite uplink. The challenge was keeping the bug powered up. A battery would have made it too large, so it ran on light it soaked up with an array of microscopic photovoltaic receivers. A paperweight would shut it down completely, but it was better than nothing. If a hotshot Chinese general usually flew on this plane, U.S. intelligence could learn a lot by eavesdropping on his conversations. The boys at the NSA would probably cream their jeans.
Olen left Jo to her work and went hunting for a puffy chair. Toward the front of the cabin, a trio of soldiers amused themselves with a deck of cards. They razzed the loser after each hand, in the manner of all young men. They obviously hadn’t seen Jo’s doomsday graphs. The world was about to get a serious wake-up call.
CHAPTER
11
International waters
THE MARINER LET out the mainsail, perpendicular to the wind, and allowed the steady breeze to push the sloop westward. Sailboats would soon become more popular, but not right away. At first, people would flee the cities and head inland, to the countryside. They’d hole themselves up in farmhouses and cottages. The isolation would protect them from contracting the virus, which would ravage the dense, urban areas. The grocery stores would run out of food, gas would become more valuable than gold, kitchen faucets would slow to a drip, and entire skylines would fall into darkness. Then those rural farmhouses, with their natural wells, backyard gardens, and flimsy front doors, would be under siege. The desperate, starving, diseased masses would rip them apart, seeking refuge. Before long, sailboats would be the only safe place left. A sky full of wind, an ocean full of fish, and total seclusion from the madness swallowing the world.
The thought was pleasing, seductive. And not without irony. A season surviving in open water would ultimately reground humanity. In the resulting hush, unheard for centuries, humankind would once again listen to the secret of the sea, receive its wisdom in the melodic whispers of waves and wind. Was it Longfellow who had written of this?
Helmsman! For the love of heaven
Teach me, too, that wondrous song!
Yes, to be HELMSMAN. To sing and to teach. To steer the course to a new world order. That was the greatest responsibility, thought the mariner. And the greatest privilege.
CHAPTER
12
Outside Dzongsar Village, Tibetan Autonomous Region, People’s Republic of China
THE HUMVEE’S MIGHTY tires crushed through clumps of gravel littering the road. Olen’s boots vibrated against the floor. After the epidemiological research team landed in Lhasa, PLA soldiers had divided them into three army transport vehicles. A female private had tried to usher Olen into the rear vehicle—a cozy Land Rover packed with five scientists—but he’d politely resisted and followed Jo into the lead car. The center vehicle was a cargo truck with a spacious flatbed that hauled a grab bag of expensive-looking laboratory equipment.
Olen spread out comfortably, draping his long arms across the back of the seat. It felt good as hell to be back in the field. Nothing like the bounce of a no-shit Humvee to tickle the pickle.
“I need to brief you on quarantine procedure,” Jo said, all business.
“Okay, what do I need to know?” Olen asked.
“We don’t know much about BRV45, but we do know it’s not airborne, so we won’t need masks, generally speaking. However, it’s a different story when engaging the locals directly. The disease causes severe internal hemorrhaging that allows blood to seep into the lungs, so coughing can release contaminated droplets. Even a tiny speck can infect you if it gets into your eyes or mouth. It’s highly likely the virus spreads through sweat too.”
“Sweat? Really?”
“And semen, of course,” Jo added.
“Roger that. Don’t touch the semen.”
Jo continued. “Surgical masks, goggles, and double-layer latex gloves are required when interacting with patients.”
“That’s it?” Olen asked.
“There isn’t time to train you on the finer techniques of infection control, so just wash your hands as much as possible and don’t touch anything I don’t touch. Better yet, don’t touch anything at all.”
The distant shimmer of Dzongsar Village came into view. Olen lurched forward as the Humvee squealed to a halt.
“Why are we stopping?” Jo asked. Her brow wrinkled with concern. The driver shut off the engine and abruptly exited the vehicle. Jo said something in Mandarin, then switched to English. “What’s going on? We’re almost to the checkpoint. There’s no time for a pit stop, gentlemen.”
The driver yanked open Jo’s door and motioned for her to get out. “This is as far as we go, ma’am. Please step out of the vehicle.”
“What are you talking about? The Quarantine Zone is still three miles away. It’s getting dark. We’ve got to keep moving,” Jo said.
The soldier avoided eye contact. “You’ll have to walk from here, ma’am.”
Olen had seen it before—the look in the soldier’s eyes. He was terrified. Jo must have noticed too.
“This disease feeds on fear and weakness,” Jo said. “Now is not a convenient time to lose your nerve, Sergeant.”
The soldier bunched his fists. His face flushed. Jo, a civilian—a female—had questioned his valor. When Jo didn’t budge, the man roughly extracted the virologist from the back seat. Jo staggered onto the dirt road, recovering her balance.
Olen’s door flew open next. He raised his hands, palms out, to signal cooperation. “Okay, buddy. I get it. End of the road.”
The soldier pulled Olen from the back seat by his shirt collar. The man’s grip was weak. He couldn’t have been a day over seventeen. Olen could toss him twenty yards—one-handed, probably—but journalists didn’t toss soldiers. Damn shame. So, Olen followed instructions and politely stepped out of the Humvee.
Jo continued to object. “You have orders to take my team to the provisional laboratory inside the Q-Zone. It’s at least an hour walk to gate one from here. And what about my gear? We’ve got a truckload of equipment to deliver.” Jo tried to sound authoritative, but she failed to penetrat
e the driver’s unflappable bearing.
“Ma’am, the army has ordered level three isolation of the Q-Zone. Entry is highly restricted and no individuals are permitted to leave. If we pass through that gate, we’re not coming out,” the driver explained firmly. “You still want to go in, fine by me. But you walk.”
“Level three!” Jo shouted. “Just this morning my field research team traveled freely across the checkpoint. The Ministry of Health has designated this site level two. Level three is completely unreasonable. How could we possibly work effectively if imprisoned inside the gates? Who ordered the escalation?”
The petite virologist stood inches from the driver, assuming her most confrontational posture. Her nose barely reached the man’s throat. He didn’t appear remotely intimidated.
“This comes straight from Beijing, ma’am. General Huang signed the order this afternoon.”
Olen perked up. Did the military have the authority to lock down the Q-Zone? Why was the Ministry of Health completely unaware? Was this some kind of martial law? In any case, nothing Jo could say was going to convince the soldiers to drive them through the gates.
The wind picked up. Olen looked skyward. No stars. Lightning strobed across a thick layer of clouds. They needed to get moving if they expected to beat the storm to Dzongsar.
The doctor pivoted sharply and marched toward the rear vehicle. Olen watched her silhouette, backlit by the Land Rover’s powerful headlights. She approached the cluster of bemused scientists congregating on the road. Olen couldn’t hear their conversation, but his instincts told him to hang back until the tension diffused. Within a minute, Jo returned. The five scientists climbed back into the rear vehicle. The Land Rover executed a three-point turn and lumbered away, heading back toward Lhasa.
Jo stood beside Olen, hands on hips. Her rage seemed to have subsided, but not her determination. “Level three isolation is extremely risky, even for professionals. Infection is very difficult to avoid over a protracted period of exposure in an active hot zone. Those men and women are good people, with families who care about them. They’re scientists—not soldiers. I won’t ask anyone to go on a suicide mission. That goes for you too, Mr. Stone. The Humvee will take you back to the city.”