The Society of One Hundred Neighbors, conceived in secret during the early 1940s, arose from political philosopher Lancaster Hill’s treatise, 100 Neighbors. Hill’s masterpiece, and several volumes that followed it, were written in response to Franklin Roosevelt’s economic and social legislations known collectively as the New Deal. Initially, there were only a dozen Neighbors, strategically placed throughout the country. But within a year, the one-hundred-member limit prescribed by Hill had been reached. One hundred neighbors. No more, and no less.
Bacon was a jovial, round-bellied Southerner, with a mind for numbers and an encyclopedic knowledge of Scotch. He was still a crack shot with a Remington, even after the hunting accident that had left him with a permanent limp and only two toes on his left foot. As the chosen director of the society, he was an ex-officio member of all seven of their current APs—Action Projects. From what he had been told just two days ago, AP-Janus, the most ambitious, far-reaching undertaking in the group’s history, was in trouble. Bacon took a sip of Macallan 18, one of his favorites, and smiled thinly. No one who knew him had ever seen him lose his cool. Perhaps Scotch was the reason.
N-80, Dr. Carlton Reeves, was a professor of surgery at Michigan. When Bacon first learned of the Janus bacteria, he had assigned Reeves to look into it further. Later, when the stunning possibilities had become clear, he had made the physician the coordinator of the AP and helped him to form his team. It was Reeves who had convened this advisory committee videoconference.
The members of the Society of One Hundred Neighbors blended with those around them as effectively as chameleons in a jungle. They wore business suits and ties to work, flannel shirts or uniforms or lab coats, and often carried briefcases. They lived in cities or towns in nearly every state, and whatever their talents, were uniformly respected for the quiet skill they brought to their jobs. But beneath their varied positions and appearances, the members of One Hundred Neighbors were joined by a singleness of purpose.
They were all, by the most widely accepted definitions, terrorists.
The goal of the organization, a straight line from Lancaster Hill, was quite simple. By any means, they were pledged to eliminate the suffocating government programs of entitlement that had brought America lurching to the brink of bankruptcy.
Bacon took the brief oath as director in 1993, taking over from the woman whose failing health had led her to relinquish leadership of the society. It was the year Bill Clinton had begun his first term as president, and also the year Islamic fundamentalists bombed the World Trade Center. Bacon, a registered Democrat and universally revered investment banker, had squelched efforts to put him on a short list for a post in the Clinton cabinet. Too much visibility and too little mobility.
His office was in the North Tower of the WTC. However, he was away at the time of the lethal bombing. His vacation was hardly a coincidence, given that he had financed mastermind Ramzi Yousef and had chosen the day of the truck bomb explosion. The goal of the Neighbors at that time was the erosion of the public’s confidence in the head of the House Armed Services Committee that would lead to his resignation.
“Are we ready, Eighty?” Bacon asked. “I’m certain Nine will be here shortly, so we might as well begin.”
Bacon’s face, like those of the others, was electronically distorted. The bottom of the massive screen displayed small boxes containing the encrypted video feed of each attendee, while the center area was reserved for a larger display of whoever was speaking. Bacon’s feed was the only one to run in the upper-left corner of everyone’s display.
The director held fiat over all board decisions. The advisory committee was there to help plan a new AP or to deal with decisions involving a member. Bacon would be a Neighbor until he could no longer do the job, after which his number would be given over to his replacement. Lancaster Hill had wisely laid out the blueprint of succession seventy-five years before:
Any Neighbor who no longer serves the cause because of an illness, shall be retired by the board, and their number reassigned to their replacement.
Except for health issues, no one ever left the society of their own volition. Members were sometimes dismissed when they lost their positions, or their influence otherwise waned, but they were always quickly replaced. Rarely, a member insisted on disengaging himself, or was found to be a security risk. In those instances, there were specialists in elimination who were kept on retainer at the advisory committee’s discretion.
The final screen lit up as Selma Morrow, N-9, activated her camera. She was chief of strategy and operations for Phelps and Snowdon, considered one of the strongest hedge funds in the country. She held the same position on the society advisory committee, and as such was a consultant to every AP. A personal favorite of Bacon’s, Nine would be his nominee to succeed him when the time came. For the moment, though, succession was not the issue.
The Janus strain was.
“Good to see you all,” Eighty said, “at least as much as I can see you. I wouldn’t call you all together unless you needed to hear this update regarding AP-Janus. To review, the Janus bacteria came to our attention some time ago thanks to N-Seventy-one, who stumbled on the germ accidentally while investigating another bacteria. The complete microbiology of Janus is too complex to go into here, but basically, most bacteria are divided into two major groups depending on whether or not their cell walls accept Gram staining—a process invented in the late nineteenth century, and still widely used today. Gram positive bacteria appear purple under a microscope, and Gram negative, once they are counterstained with the red dye safranin, appear pink.”
“Excuse me,” Twenty-six, a specialist in mass psychology, asked, “but you said most bacteria are either Gram positive or Gram negative. Most but not all?”
“Precisely.”
“But the Janus bacteria is neither?”
“Right again. Even though nearly all bacteria are either Gram positive or Gram negative, a very few, relative to the probably tens of millions of different species, are Gram intermediate—neither purple nor pink. There are even some that are Gram variable, staining either positive or negative depending on the age of the germ at the time it is removed from its culture medium for staining. But Janus is different. Janus has the genetic makeup that enables it to change from positive to negative and back again. Other properties of the germ are constantly in flux as well.”
“Like a shape-shifter,” Ninety-seven said. “That’s why it’s resistant to all antibiotics.”
Ninety-seven was a mechanical engineer and mathematician, just six years past earning a dual Ph.D. at MIT. The youngest of the Neighbors, her adult-adjusted IQ had been measured at 182.
“Actually,” Eighty replied, “it seems the Gram positive form is sensitive to some antibiotics, but the Gram negative is totally resistant to all—all, that is, except one—a sequence, actually. Almost by accident, Seventy-one stumbled on a combination of chemicals that, administered in a particular order, completely eradicated the Janus strain. It was tried on infections induced in pigs, then monkeys, and finally in several humans. The sequence eradicated every one of their infections—like magic.”
“No side effects?”
“None in the past three years that we can see. But now a problem has arisen.”
“You mean a challenge,” Bacon corrected.
“Of course. A challenge. The Janus strain is working as we hoped. In that regard, it is clear to everyone in the government that we are capable of delivering on our threat.”
The name of the demon germ had been carefully chosen. Janus, the two-faced Roman god of duality—beginning and end; comedy and tragedy; birth and death; health and sickness. There was something unsettling about the name, which was just what the advisory committee wanted. Something creepy.
Bacon approved of the way the head of AP-Janus was going about his explanation. Unfortunately, the director knew what was coming next.
“But the situation has changed,” he said, completing Eighty’s thre
ad. “Our treatment is no longer effective.”
Taking another sip of Scotch, Bacon worked to keep his emotions in check. After years of probing and experimenting, of whittling away at obstacles and taking baby steps toward the ultimate goal—specifically a threat Congress and the president could not dismiss—they finally had the technology to complete the mission, to fulfill the dream. There had to be a way to overcome this setback.
“Precisely,” Eighty said. “The challenge, as you so aptly put it, is that the Janus strain is simply too good.”
“Too good?” Forty-four asked.
Forty-four was a highly decorated retired admiral, now a U.S. senator from Rhode Island. His responsibility was to keep his identity a secret, while brokering the bargain with the government that was at the heart of the Janus project. Nine was assisting him, and until this unexpected development, they had been close—extremely close—to pulling it off. The spawn of Roosevelt’s New Deal was on the verge of being erased, and Lancaster Hill’s vision was about to become reality.
America would no longer be held hostage by its government, and the country would begin to flourish, freed at last from the financial shackles of entitlements. Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid would become anachronistic symbols of America’s parasitic, destructive social welfare policies. The staggering national debt would shrink like a bank of spring snow. Only those who could afford it would ever be admitted to a hospital.
“First of all,” Eighty said, “the spread of infection has gone beyond our predications. Then, when we tried to pull back while the powers in Washington were considering our offer, we discovered that Janus had become resistant to our treatment.”
“Explain yourself,” Forty-four said.
“Nine is keeping track of all of the reported cases of infection.”
“I’ll patch it onto the screen,” the head of strategy and logistics said.
A map of America appeared on the screen. There were red dots in most of the states—each dot, according to the map’s key, representing an infection with the media-dubbed Doomsday Germ.
“This map is from twenty months ago,” Nine said. “Every one of these infections were placed by one of the people we enlisted to assist us with this aspect of AP-Janus. They are all reliable, and fully support our philosophy and goals. Now, here is a map from nine months ago. We expected some contagion, and that is what we are seeing here. At this point, Health and Human Services Secretary Goodings asked us to pull back and have our people treat the infection with our system of antibiotics until she could meet with the president. That’s when the trouble began.”
A new map replaced the old and immediately Bacon felt his chest tighten. Instead of seeing red dots in fifteen states, there were dots in every state, and the numbers in the original states had quadrupled.
“I thought the bacteria needed a deep wound to spread,” he said.
“That was what we thought as well,” Eighty replied. “Not only has Janus become resistant to our treatment, but it is spreading in unexpected ways. It’s quite remarkable, in fact. Our scientists have never seen so profound an adaptation take place so quickly.”
“Forty-four, what is the current status of our negotiations with the secretary?” Bacon asked the senator.
“They’re panicked about the fact that word is leaking out. We knew they were stalling until their microbiologists could come up with an effective treatment, but as far as we can tell, they haven’t gotten there. The deadline we gave them is almost up, but of course with this new resistance, as soon as the government realizes what’s happened, we will have lost our leverage.”
“The rapid adaptation has taken us all by surprise,” Eighty said. “Initially, as you alluded, it took a significant inoculum of bacteria for infection to take hold—a deep wound. Now, any sized cut, even a gap from a hangnail, might be enough to cause an infection. Doctors would need to be using extreme bio-safety protocols to properly protect themselves and other patients from the germ.”
Bacon felt his cheeks flush. He dreaded the answer to the question he needed to ask.
“What does your model show in a year’s time?”
“This is just a projection,” Nine said, “but I’m afraid you’re not going to like what it shows.”
Again, one map faded from the conference screen, soon replaced by another. Bacon steeled himself. The red dots made the country appear to have suffered a severe case of the measles. Thousands of cases, involving even the less populated states.
“Good lord, what’s the death toll projection?”
“Unless we can find a way to treat the infection, the death toll will just continue to rise. In addition, of course, AP-Janus will be finished. Our bargaining chip will have vanished, and the hunt for the identities of every one of us will intensify. Sooner rather than later, the FBI will offer enough for someone to crack.”
Bacon cringed and leaned back in his plush leather chair, feeling the coldness of the damp stone floor soak into his bones. Instead of rescuing America, the Society of One Hundred Neighbors was about to destroy it.
“We are not mass murderers,” he said. “We have a purpose here.… Ideas?”
After a silent minute, Ninety-seven, the mathematician/engineer, spoke up.
“If we launch a containment strategy, we believe we can limit the loss of life to less than a thousand individuals. But remember, that’s only a projection. At the moment, the cart is very much dragging the horse.”
“What sort of containment strategy do you have in mind?”
“We would need to kill all infected individuals,” she said without emotion, “and stop infecting new ones. Even then, to stretch my equine analogy, the horse may already be out of the barn.”
Bacon grimaced. “We are so close. The president and the secretary know what Janus can do to public confidence in our hospital system. They are close to caving in. We absolutely cannot stop now. Eighty?”
“I believe we need to take a more active role in developing an effective treatment for the germ. Seventy-one, who made the initial discovery that started AP-Janus, is working intensively at modifying the treatment protocol. And, of course, from the moment we first contacted them with our offer, the government has been working on a solution.”
“How close are they?”
“They have a microbiologist leading a secret task force,” Eighty said. “Our ability to intercept his communication with his team is frequently compromised by the NSA, but we have reason to believe progress is being made.”
“So then, we put this scientist to work for us,” Bacon said. “We must possess both the cause and the cure or all is lost. Can we get to him?”
“Thanks to Nine’s foresight, we have had a contingency plan for this very scenario in place from the moment we activated AP-Janus. Forty-five is our inside man. He should be able to obtain the asset.”
At last, Bacon had a reason to smile.
He took a more relaxed sip of his Scotch, and said, “Then you will proceed.”
CHAPTER 3
As for man, the biological laws make no exception for intelligence or wealth. The laws of God only demand that we do what we can in what time we have, to make the world a place where laziness and sloth are never rewarded.
—LANCASTER R. HILL, Climbing the Mountain, SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1938, P.111
Lou had fallen twice while traversing the rain-slicked rocks and roots. Lou and Cap finished at a slower pace, turning some heads as they dragged across the rustic lobby of the lodge, muddied and scraped.
“I think we’ll bag our run today,” someone called after them. “Too much of a contact sport.”
Still shaken from his falls, Lou headed for the shower while Cap checked the highway map for the best route to his aunt’s house in Buford. Twenty minutes later, Lou emerged from a cloud of steam, ready to take on the forest again.
“Looks like I might be back after dinner, so you’ll have to eat without me,” Cap said.
“Not a problem. I sho
uld probably do some schmoozing for Filstrup anyway.”
“How do you think the election is going to go?”
“Honestly?… The speech lacks passion,” Lou said. “Abraham Lincoln could give it and it would still fall flat.”
“Ouch.”
“Many of the docs involved in physician wellness organizations are in recovery themselves. Filstrup’s views, well, they’re clinical at best. Long on pomposity, short on grit.”
“Why is he running for this office, anyway?”
“You’re talking about a guy who has called me for progress reports on the election several times since we got here, while his wife is still in the ICU. Clearly his ego was bought in a plus-sized store.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll give it your all.”
“Believe me, pal, I care a lot more about Marjory Filstrup’s irregular heart rhythm than I do about Walter’s election. Besides, even though I’ve got another day to read it over, Filstrup would gut me if I so much as changed a word, so what there is is what they’re gonna get.”
“After our run tomorrow, I’ll listen to you read it if you want.”
“You’re going to hate it.”
“Nah, man. It’s cool. I haven’t had a vacation in ages, and I’m really happy being here, so helping you and your boss out is the least I can do.”
“I’m glad the trip’s working out, thanks in large part to that touchdown catch you made out there.”
“Aw, shucks.”
Lou left while Cap was showering. The van hired to shuttle folks to the tour of the CDC was idling near the entrance to the lodge. Lou doubted he would be on time to snag a window seat, but to his surprise there were only two other passengers. According to their name tags, they were Dr. Brenda Greene, an internist from Oregon, and Dr. Harvey Plimpton from Connecticut, who had lost interest in his specialty of gastroenterology somewhere in his late fifties and had become certified by the American Board of Addiction Medicine.
Greene, a garrulous and gregarious redhead, was utterly dismayed with the small turnout.
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