Medusa nf-8

by Clive Cussler

  “Where are the lab buildings?”

  “We had to get a little sneakier when it came to the research space. There are three labs farther inland. The labs are pretty well camouflaged. Google Earth would see only trees.”

  “What about security? I didn’t see any guards.”

  “Oh, they’re there, all right,” Kane said with a tight smile. “The kitchen and maintenance staffs are all security people. There’s an electronic-surveillance center that keeps track of anyone coming too close to the island twenty-four/seven. They’ve got cameras all over the place.”

  “What about the water-taxi man, Mr. Greene? Is he in on the deception?”

  Kane smiled. “Dooley provides a useful cover. He worked for the old resort before Hurricane Charlie drove it into bankruptcy. We transported equipment and personnel here in our own boats when we were setting things up, but we needed someone to run people and supplies between the island and the mainland. Dooley’s never been farther inland than the dock. He’s a bit of a wind-bag, so if he does spout off about something he’s seen out here the people who know him will figure that he’s making it up.”

  “He was curious about me. I put him off as best I could.”

  “I’m sure everyone on Pine Island will know within hours about your visit, but I doubt anyone will care.”

  “That’s good. I must confess that I’m nervous enough at the enormity of the task confronting us and the consequences if we fail.”

  He considered her answer and then said, “I’m optimistic from what we have done so far that we will not fail.”

  “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I would feel more at ease if I knew the scientific basis for your optimism.”

  “Skepticism is the lifeblood of scientific inquiry,” Kane said, spreading his hands. “I’ll do my best. Our work is complex but not complicated. We know what we have to do. The toughest part is doing it. As you know, nothing is ever certain when you’re dealing with viruses.”

  Song Lee nodded.

  “With the exception of the human race,” she said, “I don’t think there is a more fascinating entity on the planet. What has your strategy been?”

  “Are you up for a leisurely walk? I think better on my feet.”

  They struck off along one of the shell paths that laced the island, a holdover from the nature trails cut for guests at the old resort.

  “I understand you worked at Harbor Branch,” Lee said. Harbor Branch was a marine lab on Florida’s east coast.

  “I was at Harbor Branch for several years,” Kane said. “The ocean biomed field is in its infancy, but they were among the first to recognize the vast potential for pharmaceuticals from marine organisms. They saw that ocean creatures had to develop ingenious natural mechanisms to cope with an extreme environment.”

  “How did you end up at Bonefish Key?”

  “Harbor Branch was researching a number of different compounds from the sea, but I wanted to concentrate exclusively on antiviral agents, so I left and, with foundation money, established a new lab. Bonefish Key came up at auction after Hurricane Charlie. The foundation bought the island and fixed up the buildings that were left standing.”

  “You’ve apparently been successful,” Lee said.

  “We were doing pretty well scientifically,” Kane said, “but last year the lab’s funding dried up. The heirs of our prime benefactor challenged the legality of the foundation in court and won their case. I managed to hold things together, but it would have been only a matter of time before we closed. Sorry to say it, but the developments in China saved our butts.”

  “No need to apologize,” she said. “We Chinese invented yin and yang. Opposing forces can create a favorable balance. Tell me, how did Bonefish Key become the center of research on the newest epidemic? I’ve only heard bits and pieces of the story.”

  “Pretty much by chance,” he said. “I’m chairman of a board that advises the feds about scientific discoveries that have defense or political implications. I had routinely passed along news of a possible breakthrough in antiviral research to the Centers for Disease Control. When the new virus strain was discovered in China, we were recruited to come find a way to fight it. The funds put us on the fast track in our research.”

  “You said you were optimistic about your progress,” Lee said.

  “Guardedly so. As a virologist, you know the hurdles in developing an antiviral agent.”

  Lee nodded.

  “I am still amazed,” she said, “at the complexity of the mechanisms stuffed into what is essentially a submicroscopic bit of nucleic acid wrapped in protein.”

  Now Kane nodded.

  “I’ve always believed that the lack of fossilized records of viruses was circumstantial evidence that they are an alien life-form from another planet.”

  “You’re not the only one who has posed the theory of an alien invasion,” she said, “but we have to fight them with the tools we have available on earth.” Lee smiled. “Or, in your case, what you find in the sea. How can I be of help during my time here?”

  “We’re honing in on a single antiviral chemical. We could use your expertise in virology as we put the stuff through the tests. At the same time,” he added, “I’d like you to develop an epidemiological plan on how best to use the vaccine once we have synthesized it.”

  “How close are you to synthesis?” she asked.

  “I wish we were closer, but we’re almost there,” he answered.

  Kane turned down a well-worn path that branched off from the main walking trail. After about a hundred feet, the path ended at a cinder-block building. A man was standing there in front of a door of reinforced steel. He wore tan shorts and a blue T-shirt and could have passed for a maintenance man, but instead of tools a sidearm hung from his wide leather belt. The man didn’t look surprised to see them. Song Lee recalled Max Kane saying that there were cameras everywhere on the island.

  The man opened the door and stepped aside to allow his visitors in. The interior of the building was cool and dark except for the light coming from dozens of glass tanks that held various types of sea life. There was a low hum from the water-circulation pumps.

  As they strolled past the rows of tanks, Kane said, “We had been conducting research on all these organisms but put the work on the back burner after we got the call from the CDC.”

  He led Lee to a side door and punched some numbers in the combination lock. The door opened into a smaller chamber that was completely dark except for the cold blue light coming from a vertical, tube-shaped water tank. The glow emanated from a number of undulating circular forms that rose and fell in the tank in a slow-motion dance.

  Song Lee was mesmerized by the ghostly figures.

  “They’re beautiful,” she said.

  “Meet the blue medusa, Dr. Lee,” Kane said. “All our research efforts have been concentrated on this lovely creature. Its venom is one of the most complex chemical compounds I’ve ever come across.”

  “Are you saying this jellyfish is the source of the compound you’re trying to synthesize?”

  “Uh-huh. The tiniest amount of the medusa’s venom is fatal to humans, but the entire fate of millions of people could rest on the lowly creature in that tank. I can fill you in after you’ve had a chance to rest.”

  Dr. Lee’s scientific mind was hungry for details.

  “I don’t need any rest,” she insisted. “I want to start now.”

  Song Lee’s roselike delicateness hid thorns that had been sharpened by her dealings with a stonehearted Chinese bureaucracy. Despite the seriousness of their conversation, Kane couldn’t prevent the faint smile that came to his lips.

  “I’ll introduce you to the staff,” he said.

  Kane guided Lee through the labs, introducing her to the other talented scientists who were working on the blue medusa project. She was particularly impressed with Lois Mitchell, Kane’s first assistant and project manager. But jet lag eventually caught up with Lee, and she caught a good nig
ht’s sleep in her comfortable cabin. When she awoke the next day, she threw herself into her work.

  In the days that followed, Dr. Lee rose early and worked late. Her daily kayak paddle through the mangroves was the only recreational break in her ferocious schedule. Then, one day, she and the rest of the scientific staff were asked to attend a meeting in the dining room. To applause, Dr. Kane announced that the compound they had been looking for had been identified. He and a handpicked team of volunteers would go into seclusion to put the final touches on the synthesis at a new lab. He could not say where the lab was located, only that it was nearer to the resource. Lee agreed to stay on at Bonefish Key with a skeleton crew so she could finish her epidemiological analysis and lay out an immunization production and distribution plan.

  The quarantine was holding, but Lee knew that it was only a matter of time before the virus got loose. As she analyzed the clusters of the virus outbreak, she kept China’s experience with the SARS virus in the back of her mind. All suspected or probable cases had been placed in negative-pressure rooms, shut off from the outside world by two airtight doors, every breath they took filtered. But the disease still managed to spread, demonstrating the difficulty in sealing off the virus.

  In the weeks that followed the exodus of the key scientific staff, reports filtered back to Bonefish Key from the secret lab. The most exciting news was the report that the toxin had been synthesized, the prelude to developing a vaccine.

  Spurred on by the successful research, Lee had hurried to develop a plan to administer the antidote and to contain the epidemic before it developed into a pandemic.

  Dr. Huang had asked to be kept informed of Dr. Lee’s progress. The only place on the island where cell-phone service was available was at the top of an old water tower. Every day after her work, Lee climbed the tower and summarized the progress of the project for her old friend and mentor.

  There was no way she could have known that her every word was being relayed to unfriendly ears.

  CHAPTER 4

  BERMUDA, THREE MONTHS LATER

  THE TAXI DRIVER WARILY EYEBALLED THE MAN STANDING on the curb outside the arrival gate at Bermuda’s L. F. Wade Airport. His potential fare had an unruly ginger beard, and hair pulled back in a short pigtail that was tied with a rubber band. In addition, he wore faded jeans, high-top red sneakers, Elton John sunglasses with white plastic frames, and a rumpled tan linen suit jacket over a T-shirt with a picture on it of Jerry Garcia from the Grateful Dead.

  “Please take me to the ship harbor,” Max Kane said. He opened the door, threw his duffel bag in the backseat, and then slid in beside it. The driver shrugged and put the taxi in gear. A fare was a fare.

  Kane sat back and closed his eyes. His brain was about to explode. His impatience had ballooned with each mile traveled over the past twenty-four hours. The long flight from the Pacific Ocean to North America and the two-hour trip from New York were nothing compared to the dragging minutes it took for the taxi to get to the waterfront.

  Kane directed the driver to stop near the gangway of a turquoise-hulled ship. The distinctive color and the letters NUMA emblazoned on the hull below the ship’s name, WILLIAM BEEBE, identified the vessel as belonging to the National Underwater and Marine Agency, the largest ocean-study organization in the world.

  Kane exited the cab and shoved a wad of bills at the driver, then slung the duffel over his shoulder and briskly climbed up the gangway. A pleasant-faced young woman wearing the uniform of a ship’s officer greeted Kane with a warm smile.

  “Good afternoon,” the woman said. “My name is Marla Hayes. I’m the third mate. May I have your name?”

  “Max Kane.”

  She consulted a clipboard and put a check mark next to Kane’s name.

  “Welcome to the Beebe, Dr. Kane. I’ll show you to your cabin and give you a tour of the ship.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ve come a long way and I’m anxious to see the B3.”

  “No problem,” Marla said, leading Kane toward the ship’s fantail.

  The two-hundred-fifty-foot-long search-and-survey ship was the marine equivalent of a professional weight lifter. With its stern-ramp A-frame crane and wide deck, the fantail was the business end of the ship. It bristled with the winches and derricks that scientists used to launch underwater vehicles and devices that probed the depths. Kane’s eyes went to a large tangerine-colored globe resting in a steel cradle beneath a tall crane. Three portholes that resembled short-range cannons protruded from the sphere’s surface.

  “There it is,” Marla said. “I’ll come by in a little while to see how you’re doing.”

  Kane thanked the young woman and cautiously approached the globe, treading softly as if he expected the strange object to bolt on the four legs attached to the bottom. He walked around to the other side of the sphere and saw a man in a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts standing in front of a circular opening slightly more than a foot in diameter. The man’s head was inside the globe, his right shoulder angled through the hatch as if he were being devoured by a bug-eyed monster. The string of salty curses that echoed from inside the globe sounded as if they were coming from a pirate cave.

  Kane set his duffel bag down, and asked, “Tight quarters?”

  The man bumped his head as he backed out of the opening, prompting a few more colorful oaths, and brushed away a shock of steel-gray hair from eyes that were the blue of coral under flat water. He had a broad-shouldered frame that was an inch over six feet, and he must have weighed two hundred pounds. He grinned, showing perfect white teeth against features that had been bronzed by years at sea.

  “Very tight. I’d need a shoehorn and a can of grease to get me into this antiquated refugee from a marine-salvage dump,” he said.

  A dark-complexioned face poked from the hatch, and its owner said, “Give it up, Kurt. They’d have to baste you with WD-40 and pound you in with a sledgehammer.”

  The broad-shouldered man made a face at the unpleasant image. He extended his hand in introduction. “I’m Kurt Austin, project director for the Bathysphere 3 expedition.”

  The man in the sphere wriggled out feetfirst and introduced himself. “Joe Zavala,” he said. “I’m the engineer for the B3 project.”

  “Nice to meet you both. My name is Max Kane.” He jerked his thumb at the sphere. “And I’m scheduled to dive a half mile into the ocean in this antiquated refugee from a marine-salvage dump.”

  Austin exchanged a bemused glance with Zavala. “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Kane. Sorry to cast doubt on your sanity.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time someone accused me of being one beer short of a six-pack. You get used to it when you’re doing pure research.” Kane removed his sunglasses, revealing eyes of Kris Kringle blue. “And please call me Doc.”

  Austin gestured toward the orange globe. “Don’t pay any attention to my earlier comment, Doc. I’m nursing a serious case of sour grapes. I’d make the dive in a heartbeat if the bathysphere came in a bigger size. Joe is the best deep-sea guy in the business. He’s made the diving bell as safe as any NUMA submersible.”

  Zavala cast an appraising eye on the sphere. “I used technology that wasn’t available back in the thirties, but otherwise it’s the original Beebe-Barton design that set the record by diving 3,028 feet in 1934. The bathysphere was beautiful in its simplicity.”

  “The sphere design seems so obvious to us now,” Kane said. “At first, William Beebe thought that a cylinder-shaped bell might work. He was chatting with his friend Teddy Roosevelt years before the actual dive and sketched his idea out on a napkin. Roosevelt disagreed and drew a circle instead, representing his preference for a globe-shaped bell. Later, when Beebe saw the Otis Barton design based on a sphere, he realized that was the only way to deal with the pressure at great depth.”

  Zavala had heard the story before. “Beebe saw that the cylinder’s flat ends would cave in,” he picked up the story, “but a sphere would distribute the pressure more evenly around i
ts entire surface.” He squatted next to the globe and ran his hand over the thick skids that the legs rested upon. “I’ve added emergency flotation bags in the runners. There’s more than a little self-preservation involved, Doc. I’ll be making the dive with you.”

  Kane rubbed his palms together like a hungry man savoring a juicy steak. “This is a dream come true,” he said. “I pulled every string I could to get on the dive list. William Beebe is responsible for my career in marine microbiology. When I was a kid, I read about the glowing, deep-ocean fish that he found. I wanted to share Beebe’s adventures.”

  “My biggest adventure has been trying to stuff myself through that fourteen-inch door,” Austin said. “Try it on for size, Doc.”

  Kane, who was about five foot eight, hung his jacket on the bathysphere’s frame, then poured himself headfirst into the sphere, doubled his body with the skill of a contortionist, and poked his head out the circular opening.

  “It’s roomier in here than it appears from the outside.”

  “The original bathysphere was four feet nine inches in diameter, and had walls one and a half inches thick made of fine-grade, open-hearth steel,” Zavala said. “The divers shared their space with oxygen tanks, filter trays, a searchlight, and telephone wires. We’ve cheated a little. The portholes are polymer instead of fused quartz. The tether is Kevlar rather than steel, and we’ve replaced the copper communications link with photo-optic fiber. We miniaturized the bulkier instruments. I would have preferred a titanium sphere, but the costs were higher.”

  Kane easily exited the sphere and stared at it with near reverence. “You’ve done an amazing job, Joe. Beebe and Barton were aware they were risking their lives, but their boyish enthusiasm overcame their fears.”

  “That enthusiasm must have rubbed off on you to come all this distance,” Austin said. “I understand you were in the Pacific Ocean.”