by Thomas Hopp
About 1 pm, after Jameela went back to her own room, and Kay Erwin appeared at our door in her pressure suit, announcing that she had come to check McKean’s and my vital signs and change our wound dressings. Nurse Hawkins loomed behind her like a huge, yellow-plastic-covered Goliath.
Kay is a bit pinch-nosed. It’s the only flaw in her otherwise solid prettiness. It gives her expression a hint of toughness and her voice a nasal sharpness. She was all business this time around, checking Peyton McKean’s and my heart rates, blood pressures, reflexes, and temperatures.
My fever was one-hundred-and-one Fahrenheit. McKean’s was just ninety-nine degrees. She made notes on our charts and then checked our wounds. Starting with me, she cut away the bandage on my left forearm. As she lifted the gauze, there was a general drawing in of breath. Hawkins’ mild eyes widened in surprise. The infection had spread out from the edges of the stitched-up gash. Most of my forearm was a purplish-red mass of swollen flesh. Several dozen whitish spots surrounded the cut. Erwin counted them and noted them on my chart.
“Let’s hope the vaccine is working faster than the virus,” she said.
“Amen to that,” I said, eyeing my arm with cold terror.
Erwin put her black-gloved hands on her yellow-plastic-covered hips, squeaking in her rubbery suit. “Now, don’t get embarrassed, Fin, but I’ve got to inspect your whole body again for spots. You understand, don’t you?”
“Of course,” I muttered. “I think you’re starting to like this. Go ahead.”
She hesitated. “Er, Fin…I can’t very well inspect you with your gown on.”
I grudgingly rose to sit on the edge of my bed, untied my gown, and allowed Nurse Hawkins to take it. He put it in an incinerator bag.
Erwin went over me minutely. “You’ve got two pocks on your shoulder, and three on the right side of your chin. Turn over, Fin and lie down. All right. The only mark I see is one suspicious little swelling on your left butt cheek.”
I closed my eyes, waiting for the moment to end. As she scrawled a note on my chart, a startled gasp announced another witness to my humiliation - Jameela!
She stood in the doorway, eyeing my naked butt. When our eyes met, she burst out laughing, turning to shield her eyes with a cupped hand.
“Is there anybody,” I moaned, “who hasn’t had a good look at my private parts?” My voice sounded whinier than I intended.
“Not a real good look,” said McKean. He sat up to get a closer look at my butt-cheek blemish.
“That’s enough,” Erwin snapped at both of them. “I’m done. Fin, you can cover up - “
I pulled my sheet over me before she finished the sentence. Hawkins handed me a fresh gown and I put it on under the sheet.
Kay said, “Jameela, I’ll check your vital signs in a moment. But I can see right now you’re just fine.”
Jameela uncovered her eyes and pointed down the hall. “I’ll wait in my room.”
She left us as Erwin began to examine McKean. His forearm was much less swollen than mine.
“Seven spots,” she said after inspecting the wound. “You’re better off than Fin. Now, let’s have a look at the rest of you, please.” As he undid his gown strings, I turned away. My curiosity went only so far.
Kay had counted a total of twenty-nine spots on me, but she found only seven on McKean, and all those on his forearm. She finished her notes and went down the hall to Jameela’s room, her isolation suit swooshing. As Hawkins dressed my wound, I asked McKean, “How did you get so lucky? I’d swap my twenty-nine spots for your seven any day.”
“The answer,” McKean said, “is not a matter of luck. You and I and Jameela make a nice group of experimental subjects.”
“How’s that?”
“Our symptoms correspond to our vaccination histories. Jameela has had plenty of exposure. She should be showing signs by now. But she also received a dose of Dr. Taleed’s vaccine against this specific virus. She seems fully protected. I, who long ago received a dose of the old smallpox vaccine, am partially protected. You on the other hand, who never received any form of smallpox vaccination until two days ago - “
“Don’t say it!” I interrupted. “Your cold academic detachment is way beyond irritating. Let me complete your lecture for you. I’m completely unprotected.”
“Well stated, Fin. You’re what’s called an ‘immunologically naive subject’.” He paused as if my desperate condition - and my humanity - were sinking into his too-intellectual consciousness. He added, “Regrettably.”
I stared at the icy blue linoleum floor. “Will I die?”
“Perhaps we’ll both die,” he said. “It’s too soon to be sure. It’s up to the virus, really.”
“That doesn’t help much.” A tremor came over me, so powerful and bone-rattling that I laid back on my pillows until it subsided. “Is Jameela really safe?” I asked.
“Answer: yes.”
I closed my eyes and swooned into a half-sleep.
Chapter 18
Both McKean and I went in and out of consciousness during the afternoon. Jameela visited us whenever we were lucid, but retreated to her own room to read a thick book on Arabian horses that Kay Erwin had brought for her.
About 3 pm, I awoke from one of my swoons with McKean poking my shoulder.
“We’ve got a visitor on the video link,” he said. “Janet Emerson’s got the DNA analysis of that odd little corner of the viral genome.”
I rose and followed McKean unsteadily, blinking away a crushing headache. Although McKean seemed less feverish than I, his thin face was pallid and his dark hair was matted on one side of his head. I knew my own appearance was far worse.
Janet sat at her desk with her white lab coat on. As we sat, she watched McKean’s gaunt face with an expression of deep concern. Then she looked at me, and gasped. “Oh Fin, you poor man! Do you feel as bad as you look?”
“Worse.”
McKean picked up some sheets of paper from the duty-station printer. Pointing a lean finger the topmost, he asked, “Good sequence data?”
She nodded. “Excellent, although I’m still not quite sure what you’re looking for.”
McKean laid the sheets along the counter so they made a continuous trace of data that reminded me of four electrocardiogram lines drawn on graph paper. The horizontal traces ran the length of five sheets, one line drawn above the other. Each line recorded a series of upward blips from a flat baseline, so that each trace looked like a comb with many teeth missing. The arrangement of upward jutting teeth seemed random to me, but McKean eyed the traces with familiarity, running his finger over the peaks and flats. He mumbled to himself as he interpreted, several times voicing an excited “ah,” or a mystified, “hmh.” I sat by, bone weary but determined to see whatever McKean saw.
“You’ll note,” he said to me, “how no trace has a peak in the same position as any other trace.” He moved from the left end of the chart toward the right, touching each peak with the tip of his long index finger.
“There’s an A,” he said, touching a peak on the top trace. “And then a C.” He touched a peak on the bottom plot, and then on to the next peak, which was on the same line. “Another C.” And then on to a peak on the second line. “And then a G. You will note, Fin, that the computer has printed the corresponding sequence along the bottom of the sheet, one letter for each of these peaks. The end result of the analysis is one long string of A’s T’s C’s and G’s across all five sheets. Do you see how a DNA sequencer works?”
“I see it,” I said. “But it all looks pretty random to me.”
“Oh, no,” said McKean. “The order is not random at all. He eyed the alphabetic results carefully.
Janet watched his face closely, as did I. Jameela, attracted by McKean’s bemused utterances, came to join us, putting a hand gently on my shoulder.
“Here!” McKean exclaimed after a moment. “This is what I was looking for.” He ran his finger over a segment of lettering that seemed to please him greatly. A smile lit hi
s callow, sweaty face. He took a black marking pen from his pocket and scribbled above one of the T’s, making a tall vertical bar of black ink. Beside the T on the right was an A. He blackened the space above it as well, making another thick line and merging that side-to-side with the first to create a fat, vertical black bar. He skipped the next letter, which was a G, leaving the space above it white. But he scrawled another dark a bar above the next letter, another T. “All one has to do,” he explained as he continued working his way along the sequence, “is to put a dark bar where there’s an A or T, and leave the white space for a C or a G.”
After a few more scribbles he sat back to survey his handiwork.
“It looks like a bar code,” I said, surprised at how easily McKean had transformed one code into another. “Am I right?”
“Answer: yes.” McKean grinned. “It is indeed a bar code. Just like you see in the supermarket. Undetectable to a scientist who’s not in on the secret, because he is not looking for such a thing. But easy to create in DNA code and easy to decipher again, as you have just witnessed.”
Janet looked mystified. “But what does it say?”
“Bar codes,” said McKean, “are nothing more than numbers, determined by the thickness and spacing of the lines. Now that I have created a series of thick and thin vertical lines, it is a simple matter to extract the numbers that the lines represent. Let’s see…”
He studied the bars and slowly called out numbers as he proceeded along the sequence. “Zero, nine, one, one, zero, one. Yes indeed.” He smiled brightly at Janet. “Now I’m sure.”
“Sure of what?” She frowned, as perplexed as Jameela and I. “Do those numbers mean something to you?”
“They have meaning for all Americans,” McKean replied. “September 11, 2001.” He ran his finger over the entire sequence. “And there are more numbers here, all specified by a CIA operative and encoded in DNA by me.”
“By you?” I said. “You’re saying you had a part in engineering a deadly virus?”
McKean shook his head. “Not the part that is deadly. But this short segment of identifying code? Yes indeed!”
“But,” Janet interjected, “how could you possibly remember the numbers?”
“For most of this sequence,” said McKean, “I haven’t the foggiest recollection. But the 911 segment - ” He tapped the left end of the bar code. “That bit is common to all the viruses we marked. It’s not a number any American is likely to forget. We put it in as a quick check. The rest of the sequence has meaning only for the CIA officer who put me up to this project.”
“But what were they planning to do with this?” I wondered.
“Unless I miss my guess,” said McKean, “the rest of this number is a serial number, identifying the strain and origin of the virus. They were tagging smallpox with tracer numbers like the automobile identification numbers you see stamped on a car’s chassis and engine block, to identify it if stolen. They had me make quite a few of these codes, hundreds, which I assume they used to tag different batches of smallpox virus. That way, the viruses could be traced without their possessors knowing there was a trace being done. Very ingenious. Typical of the CIA, wouldn’t you say?”
“Now wait,” I said. “The bad guys would get onto this, sooner or later. They would read the code themselves.”
“They might read the DNA code,” McKean smiled. “But it’s meaningless to a virologist. It was slipped into a segment of DNA that is of little interest to scientists, one with no genes for surface proteins or key viral enzymes. So it seems to be only a few random, insignificant mutations. But from the CIA’s perspective, it is a clear-cut way to trace the source of the organism. In fact, I plan to get in touch with my old CIA contacts and see if anyone at Fort Detrick has found this sequence yet. I’ll bet they have - probably went straight for it. If not, then I’m sure they’ll be quite interested to know of it.”
Janet gazed in awe at McKean. “Then what?”
“Unless I miss my guess, they’ll use this label to lead them back upstream until they find out who handed this virus to the Sheik. Iran, perhaps, or Iraq…or Russia. I can’t decipher who received this particular strain of virus - it was my job to make the code, not deliver it. Making sure the tagged viruses ended up in research labs on the other side of the world was a job for CIA spooks, not me.”
“But why would they want to give out samples of the smallpox virus to anyone?”
“It wasn’t a matter of giving it out. There was a time when quite a few labs had legitimate access to smallpox virus for vaccine research. But the viruses they received from the World Health Organization’s Infectious Disease Unit were suitably marked in anticipation of just such a day as this.”
“Incredible,” I remarked.
“No great feat, really,” said McKean. “My part, that is. I just created the DNA segments with identifying codes at Fort Detrick. The CIA handled the toughest job. You don’t arrange for a WHO lab to deliver bar-coded viruses, without some skill in the spy game.”
There was little else to be said. Janet signed off to continue her vaccine synthesis. Jameela went to her room to continue reading about horses. And I went back to my bed to continue shivering and sweating. McKean stayed at the on-duty desk, making some phone calls.
* * * * *
In the afternoon, the television news reminded us that the President would address the nation at 6 pm. As the hour neared, McKean joined Jameela at our table, picking over a fresh dinner plate of turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy. I was too weak and nauseous to even make an effort. The most I could do was to prop myself up on my pillows while the CNN news crew made some introductory statements. Then the President appeared, sitting at his desk in the Oval Office with the Presidential and American flags behind him.
“My fellow citizens,” he began. “I am here to tell you about a grave threat facing our nation. We have reason to believe that a terrorist group is planning biological attacks with smallpox within the borders of the United States. We are not sure exactly how or where they will strike, but we are sure the threat is real.”
“So now everybody knows what we already knew,” I said.
The President continued. “Law enforcement authorities in Washington State detected the plot, following leads from vigilant citizens near the town of Winthrop.”
“That’s us,” quipped McKean. “And Cousin Mike.”
“Authorities responded swiftly, but unfortunately not quickly enough to intercept all of the terrorists. There is reason to believe that a several small groups are loose within America’s borders and are themselves infected with a new strain of smallpox, which they intend to spread to American citizens. The truck that carried many of them from the ranch at Winthrop was stopped in Colorado, and as you probably know, all the men aboard were killed. However, authorities are still seeking three white passenger vans that disappeared from the ranch at the same time, carrying an unknown number of terrorists.
“Earlier today, I directed the Department of Homeland Security to raise its Terror Threat Level warning from High to Extreme, Condition Red. And, because we do not yet know the terrorists” exact plan, I am requesting your help. I need every American citizen to do what he or she can to bring this threat to an end, and to minimize its impact. To do this, I will need citizen cooperation on an unprecedented scale.
“I have, immediately prior to this broadcast, issued an executive order activating all state and federal law enforcement agencies, including the National Guard, to a state of maximal readiness to counter any activity of this group. But such an order, I realize, could have substantial economic repercussions.”
“That’s an understatement,” McKean murmured.
“Our economy might be severely impacted if Americans were to shutter themselves in their homes. Therefore, I am asking the American people to go about their business as usual, despite the mobilization. I ask only that people avoid any unusual congregations, such as demonstrations, where terrorists might come in contact wit
h them. On the other hand, it is important that people continue going about their normal activities. We must not allow a terror threat to shut down our businesses, schools, universities, shopping centers, movie theaters, grocery stores and other places where we carry out our daily activities. The economic impact of such a shutdown could be drastic. If the terrorists can bring America’s economy to a halt, then they will win a victory in terms of hardship and job loss on a massive scale.
“On the positive side, we are certain that most of the terrorists have already been killed or captured, and the remainder cannot hold out forever. In fact, they cannot wait more than a few days. By infecting themselves, they have set a clock ticking. Their own infections will kill or disable them within the next several days. Any who survive and recover will lose their infectiousness. We can, and will, wait them out if they hide, or catch them if they attack. I have officials at all levels, both military and medical, prepared counteract their plans. Hospitals and health clinics are being prepared as I speak, to treat and isolate any citizens who come in contact with infected persons. The next few days will be challenging, and the measures taken extremely complex, but we will prevail.
“I urge you not to purchase more or less than your normal amounts of supplies. What we need more than anything is business-as-usual.”
“But what if people panic anyway?” I asked.
“I trust the American people to avoid panic buying,” the President said, as if in answer to my question. “On the other hand, please support your local businesses. Don’t stay at home. Buy groceries and medicines as you normally would, in normal quantities, and on your usual schedules. Go to school, attend the theater, attend religious services. Consciously make an effort to pursue those activities in your normal way, but remain extra vigilant at all times.
“Let me reassure you. Smallpox cannot be transmitted through municipal water supplies, food, or other goods. It is spread entirely by physical proximity or direct contact between people. The jihadis have been inoculated on their left forearms, so be on the watch for individuals with wounds or bandages. Report any suspicious persons to the police immediately. Bear in mind that, while many of these men are of Middle-Eastern descent, others come from all ethnic groups, so don’t be watching for any one particular facial type.”