The sharp angles of Madden's face were softened by the booth's dim lighting. He looked like a boy, except for his eyes, black and hard and shiny. "Are we talking about months or years?" he asked.
The director puffed his pipe into life before answering. "Everything depends on deployment and whether you're going for land or sea targets. Now take Bloomingdale's--the chloraphenoxy acid group. That acts as a plant hormone, causing metabolic changes so that the plant grows at a phenomenal and uncontrolled rate. It grows itself to death."
"More suited to land vegetation."
"That's right," Rolsom affirmed. "Our other main group, symmetrical triazines--Macy's--interferes with photosynthesis. The plant's biochemical processes are halted and eventually it dies of starvation. Macy's would be more effective in the oceans, killing off the phytoplankton. But speed of deployment is the key."
"Well, we've got missiles and supertankers," Madden said. "We've tested Bloomingdale's at the range in Colorado and it's looking good. A single payload targeted on South America could wipe out fifty square miles of rain forest. As for the oceans, supertankers at strategic locations could dump Macy's within hours. As far as anyone knew they'd be commercial vessels on regular trade routes. Not a nuke to be seen."
Rolsom led the way into the corridor, trailing aromatic blue smoke.
"You'll want to see the bacteriological section while you're here."
"How's it coming along?"
"We're experimenting with a number of mutant strains of bacteria that consume oxygen at a far greater rate than normal." Rolsom was using his hands for more graphic displays. "The bacteria don't actually interfere with photosynthesis but rather eat up the oxygen as fast as the phytoplankton can produce it. In two, maybe three months with that rate of growth you could turn the whole of the Pacific into bacterial soup."
The image was arresting and Lloyd Madden felt a pleasurable shudder down the length of his spine. As a kid he'd gone around with an imaginary machine gun wiping out everything that moved, rat-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat! Seeing gaping bloody holes everywhere. Headless corpses. Guts spilling out. It had been a harmless pastime for a lonely boy. He still vividly remembered seeing a Vietnamese rebel being shot in the head on a newscast and had experienced his first proper erection. Emaciated yellow corpses strewn about a paddy field excited the same reaction.
This was nearly as good. They took the elevator up to sublevel D and entered the laboratory, lit by glareless ceiling panels. He felt an almost sensual pleasure. This was his achievement! All these people working away to realize his ambition! While it was true that General Wolfe was ostensibly head of ASP and it had been Blindeye's rank and prestige that had persuaded the Pentagon to fund the establishment, the real motive force had come from him, from the kid with the imaginary machine gun.
That assignment in the Antarctic and the interrogation of the Russian scientist had started it all. Here was the warfare of the future. Here was a way of terrorizing not just a country or a continent but an entire planet. As the idea grew and took shape and assumed an independent existence, so his covert power had gone from strength to strength. Now, looking around at what he had created, Lloyd Madden felt an ecstatic thrill and the deepest satisfaction.
He strolled with the director past rows of white-coated researchers crouching over lab benches. At the far end of the long room an illuminated red sign warned sterile area, and beyond, through a double pane of glass, masked and rubber-suited figures moved like priests among glass tanks on metal racks. Everywhere there was a cathedral calm and quiet.
Beneath the red sign Rolsom stopped and pointed through the panel into the sterile inner chamber. The glass tanks were half-filled with seawater in which a greenish-brown scum floated.
"You can see how the bacteria progressively affect the phytoplankton. Each tank represents a time lapse of one week, and by the sixth or seventh week the bacteria outnumber the marine organisms, which then start to decay. The phytoplankton is being choked to death."
"The change in color is an indication of how the bacteria are consuming the oxygen," Madden said, wanting to be quite sure he understood.
"That's right. The green is the healthy phytoplankton and the color darkens and turns brown as the bacteria multiply." Rolsom tapped the glass with his pipe stem. "The real beauty of this method is that we need only a small amount of chemical bacteria to start the process rolling--after that it's self-generating. Not only is it highly effective, but also very economical."
"And very fast," Madden mused. There was a little catch of breath in his throat. "In three months we could virtually eliminate all phytoplankton growth."
"Don't be too optimistic," Rolsom said, sounding a note of warning. "It's early days yet, a year before we're ready for field trials. And we still don't know what happens over the long term, after the bacteria have taken over. It could be that it will continue multiplying--"
But Madden didn't want to hear. He said brusquely, "That's irrelevant as far as we're concerned. Have you tested it at Starbuck yet?" He was gazing fixedly through the glass panel at the rows of tanks.
Starbuck was an island practically on the equator, in the dead center of the Pacific Ocean. Once used for naval weapons testing, it had been taken over by ASP for marine trials on herbicides. Its location tickled Madden, being near Canton Island where Theo Detrick had spent twenty-odd years researching his precious diatoms. Madden could hardly resist a chuckle. The proximity of Starbuck to Canton only embellished the poetic irony, he felt.
"No, I told you, it's too soon," Rolsom said a shade uneasily. That was the trouble with the military, and with Major Madden in particular: too impetuous. Just get the results and forget the groundwork. There were other aspects that bothered him more. He glanced around at the researchers nearby and dropped his voice to a murmur. "What about the other problem?"
"What other problem?" Madden said, not looking at him.
"The political one."
"I thought you knew better than to ask."
"It does concern me, Major."
"No, it doesn't. This is what concerns you, right here"--nodding stiffly at the tanks with their greenish-brown scum.
"All right then. But if the secretary of defense is going to veto the project I think I have a right--"
"He isn't going to veto the project, so you can stop worrying," Madden said, turning away. "It's been taken care of. Let's leave it at that."
"We still need presidential approval," Rolsom persisted, following him to the door.
Madden paused, his thin nostrils pinched and white. His face had the consistency of wax under the ceiling panels. "Yes, Rolsom. I am fully aware of that fact," he said with a finality that debarred further discussion.
They took the elevator up to the director's office on sublevel B, not exchanging another word. Any kind of personal relationship was out of the question with Major Madden, the scientist realized. Not a spark of human warmth ever ignited those cold dead eyes. He found it impossible to imagine Madden having a home or family life. In fact he was one of those people you couldn't visualize as ever having to use the lavatory: cast-iron bowels, with no need to shit.
Madden collected his cap and gloves. "I'm going out to the West Coast to look over the plant. Any problems with supplies?"
Rolsom shook his head. "JEG gives us good service. No complaints."