by Dick Couch
“This morning, the folks at Langley who are in the business of tracking nasty people found that two microbiologists with spotty reputations have been missing for several months. They feel this might raise the ante.”
Before she could continue, he held up an index finger. “Which two microbiologists?”
She reached into her briefcase and retrieved a slip of paper with two names typed on it.
“Oh, shit,” he said in a low, serious voice. “If these two bastards are missing, something is very wrong. And if they are missing and are working together, then this is not good—not good at all. Have you yet confirmed that they are together? Are they in Africa?”
“I’m told we have people working on that.”
“Well, Agent Burks, you—”
“It’s Judy, Elvis.”
“Judy, you had better tell whoever you report to that these two characters are among the most capable and dangerous bio-thugs in the business. If these guys are together in the same lab, then your problem is probably bigger than you ever imagined. What do you want from me?”
“We want to send you data and keep you read into this thing as events unfold. You have a SIPRNET computer for classified material, right?” He nodded. The secret Internet protocol routing network, or SIPRNET, maintained by the Department of Defense, allowed for Internet transmission of secret documents. “Good. The information will come through CIA in Langley. And,” she said, consulting her notes before looking back up at him, “there is also the chance that we may want you to travel to Africa with this unnamed organization to be on scene for any action taken there. Will there be a problem with that?”
He did not speak for a moment. “Just myself, or would I be with a CDC medical team?”
“I really couldn’t say. I’m sure they will want your recommendations, but it may be just you. You will undoubtedly be briefed further on this as things unfold, but I do know that few people are cleared for this level of information.”
This is very odd, Rosenblatt thought, but he shrugged his shoulders. “Why not? I go where the bugs are. But the equipment I will need is expensive, and if it is portable, very expensive.”
“E-mail or fax me a list of what you might need. The cost of this will not be a problem and will not be an expense to the CDC, okay? I understand that we may have a physical location where this sickness is originating, but we want to be sure. My guess is that if we do have to put people into the area, we’ll need you on hand to evaluate the dangers they may face. I will be your point of contact for now.” She handed him a card and a cell phone. “Use this phone and the number written on the back of my card to reach me. It has a top-of-the-line scrambler. The e-mail address is rated up to secret. Questions?”
Rosenblatt slipped the card into his shirt pocket and sat back to again study the two names she had given him. “Not for now, but I’m sure there will be plenty.”
She glanced at her watch. “Damn. Wouldn’t you know it, the last direct flight to D.C. leaves in less than an hour. That slug of an official driver who brought me here will never get me there in time.”
There was a sudden sparkle in his eye. “You need a speed run to the airport, Agent Burks?”
She caught the gleam and smiled. “You can arrange that, Dr. Elvis?”
A few minutes later the uniform at the CDC main entrance leapt back into the guard shack as the BMW tore through the gate and careened onto Clifton Road, heading for the I-75 interchange toward Hartsfield-Atlanta International.
Garrett and AKR started for Steven’s office a few minutes ahead of their scheduled meeting. They wanted to arrive early and let Steven know that Janet was less than happy with the role of LeMaster and Owens in training the Africans. Although the storm seemed to have blown itself out, they still wanted to give Steven a heads-up.
“Man, did you see the way Tomba handled her?” Akheem said. “I couldn’t believe it. That guy could sweet-talk a crocodile. Next time she comes after me, I want him around.”
Garrett grinned. “Maybe that’s Tomba’s secret. It’s not sweet talk. Guys like us are smoke and mirrors. He’s the genuine article.”
Steven was on the telephone when they arrived. He motioned them to seats around a small conference table while he finished the conversation. When he hung up, he did not immediately take his hand from the receiver. His face was very grim.
“Trouble, boss?” AKR said, immediately abandoning the issue of Janet Brisco’s displeasure.
“Yes, there seems to be. The indicators that something is brewing in Zimbabwe are mounting. There is now concern at the CDC, as well as Langley. We may be asked to deal with something that is very dangerous, both tactically and biologically.”
Janet came into the room, and the three men rose. She set her coffee mug and a notepad on the table and took the remaining empty chair. If she carried any resentment or anger from their previous encounter, there was no indication.
“Welcome back, Janet. Glad to have you aboard. I was just telling Garrett and Akheem that the ‘observables’ coming from Africa are not good. It’s Langley’s assessment that they are too dangerous to ignore, but the question of what to do about it is still on the table. We have not been asked to take action, but from what I’ve seen, it looks as if this issue may be laid at our door.”
He paused and pulled a hand over his mouth. Steven Fagan was a tidy person, in his manner and his personal grooming. This morning there were bags under his eyes, and he hadn’t shaved. Steven and his wife Lon enjoyed a quiet, comfortable bungalow just outside of Wiamea. He was the only one associated with IFOR who lived outside the camp. He also had quarters on-site, but it was obvious that he hadn’t had much sleep in either place.
“I spent most of last night reading intelligence summaries and threat assessments concerning biological weapons and genetic research. Candidly, I had no idea such potential existed in these areas, or of the accelerating technologies that are driving this threat.” He grimaced and shook his head. “While the suicide bombers are taking out shopping malls with conventional explosives strapped to their bodies, the genomic revolution has quietly been pushing biotechnology into an explosive growth phase. Along with the low-tech threats we read about in the papers and the nuclear proliferation issues we’ve already been called on to deal with, we now face a new and growing problem in the area of bioterrorism. I don’t think I can overstate the danger here, nor how unprepared Homeland Defense and our clinical resources are to meet this threat. I don’t scare easy, folks, and this scares the hell out of me. Here at IFOR we are interventionists, not biologists, but there are some things about this science that we need to understand, since we may be asked to enter an area where there are biohazards.
“Knowledge of genes and how they work is one of the most promising areas of life science. But this burgeoning knowledge base has potential for evil, as well as for good. This information may cure some of our worst diseases, or it can be used to create bio-weapons of frightening and devastating proportions. This knowledge can be used as well to make current diseases more resistant to drugs. It can also be used to depress our immune systems so existing pathogens can kill us. It can even be used to create whole new diseases for which there is no current cure.”
He pushed himself to his feet and began to pace. “What I’m saying here is that this business in Africa may be the first of a series of biological bomb factories that spring up around the world. The information that drives this technology is expanding exponentially. It will only get easier for the bad guys to manufacture this stuff. But one thing at a time. If we are asked to take on this mission, and agree to it, how do we go about it? How do we get in, and how do we neutralize the threat once we do get in? Janet, you’re our planner; what do you think?”
“Your assessment of this seems to be about right, Steven. My reading on the subject is no more encouraging than yours. First of all we need to start getting people and equipment ready to move into the region so we can respond if we get a mission tasking. And sinc
e we are dealing with a new and very dangerous issue, we need to give ourselves as many tactical options as possible. They haven’t made it too easy on us. Initially, I think we should base our operations out of Lusaka. If those behind this in Tonga Province are paying off officials in Harare, we may have trouble working out of that capital. The Zambian bureaucracy is only a little less corrupt than its counterpart in Harare. We should be able to buy what we need in the way of cooperation or pay to have the authorities look the other way. It’s a little closer to the target area as the crow flies, but then there’s the issue of the border. That problem doesn’t seem to bother the smugglers, so it shouldn’t bother us. Since NGOs like Outreach Africa are pulling their people out, we have no international agencies to use for potential cover. The Central African Power Corporation, which operates the power stations below the Lake Kariba Dam, uses a German consulting engineering firm. They provide a range of technical services at the hydroelectric generation stations as well as throughout the distribution network. Maybe we can use them as a cover organization. If these people are where we think they are, then they have chosen a very remote and inaccessible site; it’s going to be difficult to even get close to them, or even stage assets close by, without some kind of cover story.”
“So we think we know where they are, and maybe why they are there, right?” Garrett asked.
Steven nodded. “The intercepts, satellite coverage, and intelligence all point to this one location. That said, we have no hard information yet.”
“And it seems,” Garrett continued, “as if they’ve created a biological research facility in the middle of nowhere. Wouldn’t it have been more convenient to co-locate this activity with some existing facility? That would have been a whole lot easier than coopting a whole country, even a shell of a nation like Zimbabwe.”
“That’s a good point,” Steven replied. “There is often little observable difference between authorized research and the creation of weaponized biological agents. From what little we know, it may be that they wanted to test their pathogens on human beings. That would account for the reports we have that people are getting sick and dying. You can only do this kind of thing in Nazi Germany, or someplace where life is cheap or the local population is poor and superstitious. In some ways, it’s almost as if Josef Mengele has set up shop in Africa and is conducting some monstrous human experiment. I know it sounds far-fetched, but that may be what we have here.”
“Then why don’t we just put a couple of two-thousand-pound JDAMs on the place? Kill everyone there and incinerate whatever they’re working on,” Garrett offered. “Carrier-based aircraft shouldn’t have much problem penetrating Mozambique airspace to get to Zimbabwe, or they can call in a B-1 from Diego Garcia.”
“That’s certainly one option available to the National Command Authority,” Steven acknowledged, “but there are higher-ups who want to know who is doing this and exactly what it is they are doing. And there is the chance that this place is doing something totally unrelated to bioterrorism. For all we know, it could still be a sex palace for deviant Middle East types, or just another drug reprocessing facility. But the indicators tell us that it is a whole lot more.”
“Steven.” It was AKR. “Do those in Washington who know about us and what we do, know that we have an African contingent?”
“They do. Periodically, I provide Jim Watson an update on our capabilities and personnel. It’s a very general laundry list, but something he can keep in his desk drawer for when a threat surfaces.”
“So,” AKR continued, “they assume that we can get our people into the area undetected. And they also assume that if during the process our people acquire some incurable disease, there will be no loss of life to officially account for—no next of kin and no accounting for collateral damage.”
Steven gave him a long, careful appraisal. “That has been the premise on which IFOR has operated since its inception. And, unlike a regular American military unit or special operations team, we can decline a mission or tasking if we so choose. It cuts both ways. But that does bring us to the next point of discussion. However, before we take the poll, there is one additional piece of intelligence I need to share with you. Our FBI liaison has made contact with the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta to get their preliminary take on this. As we expected, they know nothing. But Langley keeps tabs on potential rogue chemists, microbiologists, virologists, and the like. Two on their most-dangerous list have gone missing. We don’t know where they are, but it seems that one of these guys is on extended vacation, and the other just plain vanished. The folks at the CDC shudder to think what these two may be capable of if they put their heads together and are properly funded and equipped. Langley asked, and I agreed, to let one of their cleared and vetted epidemiologists be read into the problem. That has been done. To date, he has not been made aware of the existence of IFOR. That may change if we go forward; we are eventually going to need someone with that skill set, to protect us if we go in and to evaluate what we may find when we get there.”
Steven paused and looked at AKR. “Akheem, are Tomba and his men ready for operational tasking?”
Kelly-Rogers did not answer immediately, but finally he nodded. “We could use more time, but tactically, they’re good to go. A few of them have fought in Zimbabwe and Mozambique. They know the territory.”
“Garrett?”
“I agree with AKR, Steven. Furthermore, there is probably no more capable force for this mission.”
Steven looked around the table. “Then I need a vote. Given what we know at this stage of the game, is this an appropriate and suitable IFOR tasking? Janet?”
“Yes.”
“Garrett?”
“Yes.”
“Akheem?”
This is the first time AKR had been asked to participate in what Steven called a “Department Head Resolution.” As an IFOR element response leader, AKR had now earned a vote on this informal panel. There was no written or formatted criteria for this, nor did Steven want any. Simply put, was this a problem or mission within IFOR’s unique capability and did this threat or problem justify the risk of their force—no more, no less—yes or no? If it was unanimous, Steven would take the vote to their employer for a final decision. If it was not unanimous, they would talk it out. Steven had hired each of them for their professional expertise, but he also wanted them to function as a moral compass for IFOR. Their recommendation, and the ultimate decision to undertake a mission, would commit resources and place people in harm’s way. It could place them personally in harm’s way. Everyone at the table had been in the military and had made tactical life-and-death decisions. But the more senior command level, go no-go choices, had been made by others. Now that ball was in their court.
“Yes,” came AKR’s answer.
“And I concur. This is doable and in keeping with our charter. Janet, I want you and Garrett to begin the planning process in earnest and get me some timelines for equipment and personnel flow. Akheem, put your personnel on standby and do what you can to train them for the conditions in the area. It seems we will be operating in southeastern Zambia, in the Zambezi River Valley, and in northern Zimbabwe in”—Steven paused to consult his notes—“in the Mavuradonha Mountains. I’ll take this to the boss for confirmation and authorization. Questions?” He visually inventoried each of them. There were none. “Okay, thanks for your time and for your consideration. I’ll let you know if and when we get a solid green light.” No one moved, as they all sensed Steven was not finished. “I don’t mind telling you that this whole business worries me. Let’s all of us do what we can to be thorough in our preparation. This could be the big nasty one.”
Late that afternoon, Janet Brisco and her planning team were able to get a preliminary mission concept into Steven’s hands, along with an outline of the major logistical requirements. That evening it was his turn to fly east. There was not a GSI Gulfstream available to him, but there was one waiting for him when he got into LAX. There it took him d
irectly to the Edgartown Airport on Martha’s Vineyard, the one that John F. Kennedy Jr. tragically failed to reach. They touched down just after 11:00 A.M. The weather was blowing sleet and rain with marginal visibility, but the Gulfstream’s instrumentation was well up to the task. When Steven emerged from the small terminal, a tall man in a sheepskin coat stood waiting for him, leaning against a dated red Jeep Cherokee. He seemed impervious to the inclement weather. Steven was surprised that Joseph Simpson was there to meet him in person, but only mildly so. Like many who chose to spend time on Martha’s Vineyard in the winter, Simpson was a wealthy man who liked to do for himself.
“Good to see you, Steven,” Simpson said, shaking Steven’s hand with one hand and reaching for his bag with the other.
“A pleasure to see you again, sir,” Steven replied.
Simpson tossed Steven’s grip into the back seat while Steven scrambled around to the passenger door. It was an ugly day, more so if you had just flown in from Hawaii. There were few people in the terminal, nor did they pass many cars on the way to Simpson’s property. On Martha’s Vineyard, summer and winter were day and night. For all his public notoriety, Joseph Simpson was a private man who sought solitude. He seldom came to the Vineyard in the summer, but was often here after Labor Day, once the tourists had left. Steven’s feeling of isolation only increased as the automatic gate rolled back to admit them to the private drive that led to the house.
On the way from the airport, they talked about improvements at the Kona facility, the training of the Africans, and the other enterprises of Guardian Services International. Steven asked about the foundation. Joseph Simpson, just into his sixties, was a fit, handsome man with tanned features and a cap of thick, close-cropped gray hair. His eyes were so deeply blue and so intense it seemed as if they were backlit. For those who measure success by accomplishment and money, Simpson had done very well indeed. His long and innovative career in the international beef and poultry business had made him a billionaire many times over. During his four years as the U.S. ambassador to Russia, he had won praise as a skilled and accomplished diplomat. Yet, as with so many highly successful men, his life had been punctuated with tragedy. Prudence, his wife of thirty-five years, died in a horseback-riding accident in 2000. Then barely a year later, his son was killed in the collapse of the World Trade Center towers. Both were buried on Martha’s Vineyard, which was one of the reasons he was here as often as possible. Of his immediate family, only a daughter remained, and he was estranged from her. Shortly after his son was killed, he turned his extensive business empire into cash and threw himself into the foundation named after his son. Under his skilled direction, the Joseph Simpson Jr. Foundation had in short order become an active force in relieving suffering in troubled parts of the world. A modern fleet of aircraft served the foundation, and were particularly useful for flying relief supplies and medicines into areas torn by civil and ethnic strife. Foundation help was welcome in parts of the Middle East and Africa where other Western and U.S. NGOs were not. It was an organization that could move quickly. Unlike most nongovernmental organizations, it was hampered by no internal politics, nor by the cumbersome oversight of a board of directors. Simpson ran the organization like a business, and his subordinates had the authority to take the initiative. His work following the tsunami disaster in the Indian Ocean had saved tens of thousands.