Ironically, the pigs didn’t look sick at all. They looked as happy as pigs can—eating, digging at the half-frozen, muddy ground, sleeping. Paul felt oddly sad that the animals had to die.
“How long for the B1 to drop the fuel bombs?”
“Two minutes from my order,” Curry said. “The Bone is on station now.”
Paul nodded. “Do it.” He hoped the bombs would land soon enough to end Matal’s pain before the lungs fully gave out.
Curry picked up a phone and made a simple order: “It’s a go.”
On the monitor, a new coughing fit clenched Matal’s body into a fetal position. He thrashed weakly, then rolled onto his back. His arms reached straight up, his fingers curled like talons. He managed one more ragged breath, then another cough shook his body. Blood shot out of his mouth like a spurt from a fire hose, so powerful it splashed against the fluorescent lights above. His body went limp, wet red still burbling up on his lips and dripping down on him from the ceiling.
“Man,” Curry said. “That is truly fucked up.”
Paul had seen enough. “I need a secure line out.”
Curry pointed to another phone, this one built into the equipment-thick control panel. “That’s a straight line to Langley. Longworth is waiting for your call.”
Murray Longworth. Assistant director of the CIA and dotted-line boss of Paul’s special threats division of USAMRIID. Longworth oversaw an unnamed group combining elements of CIA, FBI, USAMRIID, Homeland and other departments, a force tasked with combating biologically related threats. The legality? Questionable, at best. The secrecy? Absolute. The authority? There was never really any question about that, not when Murray Longworth spoke with the voice of the president himself.
Paul picked up the phone. His boss answered on the first ring.
“This is Longworth. What’s your call, Colonel?”
“I’ve ordered General Curry to use the fuel bombs.”
There was a slight pause. “I still can’t believe this,” Longworth said. “From a goddamn pig? How can a pig virus infect people?”
Paul sighed. Longworth ran the show, but he didn’t get it. Probably never would. One of the main monitors switched from the steady procession of the dead to a shaking, blurry, bird’s-eye view of the Novozyme facility. Bomber-cam.
“The pig genome was modified to include human proteins,” Paul said. “That has to happen if you want to make the pig organs transplantable into humans. A new swine flu variant incorporated those proteins and it jumped species.”
“Put it in terms that I can understand.”
“Fast-moving, airborne, no known treatment, three out of four people die horribly. Goes global within eight weeks. On a scale of one to ten, this is an eight, and my ten is the complete extinction of mankind. We need to go scorched Earth here, sir.”
Paul heard Longworth’s heavy sigh.
“Finish up there as fast as you can, then get your ass back to D.C.,” Longworth said. “President Guttierez is calling a black meeting. All the European nations, India, China, everyone capable of this kind of work. We’re shutting everyone down until the WHO can put monitors in place. I need you at that meeting.”
“I see,” Paul said. A black meeting. A disaster of biblical proportions was just a broken airlock away, and the world’s leaders would meet in secret to discuss the options. No one would ever know.
Not even Matal’s family.
On the bomber-cam monitor, Fischer recognized the field he’d just walked through, then the white Quonset-hut hamster town. A fraction of a second later, he heard the roar of the jet’s engine. Only seconds now.
“After the D.C. meeting, you go after Genada,” Murray said. “We’re shutting everyone down, but we get Genada’s facility at Baffin Island first.”
The monitor switched to a view from a camera that must have been mounted up with the radar dishes on the Quonset’s roof. The Novozyme facility was there for a brief second, then a giant orange flash filled the screen. The ground shook. A small mushrooming cloud lifted into the dawn sky.
“Sir,” Paul said, “I think I should be on hand for the Monsanto facility in South Africa, or Genzyme’s Brazilian installation.”
“Genada first,” Longworth said. “We already know those fucking Paglione brothers were conducting human experimentation. They’re a proven threat. Any progress finding the Russian girl?”
The Russian girl. Galina Poriskova, PhD. She’d threatened to blow the whistle on Genada’s human experimentation. She’d contacted Fischer, met with him and claimed to have evidence, but the Pagliones had paid her off before she delivered.
“Just tracking some financials,” Paul said. “Investments and the like. NSA is pretty sure she’s in Moscow, but we can’t get the Russians to cooperate.”
“I’m guessing they’ll cooperate now,” Longworth said. “I’ll escalate it to the State Department. P. J. Colding made the human experiments vanish the last time we were chasing Genada. He also took Poriskova right out from under your nose. So we start with Genada before he can do that shit again.”
Paul swallowed, closed his eyes. He should have known P. J. Colding’s name would come up.
“I understand, sir,” Paul said. “But I remind you that I have an asset on the inside at Baffin Island. I can send a message. If anything looks amiss, the asset can cripple transportation, stranding Colding and the entire project.”
“Still rubs my ass raw you won’t tell me who your asset is.”
“Until your people find out how Magnus and Danté Paglione get inside information from the CIA, it’s best I’m the only one to know.”
“I said it rubs my ass raw, I didn’t say it wasn’t the right strategy. But, Colonel, can your asset get a message back to you?”
Paul ground his teeth. He knew exactly where this was going. “No sir.”
“Which means you won’t know when the Paglione brothers find out about the bomb you just dropped. They’ll figure out what happened, and when they do, Colding will take the Genada project on the run. I’m not about to tell the president that there’s a rogue xenotransplantation element unaccounted for, not after what just went down. While you do the D.C. meeting, I’ll call up the special threats CBRN platoon. You’ll go in with them.”
The special threats CBRN team. Chemical, biological, radiological and nuclear. Paul didn’t know much about those men, he wasn’t cleared to know, but they would be much more than just enlisted soldiers in hazmat suits. They’d be special forces. Whip-smart killers.
“I’ll have a flight for you out of Thule,” Longworth said. “Tell your asset to take out all transportation so Colding and the Genada staff can’t get away.”
From bad to worse. That action would leave Paul’s asset with no support until the CBRN team touched down. Considering the caliber of Genada’s security forces, that could be very bad indeed.
“Sir, I suggest we just wait. They’ve got fifty animals in the facility … they can’t go far in ten hours.”
“Colonel Fischer, we’re done here. As soon as I get approval from the Canadians, you order your asset to destroy all transportation, take out any research data and kill the baboons.”
“Cows, sir,” Paul said. “Monsanto is using baboons. Genada is using cows.”
“Then kill all the cows. Stop arguing with me.
“Paul rubbed his face in frustration. His ex-wife, Claire, used to tell him that the movement made him look like a little kid who needed a nap. He’d never broken the habit, and now every time he did it he immediately thought of her nagging at him to stop.
“Colonel Fischer,” Longworth said. “Will you follow my instructions, or not?”
“Yes sir. I’ll send the order as soon as you give the green light.”
NOVEMBER 7: DREAM A LITTLE DREAM OF ME
STOP IT, HANDS.
Her fingers brushed long black hair out of her eyes. The hair fell back, slowly, almost floated into place, and she pushed it away again. Her small hands seemed to mo
ve of their own accord, grabbing, stitching, sewing.
Stop it, hands, she wanted to say, but she couldn’t speak. She could only watch.
It was wrong.
It was dangerous.
It was what she deserved, deserved for being bad. A dulled sense of dread filled her mind, a metallic-gray cloud of doom.
Her hands held a fuzzy, stuffed, black-and-white panda. But her favorite toy wasn’t exactly the way she remembered. It was the panda’s body, all right, but it had no arms, no legs, and no head.
The possessed hands reached down and came up with the orange-and-black arm of a stuffed tiger, fabric torn where it had once joined at the shoulder, white fluff hanging out in long strands. Liu Jian Dan’s hands began sewing. The needle flashed again and again. The tiger arm joined the body.
She felt a pinprick of pain.
Jian looked at the possessed hand. A rivulet of blood trailed down her tiny, chubby finger. The droplet pooled in the joint between her fingers, then fell onto the panda body, staining the fuzzy white fur.
Fear sent a wash of tingles over her skin, like a billion bites from a billion carnivorous bacteria. Her small body shivered.
Her hand reached down again. This time it brought up a long, dangly, gray-and-white leg from a sock monkey.
The needle flashed. More stings. Possessed hands fixed the leg to the panda body, now black and white marked with thin red streaks.
“Shou, ting xia lai,” she managed to say finally. Stop it, hands. But the hands ignored her.
Why had she spoken Mandarin? She used it so rarely now. But no, that wasn’t right, because she was five years old and it was the only language she had ever known.
A lion’s tawny leg.
More pain.
More blood.
A pinkish arm from a plastic baby doll.
More pain.
More blood.
“Shou, ting xia lai,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “Qing ting xia lai.”
Stop it, hands. Please, stop it.
The hands ignored her. They reached down again, but this time they didn’t find fake fur or plastic. This time they came up with something cold and solid.
A small, severed head. Greasy black fur streaked with wet blood. Wide mouth, dead black eyes. Nothing like this had ever lived, nor would it. Not unless someone created it.
Jian started to sob.
The hands kept sewing.
THE VID-PHONE LET out its unignorable, shrill blare: P. J. Colding jerked awake. He squinted at the glowing red clock set in the vid-phone’s base—6:14 A.M. The time was bad enough, but it also showed the date.
NOVEMBER 7.
Fuck. He had hoped to sleep most of this day away. He slowly reached out and clicked the connect button.
Gunther Jones’s tired, melancholy face appeared on the flat-panel display. The guy’s big lips and sleepy eyes always made him look high.
“She’s at it again,” Gunther said, his voice sounding only marginally more awake than Colding’s. “Fifty-two years old and she has nightmares like a little kid.”
“Nothing she can do about it, Gun. Cut the lady some slack. Give me the live feed to her room, maybe it’s not that bad this time.”
Gunther looked down, hands seeking buttons somewhere offscreen. He usually worked the night-shift watch. Ensconced in the security room, he monitored two dozen cameras that covered the barren area surrounding Genada’s Baffin Island facility, the oversized hangar that housed the cows and vehicles, and the main building’s hallways and labs. The main building’s eight apartments also had cameras, but those were deactivated on Colding’s orders. Jian’s room was the exception—her cameras were always on. Gunther spent most of his shift writing crazy vampire romance novels, but always kept a close eye on Jian. That was the man’s main shift responsibility, really, to make sure Jian didn’t try to kill herself.
The vid-phone picture changed from Gunther’s face to a high-angle, black-and-white image—an overweight woman tossing and turning on her bed, heavy black hair covering much of her face. Colding could see her lips moving, see her look of fear.
There would be no going back to sleep this time. “Okay, Gun. I’ll go take care of her.”
He hit the disconnect button and the screen went black. Colding slid out of bed, his bare feet hitting the frigid floor. No matter how high they turned up the temperature, the floor remained perpetually ice-cold. He stepped into his ratty flip-flops, pulled on a robe and slid a small earpiece onto his left ear. He tapped the earpiece once, turning it on.
“Gunther, radio check.”
“Got you, boss.”
“Okay, on my way. Holler if she comes out of it before I get there.”
Colding left his Beretta in the nightstand drawer. No need for the gun. He headed for Jian’s.
HER BLEEDING FINGERS had turned the panda from black and white to black and red. Panda body, tiger arm, sock monkey leg, lion leg, plastic baby-doll arm and the black head with a mouth full of pointy teeth. Her possessed hands held the strange creation, a misshapen, mismatched Dr. Seuss Frankenstein.
“Not again,” Jian’s little-girl voice whispered. “Please, not again.”
She begged, but like watching a familiar old rerun, she knew what would come next. She started screaming a moment too early, just before the black eyes fluttered open and looked right at her. Primitive, unfeeling, but clearly hungry.
Something shook her, shook her. The hodge-podge stuffed animal opened its mouth and seemed to smile. The devil’s smile. Mismatched arms—baby-doll plastic pink and tiger-stripe orange and black—reached up and out for her.
Just as the creature opened its mouth to bite, that something shook her even harder.
COLDING GENTLY SHOOK Jian one more time. She blinked awake, the expression of terror still fixed on her confused face. Sweat and tears matted her silky black hair against her skin.
“Jian, it’s okay.”
He’d watched this woman for two years, tried to help her both because it was his job and because she had become his good friend. For Jian, some days were better than others. The bad days hurt Colding, made him feel incompetent and powerless. He always reminded himself, however, that she was still alive, and that was really something. She’d tried to kill herself twice; he’d personally stopped both attempts.
Jian blinked once more, perhaps trying to see through the hair, then threw her arms around Colding in a crushing hug. He returned the hug, patting her fears away as if she were his daughter and not twenty years his senior.
“I have dream again, Mister Colding.”
“It’s okay,” Colding said. He felt her tears on his neck and shoulder. Jian called every man mister, although with her thick accent it always sounded like mee-sta. He’d never been able to convince her to call him by his first name.
“It’s okay, Jian. Why don’t you see if you can get back to sleep?”
She pulled away from him and wiped tears with the back of her hand. “No,” she said. “No sleep.”
“Jian, come on. Just try. I know you haven’t slept more than six hours in the past three days.”
“No.”
“Can’t you at least try?”
“No!” She turned and slid out from under the covers, surprisingly graceful for a woman who carried 250 pounds on a five-foot-six frame. Colding realized too late that she wasn’t wearing any pajama bottoms. He turned away, embarrassed, but Jian didn’t seem to notice.
“As long as I up, I get some work done,” she said. “We have another immune response test this morning.”
Colding rubbed his eyes, partially because it kept him from looking like he was trying not to look. He stared at the familiar chessboard sitting on her dresser. She’d beat him ninety-seven times in a row, but who was counting?
Her bottle of medication sat next to the chessboard. A clear strip running down the bottle’s side let him see how much fluid remained. Across the strip, written in neat black letters, were dates in descending order: N
ov. 1 on top, Nov. 30 on the bottom. The fluid leveled out at Nov. 7.
“Yes, I am taking my meds,” Jian said. “I may be crazy, but I am not stupid.”
But was she taking them? Things had been getting worse, her nightmares growing in frequency and intensity. “Don’t say that about yourself, Jian. I don’t think you’re crazy.”
“You also do not think you are handsome,” Jian said. “This proves your judgment is questionable.”
The zip of a pants zipper told him it was okay to look her way once again. She was pulling on a Hawaiian shirt—lime-green with yellow azaleas—over her sweat-stained, white T-shirt. Heavy black hair still hung wetly in front of her face, but through that hair he could see the dark rings under her bloodshot, haunted eyes.
She walked to her bizarre computer desk, sat down and switched on the power. Seven flat-panel monitors flared, coating her in a whitish glare. The setup surrounded her in a semicircle of screens. Three down at desk level, the side monitors angled in. Four monitors in the row above that, slanted down and around her so she actually had to turn her head from left to right to see them all.
Colding put the medicine bottle back and walked over to the computer station. All seven screens showed flowing strings of the letters A, G, T and C. Sometimes the letters themselves were in different colors, sometimes bright hues lit up long strings, sometimes both. To Colding, it looked like multicolored digital puke.
The immune response was the hurdle that the scientific trinity of Genada’s geniuses—Claus Rhumkorrf, Erika Hoel and Jian—simply couldn’t surpass. It was the last big theoretical hurdle that stood between Genada and saving hundreds of thousands of lives every year. Now that Jian was awake, she’d prep for the test, or, more likely, prepare for yet another failure and the resultant wrath of Dr. Claus Rhumkorrf.
“You need anything?” Colding asked.
Jian shook her head, her attention already fixed on one of the big monitors. Colding knew from experience that she probably wouldn’t register another word he said. Without looking away from the scrolling letters, Jian opened a small dorm-room fridge that sat under her desk and pulled out a bottle of Dr Pepper. Her hand shook a little as she opened it and took a long drink.