No, the reason it didn’t matter wasn’t for any of that. It was because the enemy they faced was as biologically complex as it was implacable. They had taken the studies on harvester vulnerabilities originally begun by the Earth Defense Society and the original SEAL organization and expounded on them. But the result hadn’t changed. They had nothing more to use against the harvesters now than they had at the start.
Even the genetic work Naomi and her people were doing, while brilliant, would bear fruit far too late to save humanity. The CIA Red Team report had made that abundantly clear. The shame of it was that they had all the major pieces.
“Damn,” he whispered as he lifted his coffee cup to his lips, only to find it empty. He set it down and reached for the intercom to have his secretary bring in a fresh cup when the phone rang.
It was Naomi.
He snatched the phone from its cradle. “Morgan.”
“Come down here, Howard,” she said. “There’s something you need to see. Right now.”
“Hang on, I’ll be right there.” With a glance at the empty cup, he hung up the phone and headed downstairs to the genetics lab.
***
“You’re not going to believe this,” Naomi told Howard as he looked over her shoulder at the pair of computer monitors on her desk. Her eyes were bright with excitement, and Harmony Bates, who stood next to him, looked like a proud mother.
“You don’t have to be melodramatic to get my attention,” he told her. “Just please tell me it’s not another mutated super-virus like the one you created last week.”
Naomi made a dismissive wave of her hand. “Forget all that. Everything else is a sideshow now.” She turned to her monitors, which showed a set of base pair gene sequences side by side. “Remember when I asked you to run sequence comparisons with harvester DNA against all non-human DNA samples that have been catalogued?”
Morgan chuckled. “How could I forget? That’s been one of the most expensive parts of this project. We’ve got three server farms dedicated to it, run by the folks at SEAL-7, and we’re running more servers than the two biggest web search engines combined.”
“It was something I knew we had to look at, but I never expected to find anything.” She ignored Morgan’s scowl. “But we did. Look at what Harmony picked up from the latest results.” She pointed to the left monitor, which showed a long sequence of base pairs. “This is harvester DNA from the current generation, what we refer to as Group B, with Group A being the original harvesters that created them. This one,” she pointed to the second monitor, “is from a human tissue sample.” She tapped a few keys, and three base pairs sequences were highlighted in both images. “These are the only deviations in this entire sequence.”
Morgan was stunned. “How can this be? I thought you were only running comparisons against non-human DNA. Why was this sample even considered?” Morgan had made the decision to exclude the mass of human DNA samples from the comparative search on the grounds that even with as much computing capacity as had been dedicated to the Dragonfire project, it would take forever to run through even a tiny fraction of the available human DNA samples. Naomi had agreed after a long, drawn-out argument, but now Morgan wondered at the wisdom of his decision. What else might we be missing?
“It was a fluke,” Naomi said. “This was from a human patient suffering from a disease called Morgellons that’s been disputed from the outset, with some claiming it’s a hoax and others claiming that it’s real. This DNA sample was tagged as both human and non-human, which is how it made it into our search matrix.”
“Morgellons?” Morgan shook his head. “I’ve never heard of it.”
Naomi spun around in her chair to face him. “Most people haven’t. What appears to be the first known modern case was reported in 2002 in Pennsylvania, and thousands were reported by 2008 when the CDC finally launched a study to determine if the disease was legitimate.”
“What did they find?”
“The CDC concluded that it was a psychological disorder, but another study published by a dermatology research group determined that it wasn’t, that there was clinical validation that it was a real disease based on analysis of one of Morgellons’ hallmark symptoms. Look at this.” Naomi brought up a web browser with images that, to Morgan, looked like something straight out of a horror movie.
“Patients often suffer some clinical symptoms like chronic fatigue or mood swings, which are typical of a wide range of ailments,” Naomi explained, “along with a sensation of bugs crawling or biting under the skin, which has been associated with some skin conditions. But these skin lesions are a unique symptom.” She pointed to a few of the images, which showed areas of skin on different patients that ranged from small lesions, as if the patient had scratched open bad mosquito bites, to large ulcerated patches.
“That’s horrific,” Morgan said.
“It is, but this is the strangest thing.” She called up another set of images that showed strange, twisted fibers in a variety of colors. Some were in single strands, while others were clustered together. Some looked like fuzzy cotton balls. Others were individual twisted threads. “These tiny fibrous structures are found in the lesions. There’s been a lot of research to figure out what they are, but the dermatological study demonstrated that they aren’t implanted or embedded. The fibers originate from the skin’s epithelial cells.”
“So it’s growing out of the skin of the patients?”
“Exactly.” Naomi sat back. “The interesting coincidence is that there’s a lot of anecdotal evidence that Morgellons is related to or caused by genetically modified organisms. No one’s been able to conclusively prove it, but in the context of what’s going on around us, it’s not so easy to dismiss a possible link. But this,” she tapped a few keys, and another pair of images came up on the screen, “is no coincidence. On the left is what’s alleged to be an electron microscope image of a cross-section of one of these Morgellons fibers from a young female patient. The one on the right is from a fiber bundle in a harvesters’s skeletal structure.”
“My God.” Morgan leaned closer, staring at the two images. His heart began to pound in his chest. “These are identical. Go back to the gene sequences.”
Naomi flipped back to the windows showing the two sets of DNA sequences. “Unfortunately,” she said, “this is the only data I’ve come across where the electron microscope image and the gene sequence data are correlated to a specific patient, and in my mind that correlation isn’t a hundred percent certain, because so many of these records aren’t properly sourced. But if it pans out…”
“This could be it,” Morgan said, his voice barely a whisper. Their greatest challenge in exploiting the harvester DNA was its complexity, with hundreds of times more base pairs than human DNA. Aside from the breakthrough Harmony Bates had made in identifying a sequence associated with harvester reproduction, the SEAL labs had been unsuccessful in their efforts to tie specific traits to the harvester genes. Even if the reproductive gene could somehow be disrupted, it still wouldn’t kill the current generation, only inhibit or, at best, prevent the reproduction of more. That was a vital goal, but it wasn’t what the president was hoping for. “If we were able to disrupt their skeletal structure…”
“It would change everything,” Naomi finished for him.
“But how did Morgellons come about?” He asked. “Was this an attempt by the harvesters to infect us directly, before they came up with the ploy to do it through our food?”
“There’s really no way of knowing,” Naomi told him. “Genes can be transferred from one organism to another. It’s quite common among bacteria, although not so much in more complex organisms. If humans were infected by a mutated virus from a harvester,” she went on, “it’s not inconceivable that the virus could have transferred some genetic material to the human host. That’s the basic theory behind gene therapy, and is what the harvesters used to weaponize the New Horizons seed that caused the disaster we’re facing. It’s also what we plan to do, i
f we can find all the pieces to the puzzle and put them together in time.”
“So Morgellon’s could just be accidental, the result of a mutated virus passed from the Group A harvesters to humans?” He nodded toward the monitors. “I’m having a hard time buying that.”
“Well, maybe you’ll buy this,” Naomi said. “It may not have any direct bearing on what we’re doing here, but this tidbit was very interesting.” She pulled up another web page. “While we can’t be sure they’re related, Morgellons was named after a disease originally reported in 1674 by Sir Thomas Browne in England. He documented a disease that afflicted French children that was dubbed le morgellon, whose key symptom was strange hair or fibers growing from their skin.” She scrolled down the page. “In 1682 the German physician Dr. Michael Ettmüller made these drawings with the aid of a microscope. Look familiar?”
Morgan stared at the images drawn by the long-dead German doctor. While Ettmüller’s hand-drawn renderings weren’t identical to the photographs Naomi had shown him, they shared enough similarities to make his skin crawl.
“So what does this mean?” Morgan said.
“It means that we have a possible — a possible — data point on how long the harvesters have been with us,” Naomi told him. “Nearly four hundred years. And probably longer.”
“Good God.”
Just then the phone on Naomi’s desk rang. She picked it up and listened. Morgan could tell even from where he was standing that it was Renee’s voice, and she was excited about something. Looking up at Morgan with disbelieving eyes, Naomi said, “I’m going to put you on speaker so Howard can hear.” She pushed a button and put the handset back in the cradle. “Okay, put him through.”
“Go ahead,” Renee’s voice said from the speaker.
“Dr. Perrault, this is Captain Kiran Chidambaram.” The voice was that of a young but authoritative man with a South Asian accent, but Morgan also sensed a slight quaver of fear.
“Kiran?” Naomi said with open-mouthed disbelief. “We thought you were dead when your plane went down! Is Vijay with you?”
“My cousin is dead. He…he did not survive the crash.”
“I’m so sorry,” Naomi told him, closing her eyes. “He was a good man. He’ll be truly missed.”
“Yes…yes, he will be.” He paused. “Doctor, I need to see you as quickly as possible. It is very important.”
“We’ll do the best we can, but it may take a while to get to you.”
She looked at Morgan, but he only offered a noncommittal shrug. Vijay Chidambaram would have been a welcome addition to the team and a valuable resource. His cousin Kiran certainly had value as an Indian military officer, but he wasn’t an asset that Carl was likely to go out of his way to collect. “Kiran, this is Howard Morgan, the technical director for the lab where Naomi works. Air traffic is restricted worldwide, and some countries aren’t allowing any overflights at all. But we’ll do what we can. Where are you?”
“I am…” There was a longer pause. “I am in a place called Damlacik, in eastern Turkey near the Iranian border. Dr. Perrault, I must see you soon. This cannot wait.”
“What’s so urgent?” Naomi asked. “Did Vijay discover something?”
“No…it’s the harvesters who captured me,” he said, his voice trembling now. “They say they want to join forces with you.”
CLOAK AND DAGGER
Jack’s stay in Norway after the Russian nuclear strike had been brief. Six hours after the Russian nuclear strike, General Nesvold had presented Jack with a sheet of paper. In three lines of stark military prose, the Army had recalled him to active duty, promoted him one grade from his former service rank of captain to major, and assigned him to Headquarters, United States Special Operations Command (USSOCOM).
A second sheet of paper contained an equally brief set of orders from his new command, directing him to get to Ramstein Air Base in Germany as quickly as possible, but giving him no clue as to why.
The Norwegians were requested to provide a security element for Jack, and so he found himself escorted by Terje Halvorsen, Frode Stoltenberg (who brought along his cat, Lurva, in a collapsible crate), and two other soldiers of Forsvarets Spesialkommando, Norwegian Special Forces, aboard a C-130 at Bodø.
Once at Ramstein, they picked up the twelve men of a U.S. Army Special Forces A Team of the 10th Special Forces Group, led by Captain Jesus Alvarez.
“I’m Captain Alvarez, sir,” the wiry Hispanic officer said as he shook Jack’s proffered hand while his team quickly settled into their seats. The rear cargo ramp hadn’t yet closed before the C-130 was taxiing for takeoff. “Nice to meet you.”
“Any idea what this mission’s about?” Jack asked as Alvarez strapped into the seat next to him. Opposite them sat Halvorsen and Stoltenberg, who were leaning forward, straining to hear what Alvarez had to say over the roar of the C-130’s engines.
Alvarez shook his head. “Not a clue, sir. We just got back from an op in Budapest, helping the Marines evacuate our embassy there.” He shook his head as the plane angled upward and leaped into the sky. “We barely had time to change into clean uniforms and check our gear before joining this party.”
Halvorsen and Stoltenberg shared a look. “You had no time for mission planning?” Stoltenberg asked. “We’re just going into this blind?”
“Pretty much,” Alvarez admitted. “I don’t like it. It’s a piss-poor way to do things, but I couldn’t really argue with the three-star who gave me the orders. We’ve got no intel, no details on logistics or support, no objectives. All I know is that this bird is taking us to Incirlik, Turkey where we’ll be catching a different ride. Past that, they didn’t tell us shit.”
Jack rubbed his eyes. His headache had just grown worse. “Christ.”
“Here, sir,” Alvarez said, dragging over a big olive drab flight bag he’d brought aboard with him. “We were told you didn’t have a go-bag, so we brought some gear for you.”
Opening the bag, Jack found a helmet with night vision goggles attached, an M4A1 assault rifle with an under-barrel 40mm grenade launcher, body armor, and a combat vest loaded with magazines for the rifle and grenades for the launcher, a pair of white phosphorus grenades and another pair of high explosive frags, and a personal radio. At the very bottom was a set of fatigues. Jack pulled out the other gear and set it on the seat beside him, leaving the uniform in the bag.
“The ammo for the M4 is a mix of standard and incendiary,” Alvarez said. “The 40mm grenades are all high explosive.”
Jack checked that the weapon was empty and safe, then set it aside before he pulled on the vest over the Norwegian uniform he was wearing.
“I was told you might need this, too.” Alvarez leaned over and attached a rank tab with a copper-colored oak leaf to Jack’s vest. “Now the snipers will take you out first instead of me.”
Stoltenberg guffawed at the joke.
“Sir, if you don’t mind telling us,” one of Alvarez’s men asked, raising his voice so that the other men could hear, “you’ve seen action before, right? This isn’t your first field op, is it?”
The others turned to look at Jack with keen interest.
“I’ve got two holes in my chest from AK-47 rounds, courtesy of the Taliban.” Jack put his right thumb and forefinger to his chest, marking where the bullets had hit him. “And the scars on my face are from a grenade. So yeah, I’ve seen a little action.”
The other men nodded somberly.
“But Jack,” Stoltenberg protested, his face splitting into a wide grin, “all that means is you know how to get shot.”
***
The flight from Ramstein was uneventful, and Jack even managed to get a little sleep before the C-130 began its descent into Incirlik Air Base. Jack looked at his watch. It was just past 0100, or one o’clock in the morning.
After landing, their plane taxied to a revetment area at the northeast corner of the airfield. The crew chief lowered the ramp and ushered them out.
Jack led
the others down the ramp to where an Air Force sergeant in a flight uniform awaited them. “This way, sir,” he said, gesturing for Jack and the others to follow.
“Do you know what the hell’s going on?” Jack asked.
“The pilot’ll brief you, sir. This way.”
He led them to an Air Force Special Operations Command CV-22 Osprey, its huge wingtip rotors already spinning. The sergeant, who turned out to be the aircraft’s crew chief, guided them aboard through the rear ramp. The men quickly settled into their seats, with Jack and the other officers sitting nearest the ramp.
The crew chief handed them headsets and double-checked that they could hear over the intercom. Jack gave a thumbs-up. A few moments later, the engines began to howl and the Osprey lifted off.
“Welcome aboard, boys and girls,” the pilot said. “Hold on to your hats, use the puke bags if you feel like giving back your breakfast, and enjoy the nighttime tour of Turkey’s friendly skies.”
“Pilot, this is Major Dawson,” Jack said. “Do you have any idea what our mission orders are?”
“I don’t know about your orders, major, but mine are to fly you and your merry band of warriors just shy of five hundred miles northeast of here to the thriving metropolis of Damlacik, which is in easy pissing distance of the border with our friendly neighborhood Iranians.”
Reaping The Harvest (Harvest Trilogy, Book 3) Page 6