Medusa nf-8
Page 26
CHAPTER 32
AS THE CITATION X STREAKED WEST OVER THE NORTH American continent at six hundred miles an hour, all was quiet in the cabin, where the passengers slept soundly with forty-three thousand feet of air beneath their pillows.
Song Lee had been the first to turn in, followed by Joe Zavala, who was stretched out on a thickly padded chair. Kurt Austin had read for a short while, then he had set Casey’s file aside and glanced at Song, who was sleeping on the sofa. Her bare legs stuck out from under her blanket. Austin adjusted the blanket, then went up to the cockpit and radioed the ground-crew manager at the Los Angeles Airport. He came back, settled into another chair, and within minutes had slipped into a deep slumber.
When the passengers got off at LAX to stretch their legs, the ground-crew manager was waiting to hand Lee a plastic bag. At Austin’s request, the manager had contacted his wife, and she had put together a change of clothes to replace the smoky T-shirt and shorts Lee had been wearing since Bonefish Key.
When she opened the bag, she let out a cry of delight, and dashed into the hangar to try them on. She squeezed in a quick shower beforehand, and a brief phone call after dressing, and then the jet leaped into the sky again and set a course for Honolulu. With the California coastline fading behind in the distance, Lee came over and sat next to Austin, who was discussing the maps and charts in Lieutenant Casey’s packet with Zavala. She was wearing a pair of conservative black cotton slacks and a sleeveless white cotton blouse that looked stylish on her slim figure.
“I understand you arranged for the delivery of my new wardrobe,” she said. “Thank you very much, Kurt. The clothes fit me perfectly.”
“Sailors are good at taking measurements with their eyes,” Austin said.
He saw Zavala mouthing the word Smooth, and realized that he had compared Song Lee’s lithe body to a boat keel. Quickly changing the subject, he said, “These are the blueprints for Dr. Kane’s undersea lab. From this layout, can you say what was going on there?”
“In general, perhaps.” She examined the diagrams. “These spheres labeled LIVING QUARTERS and ADMINISTRATION are self-evident. Those labeled LAB and RESOURCE CULTIVATION tell only part of the story.”
“We have lots of time. I’d be interested in hearing the whole story, Song.”
She pinched her chin in thought, then said, “Imagine the medusa project as a three-act play. Act 1 was the basic research on the jellyfish toxin at Bonefish Key. Act 2 is the practical application of that research toward synthesizing a vaccine, which was done at Davy Jones’s Locker. Act 3 would have been the actual production at centers set up to manufacture the vaccine in large volumes. We were at the second intermission.”
“Why were you more successful than other labs working in the area of ocean biotechnology?” Austin asked.
“Because Dr. Kane is a genius,” Lee declared. “He assembled the foremost experts in a brand-new field known as systems biology. The research was a blend of protein study, genomics, and mathematics. The lab used advanced computer technology to pull the research together.”
“How did that approach differ from conventional research?” Austin asked.
“It’s the difference between squinting through a telescope and taking in a scene with both eyes. The lab had hundreds of eyes, absorbing information that was fed into one computer brain for analysis. Even so, it took all our efforts to decipher the medusa toxin’s molecular makeup and assay the immune response it provoked in a living organism.”
“Dr. Kane mentioned the development of a larger and more poisonous genetically modified version of the medusa,” Austin said.
Lee nodded.
“He wanted to produce more toxin and a brighter organism,” she said.
“I understand that the bigger the jellyfish, the more toxin to work with,” he said. “What about the bioluminescence?”
“The creature’s brightness indicates what is happening with its molecular processes. It acts like a biological thermometer. The goal was to produce the vaccine in volume. We transferred the genes that produced the essential compounds to a bacterium that could be quickly cultivated for the vaccine.”
“Dr. Kane said that the medusa toxin doesn’t kill outright but paralyzes the prey and keeps it healthy and fresh.”
“An antiviral has to kill the pathogens without hurting the host. The medusa toxin went beyond that, actually protecting its host organism’s health . . . for a while, anyway. The process is called hormesis. In small doses, a toxin can trigger repair mechanisms in the body, maybe even retard aging. It works in the same way exercise does, by stressing the body so that it changes the metabolism for the better.”
“That which does not kill us makes us strong,” Austin said.
“That’s an accurate description,” Lee said.
“Could hormesis have anything to do with the New Bedford anomaly?”
“It could have everything to do with it. Administered in the proper amount, the medusa toxin could have improved subjects’ health and prolonged their lives.” Lee cocked her head. “Now let me ask you a question.”
“Be my guest.”
“You and Joe and the Trouts have obviously worked together in the past. Who are you?”
Austin answered Lee in a way that would satisfy her curiosity without revealing too much about his team’s inner workings.
“We’re all members of a special NUMA team that investigates ocean mysteries that are out of the normal range of possibility,” he said.
“This mystery certainly fits that category,” she said. “Thank you for being forthright.”
“And thanks for enlightening me about the lab’s research. Let’s talk about the new flu virus. How bad would it be if the epidemic goes beyond China’s borders?”
“Very bad. SARS hit around eight thousand people, and fewer than a thousand died. If this virus hits your country, it would kill a minimum of more than two hundred thousand people.”
“And the maximum?”
“Possibly in the millions. But even in the hundreds of thousands, the epidemic would overwhelm the health system of any country it hits. Many of the people who will die are health providers, widening the disaster even more. The total impact on the industrialized world would be nearly seven hundred thousand deaths and more than two million people hospitalized . . . minimum. Developing countries would fare much worse. The total cost could be as much as a trillion dollars.”
Austin had been working his jaw muscle as he listened to the grim statistics.
“You’ve just described a global catastrophe, Song.”
“To say the least. The medical community has worried about a mutant flu virus for years. Even without help, the virus can reinvent itself, changing its genetic makeup, hitting people who have no immunity against it.”
“Medicine has evolved far beyond what was available in past epidemics,” he said.
“So has transportation,” she said. “A carrier infected in the U.S. or China can spread the disease anywhere around the world in a matter of hours. Existing vaccines are useless, which is why it was so important to develop the medusa vaccine.”
“How does the new virus spread?”
“The old virus spread by contact. The mutant strain may spread that way, but, even more disturbing, it may spread through the water.”
“Are you saying that it could seep into the water table?”
“There is that possibility, yes.”
“Which means that the virus could be introduced into drinking water.”
“That would make its spread even more difficult to control. Everyone drinks water, while personal contact is a hit-or-miss thing. It is extremely contagious either way. It’s possible that the whole human race could become infected.”
Lee felt emotionally drained by the implications of her dry recitation and expected Austin to share her pessimism. But, to her surprise, he said, “Thank you for your analysis, Dr. Lee, but we can’t let that happen.”
“What do you mean to do?”
“Sounds like we’ll need some chow to keep us going. I’ll see what I can rustle up in the galley.”
Austin had summed up his strategy as casually as if he were talking about making a soccer play. Instead of panicking, Zavala was throwing breakfast together. Lee saw no sign of madness or misplaced humor in the face of either man, only calm determination and steely resolve.
For the first time since she had learned that Davy Jones’s Locker had vanished, she began to hope.
CHAPTER 33
THE TROUTS HAD TO WAIT UNTIL THE AFTERNOON FOR AN available NUMA executive jet, but New Bedford Regional Airport was only about an hour’s flight from Washington. With Gamay navigating, Paul drove their rented SUV past the stately old houses that bordered County Street and swung in to a horseshoe-shaped driveway. A sign in front of the butternut-and-mustard Greek Revival mansion identified the house as the CAPTAIN HORATIO DOBBS MUSEUM AND GARDENS.
The Trouts climbed to the porch, passing between tall Doric columns, and rang the bell. A middle-aged woman opened the door.
“Oh, dear,” she said, her smile vanishing. “I thought you were the electrician.”
Gamay said, “I’m afraid not. We’re from the National Underwater and Marine Agency. We called you earlier today from Washington.”
The smile returned.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Perlmutter’s friends. St. Julien is a lovely man. Come in. I’m Rachael Dobbs. Excuse me for being a bit flustered. The Dobbs Foundation rented a patio tent for a jazz concert tonight, and there’s a problem with the sound system.”
The Trouts stepped into a high-ceilinged vestibule and followed Rachael along a long hallway. The parquet floor had been buffed to a mirror finish. She stopped in front of side-by-side oil paintings. The bearded man in one portrait held a sextant in his big hands. Flinty gray eyes looked out over an eagle nose. The woman in the other portrait wore a dark velvet dress, with a simple lace collar encircling her graceful neck. Large hazel eyes looked out with a steady gaze. There was a slight smile on her thin lips, as if amused by a secret joke.
“These are my great-great-great-grandparents. Captain Horatio and Hepsa Dobbs,” Rachael said.
Hepsa and Rachael shared the same carrot-colored hair.
“The resemblance is striking,” Paul said.
“I’m pleased with Hepsa’s gift of her red hair, but I would have preferred less of a proboscis from the captain,” she said. “As you can see, he had plenty to go around.”
Rachael Dobbs gave the Trouts a tour of the mansion, introducing the family members in the portraits that covered every wall. The men wore wide-brimmed, Quaker-style hats, the women demure caps.
She pointed to a display case that held a battered top hat.
“That was the captain’s lucky chapeau. He wore it on every whaling expedition.”
They went out onto a broad deck overlooking a formal English garden bordered with rosebushes. She seated the Trouts at an umbrellaed table on the patio and brought out glasses of iced tea.
“Thank you for the tour,” Gamay said. “It’s a beautiful house.”
“The captain and his wife moved up here from Johnny Cake Hill. The whaling merchants wanted bigger homes and gardens that reflected their status in the community. Now, how may I help you? St. Julien said on the phone that you were interested in one of the captain’s logbooks.”
“We received a query from a virologist who asked us about an epidemic that struck the Pacific whaling fleet in 1848,” Gamay said. “We’re surveying logbooks from that time to see if we can find any mention of the event.”
Rachael raised an eyebrow.
“The 1848 voyage was the captain’s last whaling expedition,” she said. “He retired from the sea after that voyage.”
“Wasn’t that unusual?” Paul asked. “From what we’ve heard, your ancestor was an extremely successful whaler.”
“He was probably the best of his day. And you’re right about it being odd that he stopped going to sea at the peak of his career. He had brought in a full hold of sperm oil on his ship’s maiden voyage and could have had any command he wanted. He said he wanted to spend more time with Hepsa, whom he had married before he left on that final expedition.”
“I don’t blame him for wanting to stay home,” Paul said. “Your ancestor was a beautiful woman.”
Rachael blushed at the indirect compliment.
“Thank you. The captain went to work for the Rotch family. They invented the vertical-integration model still used by multinational corporations and applied it to the whaling industry.” She paused in thought, then said, “According to the Dobbs family lore, something happened on that last voyage that changed his views.”
“The face in the captain’s portrait didn’t belong to a man who would scare easily,” Paul said.
“No disagreement, Mr. Trout. The captain had been a harpooner before he worked his way up. Anyone who stands in a frail wooden boat and antagonizes a seventy-foot-long sperm whale is not fainthearted.”
Gamay leaned forward.
“Could the Caleb Nye incident have had anything to do with the captain’s decision?” she asked.
Rachael shook her head.
“Caleb’s experience would have been a wonderful story for the captain to tell other ship captains when they got together,” she said.
“I believe you told St. Julien that the logbook for the 1848 voyage was destroyed,” Gamay said.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Rachael said with a sigh. “Caleb’s whaling library went up in flames when his house burned to the ground. He must have been heartbroken at losing his beloved library. There’s now housing for the elderly on the site of the old Nye mansion in Fairhaven.”
“Isn’t it curious that the captain would have given his log to a former crewman?” Gamay said.
“Not really. The captain would have known about Caleb’s book collection. Also, there was a peculiar bond between the two men. It was said that the captain felt personally responsible for the young man’s unfortunate condition. He wrote an affidavit saying that the Jonah story was true. It was read at the traveling show and helped make Caleb a rich man.”
“Did Caleb ever write a book about his adventure?”
“Not that I know of. He made the lecture circuit for years under the guidance of a P. T. Barnum type, a promoter named Strater, and they sold pamphlets at the shows, so maybe that was more lucrative than a book would have been. There must have been a great deal written about Caleb. You could dig into old newspaper files, for a start.”
Rachael excused herself to answer the doorbell and came back a moment later.
“The electrician is here. We could talk later, if you don’t mind waiting.”
“We’re on a tight schedule,” Gamay said. “Do you have any suggestions on how we might find out more about Caleb Nye?”
“You could start in our basement. We have a section of the diorama Nye used in his presentations. He gave it to a library, but they ran out of room and shipped it over here. We didn’t have room for it, either. Perhaps I can show it to you when I’m not so busy.
“In the meantime, there is the New Bedford Whaling Museum. And the various local historical societies. But since you’re short on time, there is one other avenue, although I hesitate to suggest it.”
“We’re grasping at straws,” Paul said. “Give it a try.”
“Well, then,” she said with a shrug, “you might want to talk to Harvey Brimmer. He deals in antique documents from a shop near the Seamen’s Bethel on Johnny Cake Hill. He unearths some amazing old documents from time to time.”
“Why do you hesitate to recommend Mr. Brimmer?” Paul asked.
“Harvey has a reputation for collecting upfront fees, then not locating the documents he was hired to find. There
have been rumors of forgeries and dealing in stolen documents, but either the rumors are false or he’s too slick to get caught. I believe the latter.”
“Thank you for the warning,” Paul said. “We’ll watch ourselves if we talk to Mr. Brimmer.”
“Please don’t tell Harvey I mentioned him. He would take that as a license to use the Dobbs name in an advertisement.”
The Trouts gave Rachael a sizable contribution to put in the museum’s donation box. On the way out, she stopped in front of a print that showed a huge textile mill complex.
“That’s the Dobbs mill. The captain became even wealthier when he invested in the textile business. He was apparently robust and would have lived a long life if he hadn’t been killed when a loom fell on him. Good luck with your research,” she said in parting, then scurried off to meet with the electrician.
“Wasn’t Brimmer the guy Song Lee contacted when she was looking for the logbook?” Paul asked.
“I’m sure that was his name,” Gamay said. “Maybe we’ll have more success than she did.”
After leaving the Dobbs mansion, the Trouts drove toward the waterfront. The former heart of the world’s whaling industry had dwindled through the centuries to several blocks of historic buildings. Connected by cobblestone streets, the old banks and ship’s chandleries that had serviced the sperm-oil industry now overlooked the fishing fleet and processing buildings that lined the Acushnet River.
Brimmer’s shop was on the ground floor of a three-story clap-board building. The peeling red paint revealed the gray primer underneath, and the black wooden sign over the door was so faded it was almost impossible to make out H. BRIMMER ANTIQUE BOOKS, MAPS, AND DOCUMENTS.
The Trouts stepped into the shop and adjusted their eyes to the dim light. Several filing cabinets lined walls that were covered with paintings showing various aspects of the whaling trade. At the center of the room were a large wooden table and a couple of green-shaded banker’s lamps. Dozens of maps of all sizes covered the top of the table.
A door at the back of the shop opened in response to the jingling of the bell hanging on the front door, and a thinly built man stepped out. He stared at the Trouts from behind thick glasses.