Perimeter

by M. A. Rothman

  She shrugged. “Could be a chemical agent. A highly volatile nerve agent such as sarin, tabun, or even soman could spread over an area, killing the herd. But I can only speculate for now. I need to look at the animals before I can say anything definitive.”

  Nate asked, “How long until we get there?”

  “We’re five minutes out,” one of the agents in the front passenger seat responded.

  Nate leaned back against the leather seat and focused on the mission. “Alex, you and I will gear up and go in. Our suits and breathing gear are good for thirty minutes of exposure. Let’s make the best of it. I’ll take soil samples every twenty feet. We’ll need samples from several of the animals. I’ll especially want biological samples of the calf. Depending on how big this area is, we may need to split up. Use the standard hazardous-material protocol. We’ll seal the gathered samples on the site, seal them again just outside the site, and then a third time to ensure we don’t have any issues. All of this goes back to the level-4 containment area back in Quantico. Any questions before we get there?”

  “Just one,” said Alex. “If this is some kind of nerve agent, how the hell did it get there?”

  Nate frowned. “I have no idea.”

  ###

  As Juan walked into a seedy lounge at the outskirts of Arlington, the thick aroma of greasy fried food and beer reminded him of his college days. A welcome reminder of less-troubled times.

  He took a seat at the counter, and a middle-aged, large-breasted bartender flashed him a gap-toothed smile. “Anything you want, honey?”

  “How about a Budweiser?”

  “Coming right up.”

  Juan stretched his arms toward the ceiling and heard his back crack as the tension slowly leaked out of him.

  It was only five p.m., so unsurprisingly, the place was fairly empty—though Juan had no doubt that in a few hours, the place would fill with serious drinkers, raucous laughter, and maybe even the occasional fistfight. It was that kind of dive.

  The door opened, and two men in suits walked in. The same men who’d been following Juan around all day. Or at least, he assumed they had. He’d only noticed them one other time, when he was getting gas. The guy with the close-cropped platinum-blond hair was hard to miss.

  Juan’s guess was they were AgriMed security assigned to watch over him. He considered waving them over to join him at the bar, but figured they’d decline. They were probably supposed to keep their distance.

  The bartender slid the beer over to Juan and asked, “Honey, did you want me to run you a tab? If not, that’ll be four dollars”

  Juan sipped at the icy cold beer and laid a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Keep the change.”

  She scooped up the money as Juan stared at soundless images on the screen.

  As he was taking a sip, a “Breaking News” banner appeared on the TV hanging over the shelves of liquor, and a local reporter appeared, standing outside the coroner’s office. Juan read the closed-captioning text as it crawled across the screen.

  “The coroner has determined that poisoning was the cause of death for the three people found dead on Tuesday at their home in Arlington.

  “This reporter tried to get more from the Arlington PD, but they refused to comment on any pending cases.

  “This comes on the heels of two other poison-related deaths reported in the DC metro area in the past two weeks. We will keep the public informed as we learn more.”

  Juan turned away from the screen. He had enough on his mind without worrying about some local crime spree. Why would someone have broken into his apartment? What could people be doing with his work, and why did he need two men watching over him?

  Taking a big swig of his beer, Juan glanced at the table where his observers had settled.

  One of them seemed focused on the menu while the other lowered his gaze as soon as Juan turned in his direction.

  Why do I get the sense that nobody I know is giving it to me straight?

  ###

  “I have no idea what happened,” Frank said truthfully.

  Two FBI agents sat at the dining room table with him and Megan. One, a man named Carrington, wore a serious expression and held himself up with a perfect posture, reminding Frank very much of a military man.

  “All I know,” Frank continued, “is that when I hiked over to the pasture first thing in the morning, all of the breeding cattle were dead.”

  “Breeding cattle?” the woman agent asked. Agent Ragheb. “Is that a special type of cattle?”

  “No, dear,” Megan said with a smile. “He just means they were pregnant. They were due sometime in February.”

  “But there was a calf with them,” Carrington said. “Did one give birth early?”

  Frank nodded. A twinge of sadness hit him as he remembered the plaintive call of the calf earlier that morning. “It happens sometimes, though usually not this early. The calf wasn’t there yesterday, but I heard it crying this morning.”

  The agent’s phone buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket. “Carrington.”

  Frank strained to hear the voice on the other end. “The EOD guys from Nellis are ready to blow the area, so I wanted to make sure you’re good with the samples you took.”

  “Yup, we’ve got what we need. Make sure those guys realize that there’s a ranch house only a klick away.”

  “Roger that, I’ll let them know.”

  Carrington put his phone away. “Mr. and Mrs. O’Reilly, do you have any enemies? Anyone who would want to harm your cattle?”

  Megan gasped, and Frank patted her thigh. “Agent Carrington,” he said, “we’re simple ranchers. I’ve got a daughter in college and I raise beef cattle for a living. That’s about it. If we want to have a rip-roaring time, me and some of the ranch hands might blow up some stumps with quarter-sticks of dynamite. That’s about it.”

  Ragheb asked, “What about other ranchers? Any issues with them?”

  “You mean, have they had cattle die-offs as well?” Frank asked.

  “No.” She shook her head. “I mean, have you had any unpleasant interactions with the other local ranchers? Any conflicts?”

  Frank shook his head. “Ma’am, we private ranching folks consider ourselves a community. We can’t afford to hold grudges or be petty about stuff. In fact—”

  Megan cut in. “Let me explain. All of the wives around here know each other. We exchange recipes, borrow cups of sugar, help each other out. It’s the only way to make ends meet. Us O’Reillys will gladly lend a bull to stud over at the Hanfords’, and they cut us a deal for fresh hay. Heck, we even make beef deals with the Glenfords who own the resort down in Coyote Springs so we can get access to their contacts for cheap corn. You see, we’re all small-business types who can’t afford to be bickering like you see on the TV. If you’re bickering and holding grudges, that means you don’t have enough work to do.”

  Frank gave Megan’s knee a squeeze. “I love you, woman.”

  Agent Ragheb smiled and scribbled something in her notebook. “Has anything unusual happened around here recently? Or have you seen anyone around that you might not know really well?”

  Frank said no just as Megan said yes.

  Megan reached over and rubbed Frank’s upper arm. “It’s just that, my husband’s been diagnosed with cancer and he’s being treated. That’s pretty unusual for us.”

  Agent Carrington said somberly, “I’m very sorry you’re having to go through that.”

  Frank waved away the words. “I don’t think about it much.” He hitched his thumb back toward Megan and smiled. “She worries plenty for the both of us. Besides, I’ve gotten treatment at the VA, and they’re doing a bang-up job.”

  “You’re a veteran?” Carrington said.

  “Yes, sir. I was an eleven bravo with the Twenty-Fourth Infantry out of Fort Stewart.” Frank allowed his mind to drift back to what seemed like a lifetime ago. “Back in Desert Storm, it was us and the Third
Armored Cavalry in the Euphrates River Valley, cutting off part of Saddam’s army that had gone into Kuwait.”

  “February 1991,” Carrington said. “I remember it well. I was in the area.”

  “Oh?” Frank smiled. “What was your MOS?”

  “Eighteen bravo.”

  “Oh, damn.” Frank shook hands again with the agent. “It’s good to talk to someone who walked the same sand.”

  Megan tapped Frank and whispered, “Eighteen bravo?”

  “Special Forces,” he explained.

  “Nate.” Ragheb turned to her partner. “Is there anything else you want to ask Mr. or Mrs. O’Reilly?”

  “Not at this moment.” Carrington glanced at his watch. “Well, we’ve got EOD at the incident’s location—”

  “Are they going to blow the pasture up?” Frank asked nervously.

  “I’m not exactly sure. If it’s some kind of poison, the only way we can be sure to dispose of it is with very high heat. They might employ a series of explosions, fire, or both. But whatever they do, it’ll happen soon so don’t be alarmed if you hear something pretty darn loud.”

  “Poor Doc Johnson.” Megan sighed.

  The two agents stood, and Frank stood with them. “I’m really at a loss for words. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m scared shitless.” He glanced at Ragheb. “Sorry, ma’am. I’m just afraid that if we don’t figure out what killed the cattle, it could happen again.”

  Agent Carrington shook his hand. “We’ll do our best to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  As Frank and Megan walked the agents out to the porch, the ground shook and the windows rattled with the boom of a distant explosion. A flash of light from the direction of the pasture was followed almost immediately by another loud boom.

  Frank grabbed Megan’s hand and squeezed it lightly. “That wasn’t too bad—”

  Another flash lit the horizon, and the sound of an even larger explosion ripped past the house, shattering one of the windows. Jasper, who was locked up in a bedroom, howled, and Megan cried out. It took a full fifteen seconds before the ringing in Frank’s ears subsided.

  The radio on his belt vibrated and he heard Buck’s voice broadcast on the handheld unit’s speaker. “Mr. O’Reilly, did you hear some gosh darn loud explosion? The cattle are spooked as hell.”

  Silently, Frank prayed that was it for the explosions.

  Agent Carrington looked sheepishly at the broken window. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll have one of the local FBI agents come by later. We’ll pay to get that fixed.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Paul Hutchison’s office door opened, and the balding director of AgriMed security greeted Juan with a grim expression.

  “Come on in.” Hutchison motioned toward a chair and took a seat behind the simple Formica-topped desk.

  Juan sat and felt a sense of foreboding, almost as if he were back in elementary school and sitting in the principal’s office.

  “Dr. Gutierrez, I’ll cut to the chase. An assistant director of the FBI contacted me and I’ve been read in on some things you need to know about.”

  “Read in?” Juan asked.

  “Sorry. In the government, when you’re authorized access to certain classified programs, they say you’re being ‘read in’ to that program. Speaking of which…” Hutchison pushed a small stack of papers across his desk toward Juan. “This is an SF86, a standard form the government uses to vet someone for access to classified material. You’re going to need to fill this out.”

  It was a long form. “All of this?” Juan asked. “What’s this about?”

  “Yes, all of it. And until you fill it out, all I can tell you is it has to do with the issues we’ve had with your algorithm finding itself in places it shouldn’t be. And that you’re going to be working with the FBI.”

  Juan felt a tightness in his chest. “But what about my research? I need to talk to Dr. Winslow—”

  “I’ve talked to Winslow already. You probably already have an email in your inbox from him about this. Anyway…” The security director pointed at the forms in Juan’s hand and said, “Go ahead and fill that out right now. This isn’t something that can be put off. Hell, getting temporary clearances usually takes a month or more, but I was given the impression that they’re literally waiting on the filled-out form. It wouldn’t shock me if you end up getting a response almost right away.”

  Hutchison leaned across his desk and offered Juan a pen.

  Juan took it. And as he began filling in his responses, he wondered what he’d gotten himself into.

  ###

  Just hours after filling out the SF86 paperwork, Juan received a call from someone at the Office of Personnel Management, who had a ton of questions about his responses. A short while after that, he received another call—this one confirming that he’d been given access to a compartmented program he couldn’t even remember the code name for.

  Now he found himself at the FBI’s Academy, being handed a freshly printed FBI consultant’s picture ID.

  “Dr. Gutierrez?”

  Juan turned to find himself facing Special Agent Nate Carrington. The same agent he’d been questioned by at AgriMed. They shook hands, and Carrington motioned for Juan to follow him.

  Juan looped the carrying strap to his laptop over his shoulder and as they walked out of the building, Nate explained, “We don’t have a badge office in the laboratory building, so now that you’re all set with a contractor badge and proper access, I’ll brief you on what the mystery is all about as we walk to the lab building.”

  They stepped outside, and their breath formed jets of cold mist as they quickly walked toward a large multi-story building.

  “Well,” said Carrington, “Over the last couple years, I’ve been involved in a few unresolved cases with a common thread—one that I think you’ll be able to help with.

  “Each of these cases has presented DNA evidence that my lab techs have best been able to describe as ‘unique.’ Analysis has suggested that these DNA samples are not from any known species. The biological material certainly looked normal enough—a feather from a bird, fur from a dog, muscle from a cow—but the DNA told a very different story. And that’s where you come in.”

  “Agent, I’m happy to help, but you realize, DNA analysis is not really what I do. I’m sure your own analysts—”

  “Darwin algorithm version 3.4. Does that ring a bell?”

  Juan’s eyes widened.

  Nate nodded. “Yeah, I thought so. We suspect that these samples may be the product of your algorithm.”

  Anger bubbled up inside Juan. Someone was toying with what he’d created?

  “That algorithm should never be used without careful safety procedures,” he said. “My God, if someone just used it as is, without regard for the proper procedures…” He shuddered.

  The agent nodded. “That is why you’ve been read into this. We’ve got what we believe to be nefarious activity using technology stolen from your company.”

  Juan sputtered with indignation.

  “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it looks like that may be precisely what happened.”

  Juan shook his head. “You do understand, the goal of my research is to fight cancer. I’ve put in four years of hundred-hour weeks, sleepless nights, no vacations. I can’t tell you how frustrating it is that someone is abusing all my hard work.”

  “I get it,” Carrington said. “As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t just be frustrated, I think I’d have a murderous rage.” He chuckled dryly. “And trust me, I pray that your work on cancer is successful, and I want to get you back to it as soon as possible. But for now, we need your help containing… whatever’s going on.

  “In particular, we share your concern about this technology being used imprudently. What if something they’re doing gets out of their control because they aren’t applying the same rigor you do?”

  Juan blew out a breath. “It would be a disa
ster.”

  ###

  The FBI’s special-access lab was smaller than the one Juan used at work, but it was stocked with modern equipment and they’d put in some especially high-end computers to speed up some of his calculations. Four heavy-duty workstations were cranking away on some simulations he’d begun running earlier in the week.

  At one end of the lab, a sealed door led to the outer chamber of the level-four biocontainment unit. The latest collected samples were stored in there, inside a refrigerated class-three biosafety cabinet. Despite having been here for three days, Juan hadn’t gone in there yet. He wouldn’t deal with the positive pressure suit, the showers, and all the other safety measures unless he needed to.

  Instead he’d spent most of his time poring over the research that the FBI analysts had already done. He was annoyed to find that some of the passages were blacked out—especially when talking about names and locations—but so far it seemed as though he had access to everything scientifically relevant.

  At Agent Carrington’s request, he now sat down to dictate some summary information on his research.

  “The version of the Darwin Algorithm that was stolen—version 3.4, which is almost a year old now, had a number of issues that make it particularly dangerous. When I used it to simulate evolution across thousands of generations, it tended to generate anomalies that skewed further and further away from the intended target. For that reason, it was quickly discarded. Subsequent versions were far more controlled and effective, and even so, we continue to tweak them to this day.

  “Those in possession of this algorithm would also be unable to make the necessary adjustments to correct its deficiencies. The algorithm itself is merely the end product of many underlying calculations that cannot be easily reverse-engineered. It’s made even more difficult because the code contains hundreds of thousands of lines of manually entered entries—and without knowing how those entries relate to each other and why, you’d be at a complete loss to make sense of them. In fact, you’d have to be skilled in genetics, have done the same types of research—which I’ve yet to publicly document—and of course be a cryptanalyst.