“This is Dr. Hartman,” he said.
“Your presence is requested in General Temin’s office immediately,” she said. The words came out of her so sweetly that it was almost as if she considered the message the best of news, as if Frank did nothing more than sit around all day idly waiting for the good general to bless him with his presence.
Rather than explain to her how incredibly inconvenient it would be for him to leave Level 4 after just entering it, not to mention all the time he would lose in having to disrobe from his biosuit, Frank thanked her politely and ended the conversation.
Twenty minutes later, he arrived at General Temin’s office, showered and in full uniform. At thirty-nine, Frank was slim but toned, the result of adhering to the daily exercise regimen that had been drilled into him during officer’s training: get up, run, swim, run some more, throw up maybe, shower, go to work.
His black hair was cropped short, graying slightly at the temples. His jaw was square and clean shaven; his cheeks ruddy; his lips tight as if smiling were a pleasure they only rarely indulged in.
His khaki-brown uniform was well pressed and lightly adorned with a few colorful bars of achievement and rank over the pocket of his left breast. An officer’s hat was tucked under his right arm, and his black shoes were polished to an impressive shine.
The secretary, wearing a uniform a little tighter than regulation would permit, didn’t look up from her computer when he entered.
Frank drew closer and cleared his throat.
She stopped typing, lifted her eyes to him, and smiled warmly.
“Why, Dr. Hartman,” she said, batting her eyelids, as if his presence somehow embarrassed her and yet was an unexpected surprise.
A true Southern belle, he thought. “General Temin asked to see me?” he said.
“And see you I shall,” a gruff voice said behind him.
Frank felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and turned to look into the weathered and smiling face of Major General Ned Temin.
He was a round man, with the kind of gut that came from age and prolonged time behind a desk. His hair was white, heavily receded, and buzzed to a stubby shortness. His nose was wide and red, which, combined with the roundness and wrinkles of his face, made him look like W. C. Fields without the jaunty hat.
Despite the inconvenience of the visit, Frank couldn’t help but smile. Temin was the kind of man who brightened a room just by being in it, laughing more perhaps than etiquette would allow, but never so much that anyone minded, since his laughter was so contagious and his demeanor always pleasant.
“You don’t eat enough, Frank,” he said, louder than Frank thought necessary. “Look at you. You’ve lost five pounds since I saw you last.”
“It’s the long trek to your office, sir,” Frank said. “I think it’s the farthest room from Level 4.”
Temin laughed. “Bet your butt it is. I stay as far away as possible. I’m not letting one of those viruses in here to shrivel my pod.”
Frank glanced surreptitiously at the secretary, who was typing again and didn’t look up, clearly accustomed to Temin’s choice vocabulary.
“You asked to see me, sir? It sounded urgent.”
Temin put an arm around Frank’s shoulders and led him toward the conference room. “You got company.” He opened the door and led Frank inside, not taking a moment to warn Frank who that company might be. “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet our leading virologist, Lieutenant Colonel Frank Hartman. He’s the man who’s got that virus of yours against the ropes, so to speak.”
Two conservative-looking men in dark suits stood and smiled cordially.
BHA, Frank thought. Here for a status report.
The taller of the two men, black, handsome, and broad shouldered, extended a hand.
“Oh, I wouldn’t shake Frank’s hand just yet,” Temin said. “He’s been down in Level 4 and doesn’t wash up too thoroughly.”
There was an awkward pause as the man looked questioningly at Frank’s hand.
Temin chuckled.
“He’s joking,” Frank said, taking the man’s hand and shaking it.
The man smiled. “Yes, General Temin is quite the prankster. I should have known better. It’s an honor, Dr. Hartman. I’m Agent Tyrese Riggs of the Biohazard Agency, and this is my associate, Agent Carter.”
Frank noticed that they both carried sidearms beneath their suit coats. Carter was clearly the younger of the two, in his early thirties perhaps, thin and blond, wearing fashionable black-rimmed glasses over a sharply angled nose. To Frank, their suits seemed too stylish for federal agents, as if they had just come from an Armani photo shoot. Then he remembered that the headquarters of the Biohazard Agency was in Los Angeles, and perhaps LA feds didn’t dress like Washington feds, preferring a touch of Hollywood in their wardrobes.
At Temin’s suggestion, everyone sat at the conference table.
“Your reputation precedes you, Doctor,” Agent Riggs said. “Your accomplishments in antiviral research make you a leader in your field.”
“Research?” Temin said with a laugh. “Hell, I wouldn’t call it research. Frank here is a virus killer.”
“So it would seem,” said Riggs, smiling. “We feel fortunate that you agreed to examine the virus we submitted several months ago.”
Several months was actually five months. Frank had received the sample of the virus in a containment box with no explanation as to its origins except that it came from the Biohazard Agency and was to be considered extremely virulent. Initial tests in Level 4 had confirmed that fact. Rapid cell degeneration. Aggressive spreading. This was an ugly virus, as malignant and as dangerous as anything Frank had ever encountered.
Since being given it, he had worked tirelessly to develop a countervirus that could annihilate the virus on contact. He had done so, or at least, he hoped he had done so. Whether it would prove effective among the monkeys, whom he had intentionally infected with small doses of the virus, was yet to seen.
Agent Riggs opened a manilla folder and casually flipped through it. “We’ve reviewed the results of your initial lab tests, Doctor, and we think this countervirus you’ve developed looks very promising.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Frank said, “but I would remind you that the results of those tests are not necessarily an assurance that the countervirus will be effective on humans. In the early trials I merely eradicated small samples of the virus in petri dishes. I’m sure I need not tell you that achieving the same degree of eradication in a living animal is a different matter altogether.”
“And yet you’ve already moved on to that phase, I hear,” Riggs said.
Frank was surprised. He hadn’t yet submitted a report on the monkeys; the BHA was apparently keeping closer tabs than he had thought.
“Yes, but I’ve only recently begun testing,” he said. “It’s too early to make any definitive conclusions.”
“What are your preliminary findings?” Riggs said.
“Positive as well. But trust me, gentlemen, we’re still six months away from knowing if this is something we could eventually move to clinical trials.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have six months, Doctor,” said Riggs. “Time is against us here.”
Frank didn’t know how to respond, so he merely folded his hands in front of him and waited.
“What else can you tell us about the virus?” Riggs said, still all business.
“What else do you want to know?” Frank said, not particularly appreciating being put on the spot. If they had given him some time to prepare his notes, maybe he could have thrown together a formal presentation.
“Anything you’ve discovered in your research would be helpful,” Riggs said.
Frank sat forward and shrugged. “All right. The virus is a highly aggressive, highly contagious retroviral vector with a rather brief incubation period. As far as how dangerous it is, only Ebola rivals it in virulence. However, unlike Ebola, it moves fast—inconceivably fast, really. Should you be infe
cted, you’d have about two to seven minutes before it kills you.”
The agents looked unsurprised by this.
Temin, however, swore. “You boys know how to find a virus, don’t you?” He looked back at Frank, pulling at his collar. “And you got this . . . uh . . . thing sealed tight down in Level 4, Frank?”
“Safely contained, sir,” Frank said.
“And this countervirus, you’ve developed,” said Riggs, “how is it that it’s able to stop the virus?”
“It’s an antiviral compound that includes a benign strain of the virus, allowing it to function as both a vaccine and a treatment.”
“Impressive,” Riggs said, nodding.
“Theoretically,” Frank said quickly. “Again, this hasn’t been tested on human subjects.”
“Still,” Riggs said, examining the file again. “This is quite a feat in a relatively brief amount of time.”
“I’m telling you, boys,” Temin said, laughing and slapping the table. “A virus killer. You couldn’t have picked a better man.”
“Indeed,” said Riggs, smiling along with him.
“Where did you find it?” Frank asked suddenly.
The broad smile across Riggs’s face slowly waned.
“It was engineered, obviously,” said Frank. “A retroviral vector doesn’t simply spring from the jungles of Africa. Someone made it. Who?”
Agents Carter and Riggs exchanged glances during the silence that followed.
Frank pressed on. “With all due respect, gentlemen, you’ve been jerking me around ever since you politely dropped off the sample. You give me very little preliminary data. You don’t tell how the sample came into your possession, nothing that could have directed my research. Then you ignore my repeated requests for additional intelligence. This seems counterproductive to me. The more I know about the virus, the better able I am to combat it.”
There was a moment’s silence, then Riggs shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“Is it a weapon?” Frank said.
Temin’s brow wrinkled, and he looked scowlingly at the agents. “Weapon?”
“Retroviral vectors have two purposes, General,” said Frank. “They’re either medicinal or a very cruel biological weapon.”
“What the hell is he talking about?” Temin said to the agents. He pointed an accusatory index finger. “Have you boys been harboring a bioweapon in this facility here without my knowledge? Because if so, so help me—”
“It’s not a weapon, sir,” Riggs said.
“No?” Temin said, his index finger frozen in air, his expression both deflated and confused.
“Our purpose here today, sir,” said Riggs, “is not to give an intelligence briefing. Much of what we know about the virus is still highly classified.”
“Classified?” Temin said, throwing a hand up. “Hell, I got more clearance than most of Congress.”
“I’m sure you do, sir,” said Riggs. “But our visit today concerns Dr. Hartman and his future role in our fight against VI6.”
“V16?” said Frank.
“The name we’ve given the virus,” said Riggs.
“You say my future role,” Frank said. “You sound as if it’s larger than perhaps I am aware.”
Agent Riggs looked knowingly at General Temin, who grunted and folded his arms in an obvious show of disagreement.
Frank caught Temin’s eye, but the general quickly looked away.
Agent Riggs leaned forward in his chair and pressed his hands together as if in prayer. “Dr. Hartman, you have my apologies if our secrecy on this matter has in any way hindered your research. The fact remains, however, that, despite our concealment, you’ve discovered how to treat VI6. That makes you a very important person to us.” He looked down at the folder a moment and cleared his throat. “As I’m sure you’re aware, Dr. Hartman, this facility is a critical component of the US Biological Defense Program. General Temin here works closely with the Defense Department’s interagency counterterrorism effort, of which our agency, the BHA, is also engaged. When the need arises, and with the approval of the Defense Department, we can recruit from this facility.”
Frank glanced at General Temin, who seemed to be expecting this, then turned back to the agents. “Are you implying, Agent Riggs, that you’re here to inform me of my recruitment into the BHA?”
“Temporarily, yes. We wouldn’t be asking for your help, Doctor, if we didn’t believe American lives were at stake. V16 is a serious threat. And currently your countervirus is the only leg we have to stand on.”
Temin spoke next. “I got the call this morning, Frank. This is straight from the top. I got no pull on this one.”
Frank wasn’t too surprised. Interagency assignments like this were common. CIA. FBI. NIH. Fellow researchers left all the time, some for months on end. It was part of the job. Some even jumped at the opportunity, seeing it as temporary escape from the rigor of military service. Extended shore leave, they called it.
Riggs said, “We ask that you bring with you all existing samples of the countervirus as well as all data relative to its creation.”
Frank nodded. He understood clear and simple. He wasn’t being asked. Going with the BHA was an order, and if General Temin was truly as powerless as he had said, it would do Frank little good to argue. “I see,” he said. “Well, I suppose I should pack, then. I have time for that, I assume?”
Riggs smiled. “Our plane leaves in the morning. But you need not pack much, Dr. Hartman. The BHA will see to it that all of your needs are met.”
There was something about the plasticity of Riggs’s smile that made Frank doubt him. He seemed suddenly like a greasy car salesman who knew more than he was letting on. Frank looked at Agent Carter, who, behind his stylish glasses, only stared back with a blank expression. General Temin, still with arms folded, looked angrily defeated. All traces of his characteristic cheerfulness had evaporated. Frank pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the table. The whole situation unnerved him. The secrecy. The virulence of the virus. The flashy suits. The rush to action. It all felt slightly off, like a distant alarm ringing in his head. Just as he decided to voice his concerns, Agents Riggs and Carter rose, said their good-byes, and told him where to report in the morning.
Then they were gone.
“Don’t let them screw you,” Temin said with brash finality as he got up and left the conference room. “Suits like that like will always screw you.”
Frank sat there alone a long moment, feeling as if the screwing had already begun.
3
TRANSPLANT
Dr. Monica Owens realized she was a bad parent six years after becoming one. The thought had been nagging at her conscience for years, but the truth and weight of it didn’t sink in and take root in her mind until she rose early one morning, went down to the kitchen, and tried to make pancakes for her son Wyatt.
I can do this, she told herself, scanning the instructions on the back of the pancake box and feeling overly confident. If I can perform a quadruple bypass, I can certainly whip up a few pancakes.
She set the box aside and began looking for a frying pan.
At forty, Monica still looked as young as some of the residents who shadowed her at the hospital. Many of her patients, mostly the bawdy older men, took great pleasure in telling her how attractive she was and how if anyone was going to see them naked on the operating table, it might as well be her. It was her eyes they talked about most, those strikingly green eyes, followed by her brown hair, which extended to her shoulders in layers and curled slightly upward at the tips. Her face, free of makeup—because her father had told her as a teenager that she didn’t need it—was narrow, angular, and spotted lightly with freckles. She wore black slacks, a white cotton blouse, perfect for the perpetual spring of Los Angeles, and a gray pair of running shoes.
Most of the cabinets now stood open. It stung Monica slightly to be reminded how unfamiliar she was with her own kitchen, but soon the right cabinet was found and the frying p
an secured. She placed it on the stove and turned the dial to what she guessed would be an appropriate setting.
Next came the mixing bowl.
She found that rather quickly, but couldn’t find a whisk, so she settled for a fork. After five minutes of stirring, she convinced herself that the batter was supposed to be lumpy and poured the first pancake into the pan.
Several minutes later she was fanning the smoke away and wondering how something so brown and so liquid could have gotten so black and so hard so quickly.
“What’s that weird smell?” Wyatt said, crinkling his nose as he came into the kitchen.
“Have a seat, Wyatt, Mom stayed home and made pancakes for you.”
He climbed up into a seat at the table.
He was short for a six-year-old, but Monica didn’t worry. Boys sprouted at the most random of ages. His sandy blond hair, still wet from the shower, hung limply across his forehead. He wore a pair of dark blue cargo pants with far too many zippers and pockets on the sides and a yellow T-shirt Monica didn’t recognize.
She scooped the pancake up with the spatula and laid it deftly on Wyatt’s plate. She might not know how to cook, but she was always deft.
“This is burnt, Mom,” he said.
“It got a little dark on one side. But the other side is fine.”
“I can’t eat just one side of the pancake, Mom. Where’s Rosa?”
The question she didn’t want to hear and didn’t want to answer. Rosa was Wyatt’s nanny. A better nanny the world had never known. Despite a weak grasp of the English language, Rosa seemed to have ESP at times, knowing precisely what Wyatt wanted or needed and having it ready for him before he even asked for it—not to the point of spoiling him, but in a way that made him feel involved and special. “I told her I was fixing your breakfast this morning,” said Monica. “I think she’s doing the laundry right now.”
As if on cue, Rosa came into the kitchen, carrying dishcloths and dish towels for the linen cabinet.
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