Mason remembered the first to join his team was Sam Jakes, who had an MD and PhD in virology and had been doing cutting-edge research at Columbia University. When Mason first approached the irascible gnomelike man, he found his personality was perfectly suited to New York City—he was brusque, rude, and totally convinced of the unassailability of his giant intellect.
About five feet five inches tall and weighing over two hundred pounds, Jakes was sensitive about both his short stature and his pudgy profile and was quick to take offense at the mention of either. The fact that he was balding with flyaway frizzy hair and bushy caterpillar eyebrows and an ugly blot of a nose didn’t help his self-esteem issues regarding his appearance.
In spite of that, he was also supremely arrogant about his abilities and rarely respected anyone else’s feelings or intellect and was both condescending and argumentative on almost every subject.
However, since he knew as much about virology as anyone on earth, Mason ignored the fact that he wasn’t a team player and overlooked his faults and convinced him to join the team by promising him the chance to see and treat firsthand diseases most doctors only read about.
Mason had then traveled to New Orleans and recruited Lionel Johnson from Tulane University, where Johnson was doing research on resistant strains of tuberculosis that had showed up following the recent AIDS epidemic. Unlike Jakes, who tested Mason’s patience daily, Johnson’s shy manner and sly, understated sense of humor made him a joy to be around.
His next trip was to Maryland and Fort Detrick, the home of USAMRIID, the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. He’d heard of Dr. Shirley Cole, who had a PhD in Microbiology and whose research on disease-causing bacteria was the talk of the CDC. He was initially concerned about taking on a middle-aged woman who was not in the best physical condition, but in time he’d found his fears to be unjustified. She’d fit right in with the group from the very first day. Her acceptance by the group was helped along by her wizardry with baked goods.
Shirley had told Mason he had to see if he could recruit Suzanne Elliot, an RN with a master’s degree in epidemiology who’d traveled all over the world tracking a number of elusive causative factors in the spread of disease in a dozen different countries. Shirley and Suzanne had crossed paths on a joint army and United Nations task force fighting a cholera outbreak in Haiti, and Shirley had been very impressed with the nurse.
When Mason approached her, he found a medium height, about five-foot-five-inch-tall woman who was slim and strong but not masculine. Suzanne was in fact entirely average, neither pretty nor ugly, and dressed rather blandly, as if not wanting to draw attention to herself. When Mason explained the reason for his visit, she was more than happy to join the team and work once again with her old friend, Shirley Cole.
The last member of the team to be recruited was Joel Schumacher, a computer specialist who was in charge of the CDC’s Special Pathogens database, which contained information on all previous outbreaks of infectious diseases and plagues, as well as the locations of all “hot zones” where dangerous organisms were known to be endemic. He was a top man in computer science analysis in medical applications and had developed several of his own programs so highly specialized that no one else could understand them, but he could make them sing. He was of average height and slightly dumpy, the picture of a typical geeky nerd, and very Jewish, wearing a yarmulke at all times. He liked to joke that he would gladly join the team since the frequent travel would enable him to escape the women his mother was continually trying to set him up with, who were usually daughters of friends of hers. Early on the other team members began to tease him about still being a virgin, which made his ears and cheeks blaze crimson, but he maintained he was saving his virtue for just the right woman.
Mason felt a welling of pride in his chest as he observed his team getting ready to deploy, knowing he had the best and brightest in the world who could face whatever horrors the jungles of Mexico were about to throw at them.
* * *
As the group took their chairs around the conference table, all of the muffins and most of the coffee having been consumed, Mason stood at the head of the table with his arms crossed on his chest as he addressed them.
“I know you’re all wondering just what I’m about to get us into with this middle-of-the-night expedition, but I have to admit, I don’t know just yet.”
When they all started to protest at one time, he held up his hands. “Wait a minute, and I’ll tell you what I know and maybe together we can figure out what we’re going to be going up against.”
Sam Jakes raised his hand and asked irritably, “Why don’t you first tell us where this latest hot zone is located?”
“In the jungle just south and west of Mexico City,” Mason answered.
“Oh shit!” Jakes exclaimed. “Don’t tell me we’re gonna be traveling all the way to Mexico to treat some travelers who’ve developed Montezuma’s revenge and need the experts from the CDC to come cure their diarrhea?”
Mason laughed. “You may be closer to the truth than you think, Sam. This may in fact be Montezuma’s revenge, but the disease we’re gonna be facing is a little bit more serious than diarrhea.”
Shirley piped up, “Diarrhea can be pretty serious, Mason, especially if it’s caused by cholera or bacterial dysentery.”
Mason again held up his hands for quiet. “Okay, guys, why don’t you listen while I tell you a story?” He paused until he had everyone’s attention. “There once was a group of thirty professors and students from the University of Texas who traveled down to Mexico to find and excavate the ancient tomb of Emperor Montezuma in a tiny, remote village named Tlateloco.”
Jakes smirked, spread his arms, and glanced around at the group. “See, I told you . . .”
Mason’s face became serious. “Now, according to what I’ve been told, all thirty of the group and an unknown number of Mexican laborers are dead.”
The team became quiet, all eyes on Mason. “How’d they die, Mason?” Suzanne asked.
“The symptoms sound like hemorrhagic fever and shock, exact cause unknown.”
“Bullshit!” Jakes said, slapping his hand down on the table. “It can’t be hemorrhagic fever ’cause there are no known human pathogens that cause this particular constellation of symptoms extant in the Western Hemisphere.”
Suzanne Elliot frowned and glared at Jakes. “Why don’t you just shut the fuck up, Sam, and let Mason tell the story before you get your panties all in a twist?”
“Why . . . you . . .” Jakes sputtered, his face flaming red.
“That’s a good idea, Suzanne,” Mason intervened before the argument could get out of hand. He sat down at the table and leaned back in his chair. “Here is what I’ve been told . . .”
He went on to relate the early morning phone call from Julio Cardenez and his subsequent discussion with Eduardo Matos, head of the Mexican Archaeology Society. He explained how Professor Charles Adams had called one of his colleagues in Texas and told her about the deaths and how he had described the symptoms exhibited prior to dying.
Lionel shook his head, his eyes worried. “So, all of this information, including the descriptions of the symptoms, is not only thirdhand information, but it is coming from nonmedical personnel . . . archaeologists?” he asked in his soft voice.
Mason nodded. “That’s right, Lionel. But even though the symptoms are described by nondocs, they are spot on for hemorrhagic fever and shock, and in follow-up phone calls none of the students or teachers are answering their cells.”
“Well,” Suzanne said, looking around the table. “Regardless of the possible cause, if there are thirty deaths, then we are certainly looking at a hot zone of some sort.”
“Mason,” Shirley Cole said. “I’ve been thinking about what Sam said. There is a pathogen extant in Mexico that could cause symptoms similar to those of hemorrhagic fever—anthrax.”
“Oh Jesus,” Jakes said. “Even a virologist knows
that woolsorter’s disease, which is the only form of anthrax that is airborne, has never been shown to be transmitted from person to person.” He shook his head at her. “In addition, hemorrhagic shock is only caused by viruses, not bacteria. So unless you think that thirty different people could somehow have simultaneously inhaled enough anthrax spores to all go into shock at the same time and each and every one die from the disease when the normal death rate is only four or five percent, then I doubt that our pathogen can be anthrax.”
Now it was Shirley’s face that turned red. “I didn’t say that, you arrogant asshole,” she stated firmly. “I know anthrax doesn’t cause hemorrhagic shock, but it does cause extensive internal hemorrhage and major bleeding into lymph nodes of the lungs and stomach, so the hemorrhagic symptoms could simply be caused by coughing and vomiting up blood. Nonmedical observers would be hard-pressed to tell the difference.”
Jakes snorted. “What about the abnormally high mortality rate of this hot-bug?”
She shrugged. “That I can’t explain.”
To make peace, Mason asked, “How about one of the Ebola or Marburg viruses, perhaps imported to the site by one of the local workers?”
Jakes shook his head irritably. “No, no, that is just not possible!” He then launched into a pedantic discourse on the origins of Ebola, reminding them that the Ebola virus is named for the Ebola River, which is the headstream of the Mongala River, a tributary of the Congo, or Zaire River, and its endemic area is ten thousand miles from Mexico City and would therefore be a highly unlikely explanation for the deaths described in Tlateloco. “Hell,” he said smiling, “even if someone contracted Ebola in Africa and then traveled directly to Mexico City, by the time he could get from there down to Tlateloco, he would already be dead from the virus and unable to infect anyone else, let alone thirty additional people.”
Suzanne was staring at Jakes. Finally, she asked, “Sam, are you forgetting about the hantavirus and hantavirus pulmonary syndrome? It can certainly cause hemorrhagic shock, and the rodents that carry the virus are known to live all over North and South America.”
Jakes raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Very good, Suzanne. Of course, you are right, the symptoms could be from HPS, except that the virus is primarily found in dry, arid areas such as Arizona and New Mexico in the United States, and in Mexico it’s usually found in desert areas.” He scratched his chin, “I seriously doubt the virus could survive in a humid, jungle environment, but I will keep your excellent suggestion in mind.”
Further discussions among the group considered other possible pathogens such as dengue fever, bubonic or pneumonic plague, and other rare causes of the symptoms Matos had described to Mason.
Each and every one was eventually shot down as the possible culprit for one reason or another.
Finally, as dawn was breaking, Mason concluded the meeting. “As we have been given no empirical evidence that would enable us to come to a definitive diagnosis of the cause of these deaths, I feel an on-site intervention is justified. As team leader, I am declaring this a ‘Wildfire Emergency. ’ ” He stood up. “I will contact the Mexican government for permission to mount a full-scale incursion into the area as soon as travel arrangements can be made. I suggest the rest of you get together and make a list of the equipment each of you will need to do a full diagnostic workup on the bodies of the victims, including full Biohazard Level Four precautions.”
“Shit,” Jakes mumbled as he got up from the table. “I hate those fucking Racal suits.”
Joel Schumacher said, “While you guys are figuring out what lab equipment you’ll be needing, I’ll run a database search on all entities that can cause the symptoms we’re looking at. That way we’ll have a list to work against when we start doing diagnostics.”
Mason grinned and patted his shoulder. “Great idea, Joel.”
He looked around at the group. “Now, get a move on. We’re burnin’ daylight.”
Chapter 4
Lauren entered the Arlen Specter Headquarters and Emergency Operations Center at the CDC headquarters in Atlanta just after nine a.m. A helpful young man at the front desk directed her to the suite of offices occupied by Dr. Mason Williams and his Wildfire Emergency Response Team.
She entered the door into a sort of controlled chaos, with men and women moving around, talking urgently on cell phones, waving their hands in the air and shouting at each other across the room as they tried to organize the resources and equipment they would need for their upcoming excursion into the jungles of Mexico.
Finally, she spied the man in charge and raised her eyebrows. He was younger than she expected him to be to have such a position of power, appearing to be in his early thirties. He was tall, a little over six feet, and looked to be both lean and muscular in the way of an avid outdoorsman, not a weight lifter. He had dark unruly hair and seemed to run his hands through it when he was thinking or perhaps in frustration at his orders not being carried out quickly enough.
He was good-looking without being classically handsome, and he had a quiet air of authority that belied his young age.
After a few moments, he spotted her standing just inside the door with a rolling duffle bag on the floor next to her.
He rushed over and held out his hand. “Dr. Sullivan, I suppose?”
“Lauren, please, Dr. Williams,” she said, noticing his eyes were a deep blue in color and red-rimmed from being up all night.
“Then it’s Mason, Lauren.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Please excuse the madness, but it’s always like this just before we head out to a hot zone—we never quite know just what we’ll need in the field.”
“Hot zone?” she asked.
“Oh, excuse the jargon. . . .” He smiled and she realized suddenly it was a very nice smile. “You’ll probably be hearing a lot of unfamiliar terms during the trip. Hot zone is any area with an infectious agent capable of spreading rapidly and creating an epidemic, especially if it’s highly fatal.”
She frowned. “So you think whatever caused all these deaths is still . . . active . . . still a threat?”
He stepped back and looked at her appraisingly. He took her arm and said, “Come with me into my office, Lauren. Let’s talk.”
She followed him into his office, and he sat next to her on a couch against the wall. “I was told you talked to Dr. Adams and he explained to you that all thirty members of his expedition and all of the Mexican laborers in the camp had died . . . and died rather horribly?”
“Yes,” she answered in a low voice.
He put his hand on her arm. “Lauren, I’m not going to lie to you or try to sugarcoat this situation. If I’m right, then we are about to travel into a real hot zone, one that at the very least is extremely dangerous. And what’s more, we have no idea of just what the agent is that has caused all of these deaths, so we’ll have to take extremely broad precautions against any of us catching the same bug.”
She nodded slowly. “And you’re wondering if I know just what I’m getting myself into by going with you, is that right?”
He leaned back, nodding slowly while he gazed into her eyes. “Yes.”
“Dr. Williams . . . Mason,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “What I know is that over thirty people have possibly died, most of whom were friends of mine. I also know that there just might be one or two that are still alive out there in that jungle. I would never forgive myself if I didn’t do all that I could to see to it that the dead—and even possibly the still living—were properly identified so that their families would be able to get some closure and would know what had happened to their loved ones.”
She took a deep breath. “I also know that there is some danger in going into this hot zone, as you call it. Well, Mason, I have been on over twenty field archaeology expeditions in some of the most remote areas of the earth, all of which had some danger to them.” She relaxed and smiled grimly. “In short, while I am no hero rushing blindly into danger without a thought, I am ready if you are.”
Mason, watching her speak, had the rather irrational thought that this lady has some balls. He also noticed that her emerald-green eyes darkened in anger at his suggestion she might not be up to the trip. He smiled to himself. Interesting . . .
“Okay then,” he said, slapping his thighs and jumping to his feet. “You’ve been warned, so let’s get your gear ready to be loaded.”
Fort Detrick, Maryland
Colonel Woodrow “Blackie” Blackman leaned over to pluck a cigar from the mahogany humidor perched on the corner of his desk. It was just after nine a.m., time to enjoy his first cigar of the day along with a cup of his specially brewed Colombian Suprema coffee. He paused, frowning, instantly alerted when a light flashed on a control panel announcing an incoming scrambled call.
He stuck the unlit cigar in his mouth and flipped a switch on the console. An LCD began passing a decoded message across the screen in front of him and he was both surprised and alarmed by the message from one of his “moles” coming in during office hours—his spies usually reported late at night when they were most likely to be unobserved.
At the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases Research Laboratory in Fort Detrick, Maryland, known as USAMRIID, the army’s secret facility for the study of biological and chemical weapons, it was business hours and there were dozens of officers and office personnel hanging around that weren’t in the loop about his spy network or the research he conducted in secret. It would be a disaster if any of them suspected what he was doing.
The message read:
Janus. Hot-bug in jungles of Mexico near Tlateloco looks very promising. Human-to-human transmission strong possibility. Over thirty dead. Signs of hemorrhagic shock in all victims. Reported three-to-seven-day incubation period. Will send samples when isolated. Watch how you handle this one—it sounds like it’s a definite Biohazard Level Four bug.
The Anthrax Protocol Page 4