The following July, more virus safety rules were broken. Two Plum Island employees with a container of viruses scheduled for gamma irradiation, ostensibly en route to Radiation Technology Inc. in Rockaway, New Jersey, decided to make a two-day detour out of a three-hour drive, and stowed the biologicals in one of their garages at home overnight.
In 1983, the National Academy of Sciences weighed in. Their two-hundred-page in-depth report repeated what lay people had been suspecting for years — Plum Island had run its course. "It is time to reconsider PIADC's [Plum Island Animal Disease Center's] future," it began. Though they commended Dr. Bachrach's pioneering work in genetic engineering, in the eyes of the nation's top scientists, Plum Island was through. "[I]ts isolation and high costs of operation, construction, and maintenance make it unsustainable in the long term. As soon as possible, USDA should proceed with construction of a new, highly secure, mainland laboratory to succeed PIADC as UDSA's principal center for research…. "
While mainland research cost $175,000 on a per-scientist basis, comparable research on Plum Island cost $328,000. Of the island's total annual budget of $11.7 million, $7.6 million was invested in salary and personnel benefits, and only $16,000 was earmarked for new equipment — hardly enough for an electron microscope. In a dig at the locals, the academy found "the education level of technical personnel seems to be lower than what might be available near larger urban centers with university communities." Other than Dr. Bachrach's revolutionary work, Plum Island's virology program was "at least twenty years out of date." The experts also detected "a sense of isolation between different workers within the facility as well as between PIADC scientists and the larger scientific community….[Plum Island] suffers from a paucity of mid-career, established investigators." Put another way, the place was languishing without direction by disinteresteds nearing retirement. And its ability to handle an exotic animal disease outbreak in the United States: "precarious at best," said the experts.
Jack R. Dahl, a hearty, mild-mannered North Dakota rancher and former president of the National Cattlemen's Association, helped write the report. "We identified a lot of problems that existed on Plum. We knew what the problems were — and we knew of the research work and the accomplishments. The problems outweighed the accomplishments."
The academy scoffed at the importance of its island location, in light of its populous surroundings and available modern technology. "Better biosafety containment is possible. An island location is not a guarantee of safety… " Twenty-five years ago, Labs 101 and 257 were state-of-the-art; now they were archaic. A full five years had passed since the virus outbreak, yet they wrote that "a potential for agent escape is still present." Walls weren't sealed, air-lock doors weren't properly gasketed, and exhaust air filters weren't installed. Personnel were allowed to move between support areas, laboratories, and animal rooms, despite the facility's own requirements. Though most labs prohibited eating, drinking, and smoking within containment, "surprisingly, the new renovation [at Plum Island] includes a lunch facility within the barrier zone."
A self-described "independent rancher" (the twenty-first-century euphemism for the near-extinct cowboy) who today runs a ten-thousand-acre ranch, Dahl recalls that closing Plum Island and moving operations onto the mainland was the "crux" of the study. The report urged the facility be torn down and closed.
All the negative press, the PR missteps, the biological bungling, and the outright mismanagement had impacted Dr. Callis's reign as Lord of the Manor. No longer was he the twenty-seven-year-old kid scientist who, at Doc Shahan's side, helped build the "World's Safest Lab."
One source described the situation on the island at the time as "stagnation." Another, "benign neglect." "Jerry had a helluva vision about Plum Island," says his successor, Dr. Roger G. Breeze. "But that vision sort of ran its arc. And I'm not trying to be critical about where that arc comes to rest." But rest it did.
A former official cites the director's penchant for travel as a contributing factor. "I'd say he was one for the ages, one of the few scientists who was a good leader and a good scientist. But by then his mission wasn't running Plum Island — it was running around the world, visiting other countries doing disease work, addressing meetings, and attending seminars — that was his agenda. And that's one of the reasons why Plum Island went to hell."
All the negative newspaper stories, egged on by Karl Grossman, News-day, and others — much of it warranted, but not all of it — weathered the old veterinarian beyond repair. "There's one thing I think Jerry failed at," says Dr. Jim House, "and every director after him has also failed at — public relations. There was and is no program to explain the benefits of the place, the fact that it is a national treasure, that it is needed. Nobody does that — nobody goes out and gets the community involved and lets them understand it."
Much of that failure was an extreme desire for secrecy. "I think Jerry had this old-school cold war mentality," House contemplates. "You must remember, the Russians thought Plum Island was a really wild site out there. They knew it existed, and they played this game, they built it up in areas, saying it was a biological warfare site, or at least something of cold war value. And this just carried on." Dr. Carol House, also a retired Plum Island scientist (and Jim's wife), adds, "I think Jerry liked that." Though the outside advisory committee — now headed by Dr. Robert Shope — urged Plum Island to hold frequent press events, the hurtful, enduring sting caused by Grossman's 1971 AP germ warfare story caused Callis to lock up the gates tighter. Problems and difficulties on Plum Island were met not with candor and public recognition, but with suppression. Ironically, the lack of sunlight on Plum Island's activities over the years would lead the public — and rebuffed curious news reporters — to always assume the worst, fanning the flames of mystery, intrigue, and rampant speculation.
In one of his final communications, an uncharacteristically dry memo lacking the usual pleasantries, Dr. Callis told Plum Island employees that federal budget reduction legislation called for 5 percent cuts across the board, further depleting Plum Island's shoestring budget. To fight skyrocketing costs, he was considering a proposal to consolidate the two laboratory buildings into one, close the old Army-vintage administration buildings, and make Laboratory 101 a self-contained operation. This might — might— require cuts in staff, he said, but lest anyone worry, he would reduce positions through natural attrition, not through layoffs. By this time, Callis twice had stopped a move to privitize the federal workforce and reduce salaries, benefits, and the total number of staff positions. Callis may have faulted in many areas, but he remained doggedly loyal to his people, and to the promises he had made to them a quarter century ago: "respect personal dignity… recognize work achievement…provide work security…. Believe in the Golden Rule and always practice it."
Just days after his memo, the USDA hammer came down heavily. Regime change came quickly on Plum Island — Washington called up Jerry Jackson Callis, and told him his time was up.
"Let's just say retirement was not his own idea," says a source. "It happened abruptly — there were a lot of people and politics involved. He had really been there too long. We needed much better progression. We didn't need one person in one place — no matter how good he was." While Dr. Robert Shope maintains Callis's retirement was his own decision, other sources confirm he was "pushed out."
The USDA "elevated" him to the post of senior research adviser. This allowed him to maintain regular contact with his beloved island and offered another perk. Says one administrator familiar with the offer, "They said to him, 'We'll give you an office on the island, and carte blanche for several years on travel.' And Washington did that by dragging in money from other agencies and hidden places. They took real good care of him. It was a payoff, a golden parachute, if you will — they had to give it to him."