“The last variant — septicemic plague — is the most lethal of the lot. It occurs when bacilli move directly into the bloodstream, killing the victim within twelve to fifteen hours. Again, Scythe contains all three variants. It spreads rapidly, tortures its victims while eliciting fear, and kills within fifteen hours. Only our specifically harvested antibiotic can inoculate the public or cure an infected individual… assuming you can get to them in time.”
“Tell us about the woman.” Vice President Arthur M. Krawitz was seated next to Harriet Clausner. The president’s secretary of state grimaced on the White House monitor.
“Her name is Mary Louise Klipot. We’re e-mailing her photo and bio to everyone now, as well as to the FBI and New York police departments. Mary is the microbiologist who developed Scythe. She’s the one who brought plague samples back from Europe.
“Mary is eight months pregnant. She is engaged to her lab technician, Andrew Bradosky, believed to be the father of her unborn child. Mary and Bradosky have both gone missing as of 2:11 A.M. this morning, when Mary left her BSL-4 lab. Security videotape reveals she was carrying a BSL variant transport case.”
The vice president interrupted. “Dr. Gagnon, these attaché cases? Scythe was being readied for deployment, wasn’t it?”
Lydia Gagnon looked away from the White House feed, hoping to avert a drawn-out debate. “We don’t make policy decisions, Mr. Vice President, we simply follow orders. Our department has been following a 2001 directive to develop a system to subdue a hostile population. Those orders have never been rescinded.”
“Who even knew the orders existed? I didn’t, and I served on the Foreign Relations Committee for twenty-two years. This directive is not only illegal, Dr. Gagnon, it’s genocide!”
“It’s warfare, Mr. Vice President,” Secretary Clausner interjected. “As I clearly stated in the last two PDBs, our military lacks the manpower to invade another country. Biological weapons offer us options.”
“Wiping out 40 million Iranians is not an acceptable option, Secretary Clausner.”
“Neither is allowing nuclear weapons to fall into the hands of terrorists.”
“With all due respect, this isn’t the time or place,” Colonel Zwawa snapped. “Dr. Gagnon, where’s the missing Scythe attaché case now?”
Using her laptop mouse, Dr. Gagnon clicked on a satellite map of New York City. A red circle zoomed in on 46th Street between First and Second Avenue. “It’s in an alleyway located sixty meters west of the United Nations. Once our A.I.T.s are on the ground, Delta team will retrieve the attaché case while Alpha Team coordinates with Homeland Security and Albany’s CDC to set up a secure perimeter around the plaza. We’ll establish the UN Plaza as a temporary gray zone, at least until we can determine whether Scythe has been released. A.I.T.s are equipped with enough antibiotic to treat upward of fifty infected individuals, with more antidote being readied.”
“Show us the worst-case scenario,” Colonel Zwawa ordered.
Dr. Gagnon hesitated, then clicked her mouse on another link.
A black circle appeared over the UN Plaza and the southern tip of Manhattan. “Assuming the spread is limited to foot traffic during its first thirty to sixty minutes of insemination, we may be able to keep Scythe contained inside Lower Manhattan. If it gets off the island and is limited to vehicular traffic, hours two and three look like this—”
A second circle appeared, encompassing Connecticut, New York, the eastern half of Pennsylvania, and New Jersey.
“If, however, a human vector boards a train, or God help us, a commercial airliner, then Scythe could spread across the globe within twenty-four hours.”
“What does he want with me?” Patrick Shepherd hustled to keep up with Leigh Nelson as she hurried through the congested hospital corridor, weaving her way around patients in bathrobes pushing IVs on wheeled stands.
“I’m sure he’ll explain. Keep in mind, he is President Kogelo’s new secretary of defense. Whatever he wants with you, I’d approach it as an honor.”
Patrick followed his doctor into her office, the familiar sanctuary violated by the presence of the white-haired DeBorn, who had situated himself behind Dr. Nelson’s desk.
The defense secretary dismissed his two Secret Service agents, allowing Leigh and Patrick to sit down. “Sergeant Shepherd, it’s an honor. This is my personal assistant, Ms. Ernstmeyer, and this fine gentleman is Lieutenant Colonel Philip Argenti. The colonel will be your new CO.”
“Why do I need a new commanding officer? I’ve already served my time.”
DeBorn ignored him, squinting to read the file coming across his BlackBerry. “Sergeant Patrick Ryan Shepherd. Four tours of duty. Abu Gharib… Green Zone. Reassigned to the 101st Airborne Division. Says here you received some on-the-job training to be a chopper pilot.”
“Blackhawks. Medevac choppers. I was wounded before I could test for my certification.”
The secretary of defense scrolled down his screen. “What’s this? Personnel file says you played professional baseball. That true?”
“Minor leagues, mostly.”
“The sergeant also played for the Boston Red Sox.”
Shep shot Dr. Nelson a look to kill.
“Really? Outfielder, I’d guess.”
“Pitcher.”
DeBorn looked up. “Not a southpaw, I hope?”
“Shepherd? Patrick Shepherd? Why does that name sound familiar?” Colonel Argenti tugged at his rusty gray hair, wracking his brain. “Wait… you’re him! The kid they nicknamed the Boston Strangler. The rookie who no-hit the Yankees in his first start in the big leagues.”
“Actually, it was a two-hitter, but—”
“You shut out Oakland your next start.”
“Toronto.”
“Toronto, right. I remember watching it on Sports Center. That one went extra innings, they pulled you in the ninth. That was crazy, they should have left you in.” Argenti stood, pumping his fist excitedly at DeBorn. “Been a season ticket holder going on thirty years. I know my baseball, and this kid was a beast. His fastball was okay, a cutter in the low nineties, but it was his dirty deuce that was outright nasty.”
DeBorn frowned. “Dirty deuce?”
“You know — the dirty yellow hammer… the yakker. Public enemy number two. A breaking ball, Bert! This kid had a breaking ball that was like hitting a lead shot put. Groundout after groundout, it drove hitters crazy.” The priest leaned back against Dr. Nelson’s desk, hovering over Patrick like an adoring fan. “You were a phenom, son, a nine day wonder. Whatever happened to you? You disappeared off the map like nobody’s business.”
“I enlisted… sir.”
“Oh, right. Country first, but still. Crying shame about the arm. How’d you lose it?”
“I don’t remember. They called it a traumatic amputation. Buddy of mine, medic named David Kantor, he found me… saved my life. D.K. said it was an IED. I must’ve picked it up, thinking it was a kid’s toy. Woke up in the hospital six weeks later, couldn’t remember a thing. Probably better that way.”