Jericho 3 (14 page)

“Just in case anyone decides to get loose lips on Skype or with Terps in the TMC…the mission plan will be spelled out once we hit stage at the rehearsal point. Questions? Good. See you at 0200,” Sanchez said as he walked over to the front of the private dining room, entered his combination and pulled the chain and padlock off the DFAC door.

University Hospital, Clinic and Research Center

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

L
ieutenant Colonel Raines walked quickly through the front doors of the University Hospital, Clinic and Research center and took the elevator to the fourth floor where a glass-enclosed sky-bridge walkway would take her over to the research center and labs.

The sign on the door read: Pieter J. Blauw, MD, PhD Lab.

Blauw was holding court with three of his post-doctoral research staffers and the veterinary technician who cared for his research animals.

Raines walked in and stood to the side as Blauw finished up.

“Colonel Raines, I trust you found the lab without great difficulty.”

“Yes, sir, exactly as your map and instructions indicated. Looks like you have quite the operation going on in here.”

“We do. I’ll give you the 50-cent tour as we walk over to my office.”

“Is this all Alzheimer’s research?”

“We have an Alzheimer’s focus but neurodegenerative diseases in general. I have three post-docs, a microbiologist and a few vet techs on my team. Nothing like I had back in the days at Brezden but really quite ample.”

Raines explored the stacks and stacks of Allentown XJ cage and rack systems.

“Transgenic mice?”

“Well, genetically modified at least. They have additional, artificially-introduced genetic material in every cell. We call that foreign DNA. It gives us a gain of function, for example the mouse may produce a new protein. But we’re also looking for a loss of function if that foreign DNA interrupts another gene.”

“Are you buying transgenics with Alzheimer’s knocked-in from the breeders, or do you create your own?”

“Actually both, Colonel Raines. In our research, we’re using genetically modified mice with inbred strains so that we have a stable genetic background, and then we add novel strains carrying alleles of genes that have been identified as potential targets for Alzheimer’s therapies. At the risk of being too technical, in our mice the transgene contains a tetracycline operator that drives four repeats of the protein ‘tau’ gene.”

“Yep, you just lost me.”

“Well, the microtubule-associated protein ‘tau’ is the most commonly misfolded protein in human neurodegenerative diseases like Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, dementia, Pict’s and palsy. Our focus is on the mechanisms behind the pathogenesis, or neurodegenerative diseases similar to, when prions spread through the nervous system.”

“Okay, sorry I asked,” Raines said as she laughed and took a seat in Blauw’s research office at the far end of his lab.

“I understand. Try this on for size…almost 80,000 Americans die from Alzheimer’s each year, the fourth leading cause of death in the US after heart disease, cancer and stroke.  That’s why I do this. Just like Mr. Campbell, four million are diagnosed each year at a cost to the nation of $100 billion. One of my heroes from Germany, Alois Alzheimer, was the neurologist who first described the pathology of the disease nearly 100 years ago, and we’re still working on it.”

“Are we any closer to solving this disease now, than we were back then?”

“Each day we add a new piece to the puzzle. We just don’t know how many puzzle pieces are in the full disease picture. The brain is one of the last frontiers in medicine. But thanks to these mice, we have increased the speed of discovery. In a six-month old mouse we can see AD disorders in the hippocampus and spatial learning deficit. In a 13-month old mouse we can see memory deficits. Breakthroughs are a function of time, money, good people and a lot of luck. Every day we hope we’re going to find something that makes it to a clinical trial.”

“And that’s why I’m here. Mrs. Campbell wanted me to help them select a human clinical trial for Mr. Campbell. What do you recommend?” Raines asked.

“I prepared a file for you,” Blauw said as he handed Raines a manila folder. “Three studies are currently recruiting patients. Given the fact that Mr. Campbell is 77 years old, he might be suitable for a trial out in Baltimore. Essentially, they are looking at the influence of age on amyloidal load in Alzheimer’s and in atypical focal cortical AD.”

“Are they using experimental meds?”

“No, not with this one, they’re injecting a radio-tracer to measure age-specific deterioration factors for both early-onset and late-onset as well as atypical cortical AD. They look for brain lesions through PET scans and try to measure cortical brain atrophy and the glucose metabolism that correlates to neuronal activity.”

“Doesn’t sound like this will help him get better.”

“Colonel Raines…he may see some marginal improvements with the medicines, diet and exercise…but he’s not going to get better. He’s an old-school fighter. So if he wants to contribute to the body of information on Alzheimer’s, this is a great start. This is a two month study. I’ll keep looking for others if he’s interested. You can also check out clincialtrials.gov and see if others come up.”

“I assume he would be qualified for this trial in Baltimore?”

“Yes, his clinical dementia rating is 1.5, his cued Grober and Buschke recall test was 10 of 48 and his total recall was 30 out of 48.”

“I take it that means yes.” Blauw smiled and checked his watch. “I know you’re a busy man. Thanks for taking so much time with me.”

Raines stood and shook Dr. Blauw’s hand and started to leave.

“Colonel Raines…he’s 77 years old…there’s not much time.”

Raines walked out through the aisle in the long lab, over the jet-walkway, down the elevator and out to the parking lot where she sat in her Wrangler wondering what she should tell Camp, or even if she should tell him anything at all.

Combat Outpost Chergotah

Khost Province, Afghanistan

A
fghanistan’s border with Pakistan careens 450 miles down the eastern portion of Regional Command-East. It was inundated with extreme mountainous terrain and perilous conditions along the Hindu Kush mountain range which topped 16,000 feet in some places.

More than 2,000 footpaths ran across the border in RC-East and another 200 paths could handle a mule depending on weather conditions. The people of the area weren’t as much Afghans or Pakistanis as they were tribal members with interconnected family ties sitting on both sides of an invisible border.

Combat Outpost Chergotah sat at 8,000 feet where oxygen was hard to come by and western comforts were non-existent.

Chergotah was just two miles from the border with Pakistan.

Less than 100 war-weary soldiers from the 4th Brigade Combat Team, 25th Infantry Division out of Fort Richardson, Alaska worked, mentored and trained a rag-tag group of Afghan Border Policemen to sustain border security and maintain peace among the local tribes and villagers.

MRAPs with Common Remotely Operated Weapons Stations secured the area with .50-caliber machine guns and Mark 19 grenade launchers that used precision computer video targeting systems controlled with a 10-inch TV screen by each gunner sitting in a warm cabin cockpit below.

Special Forces Operation Detachment Alpha had taken over a vacant Afghan house on the outpost. An open wood fire warmed the air to a balmy 45 degrees. Classified maps hung impaled into walls of mud, wood and straw with oversized nails.

An old wooden table sat in the center of the room as ODA Troopers staged for the rehearsal. Manson and Colt laid out the M4A1s for Camp and Finn. Master Sergeant “Manson” sported a wandering and half-crazed eye that never seemed to align with the other, and his laugh was as demonic as his namesake’s which seemed to fit as he mounted the M203 grenade launcher to his 9-inch barrel M4. The only thing fancy for Camp and Finn’s weapons were aftermarket buttstocks and vertical forward grips. If everything went according to plan, neither would need to fire so much as a round.

Geek, Chip, Ham and Dex worked on the intel and communications components for high elevation technical mountain movements, while Dino and Jazz prepped C4 explosive bricks and an assortment of small-charge door busters. Country and Bulldog had enough rappelling equipment and mountaineering gear to run a 6-month survival course for Outward Bound. Lynch and Veggie packed up their medical supplies including a MEDEVAC 4 combat tactical stretcher, just in case Major Banks was found wounded or unable to walk. They packed an entire extra set of outdoor gear for Banks. What the Taliban didn’t finish, the extreme weather would if they didn’t pack accordingly.

“Alright, listen up,” Brick said as he called the meeting to order. “Manson has pegged our movement at point-six kilometers per hour based on the terrain maps and satellite imagery of the trails. We’re 100-percent snow-covered up there, but we have to move in and move out. We’ve got 22 miles from ingress to target at Datta Khel Village in Miran Shah District. People, that’s 59 hours of high-terrain hiking and one four-hour sleep break on the way in and the same thing on the way out.”

“No trips to the bazaar, Brick?”

Brick didn’t even acknowledge Staff Sergeant “Dex” or his wise-ass attempt at humor.

“Geek, you’ve got the floor,” Brick said as he took a seat next to Camp.

“Human intelligence is a major component of this mission. We can’t simply rely on the Terp’s recollection of a particular house in some alley. Nothing from the birds can really help us out at this point. Omid?”

Geek’s eyes lifted and a man of solid build entered from the back of the room.

“Good afternoon, Alpha, Camp…Finn,” Omid said as he took center stage in the chilled room.

Finn quickly put his glasses on and gave Omid the once over inspection. Omid looked to be about Camp’s age. His chest was well-developed and he carried himself with poise and bearing. He was shorter than Camp. His boots were new and his clothing was both rugged and stylish. Omid’s eyes didn’t dart around the room, but rather focused in on each subject with laser-guided precision.

“Persian?” Finn asked Omid who was not given the chance to reply.

“Details are not important, Finn. Omid will be helping us with this mission. He knows the route, the people, the risks and the village in Miran Shah District. We’ve been working with Omid for several years and his HUMINT work is second to none, reliable above reproach,” Geek said as both he and Omid sat down.

“At 0400 our rehearsal goes green. We’re going four miles up and only half a click in to the Paki’s side of the border. We’ll simulate the extraction, load the Tac4 with 200-pounds of rocks to simulate Banks, and egress. Total mission time is 24 hours. We may encounter hostiles so we’re lock and load, yellow and red, as needed. If the rehearsal goes according to plan, I’ll brief Command, and if we get the approval, we go. Questions? Get some chow, hit your rolls, and we go at 0400,” Brick said as Omid stared at Camp.

“Navy SEAL now a doctor?” Omid asked.

Camp picked up his things and stood. “I believe the man said details are not important.”

Ham and Dex walked back into the open room carrying a huge pot of steaming soup and placed it on the open fire. The ODA team lined up followed by Omid, Finn and Camp. They all filled their tin cups with hot soup and found places around the abandoned house to sit on their folding metal tripod ruck stools. Omid ate quickly as Finn looked over somewhat disgusted by his hunger and his etiquette.

“You know there’s pork in the soup, right?” Finn teased as Omid stopped eating for a second and then increased his eating speed.

“Really?” Omid said as he continued eating. “I cooked this soup, but I don’t remember putting pork in the pot. We were short of broth, so, yes, I did have to piss in the kettle first, but I don’t remember adding any pork.”

Finn looked over at Omid then down at his soup as Finn’s appetite escaped the room. Camp was finally smiling.

“Let me guess, Iranian Revolutionary Guard,” Finn said triumphantly as though he had made a significant investigatory discovery.

“You’re good,” Omid said not taking his eyes off the next spoonful of soup. “And you?”

“Retired,” Finn said.

“Finn…when you were in the FBI’s New York field office, was Dalton Fischer still the director?” Omid asked.

Finn looked shocked but said nothing.

“I worked for Dalton on many occasions. Tell him Pablo says hello,” Omid finished his soup and ladled out some more. Camp looked over at Finn as the dynamic had just taken an unexpected turn toward exciting.

“You know Pablo?” Finn finally stuttered.

Omid looked up and into Finn’s eyes.

“I
am
Pablo.”

“Okay will someone clue me in here,” Camp injected. “The Iranian intelligence officer from the Revolutionary Guard who pissed in our kettle of soup knows your former boss?”

“For the last 15 years or so, the FBI has had some noteworthy double-agents from Iran, none more accurate or trustworthy than a man they simply called Pablo. Dalton Fischer and one of our intel guys met with this Pablo a few times in Europe and even twice in New York.”

“It wasn’t a guy, Mr. Finn. You must be talking about Susan Francis. She was the intel specialist Dalton brought along. Last I heard from Susan, her father had cancer,” Omid said as he devoured another cup of soup.

Finn leaned back on his ruck stool.

“He died…Susan’s father died of colon cancer.”

“Okay Finn…so I’m guessing you’re okay with all this now,” Camp asked. “So are you Omid or Pablo?”

“Neither actually, but you probably could figure that out by now.”

“So how do you manage to just waltz out of Iran and into other countries for these covert assignments?” Finn asked.

“I tell the authorities that my father needs constant help, Finn. He was wounded in an attack in 1981 and left a paraplegic. He’s in a convalescent home in Islamabad.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that,” Camp said.

“Don’t be, not anymore at least. The truth is that he died in 1981 after the attack. I was only six, just after the Revolution began. He was ambushed, shot, and then died several months later. I kept him alive in my reports and it became a convenient story. I even have nurses, doctors and caregivers who call and send letters from my father to the authorities. Works out nice.”