Containment Failure (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #2)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “Like Angelina?” piped in the Secretary of Defense.

  “Yes, exactly like her,” replied Katherine. “This affects less than one percent of all women, however if it were to continue to spread, unchecked, we are looking at potentially one in every two hundred women on the planet dying over the next six months. And as long as the antiviral is out there, it has more chances to mutate into something worse.”

  “But you said this is only transmittable by someone who has the gene and the antiviral.”

  Katherine nodded. “That’s what BioDyne thought after the LaGuardia attack. But things may have changed.”

  “May?”

  “We have had two cases arrive with all the symptoms just a few hours ago, but who have had no known exposure to anyone involved.”

  “Couldn’t they have been exposed on a bus or in a mall?”

  “Yes, sir. But these two people were on a fishing trip for a week in the middle of nowhere. They didn’t return until the day of the game. They presented twenty four hours after the first of our patients began arriving. This means they were exposed most likely within one day of the initial release of the antiviral.”

  “So there was time.”

  “Yes, sir, there was. The only problem is this: one of them swears he was dropped off at home by his buddy, who is also infected, and saw no one since except his friend for the next three days.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  “He’s some sort of Internet worker. Works from home, and has minimal contact with the outside world. The only person that visited him was his buddy, who returned a few hours later to drop off something left in the trunk. Then nothing for two days.”

  “Then he picked up the virus later,” said the Secretary of Defense.

  “If it was later, he wouldn’t be presenting now. He’d be presenting several days from now.” Katherine shook her head. “No, this man was infected within hours of his friend. Their arrival in New Orleans was just before the game ended, and they claimed they made no stops for the last few hours of travel. That means the most likely explanation is his friend, who visited a restaurant after the game was over, then visited him on the way home to drop off a bag, was exposed at the restaurant, then unintentionally infected him.”

  “And I’m assuming this first man does not have the gene?”

  Katherine shook his head. “Dr. Urban says it is targeting women with the gene, not men with the gene. We’re confirming it now, and should know shortly.”

  “And if it comes back negative?”

  “Then we have person to person transmission, without blood, and without the targeted gene.” Katherine looked around the room, then back at the President. “It means that we may have already lost control of this.”

  Katherine could have sworn the President aged in front of her eyes.

  “God help us all,” he muttered. “What do you recommend?”

  “The full quarantine of New Orleans to start, and if this continues to spread, a full shutdown of all air, land and sea travel.”

  “That’s madness!” exclaimed the Secretary of State. “You’ll destroy the nation’s economy. We’re talking about a flu outbreak here that can target only one in two hundred women!”

  “No, sir, we are not. We are talking about an antiviral that kills one hundred percent of its victims, and we have two people, who we presume do not have the targeted gene, sick, transmitted presumably through the air. This is a worst case scenario we are looking at here. If this thing has mutated to target anything it comes in contact with, and it is airborne, and it maintains its mortality rate, we are looking at an extinction level event here.”

  The room fell silent, no one knowing what to say to her sobering words. Finally the President rose, causing everyone else to follow suit.

  “I hear a lot of if’s in your scenario. What we do know for now seems to merit a quarantine of New Orleans. I’ll grant you that. As well, I want any and all assets of this country devoted to tracking down Dr. Urban. Our goals are twofold. One, to prevent the spread of the current virus, and two, to prevent the release of the next virus in six months. I will let you know my decision shortly.” He turned to Katherine and Dr. Kapp. “Thank you both for coming in.” He turned toward his desk and the meeting broke, everyone shuffling out the door. As Katherine was about to leave, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to look, and it was the man who had been lurking in “the corner”.

  “Come with me, would you?”

  The way he said it wasn’t a request, and it sent a shiver down her spine. She looked back at the President, who was pulling at his graying hair, his face another ten years older.

  White House, Washington, DC

  Leif Morrison examined the surroundings out of habit as Dr. Katherine Best climbed into his limousine. He joined her inside and the chauffeur closed the door, moments later climbing in the front. Morrison pressed the button for the intercom.

  “Take us around the block, Jerry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The car slowly began to move, and Morrison turned to his passenger.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  She shook her head. “You look familiar, but I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

  “I’m Leif Morrison, National Clandestine Services Chief, CIA.”

  “CIA?”

  He nodded and smiled, trying to impair the natural instinct she must be fighting to become incommunicado.

  “What do you want with me?”

  He chuckled.

  “Nothing with you, don’t worry. I find that when outsiders give briefings to the President, they don’t always say everything they want to say, because they’re too afraid of what he may do, and if they’re wrong, they’ll wear it.”

  Dr. Best remained silent, but at least looked him in the eye.

  “What I want to know from you, is how close are we to this doomsday scenario?”

  Her lips pursed and she looked away.

  “Nothing you say will go beyond this car. I just need to know what level of threat I’m dealing with.”

  She looked back at him and sighed.

  “Sir, if the latest information concerning the two men I mentioned is accurate, and they don’t have the gene, we could be looking at a worldwide pandemic that could kill billions.”

  “If not everyone?”

  “There’s always a small segment of the population that is immune, so one percent might survive. The question is whether or not the virus continues to mutate. If it does, even those who survive the initial wave could be taken by the second or third. Those that survive would have to isolate themselves completely until they could be assured the virus had run its course. And unfortunately we don’t know whether the mutated virus could be carried by animals or lay dormant in our soil.” She shook her head. “Sir, that’s the worst case scenario. How close are we to that? Too close as far as I’m concerned.”

  Morrison frowned.

  “That was my assessment of what you and Dr. Kapp presented.” He shifted in his seat, presenting his front to her. “What is your impression of Kapp?”

  “Seems genuine. Straight shooter. He came to me, told me everything he knew, answered all my questions.”

  “You assume he told you everything.”

  She dipped her head.

  “Granted.” She turned to face him. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

  He smiled.

  “Oh, we will.”

  His phone vibrated in his pocket and a moment later so did his guest’s. He pulled out his phone and looked at the message.

  New Orleans quarantine approved.

  Hotel Tambor, Tambor Bay, Costa Rica

  Special Agent Dylan Kane groaned with pleasure as he lay on the private beach, the breeze steady but gentle off the ocean cooling his skin and flapping the cloth umbrella jammed into the pristine sand providing protection from the oils being massaged into his skin.

  Massaged by two of the loveliest pairs of hands he had yet to encounter.
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  Catalina and Jazmin may not have been masseuses by trade, but they were experts at providing pleasure, and right now he was in heaven, their tiny hands working opposite ends of his body as he relaxed on his beach towel, drifting in and out of sleep.

  His mind began to slip and memories of last night with Jazmin, and the night before with Catalina, brought a smile to his face. They were local girls, beautiful, looking for fun with a rich tourist and perhaps a bobble or two they could pawn to help their families after he had departed. There was no money exchanged here, just good times.

  Very good times.

  He felt Little Dylan stir, and the more he tried to not concentrate on it, the more it became a problem.

  I hope they don’t ask me to turn over.

  His watch suddenly gave him a slight electrical shock indicating he had an urgent message. The shock method was far more discrete than a visual, auditory or vibrating signal. Only he knew it happened, it was strong enough to get your attention, even when asleep, and would be noticed by no one. And if the watch had been removed for some reason, the signal was only sent if it was on an arm, and the owner of that arm would have had to enter a coded sequence after fastening the clasp to activate the messaging system, so even if stolen or confiscated, no messages would come through.

  But now one had.

  I’m on vacation!

  After finishing up in Syria then Egypt, he had taken a break, his old archeology professor, James Acton, actually seeing him at the airport in Cairo just before catching the first of several flights that would take him where he was now.

  Costa Rica.

  Professor Acton had almost blown it, jumping from his seat, then realizing he couldn’t be seen talking to his old student, he had dropped back down without blowing Kane’s cover, and he hoped next time Acton would do better, if there ever was a next time.

  But here, in Costa Rica, a place he absolutely loved for its near perfect weather, amazing beaches and stunning women, nobody knew him except the staff at the hotel, and a few locals he’d befriended over the years.

  The worst part of being a spy—okay, perhaps not the worst—is running into someone from your past who has no idea what you do. A high school sweetheart, an old army buddy, a friend of your mother’s. Hell, even your mother! The last thing you wanted was to be on an op and have someone call out, “Hey, Dylan, it’s me Jim!” when you’re tailing someone.

  Which was why they trained you to ignore your name being called so you didn’t react, and if you were pursued and confronted, you would answer them in a foreign language if you could, looking confused and moving on.

  But the best way was to just have a different hair style.

  In high school he had kept his hair short for football, ditto for college. When he left college to join the army and fight terrorism he was nearly shaved bald. Now he had a healthy mane that he had never sported in his previous life. His friends now were few, and his family didn’t travel, so the risk of being spotted and recognized were slim.

  It was a lonely life, but a life he loved.

  When he had been recruited out of the Delta Force and into the Special Operations Group of the CIA it had been one of the most exciting and thrilling days of his life.

  Then he had gone through the training.

  If he had thought Delta was tough, he didn’t after. CIA training was completely solo. You weren’t trained to work with others, you were trained to work alone. Sure some ops had him working with others, hell, a few weeks ago he had worked with some of his old Delta buddies, but more often than not he was holed up somewhere uncomfortable and lonely.

  Lucky for him he was a loner. Always had been. Though popular in high school, his best times were in his room, alone, playing his video games, watching movies, reading. He was rarely on the phone, rarely went out during the week, and used the excuse his folks were strict. His mother had always been encouraging him to go out, so as a compromise he had hooked up with Chris Leroux, a younger, geekier schoolmate who was waaay smarter than him. Leroux would tutor him for hours, and they had formed a bond that had lasted into adulthood, Leroux independently pursuing a similar career—CIA research analyst.

  “I’ve gotta get up, ladies,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. There were giggles as the bulge in his shorts was prominently revealed. He winked at them as he adjusted himself. “How about we take care of that in about ten minutes?”

  More giggles.

  And nods.

  He went to his cabin on the beach and entered the coded sequence into his watch, the message scrolling by raising his eyebrows.

  You’ve been activated. Standby for orders.

  He logged into his laptop and connected to Langley via satellite, but no orders had arrived yet. There was a tap at the door and he smiled as Catalina and Jazmin stepped inside, peeling off their bikinis.

  He was still covered head to toe in oil, and as the two willing partners smeared themselves against him, he felt Dylan Jr. cast an eye on the situation, as its master hoped those impending orders would take their sweet time in arriving.

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  National Clandestine Service Chief for the CIA, Leif Morrison, sat at his desk, scanning the highlights of the intel as it was gleaned from the material provided by Dr. Kapp and BioDyne. The best analysts in the world at every agency at the US government’s disposal were poring over the data in a race to be first to find the madman behind these attacks.

  Why would someone do this? What possible motivation?

  According to the medical files Dr. Urban was healthy, by all accounts happily married with two kids, and rich from stock options. His IQ was through the roof, and he was considered eccentric to a point, suffering from a little Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but that meant he flicked a light switch a few too many times, not killed people for kicks.

  Morrison’s gut was telling him something else was going on here. Something more than a megalomaniac after money.

  But what, he didn’t know.

  He had agents spread across the world being notified to stand by for orders, but at this point he had none to give them. A dossier was being assembled rapidly with their preliminary information, and it would be transmitted throughout the world to their operators, who would then use their own contacts in the underworld to try and find the man who might just end mankind’s reign on Earth.

  He looked at the picture of his wife Cheryl on the corner of his desk. She was smiling—laughing actually—her arms spread out across the railing of a friend’s yacht, by all appearances having the time of her life. But she was three month’s into chemo at that point, good days mixed with bad days.

  And that was a good day.

  She had pulled through, and the doctors said she was cancer free after five years of follow-ups.

  For now.

  He remembered how she had been so embarrassed by her body after the double-mastectomy, and how he had tried to assure her it was okay, that he still found her attractive. When the implants had been done, she felt better about herself and she had even upped the ante so to speak to his surprise.

  He picked up the phone, speed dialing her number.

  It rang several times then she picked up, out of breath.

  “Hi, darling, sorry, I was in the shower.”

  “Hi, hon, sorry for interrupting, but I need you to do something for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Pack a bag and go to the cottage.”

  “Why?”

  “Just pack for two weeks. When you get into town, buy as much food as you can fit in the trunk, gas it up, then go to the cottage. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Just get there, then call me.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “I’m sorry, hon, but I need you to do this for me.”

  “Why?”

  “Once you’re in the car, turn the radio on, and you’ll know why. Call the kids and get them to join you there.”

  “But—”

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nbsp; “Just do it, honey! I’ve got to go. I love you.”

  He hung up before she could ask any further questions. He knew what he had just done was wrong, against every principle he had been taught, but he didn’t care. If this virus got out, he wanted his family safe. He realized that everyone should have the same opportunity, but he knew damned well it wasn’t practical. Not everyone had a cottage, and not everyone had some place to go.

  And if everyone was told the same thing, there’d be mass panic.

  The chaos about to happen in New Orleans would cause panic enough.

  Superdome, New Orleans, Louisiana

  Sergeant Greg Michael stood facing two dozen young officers, the massive Superdome behind him. To his left and right were hundreds of additional officers, all getting briefed. It reminded him of Hurricane Katrina, though this time the tension seemed even higher. They all knew there was some sort of deadly virus outbreak but as it stood right now, only women seemed to need to worry.

  But despite that, every female officer had reported for duty.

  “We’re searching this building from top to bottom. We’re not sure what we’re looking for, except that it should be something that can spray a gas into the air. Our job will be to escort these HVAC guys”—he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at a group of heating, ventilation, and air conditioning specialists—“to wherever they need to go. Two of us per team. If they find anything, secure the area and report back.” He pointed into his group at the greenest rookie of them all, Jackie Macleod. “Macleod, you’re with me.” He clapped his hands together. “Let’s go people. The sooner we find what we’re looking for, the sooner we can stop this outbreak.”

  The group broke up immediately into their traditional pairings and joined the dozen pairs of specialists. Sergeant Michael stepped up to one of the pairs. “I’m Sergeant Michael. This”—he motioned over his shoulder at the approaching Macleod—“is Officer Macleod. You lead, we’ll follow.”