Bacon approved of the way the head of AP-Janus was going about his explanation. Unfortunately, the director knew what was coming next.
“But the situation has changed,” he said, completing Eighty’s thread. “Our treatment is no longer effective.”
Taking another sip of Scotch, Bacon worked to keep his emotions in check. After years of probing and experimenting, of whittling away at obstacles and taking baby steps toward the ultimate goal—specifically a threat Congress and the president could not dismiss—they finally had the technology to complete the mission, to fulfill the dream. There had to be a way to overcome this setback.
“Precisely,” Eighty said. “The
challenge,
as you so aptly put it, is that the Janus strain is simply too good.”
“Too good?” Forty-four asked.
Forty-four was a highly decorated retired admiral, now a U.S. senator from Rhode Island. His responsibility was to keep his identity a secret, while brokering the bargain with the government that was at the heart of the Janus project. Nine was assisting him, and until this unexpected development, they had been close—extremely close—to pulling it off. The spawn of Roosevelt’s New Deal was on the verge of being erased, and Lancaster Hill’s vision was about to become reality.
America would no longer be held hostage by its government, and the country would begin to flourish, freed at last from the financial shackles of entitlements. Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid would become anachronistic symbols of America’s parasitic, destructive social welfare policies. The staggering national debt would shrink like a bank of spring snow. Only those who could afford it would ever be admitted to a hospital.
“First of all,” Eighty said, “the spread of infection has gone beyond our predications. Then, when we tried to pull back while the powers in Washington were considering our offer, we discovered that Janus had become resistant to our treatment.”
“Explain yourself,” Forty-four said.
“Nine is keeping track of all of the reported cases of infection.”
“I’ll patch it onto the screen,” the head of strategy and logistics said.
A map of America appeared on the screen. There were red dots in most of the states—each dot, according to the map’s key, representing an infection with the media-dubbed Doomsday Germ.
“This map is from twenty months ago,” Nine said. “Every one of these infections were placed by one of the people we enlisted to assist us with this aspect of AP-Janus. They are all reliable, and fully support our philosophy and goals. Now, here is a map from nine months ago. We expected some contagion, and that is what we are seeing here. At this point, Health and Human Services Secretary Goodings asked us to pull back and have our people treat the infection with our system of antibiotics until she could meet with the president. That’s when the trouble began.”
A new map replaced the old and immediately Bacon felt his chest tighten. Instead of seeing red dots in fifteen states, there were dots in every state, and the numbers in the original states had quadrupled.
“I thought the bacteria needed a deep wound to spread,” he said.
“That was what we thought as well,” Eighty replied. “Not only has Janus become resistant to our treatment, but it is spreading in unexpected ways. It’s quite remarkable, in fact. Our scientists have never seen so profound an adaptation take place so quickly.”
“Forty-four, what is the current status of our negotiations with the secretary?” Bacon asked the senator.
“They’re panicked about the fact that word is leaking out. We knew they were stalling until their microbiologists could come up with an effective treatment, but as far as we can tell, they haven’t gotten there. The deadline we gave them is almost up, but of course with this new resistance, as soon as the government realizes what’s happened, we will have lost our leverage.”
“The rapid adaptation has taken us all by surprise,” Eighty said. “Initially, as you alluded, it took a significant inoculum of bacteria for infection to take hold—a deep wound. Now, any sized cut, even a gap from a hangnail, might be enough to cause an infection. Doctors would need to be using extreme bio-safety protocols to properly protect themselves and other patients from the germ.”
Bacon felt his cheeks flush. He dreaded the answer to the question he needed to ask.
“What does your model show in a year’s time?”
“This is just a projection,” Nine said, “but I’m afraid you’re not going to like what it shows.”
Again, one map faded from the conference screen, soon replaced by another. Bacon steeled himself. The red dots made the country appear to have suffered a severe case of the measles. Thousands of cases, involving even the less populated states.
“Good lord, what’s the death toll projection?”
“Unless we can find a way to treat the infection, the death toll will just continue to rise. In addition, of course, AP-Janus will be finished. Our bargaining chip will have vanished, and the hunt for the identities of every one of us will intensify. Sooner rather than later, the FBI will offer enough for someone to crack.”
Bacon cringed and leaned back in his plush leather chair, feeling the coldness of the damp stone floor soak into his bones. Instead of rescuing America, the Society of One Hundred Neighbors was about to destroy it.
“We are not mass murderers,” he said. “We have a purpose here.… Ideas?”
After a silent minute, Ninety-seven, the mathematician/engineer, spoke up.
“If we launch a containment strategy, we believe we can limit the loss of life to less than a thousand individuals. But remember, that’s only a projection. At the moment, the cart is very much dragging the horse.”
“What sort of containment strategy do you have in mind?”
“We would need to kill all infected individuals,” she said without emotion, “and stop infecting new ones. Even then, to stretch my equine analogy, the horse may already be out of the barn.”
Bacon grimaced. “We are so close. The president and the secretary know what Janus can do to public confidence in our hospital system. They are close to caving in. We absolutely cannot stop now. Eighty?”
“I believe we need to take a more active role in developing an effective treatment for the germ. Seventy-one, who made the initial discovery that started AP-Janus, is working intensively at modifying the treatment protocol. And, of course, from the moment we first contacted them with our offer, the government has been working on a solution.”
“How close are they?”
“They have a microbiologist leading a secret task force,” Eighty said. “Our ability to intercept his communication with his team is frequently compromised by the NSA, but we have reason to believe progress is being made.”
“So then, we put this scientist to work for us,” Bacon said. “We must possess both the cause and the cure or all is lost. Can we get to him?”
“Thanks to Nine’s foresight, we have had a contingency plan for this very scenario in place from the moment we activated AP-Janus. Forty-five is our inside man. He should be able to obtain the asset.”
At last, Bacon had a reason to smile.
He took a more relaxed sip of his Scotch, and said, “Then you will proceed.”
CHAPTER 3
As for man, the biological laws make no exception for intelligence or wealth. The laws of God only demand that we do what we can in what time we have, to make the world a place where laziness and sloth are never rewarded.
—LANCASTER R. HILL,
Climbing the Mountain
, SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1938, P.111
Lou had fallen twice while traversing the rain-slicked rocks and roots. Lou and Cap finished at a slower pace, turning some heads as they dragged across the rustic lobby of the lodge, muddied and scraped.
“I think we’ll bag our run today,” someone called after them. “Too much of a contact sport.”
Still shaken from his falls, Lou headed for the shower while Cap checked the highway map for the best route to his aunt’s house in Buford. Twenty minutes later, Lou emerged from a cloud of steam, ready to take on the forest again.
“Looks like I might be back after dinner, so you’ll have to eat without me,” Cap said.
“Not a problem. I should probably do some schmoozing for Filstrup anyway.”
“How do you think the election is going to go?”
“Honestly?… The speech lacks passion,” Lou said. “Abraham Lincoln could give it and it would still fall flat.”
“Ouch.”
“Many of the docs involved in physician wellness organizations are in recovery themselves. Filstrup’s views, well, they’re clinical at best. Long on pomposity, short on grit.”
“Why is he running for this office, anyway?”
“You’re talking about a guy who has called me for progress reports on the election several times since we got here, while his wife is still in the ICU. Clearly his ego was bought in a plus-sized store.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll give it your all.”
“Believe me, pal, I care a lot more about Marjory Filstrup’s irregular heart rhythm than I do about Walter’s election. Besides, even though I’ve got another day to read it over, Filstrup would gut me if I so much as changed a word, so what there is is what they’re gonna get.”
“After our run tomorrow, I’ll listen to you read it if you want.”
“You’re going to hate it.”
“Nah, man. It’s cool. I haven’t had a vacation in ages, and I’m really happy being here, so helping you and your boss out is the least I can do.”
“I’m glad the trip’s working out, thanks in large part to that touchdown catch you made out there.”
“Aw, shucks.”
Lou left while Cap was showering. The van hired to shuttle folks to the tour of the CDC was idling near the entrance to the lodge. Lou doubted he would be on time to snag a window seat, but to his surprise there were only two other passengers. According to their name tags, they were Dr. Brenda Greene, an internist from Oregon, and Dr. Harvey Plimpton from Connecticut, who had lost interest in his specialty of gastroenterology somewhere in his late fifties and had become certified by the American Board of Addiction Medicine.
Greene, a garrulous and gregarious redhead, was utterly dismayed with the small turnout.
“I don’t think people understand what an unusual experience this is going to be. The Centers for Disease Control doesn’t even offer tours, except of their museum. My ex, Roger, is in the public relations office and pulled strings to arrange this for us. A guided tour of the CDC is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“Physician health people can be a little narrow,” Plimpton said. “What made you sign up, Lou?”
“I’ve never been. I had no idea they didn’t give tours. I have always thought of the place as sort of a Disney World of microbiology, featuring Bugland and Epidemiologyland and AndromedaStrainland and the like.”
The Templeton Rehabilitation Center was believed by many to provide the most effective treatment for chemically dependent health professionals in the world. Lou’s addiction, primarily to amphetamines, had evolved as he moonlighted more and more hours in an effort to help his father, Dennis, a union laborer then on disability, meet the college tuition expenses of Lou’s younger brother, Graham. The deal was that Graham was never to be told. Lou feared that the fragile relationship between the two headstrong brothers would shatter. As things were, they had never grown close.
The last time Lou had been in Atlanta, the anniversary of his arrival at Templeton, was the last time he had been in the city. By then, many of those from his “class” had been lost to follow-up, and too many others were dead.
Bad disease.
The memories, tempered by the years and the recovery meetings, roiled in Lou’s mind as the van rolled through the streets of the city where the turnaround in his life had begun.
Druid Hills, home to the CDC as well as some of Atlanta’s most elegant mansions, was some five miles from downtown. The van and its three passengers cruised to the main entrance past the agency logo—white rays on blue, beneath the block letters
CDC
. The driver pulled to a stop in front of the main building and informed the trio of the pickup time for the return trip to the lodge.
“I could stay here for days,” Greene gushed.
“Is your ex coming to greet us?” Lou asked.
“Doubtful. Roger and I are on decent terms, but we split because I told him he wasn’t motivated enough to amount to anything.”
Lou shielded his eyes against the glare of the morning sun. The air, free of the scent of lab chemicals, smelled instead of flowering plants and trees. He gestured at a towering brick smokestack rising up from behind a mirrored-glass building. The sprawling complex seemed perfect for incubating secrets as well as specimens.
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to learn they’re taking volunteers for human experimentation, if you want to extend your stay,” he said.
“I assume you’re joking.”
“Alas, people are always making that assumption.”
Lou followed the others into the tastefully apportioned lobby, chilled enough to raise goose bumps. He wondered about the negative pressure rooms, HEPA air purifiers, and other bio-safety protocols employed at various areas in the facility to keep lethal pathogens contained.
“If you’ve ever wondered what a bioterrorist’s candy store looks like,” Greene said as if reading his thoughts, “well, this is it.”
A brunette dressed in a sharply tailored navy blue suit approached. The tag pinned to her ample lapel said that her name was Heidi, and that she was with public relations. She glanced briefly at her clipboard, perhaps making sure she had the correct number of visitor badges to hand out.
“Hello and welcome,” she said with the slightest hint of an accent. “My name is Heidi Johnson, and I’ll be your guide for your visit today. I assume you are Dr. Greene?”
“Brenda Greene, that’s right.”
“I have a message for you from Roger Greene. He regrets that he has meetings all day and won’t be here to escort you personally, but he welcomes you to the foremost facility of its kind in the world, and knows I will fill in admirably for him. Now, unless there are questions, I guess I should make sure I have the right people before we head off.”