As the studies progressed, tensions eased between the Plum Island and Suffolk County officials. Together they drew up emergency plans for hurricanes, civil disobedience (like violent animal rights demonstrations), fires, sabotage, radiological incidents, and unauthorized removal of an exotic pathogen. But the detente was short-lived.
Dr. Martin Mayer, the county's disease control chief, got a call from an investigative reporter over the weekend of April 29. Did he know Plum Island extended research until May 8, eight days into the mosquito season and six weeks after they promised to conclude? "No, I'm completely unaware," Mayer said. He called the island first thing Monday morning, and Walker promised him they would be finished — honestly, this time — by week's end. "A couple of extra days aren't going to hurt," conceded Mayer, calling it a "minor" deviation. Yet mosquitoes in the region were hatching and beginning to fly, according to the county's mosquito control chief, who told Newsday the pests would not be swarming for another week or two over "dry areas" like Plum Island. This "dry area" boasted three freshwater swamp beds covering 120 acres of an 843-acre island, and over twenty different species of mosquitoes called Plum Island home. Dr. Callis said the project ran late because researchers were in the middle of their studies.
While Plum Island faced three ongoing investigations — one for a virus outbreak, one for a construction fiasco, and one for criminal fraud — scientists uncorked vials of deadly Zagazig 501 (and its progeny) and infected cattle, horses, sheep, pigs, and even seals. Few of the air filter, incinerator, and negative airflow repairs were complete.
The labs were vulnerable, and the USDA was compounding the risk.
A TROUBLING SCENARIO
Discussing Rift Valley fever — over a decade before the West Nile virus became part of the American lexicon — Dr. C. J. Peters and Plum Island director Dr. Roger G. Breeze wrote, "[T]he most probable routes of introduction of Rift Valley fever into the United States are via a viremic person who will be bitten by a mosquito or an infected mosquito aboard a plane. The infected mosquito will then infect a susceptible animal in which the virus will be amplified for the infection of more mosquitoes."
But what if the virus performed an end run, not from the nation's international airports, but from within, set free from a poorly run top-secret facility where it was kept in large quantities? What might have happened? And how?
It's a Thursday in early May, just a few days before the Rift Valley fever virus experiments concluded:
As Long Islanders open windows, inviting the crisp spring air to fill their homes, and venture outdoors to garden, mosquito larvae begin to stir, hatching from their eggs. Soon the winged creatures take flight and begin to feed. On Plum Island, scientists there are wrapping up a large-scale study of Rift Valley fever. Seven young Plum Island Culex pipiens, Aedes vexans, and Aedes atropalpus mosquitoes fly into Lab 101 through a three-quarter-inch gap between an old air filter and the roof. Two of them buzz their way into an animal experimentation room. Two more find the "hot zone" corridor. One flies into the clean corridor. The remaining two meet their demise in an exhaust fan.
The first two head straight for two test sheep dying of Rift Valley fever virus (the Zagazig 501 strain), and take a blood meal. Viruses disseminate into the insects' midgut and move to their tiny salivary glands. Two days later, an animal handler, Jeff, opens the air-lock door to check on the sheep. As he opens the door, the two mosquitoes in the corridor rush into the animal room. While he draws blood from one of the ailing sheep, one stings him on the arm while the other bites the sheep. Busy holding the frightened animal steady, he doesn't feel the pinprick. The mosquito takes an ample blood feast, leaving behind virus in the unknowing man. As Jeff opens the door to leave, the mosquitoes rush out. In the "hot corridor," one of the scientists on her way out of containment brushes by the animal handler. "Have a good night, Jeff," she says to him. "You too, Jane." One mosquito targets her and bites her on the neck. She brushes her collar, thinking the irritation is from the lab-coat tag rubbing against her skin.
That evening, Jane meets her family at Claudio's in Greenport, their favorite seafood restaurant. It's balmy outside, and the wait is long but worth the wait. While the couple chit-chat outside and ask the kids about school, a few mosquitoes zone in on them. "Damn gnats," Jane's husband complains, swatting away a small swarm. "We're getting eaten alive by bugs! Guess summer's officially here, huh?"
Back in the lab, the four mosquitoes buzzing around in Lab 101 die. A sole survivor makes its way outside through a hole in a rubber gasket attached to the room's air filter. It flies with purpose to the outside animal pen for a new meal of sheep blood.
Separately, one of the doses of experimental vaccine used to vaccinate the sheep outdoors is contaminated with live virus. The dose was injected into a ewe the day before. The ewes aren't scheduled for laboratory testing until after the weekend.
Two fuses are lit.
Earlier that afternoon, Jeff finishes tending to the ill animals in the test rooms. He spends a few extra moments comforting them with pats and coos. Then he showers out of containment and takes the ferry home to Long Island. The next morning, he wakes up and shakes off a little nausea. "Maybe there was something wrong with that fish Bobby caught and cooked up for dinner," he thinks. Convinced the feeling will pass soon enough, he readies for work and drives to the Orient Point ferry dock. While waiting to board the boat, a mosquito flies over and bites him on the leg. Preoccupied with his queasiness, he doesn't notice and climbs aboard the Plum Island ferry. Jeff shakes off his sluggishness, finishes work, and heads home for the weekend. He figures he must have mild food poisoning, and he'll beat it by Monday for sure.
Over the weekend, virus replication rages inside the two sheep — the one bitten by the mosquito and the other with the contaminated vaccine. They're both viral amplifiers, virus-manufacturing facilities literally spewing infectious particles. Swarms of mosquitoes from the marshes and landfills are in the animal pens now, biting the two sheep and the other animals.
A feeding frenzy begins.
Hovering near the island's harbor, a swarm takes a ride to Orient Point on the afternoon ferry and continues the journey on Long Island. Some catch the cross-sound ferry to New London, Connecticut. Others bite Canadian geese and gulls flying south to perch on Hamptons beaches. As the birds head toward Connecticut, they are bitten again by more hungry mosquitoes. People are migrating, too. America's well-to-do are traveling to Long Island's East End to spend their weekend in share-houses, bungalows, and waterfront country estates. Locals are hiking, cycling, swimming, and fishing in the environs.
The insects spread far and wide and bite more "amplifiers" — pets, livestock, and people. The mosquito that bit Jeff at the Orient Point dock splatters on the windshield of a car. But the one that nabbed Jane outside of Claudio's bites another patron the same night, and then a golden retriever.
The cycle continues.
On Friday afternoon, the Rift Valley fever virus travels to Jeff's lymph nodes, which engorge with virus. Through the lymph and the bloodstream, the virus surges through his body all day Saturday as he pops open a Bud and watches the NBA playoffs. He's sluggish all day. The day lulls slowly into night. On Sunday morning, instead of feeling better, things take a turn for the worse. Jeff's temperature spikes to 105 degrees. The nausea, chills, headache, and achy-weak feeling intensify. He becomes dizzy in the afternoon, doubles over in the kitchen, and vomits. This is where the flulike symptoms end and Rift Valley fever begins. Jeff, who's never been afraid of heights, has vertigo just standing up. His eyes are suddenly sensitive to light, so he draws shut the blinds. His stomach feels strangely full, though he hasn't been able to hold anything down since breakfast Friday. The fullness turns to pain, and his eyes hurt more and more. He realizes this is far more serious than mild food poisoning or some twenty-four-hour bug. He hates doctors, but now he relents. Summoning the strength to drive to the hospital in Greenport, Jeff checks into the emergency room.