by Mark Alpert
“Slow down, Weinberg.” Grant raised a hand. “I’m not one of your professors. Talk in plain English.”
The guy nodded again. He actually smiled. Weinberg was so damn excited about his discovery that nothing short of a bullet to the brain would stop him from talking about it. “Okay, I’ll go slow. CRISPR changes the genes, right? Those are the sections of DNA that tell the body how to make its proteins. But genes aren’t the whole story. They actually take up less than two percent of the space on the chromosomes.” Weinberg’s voice was slower than before but just as annoying. He sounded like a third-grade teacher. “The sequences between the genes used to be called junk DNA, because scientists thought they were useless. But now we know that these sequences can interact with the genes, turning them on and off.”
This was why Grant usually avoided talking to the scientists. It took them forever to get to the point. “Can we get back to Powell? Just tell me what’s going on with him.”
“Sure, sure. The basic problem is that CRISPR isn’t as reliable as we’d assumed. Powell’s treatment was supposed to change only the targeted genes in his DNA, but some of the CRISPR molecules hit the wrong targets. They made unexpected changes to Powell’s junk DNA, which disrupted the normal functioning of hundreds of other genes. That’s why Powell started exhibiting such a wide range of symptoms—the bleeding eyes, the respiratory difficulties, the discoloration of his skin.” Weinberg pointed again at the operating table. “That’s also why the doctors are having such a hard time treating him. His biochemistry is completely abnormal. Sedatives and painkillers and other drugs don’t have the usual effects on his body.”
Despite the gobbledygook, Grant got the gist of it. Wincing, he turned back to the operating room and stared at Powell’s split torso and exposed organs. The sight was horrible enough, but now Grant realized that Powell might not be fully sedated. He might be feeling every second of this torture.
Grant was furious. He stood up and jabbed his index finger at Weinberg, poking him right in the middle of his red shirt. “Let me see if I can summarize what you’re saying. You geniuses thought you knew what you were doing, but you weren’t as smart as you thought you were. In other words, you fucked up. Does that sum it up, more or less?”
Weinberg was at a loss for words, probably for the first time in his life. With an expression of pain and surprise on his face, he gawked at the finger pressed against his breastbone. He looked like a hurt five-year-old. “Colonel, we warned you about the risks of human trials. Remember all the debates we had about this last year? But you ordered us to go ahead anyway, and so you can’t blame us now for—”
“You know what? I made a mistake.” He pressed harder against Weinberg’s chest. “I should’ve insisted that you assholes test the drugs on yourselves first. If I’d done that, I’m pretty sure you would’ve been more careful.”
Weinberg stepped backward. He retreated halfway across the gallery. The guy had taken Grant’s threat seriously, and now he looked terrified.
Like most of the Palindrome researchers, Weinberg was afraid of the thing they’d created. Specifically, the scientists were afraid of being accidentally infected by the virus that carried the gene-altering treatment. The fear was overblown, ridiculously exaggerated. Because the virus was blood-borne—delivered by injection to the patient’s brain and muscle tissues—infection required blood-to-blood contact. What’s more, everyone at the Research Center had received vaccinations against the specific type of virus used in the CRISPR treatments. The vaccine caused the body’s immune system to produce antibodies; if the researchers were accidentally exposed to the virus, their antibodies would kill it before it could invade their cells and alter their genes.
And yet the scientists were still afraid. It was irrational, but they couldn’t help it. Their fear had its own logic.
Grant approached Weinberg. The colonel was good at exploiting fear. It was one of his talents. “Maybe that’s what we should do in Phase Three. Test the new virus and the new CRISPR treatment on the scientists first. We just got a shipment of vaccine for the Phase Three virus, but maybe we should put a hold on vaccinating the research staff. What do you think?”
Weinberg held his hands out in front of him like a traffic cop, as if to stop Grant from coming any closer. “Look, there’s no need to get upset. I can fix the problem with Powell. I have an idea.”
Reluctantly, Grant nodded. He was still angry. “Okay. I’m listening.”
“Now that we’ve thoroughly analyzed Powell’s DNA, we can make more changes to it, alterations designed to help him survive. I only need a couple of hours to formulate a new CRISPR treatment for him.” Weinberg’s voice was speeding up again. “We can give him the injections tonight, and the effects should start to kick in by tomorrow. It’s our best hope for keeping him alive.”
Weinberg looked at Grant, anxious to see his reaction. But Grant kept him waiting. To be honest, he wasn’t sure what to do. His gut instinct was to simply let Powell die. The poor bastard had suffered enough.
On the other hand, the Palindrome Project was more important than the fate of any one man. Powell had volunteered for the experiment, and the scientific tests weren’t over yet. He could still contribute to their goal, their great task. The results from Powell’s next test would further their efforts to strengthen the country. Very soon they would bring forth a new generation of Americans, tougher and more loyal and inherently better than most of the sorry specimens who now infested the nation. The potential was tremendous. It justified any sacrifice.
Grant folded his arms across his chest. “Go ahead. Develop the new treatment for Powell. But keep me informed. I want progress reports from your team every six hours.”
Weinberg was visibly relieved. He took a deep breath and steadied himself by propping his hand against the wall. “Thank you, Colonel. We won’t let you down.”
“And one more thing. I want you to accelerate the tests you’re conducting on Raza Khan.”
That name had an immediate effect on Weinberg. He swallowed hard, his face blanching. Ever since this afternoon, he’d been performing a battery of diagnostic tests on the Khan freak, but he clearly wasn’t comfortable with the assignment. And Grant knew why: until a year ago, Weinberg had been screwing Jenna Khan, the freak’s sister. They’d kept the relationship secret because they were coworkers at the time, but Grant had uncovered the secret during his investigation of the Khan bitch.
Grant enjoyed watching the researcher’s discomfort. He stepped closer. “I want an explanation for the unusual results of the boy’s brain scans. Your reports so far have been worthless, pure shit. You obviously don’t have a clue.”
Weinberg backed up against the wall. “Colonel, I … I’ve been trying to…”
Grant’s phone rang. He grimaced and reached for it, digging into his pocket. If it was anyone but Keller, he was going to tell them to fuck off. But it was the K-Man. His name flashed on the phone’s screen. And when Grant answered the call, he heard Keller’s voice against a background of booming, thumping noise that he recognized right away, mostly because he’d spent so many years in the army. It was the sound of a helicopter in flight.
“We need to speed up our plans, Colonel. I just left the White House, and I’m on my way to New York.” The helicopter engines roared, almost drowning him out. “In an hour I’ll arrive at Rikers Island. And I’m bringing the vice president.”
EIGHTEEN
Jenna tensed in the passenger seat of the SUV as Tamara drove toward the police checkpoint on Tillary Street. This was the entrance to the approach road to the Brooklyn Bridge, so security was tight. A dozen New York City cops and two dozen Federal Service officers were inspecting the cars and trucks headed for Manhattan, shining their flashlights into the faces of all the drivers and passengers.
Jenna’s stomach roiled. She had a bad feeling about this. She glanced at Tamara, then looked over her shoulder to see if they could make a U-turn. “This looks bad. We should turn aroun
d.”
But Tamara didn’t seem worried. She eased off the gas pedal of the big Chevy Suburban and steered toward the line of cars farthest to the right. “Nah, it’s not so bad tonight. I’ve seen backups here that are a hundred times worse. You should see it on Monday mornings, it’s un-fucking-believable.”
“I’m not talking about the traffic.” Jenna pointed at the officers who were examining the cars a hundred yards ahead. “I’m talking about the cops. The FSU is looking for me. Those officers probably have flyers with my picture on them.”
“Well, that’s why I pulled all the way to the right side of the street. At this checkpoint, the New York cops work the right side and the FSU assholes work the left.” She tapped the steering wheel, clicking a long fingernail against the rim. “They hate each other so much, they have to keep the whole street between them.”
Jenna looked closer at the police officers up ahead, who were illuminated by huge floodlights powered by rumbling generators. It was true—the FSU men in black uniforms were checking the cars in the left two lanes, while the cops in blue uniforms were checking the cars on the right. But she was still wary. “Don’t you think they’re sharing information? The FSU must send its list of fugitives to the NYPD. So the New York cops are probably looking for me too.”
Tamara reached over to the passenger seat and gave Jenna’s arm a squeeze. “Relax, sister. I’m with the mayor’s office, remember? That gives me some pull with the men and women in blue. Watch this.”
She leaned forward and threw a switch below the dashboard. The light bar mounted on the SUV’s roof began flashing its blue and red LEDs. Then Tamara steered around the car ahead of them, veering into the shoulder on the right side of the road. She pulled up to a pair of New York cops at the checkpoint, a young patrolman and a middle-aged woman with short dreadlocks under her officer’s cap. Tamara rolled down the driver-side window and waved at the older officer. “Hey, Lizzie. Working overtime?”
The officer rolled her eyes and stepped toward the SUV. “I don’t want to even talk about it. I’ve been on duty for three shifts now, all because of the fucking storm. I’m so tired, I can barely stand up.”
“I’m going uptown to see the mayor. You want me to ask him to send some more officers here?”
Lizzie frowned. “Yeah, tell him I need a hundred more people. And tell him they have to be good at kicking ass, because I want them to knock the shit out of those FSU motherfuckers across the street.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Take care.” Tamara rolled up her window. Then Lizzie and the patrolman waved them through the checkpoint.
Jenna breathed a sigh of relief. The cops hadn’t even glanced at her. “Wow. That was impressive.”
Tamara shook her head. “It’s insane. Look what the Feds have done to us. We have to sneak around our own damn city.” She hit the gas, and the SUV raced ahead. “This can’t go on. It just can’t.”
Traffic was light because of the big jam behind them, and in less than a minute they were halfway across the Brooklyn Bridge. It looked like the storm hadn’t done much damage to the bridge, which was so sturdy and rock-solid that it could probably withstand a dozen hurricanes in a row. But as Jenna peered out the SUV’s windows at the East River below, she could see the devastated shorelines on both sides. The full moon was directly overhead, and its light spattered on the flooded streets and darkened buildings.
Behind them, on the Brooklyn side of the river, the park below the bridge was underwater. Ahead, on the Manhattan side, the South Street Seaport was a flooded ruin, and so was the housing project to the north. The lights were out all over Lower Manhattan, and the empty skyscrapers stood on the southern tip of the island like a row of tombstones. Towering above them all was One World Trade Center, the tallest and darkest building, its spire a black needle against the moonlit sky.
The bridge’s roadway ran high above the swamped city, but as Tamara sped into Manhattan they gradually descended to street level. She shook her head again and pointed straight ahead. “You see City Hall over there? They had to evacuate it when the storm hit. They never had to do that before.” She plowed into a deep puddle, and the water fantailed behind the car. “The storms are coming every month now, you notice? And they keep getting worse.”
At City Hall, Tamara turned right and drove north on Centre Street. The floodwaters had drained from the traffic lanes, but there were few vehicles on the road aside from the police cars and ambulances. On the sidewalks, though, were hundreds of homeless people. They took shelter in doorways and lay on park benches and huddled on the street corners. Jenna guessed that most of them had fled their apartments when the storm surge hit Lower Manhattan and flooded their buildings. Now the victims were wandering down Broadway and Centre Street, trying to find a dry place to spend their first full night outside. Many of them seemed to be heading north, toward the higher-elevation neighborhoods.
Jenna winced as she stared at them. She wasn’t the only one in trouble, not by a long shot. “My God, look at all the homeless. How many buildings were flooded here?”
Tamara let out a whistle. “Oh man. Hundreds. Maybe even thousands. All of Battery Park City is underwater. And the housing projects along the East River.”
Jenna shook her head, getting angry. “You know, my father predicted this. He worked as a taxi driver after he came to America, but in Pakistan he studied geology at the University of Karachi. So he knew about the greenhouse effect and global warming. He used to talk all the time about how much the climate was going to change in the next few years.”
“Yeah, my professors in college used to talk about it too.” Tamara shrugged behind the steering wheel. “But who cares about the truth, right?”
“It made my father so mad. He would read the newspaper every morning during breakfast and point to the articles about hurricanes and wildfires and drought. And he would say, ‘You see? It’s killing the country. It’s destroying the cities and costing trillions of dollars.’” Jenna’s eyes stung. It hurt to think about Abbu. “And he said it would only get worse. He said America would become like Pakistan, with terrorists everywhere and criminals running the government.”
“Your father was right. Things are going to hell. But I wouldn’t give up just yet.” Tamara glanced at her, taking her eyes off the road for a second. “A disaster can also be an opportunity. Sometimes things have to get really bad before people get desperate enough to change. So there’s still hope.”
“What about the mayor? Is he desperate enough to do something?”
Tamara didn’t answer right away. For several seconds she just stared at the dark street ahead. Then she nodded. “I think he’ll do the right thing. But he’ll need some convincing. The big problem with Mayor DeMarco is that he’s afraid to stand up to the Feds. Someone’s gotta put some spine into him.”
She gripped the steering wheel firmly, her veins bulging from the backs of her hands. This middle-of-the-night meeting with the mayor was a gamble, and Tamara was clearly nervous about it. But Jenna felt a surge of conviction. She was sick and tired of running. She was ready to fight.
Soon they came to Canal Street, the heart of Manhattan’s Chinatown. This area was usually bustling with tourists and locals, but now it was dark and deserted, all the restaurants and souvenir shops locked up tight. Then they sped into Soho and the East Village, which were equally empty. The only lights came from the emergency vehicles and the candles flickering in the windows of the tenement buildings. But as they approached 14th Street, Jenna noticed that the sky to the north was glowing. It brightened as they raced up Park Avenue, and when they reached 20th Street she saw the glare of streetlights just ahead. Power had been restored above 26th Street. They reentered the familiar radiance of New York City.
Tamara hit the brakes, and the SUV slowed down. Traffic was heavier on this stretch of Park Avenue, and most of the vehicles were police cars. Jenna saw cops on the sidewalks too, both FSU and NYPD. They were rounding up the homeless people here, stoppi
ng them from going any farther north. Dozens of detainees lay facedown on the sidewalk, their hands cuffed behind their backs. Jenna remembered her own arrest the night before, and she thought again of Abbu and Raza. She clenched her hands in anger, her fingernails digging into her palms.
After a few minutes they crossed 57th Street and drove into the Upper East Side. The grand apartment buildings on Park Avenue blazed with electric light, every window illuminated. The sidewalks below were guarded by men in uniforms, but most were neither FSU nor NYPD officers; they were private security guards, hired by the rich East Siders to protect their enclave. There were even more guards north of 86th Street, and up ahead Jenna saw a barricade that had been constructed across Park Avenue, a high wall made of sheet metal and plywood. On the other side of the wall, fires were burning. Flames leapt from the rooftops of the housing projects a mile farther uptown.
Jenna pointed ahead. “What’s that? Riots?”
“I don’t know.” Tamara craned her neck and squinted at the barricade and the fires. Then she made a right turn on 88th Street. “There was flooding in East Harlem too. And some of the housing projects up there are in terrible shape. When fires start in those buildings, they can get out of control pretty quick.”
They drove for another two minutes, passing churches and barbershops and pizzerias, all locked and shuttered. Then they reached a park that sat on a ridge between East End Avenue and the East River, a strip of greenery protected by seawalls and its elevation above the water. There was a driveway that led into the park, and at the top of the driveway was an old-fashioned, two-story mansion, shining under dozens of security lights. Jenna recognized it right away: Gracie Mansion, the official residence of New York City’s mayors.