"Well, the virus does not seem to be killing—"
"That's the point, isn't it? The virus isn’t killing enough people to be a concern. Oh, I understand, it's a concern to you and me—and any scientist or doctor. But to the politicians? The death threshold hasn't been met."
Daniels’ face hardened. "Be careful who you say these things to, Major."
"General, if this thing goes through an antigen drift, it's just one more step down the line toward a true shift. If that happens, it won’t matter who the hell we say anything to—"
Daniels held up his hand. "Major, I understand the consequences of an antigen shift. I was there, in this seat, in a lab very much like this one during the Great Pandemic," he said with a glance around the darkened room. "Next to Dr. Boatner, I doubt anyone else in the world understands more than me just how dangerous this thing could possibly be. Well," he said with a wan smile. "I can't say that anymore. You seem to have joined our little club." He stood up and straightened his dress uniform. "To that end, since you are doing the majority of the work on your own, I have instructed a team of assistants to help you. If the SEALs are successful in their mission—"
"They will be," Brenda said with a quiet confidence she didn't fully feel. She had to say it—she had to say it for herself.
"You're right, Major. Of course. When the SEALs bring Dr. Boatner back here, the real work can begin. In the meantime, what you're doing is critical in more ways than you can imagine."
Brenda leaned back in her chair, the springs squeaking. "How's that, sir?"
"President Harris needs accurate information. It's the most powerful tool we have right now outside the Marine Corps. Barron has been taking over the federal security forces one by one and bribing people with food, shelter, and money for their loyalty. Information is becoming more powerful than weaponry. We need to stay one step ahead."
"Well sir," Brenda said as she stood and picked up a stack of reports from the cluttered desk. "These reports are all being transmitted to us from independent doctors and what's left of the state health agencies. They’re displaying a disturbing pattern."
"What kind of pattern?" asked Daniels. He held out his hand and took the reports from Brenda. He rifled through a few of them and focused on one in the middle. "Is this accurate?"
Brenda nodded. "Yes, sir. From what I can gather, it looks like the virus is undergoing some kind of moderate antigen drift—at least in the southern states. I can't explain why—I don't have the experience or the resources yet. But this thing is changing. It doesn't appear to be too bad, but the cases of violent sickness and high fever are increasing in Georgia, South Carolina, and Kentucky. That's a pretty good swath of the South. It seems to be working its way west."
"This report says the same thing is happening in southern California."
Brenda swallowed. "That's correct, sir. We’re just starting to get preliminary feedback that suggests we might be seeing the same or similar antigen drifts in the Los Angeles-San Diego corridor. I've got the latest report from Oregon here," she said holding up a single sheet, "and it looks like there's a few cases outside of Portland with the drifted strain as well."
"How does it present?"
Brenda sighed. “Much like the initial infection that we saw when both coasts were hit with the bio-weapon. Fast onset fever that spikes in the 102-103 degree range. Shakes, chills, and oftentimes immobilization. People get infected, they develop a severe fever—maybe even hallucinations—and before they know it, their body hurts so much that all they can do is lay down and cough up the mucus their lungs. We had reports that even some of our most physically fit soldiers have fallen ill, men capable of carrying hundreds of pounds of gear are suddenly weak as kittens."
"Yes," said the General in a faraway voice. His eyes stared across the lab at nothing. "Just like ten years ago…"
Brenda nodded again. "That's what scares me, sir. The NKors used The Pandemic strain." She sighed again and threw her paper on the desk. "The bug that damn near wiped out all of us!"
The General peered at the glowing, blue-green face of the enemy. "We know they've modified the genetic structure of this thing. Have you been able to identify how and where?"
Brenda ran a hand through her hair again. "Sir, this is way outside my field of expertise."
"You’ve said that. I understand, Major—now answer the question."
Brenda took a deep breath. "If you look here," she tapped a few keys on her keyboard and pointed at the screen. "This image displays the genetic sequence from the original virus of the Great Pandemic, overlaid with what we’re dealing with today." She tapped a few more keys. "Just for reference, I've overlaid the genetic sequence from the samples we've attained from South Carolina and Kentucky over both. See that?" she asked as she pointed to the brightly-colored genetic markers. She tapped a key and the overlay disappeared. She tapped it again and it reappeared.
"They triggered that gene sequence."
"That's right," she said. She folded her arms across her chest and hugged herself, suddenly cold. "By doing that, they left this third sequence left open. The only way to make the virus lose its lethality. Unfortunately, as you can see here," she tapped the key again and the overlay of the mutated virus reappeared, "the virus decided it wanted a workaround. It activated this dormant gene here and a new sequence starts…” she pointed at the screen, “there. From this point on, the genome changes. It's the same virus, but it's different now. More lethal."
"That’s no drift, Major. It looks more like a complete shift to me."
"I’m in no position to confirm this, sir. We need experts…”
“Try,” said the General.
Brenda took a breath and nodded. “Yes, sir. The reports I have indicate that the fatality rates have gone from approximately 2% to 10%."
"And the infection rates?"
Brenda shook her head. "They've increased even more—anyone who had been previously exposed to The Pandemic had a pretty good chance of survival. We really only had to worry about people with underlying conditions. Now…”
She shrugged. “This new drifted strain of the weaponized flu has a 10% fatality rate–even among people who survived The Pandemic. Granted, we don't have the full picture yet,” she said and pointed at the closest monitor, "but look at this sample from South Carolina—there’s a hotspot around Charleston that’s approaching a 15% fatality rate.”
“Jesus. Even among those who survived The Pandemic?” asked General Daniels.
“Yes, sir.” She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest again. “Among that small population who has no immunity at all—who were never exposed to The Pandemic—it’s much worse.” She tapped the screen and a graph appeared.
Daniels whistled. “Is this accurate?”
She nodded. "Unfortunately, yes. You can see by that spike there.”
“Children 10 and under?”
“Yes, sir. They’re the largest group of people alive today with no exposure to The Pandemic strain. Infection rates are approaching 85%. Fatality rates are in the 25% to 45% range. I never thought I’d hear myself say it, but getting sick ten years ago is turning out to be a real blessing.”
It was the General’s turn to frown and cross his arms. "Your sample is too small. But anecdotally, it's there—I can feel it. This thing is changing and it's infecting and killing more people as a result."
Brenda sighed. "That about sums it up, sir. I wish I had better news."
"Major, you've done outstanding work. I’ll have your research assistants here within the hour. I've scoured the personnel files of everybody we have on this base and I've discovered somebody who slipped through the cracks at USAMRIID. He took a voluntary demotion to stay there during the last reorg. Chuck Digen. He's not a full-fledged virologist, but he’ll be able to help you out better than anyone else we have on hand, I think."
"Good! I'll be happy to turn this mess over to him."
Daniels shook his head. "It's not that simple, Major. Digen s
hould be a light colonel by now, but he's only a captain.” General Daniels raised a hand. “You'll remain in overall command of this facility."
Brenda put a hand to her face and rubbed her aching temples. "So I've got a dropout captain assigned under me who probably knows ten times more about this stuff that I do and should outrank me?”
Daniels smiled ruefully. "That about sums it up, Major. Welcome to command."
He turned to leave and opened his mouth to speak when a light flashed on the desk and a woman's voice announced over the intercom, "Major Alston?"
Brenda slapped the intercom without thinking to get approval from Daniels first. "Alston here, go ahead.”
"General Daniels said he was coming to check in on you. Is he there?"
Brenda backed away from the desk as the General reached forward to hit the button on his own. "This is Daniels," he said.
"General, you have an incoming transmission. It's tagged as T1-3."
Daniels looked at Brenda and picked up the integrated receiver. "Go ahead and patch it through to this terminal. Authorization Zulu-Victor-Alpha-957."
Brenda stood and watched Daniels for a moment. He listened to the message on the phone and his face softened. A smile formed on his lips.
What the hell kind of phone call gets marked as T1-3? Brenda figured it had to be something of importance to national security. General Daniels was head of the Army's medical research branch. He wouldn't be receiving reports from the front lines. That was for the mainline Army staff.
The most pressing medical situations currently active—tactically speaking—were the rescue attempts of Mr. Huntley and Dr. Boatner. Brenda's heart begin to race.
Oh God, please let it be good news.
After an interminable wait, Daniels smiled, mumbled his thanks into the receiver, and hung up. He stared at the computer monitor displaying the image of the enemy and his smile broadened. "You know what that message was?"
Brenda looked at the General then down at the desk. She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry…she mostly wanted him to just say something already.
"That was a coded transmission from your boyfriend," Daniels said. He turned and flashed a knowing smile at her.
Brenda could feel the heat rise in her cheeks. It didn't matter. Cooper had survived the mission—at least long enough to send a coded transmission to the new head of the Army's medical research division. Daniels would not have been smiling had the mission failed.
"They got Boatner?" Brenda said breathlessly. She had to force herself not to ask about Cooper.
"They did indeed. I'm sure Lt. Braaten’s official report will have a little more detail than ‘it was hairy as a goat’s ass’, but yes, they successfully retrieved Dr. Boatner. They’re on their way back as we speak."
Brenda closed her eyes with relief. She wanted to collapse in the nearest chair and hug the General at the same time.
"Have a seat before you faint, Major," said Daniels, the smile evident in his voice. "The news gets even better." He leaned over and activated Brenda's terminal for satellite uplink mode. "Dr. Boatner was able to salvage most of his research and the SEALs transmitted that data. The satellite had to wait for its second pass to be able to transmit down to us, but it should start arriving…"
The terminal beeped, the screen flashed and a dialog box appeared, asking if a connection to the satellite uplink was to be allowed. Brenda tapped the screen and the terminal beeped to itself again and began downloading gigabytes of data. The focused stream of information gathered speed as the satellite passed high overhead in its orbit.
"…right about now, it seems." Daniels leaned over the terminal and looked at the packet size as files began to appear in the secure download box. This looks like it's going to take a while." He glanced at her. "Go get some rack time, Major. I’ll man the fort until your assistants arrive and the data uplink is complete."
Brenda picked up the now lukewarm coffee the General had first offered her. She downed it into three gulps. "Not necessary, sir. I’ll start processing the data now and get right to it."
Daniels nodded and made his way to the exit. Brenda opened the first document and poured over the notes Dr. Boatner had created on viral nucleobase markers. The lab notes were dated two weeks before the start of the mass infection. He'd been given a heads up, Brenda realized quickly.
How is it possible that anyone even knew the bio-weapon had been deployed that early? There had only been a few cases of infection on the west coast... Brenda turned in her chair and saw Daniels staring at her from the door.
"Of course," he said guardedly, "you understand anything that you read or see in those files is classified at the highest levels and does not… I repeat, does not ever leave this room. Is that understood, Major?"
Brenda shuddered at the thought of what they would do to her if any of the information leaked. "Crystal clear, sir." Brenda felt a headache coming on.
"Good," Daniels said. He flashed a smile again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Brenda suddenly felt uncomfortable under his gaze before he turned to leave.
"By the way," the General Daniels said over his shoulder halfway through the door. "Your boyfriend's fine." The door shut behind him with a soft hiss and the magnetic locks sealed her in with a series of snap-bangs. She closed her eyes, said a quick prayer of thanks, and tried to steady her hands on the desk.
Brenda smiled as she opened her eyes and began to dig through the morbid notes and documentation from Dr. Boatner. Soon enough, she realized that the virus was more dangerous than anyone had ever expected. Her smile faded when she saw another document appear.
It was nothing more than a message, dated only hours earlier. Boatner indicated he was going to dump all the data into a packet and deliver it to Denver, while keeping a physical copy on him. It also reported in a physician’s clinically detached manner that two of the SEALs were showing symptoms of infection.
Brenda sat back in her chair and stared at the screen. Would Cooper have admitted in that coded message that he was infected? Her mind raced, grasping at facts, in a panic to convince herself Cooper was okay.
Daniels said he was fine. Cooper had told her himself that he’d been exposed and had been gravely ill during the Great Pandemic. She closed her eyes.
Get a hold of yourself. He's got at least a 50-50 shot of being immune. The drifted variant hasn’t been reported in Boston yet. It doesn't mean that he's sick. He told you—what was the name of that little guy—Mike, he’s the one who had never been exposed…remember?
She stared at the message again. “…two SEALs presenting possible infection…recommend full Level 4 containment procedures upon arrival…”
CHAPTER 16
CHAD HELD ON TO the straps of his jumpseat inside the fleeing Osprey. The pilot juked and weaved, causing the airplane to bob back and forth like a ship tossed on an storm-cursed ocean. Chad struggled to keep from throwing up. Not that the Russians ever gave him much more than oatmeal and stale bread, but he felt queasy nonetheless. The interior of the airframe twisted and shook with the violent maneuvers the pilot forced on the plane.
One second Chad felt himself pressed into the thin, woven-mesh seat with extra G’s, the next he was hanging onto the straps for dear life as he felt himself lifted up out of the chair when the pilot pushed the plane into a nosedive. He risked a glance around and saw grim-faced and bloody Rangers, the men who had rescued him from Glacier National Park. Most of them at least.
In the dim, blue light inside the Osprey, Chad saw that Tuck was no longer with the Rangers. His last memory before the traitorous Apache pilot had decided to sell him to the Russians was of Tuck, gut shot by the traitor. Chad remembered the sniper had stuffed what looked like a tampon in his wound and dared the pilot to shoot him in the head.
Chad closed his eyes and tried to lean his head back against the headrest. The shaking and vibrating of the airplane made concentration hard. Tuck would never get his chance at revenge. The Russians had taken care of that
pilot. He didn't remember all the details, but he would never forget the awful sound of her body as it hit the runway after the transfer. She’d delivered Chad, blindfolded and gagged to the Russians for an exorbitant amount of money. She had done it for her family—for her sick kid—she’d said. Chad wondered if her family was still alive somewhere, waiting for her to come home.
The aircraft shuddered and Chad clenched his jaw. He opened his eyes and across the narrow aisle, 13 sat as if she were on a casual Sunday drive. The shaking of the aircraft didn't seem to faze her a bit.
Her blue eyes were locked on Chad's and the barest hint of a smile played at the corner of her lips. She appeared completely at ease in such unusual surroundings. Without warning, the airplane bucked and dove to the left. The engines whined, metal groaned. Chad was rolled onto his back and his stomach threatened to claw its way up through his face.
His hands clenched the chest harness holding him in his seat with white knuckles. A cold sweat break out on his brow. Dear God, don't let it end like this! After all I've been through, don't let me die in a damn plane crash…
The Rangers were quiet around him. One of them was actually snoring. Chad stared at Garza, incredulous. As the plane turned and moved, the Ranger’s head lolled sideways and pitched forward in unison with the aircraft. The man was completely out.
Chad turned his head and sought out the huge frame of Deuce. The big man flashed a grin and pointed at Garza. He twirled his finger by his ear and grinned.
He could see Captain Alston's tall frame next to 13. He was shouting into a headset radio. Probably communicating with the pilot. Chad hoped he was telling him to settle the hell down. It would do no one any good if the plane crashed and Chad died. His blood was still more precious than gold, but only if he was alive to donate.
The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga Page 18