Tran typed into the CDC database and pulled up the data for the migratory behaviors of North American birds. The Zoonoses branch also dealt with the Avian Flu (if only this pandemic could be so insignificant), and bird migration was a standard element in the research. He then began clicking on a list of bird species. Each click detailed the migratory patterns of that particular species. After several clicks he stopped on the Tree Swallow. Another click isolated only Tree Swallows migrating from southern Florida: and there it was, the migratory pattern preceded the quarantine breaks by a week at the most.
He highlighted various sentences in the bird’s description page: Songbird white on the bottom, shiny blue-green on top. Outside the breeding season, the birds congregate into enormous flocks. Use many feathers from other birds in their nests built over or immediately adjacent to water. The Tree Swallow winters farther north than any other American swallow, its spring and summer breeding range covers most of the Northern US as well as Canada and Alaska.
The recurrent sound of bird chirps outside snapped Tran out of his search. He set down the computer and quickly started throwing on some clothes.
With a combination of excitement over his potential solution, to at least part of the puzzle, and a tremendous foreboding, over songbirds no less, Tran barged into the Zoonoses lab with a severe lack of coordination. The lab, actually the entire CDC and its Canadian counterpart, were on a twenty-four hour war footing. Sleep was an afterthought, as was food (until the rationing kicked in and reminded people that they had better eat when they could). Tran crashed into several stools and nearly knocked over some lab equipment as he set down his computer bag and notebooks.
Susan Chancellor and her assistant, Aaron Burnbaum, were standing in front of an electron microscope studying an image of live FND-z bacterium.
Susan said, “Tran. Good, you’re here. Even though this nasty bug keeps shape shifting, I think we’ve finally sequenced its genetic code.”
“It’s from a bird or bird related,” said Tran.
“How did you know?”
“A Tree Swallow to be exact.”
“Actually, we believe it’s from a variety of chicken. We think Cornish Game Hen. What makes you say Tree Swallow?”
“Because Cornish Game Hens don’t migrate.”
“Meaning?”
Tran opened his computer and woke it up. He still had the screens up from earlier. “This thing is not some terrorist attack. It’s evolution at its best – or worst, depending on how you look at it.”
Susan and Aaron moved over to Tran’s computer and folded their arms in anticipation.
Tran continued, “We know that this bacterium made it into the human circulatory system via water. COTPER even confirmed this occurrence in municipalities with less regulated pollution controls. You know, like Miami’s Biscayne Bay aquifer. On any given day the folks in Miami have no idea where their water is coming from.”
“Yes, yes, we know all of this,” said Susan.
“People who drank from that aquifer and became ill, were getting their water from wells or other non-protected areas upstream from purification plants.”
Aaron said, “You’re not telling us anything really new, Tran.”
“Just laying the groundwork. Now I want you to look at this map of the disease as it jumped past the containment zones and look at the dates. Now look at this map of the migration patterns of the Tree Swallow, in particular, those tagged in southern Florida. The dates are basically a week apart.”
“It’s interesting Robert,” said Susan, “But we’re getting chicken not swallow.”
“Bear with me,” said Tran. “The Tree Swallow builds its nest, in part, by using the feathers of other birds. In fact they have been known to do aerial combat with each other over falling feathers. What if you’re right and it is chicken, but what if the bacterium jumped to the Tree Swallow who was stealing the chicken’s discarded but contaminated feathers?” Tran felt rather proud of himself as he wrapped up that last sentence.
Susan said, “Hmm, I have to admit I kind of like it. However, it doesn’t explain avian/human transference.”
“The Tree Swallow nests primarily near to or preferably over fresh water. Birds have to poop. These birds poop in the water. Classic vector-borne to water-borne transference.”
Susan gave it some more thought then she nodded to herself. “It makes sense. I’m going to devote your team’s energy to it, Tran. Get them in here.”
“I think we’re going to have to devote everybody to it.”
“Why?”
“The Tree Swallow does most of its summer nesting in the Northern states and all of Canada. Based on conjecture only at this point, because this year’s migration studies are obviously shot, I’d estimate that they have already arrived in their traditional nesting grounds. I know what you’re going to say, the entire population of infection-free Canada is required to boil water, but I guarantee you there are folks in rural areas that are quite sure of the safety of their local, non-municipal water supplies and aren’t bothering with the boil order. It’s a guess of course, but I think we can assume that the Saint Lawrence Wall will be breached from within, and soon.”
Susan and Aaron went cold at the thought.
Director Louis-Gelding was briefed and was quickly convinced that Tran’s theory had more than merit. She ran it straight up to the joint chiefs where it was decided that a team of CDC scientists, along with a small platoon of Army Rangers, should be dispatched to Southern Florida with the intent to locate the suspected poultry farm. It was hoped that by finding the original super bug it could then be genetically altered to reduce or preferably eliminate its harmfulness. A vaccine of sorts then might be created that could help a human host fight off the little bastard. Unfortunately, this wasn’t going to save tens of millions of Americans who had already been infected. For those poor souls there was no hope. The brain damage was irreversible. Their only salvation rested in a quick death. The armed forces had a plan for that going in high gear. The assault would be the greatest clash of forces in human history. The preparations were enormous, not the least of which was the added burden of repatriating America's massive overseas military forces. The seemingly never ending Overseas Contingency Operation (aka, terrorist whack-a-mole), and the containment of China had become an afterthought in America’s fight for life.
Tran, Susan, Aaron and five other CDC scientists packed preassembled gear for field-testing into a van. Until now, no one ever imagined that Florida would be a Hot Zone. All of the scientists had been flown to various South, Central American, African and Southeast Asian countries at one time or another. All the same, the routine was identical: A small amount of personal gear was allowed. Everyone made sure his or her hazmat suit was packed and ready to throw on before touchdown.
The vans pulled up to a small civilian airport, which was now occupied by the US Army. It was abuzz with activity as the scientists stepped out next to two big CH-47D Chinook helicopters. A captain dressed in battle fatigues barked out orders to a platoon of thirty-two Army Rangers, a squad of which was finishing loading a Humvee into one of the Chinooks.
A Bird Colonel, dressed for deskwork, directed another squad to start transferring the scientific equipment. The two men walked over to introduce themselves, “Ms. Chancellor? Colonel Gilbert Shaw, director of the flight operations here. This is Captain O’Shea who will be leading the military aspect of your mission.”
Susan reached out and shook their hands, “No time to lose, gentlemen. We can talk about the particulars of the mission while en route.”
Captain O’Shea spoke with a soft North Carolina accent. “That’s fine, Doctor Chancellor, ma’am.” He pointed at the nearest helicopter, “If you and your team would board that one from the rear, Sergeant Bullock will get you seated. We should be ready in five.” He gave a slight tip of his helmet and went back to work.
Colonel Shaw, with a pained look in his eyes, followed alongside the scientists saying, “T
his equipment is the best the Army has in this area. Considering the pending re-invasion of the homeland and the myriad of other things we’re trying to juggle, we’re lucky to gain the use of them. Still, I’m told your mission gets first priority.” The man was clearly uncomfortable about giving up the two helicopters.
Susan said, “That’s correct, Colonel. First priority.”
The colonel offered a retreating smile and waved an arm toward the big aircraft. They were bigger than a city bus and sported dual rotors. “They’re designed for in-flight refueling, but unfortunately our tankers are stretched to the limit bringing our troops back from overseas. We’ve devised another plan. You’ll make two stops on your way to Florida. Both are Army airfields and should have plenty of aviation fuel. From the satellite imagery, there does appear to be evidence of infected humans in both locations. As a precaution, both have been targeted with a nerve agent bombing.”
Susan stopped them all twenty yards short of the loading ramp, “May I ask what type of nerve agent, Colonel?”
The Colonel mulled over his answer, then decided to just come out with it. The world was going to hell in a hand-basket, who gives a crap about being PC with chemical warfare? “It’s Novichok. We have limited supplies for applications such as this.”
“That’s a Russian product, no?” asked Tran.
The colonel ignored this, saying, “The thing to keep in mind with Novichok is that it’s sticky. It leaves an oily residue that can stay on whatever it touches for months. You touch this stuff and you die. Period. Both re-fuelings will require that all personnel wear their chemical warfare suits - hazmat suits in your team’s case. Captain O’Shea’s troops are an elite fighting force and they are all veterans of overseas action as well as the evacuation. They’ve all handled a Shitfob or ten, so you are in good hands. You’ll of course have to land twice again as you return north. With any luck, you’ll remain incident free.”
“Now you’ve jinxed us,” said Aaron under his breath.
Rick Decker, a CDC blood analyst, piped in, “How come we don’t just take an airplane down to Guantanamo, get our helicopters there?”
The Colonel grimaced, “Gitmo’s gone, son. Cuban’s overran it last week. No way to take it back now.”
Susan started them walking again. “Well, there are only a handful of chicken farms in southern Florida, the most likely culprit is the one industrial size farm that we are targeting. I believe it’s called Happyland Farms.
“Known for their Plump Okeechobee Boilers,” added Tran.
CHAPTER TEN
Stratton
Nikki drove without incident across the Maine border; not much – Leaving New Hampshire – Welcome To Maine-The Way Life Should Be - and kept going. They passed occasional houses and buildings, everything abandoned.
Knowing her fellow Americans, she was surprised that more people hadn’t stayed to make a stand. Then again, when an entire nation passes your doorstep trying to escape a marauding mass of mindless cannibals... and the threat of nerve gas- She had to stop making excuses for her dumb decision to stay. She had been a fool to agree with Bob and the other guys to hold out at the mansion. If she’d insisted on her intuition, as in - this is nuts, let’s get the hell out of here…. Heck, if they’d followed orders, she’d be safely behind the Saint Lawrence.
She cursed herself, then shook it off. She knew very well the pointlessness of lamenting spilt milk. The only path was forward. Accept the mess and get on with it. That’s what her father would say. Dad, the Sergeant Major of the Marine Corp, the decorated war hero, daredevil of Fallujah, Operation Iraqi Freedom - he’d stopped speaking to her when she’d been dishonorably discharged, well, really before that. She’d heard he was alive and helping coordinate the re-invasion. She wondered if he thought about her.
Jon’s snoring changed and she looked over her shoulder to see if he was awake. He turned on his side and pulled his knees up, still asleep.
She looked back down the road, dad invading her thoughts. She’d joined the Corp to find his heart, make him notice. When she was twelve (and just growing breasts of her own) her mom had suddenly contracted breast cancer and died within a month. It had happened so fast. Her dad had barely made it back from combat duty to be there for the end. As soon as mom had been buried, he had gone from the occasional visit while on leave to full time soldier, requesting repeated redeployments in The Long War. For him, his daughter remained a stranger connected by an occasional email and a rare, almost wordless, video chat. He had come back for the Fourth of July when she was sixteen. By then they were strangers. Awkwardly, he tried to insert himself as a disciplinarian in her then chaotically teenage life. It blew up into an inevitable screaming match and he left to go back to his unit before the celebrations began.
She was raised by a series of Marine Corps' Family Child Care providers (her dad picking up the tab and arranging for someone new each time she became “too difficult” for her surrogate parents). For most of them, the financial benefit of caring for a pre-teen with attitude who then grew into a teenager with severe anger and abandonment issues, just wasn’t worth it. So she bounced from home to home until she was old enough to enlist herself.
She guessed, no, hoped, that if she joined the Corp she’d get to see him, get close enough to be acknowledged - Daddy’s girl following in his footsteps. It didn’t work out that way. He had come to watch her graduate from boot camp, but that was it. He called once when word got around of her daring leadership during an assault on a Taliban stronghold in Waziristan, Pakistan. She’d won a bronze star (the trinket had helped when she was facing that possible court-martial for killing the rapist Sudanese chief). Her dad had asked her about the fight and she found herself embellishing what was really just a classic assault on a fortified house. The difference was that her actions had helped save the life of a US Senator’s son (a brave soldier who was pinned down and badly wounded). Her dad sniffed out the embellishments and the conversation turned from a pride-filled occasion to his disappointment with her need to lie. That was the last time she’d spoken with him.
She focused on the road and realized that she had drifted into the oncoming lane, not that anything was coming the other way. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled crookedly as a soft snore escaped Jon’s lips. She had to admire this reporter guy. He’d stayed behind to tell the tale. It seemed a bit suicidal, but his survival instinct was clearly intact.
They were approaching the Sugarloaf ski resort when Jon woke. He sat up looking dazed. “Wow, was I out. Where are we?”
“Some ski area.”
The hill was covered in meadows where in winter they would be covered in ski-happy revelers. A large herd of deer grazed on the face of one of the wider slopes.
Jon wiped the sleep from his eyes. “It’s a good sign if deer can relax.”
They passed a sign indicating Flagstaff Lake 1 mile and just then, a green Subaru wagon came over the rise ahead. Nikki had to swerve into her own lane as the car shot past them going south. The driver had beeped repeatedly, flicked his passing lights on and off and disappeared, tires squealing around a bend. The deer bounded off into the woods.
“What the hell?” Nikki exclaimed.
“We better slow down.”
“I’m not sure I want to keep going.”
Jon climbed back in front and grabbed the map. “Can we turn around and go another way?”
“It’s a lot of lost ground, but yes. Problem is, it takes us to Route 201, a bigger artery.”
They passed a house. Nikki saw movement - a flash of a man in an attic window. “You see that? That guy had a radio.”
“Didn’t see it.”
“Mmm, this doesn’t feel good.”
“So let’s stop. Maybe we walk up to that rise. See what we see.”
“Let’s just take it easy, I’ll be ready to flip a bitch. Floor it if we have to.”
They went over the rise without incident and houses became thicker as Route 16 became yet anoth
er Small Town Main Street. Nikki feathered the gas and the brakes, not wanting to slow down too much and ready to floor it if she had to.
Jon looked at the houses and saw a curtain flutter here and there and then caught the eyes of a child watching them. “This town isn’t abandoned. There’s people in some of these houses.”
They came around the next curve and found themselves in a perfect ambush. The road ahead was blocked by smashed up cars. One car, just moments before, had overturned trying to stop. Its wheels were still spinning. A family was trapped inside, screaming.
Several men wearing assorted hunting and military gear stepped out from behind the cars, armed to the teeth.
Nikki swore, “Fuck. I’m such an asshole!” She slammed on the brakes, put the car in reverse, but had to slam on the brakes again as another group of armed men ran onto the road behind them and laid a telephone pole across it. They were trapped. A man wearing an Army officer’s uniform and sporting an M-16 stepped out in front of the others and leveled the gun. “Out of the car. Hands in the air. Fuck around and we shoot you.” He nodded to the side of the road where two bodies lay face down, apparently shot execution style.
Some of the men began pulling the people out of the flipped car, using little mercy.
Jon flicked on the cruiser’s PA switch and spoke into the mic. “You people are interfering with officers of the law. Hold down your weapons and let us pass.”
The guy with the M-16, flanked by a guy wearing sergeant stripes and full battle fatigues stepped up to the driver side of the car. Both Jon and Nikki pointed their weapons toward them. The man spoke evenly, his voice clear through the hole in the windshield, “Major Gerald Deighton, United States Army. You’ve entered my area of operations.”
Jon tried again through the PA so others could hear. “Step back from the car. Put your weapons down. We have urgent business.”
Of Sudden Origin (Of Sudden Origin Saga Book 1) Page 7