Last Gasp (57 page)

The scientists at Starbuck had warned that this technique should be used only as a backup to the main operation. Clouds were at the beck and call of winds, and winds were no respecters of national boundaries. A cloud bearing its deadly load of TCDD might cross an ocean and drip creeping black death on friend instead of foe—or, worse still, on the land of its perpetrators. Great care had to be taken to confine the cloud-borne contamination to specific geographical localities whose meteorological patterns and trade winds could be plotted with a high degree of certainty.

As the weeks went by and the death toll mounted and entire cities, regions, states, countries, and continents were progressively laid waste, the decaying carcasses were subjected to the gradual yet ineluctable processes of nature.

Still alive and thriving inside the cellular structure of the dead, the virus increased in concentration and began to infect the soil. Sewers became biological fermentation tanks. Rivers were log-jammed with sodden decomposing corpses that added their toxic load to the already bacteriologically fertile water. On the seaboards of every affected continent mighty rivers and small streams alike discharged their quota of chemical-bearing virus into the oceans.

The black stain spread from the landmasses and began to seep outward in ever-widening circles, carried by the mingling currents into every ocean of the world. In relation to the volume of water it was an exceedingly minute concentration. But it had been genetically adapted to survive in conditions that otherwise would have dissipated and destroyed it.

To the scientists at Starbuck, who had accomplished the task set them, their pride and jubilation was unclouded by any fears of what might happen now that the Primary Plan had been implemented and successfully concluded. They reasoned that the amount of TCDD in global terms was infinitesimal, hardly enough to be measured even with the most sensitive instruments.

Literally a drop in the ocean.

The film was all the more horrific because it was silent: mute dreamlike images of death.

Continuous movement and fast disjointed cutting engendered in the viewer the impression that this was the work of an insane director who’d abandoned the conventional techniques of moviemaking and instead pointed his camera randomly at bodies erupting with cancerous growths and babies decaying in gutters. As a horror film it was brilliant in its totally objective noninvolvement: a clinical record in lurid, disgusting Technicolor.

Shot by telephoto lens from a helicopter, whose shadow flitted brokenly over buildings and raced along streets, this was official ASP footage of the results of the Primary Plan—proof of its success for the politicians and military brass.

“I’m impressed, Lloyd,” hissed Wayne Hansom, the secretary of state, into General Madden’s ear. “Not a sign of life and yet all facilities left intact. We couldn’t have achieved this even with our neutron bomb capability.”

“Aside from which, the expense would have been prohibitive on this scale. The cost effectiveness of a bacteriological strike can’t be matched by any other method.” Madden’s voice was soft and measured as usual, yet with an undercurrent of excitement, of nervous glee. “We’re talking about a few cents per hundred thousand, Wayne. Plus we made use of the army’s existing delivery technology—no fancy systems had to be developed. It was all the usual hardware manned by crews specially trained in handling contaminants.”

They lapsed into engrossed silence, watching the film, an aide replenishing their glasses when they ran dry. Madden had seen it perhaps a dozen times already but wasn’t bored. The close-ups were fascinating. The Primary Plan had fulfilled all their expectations and the secretary of state would have no hesitation in commending ASP’s role to the president when he made his report.

One of the State Department officials had a question. How soon before the target figure of 4.3 billion was met? At this moment in time, he pointed out, there was a considerable shortfall.

Madden delegated that one to Major Jones, whose stolid black features concealed a brain bulging with data. “Our original projection was C Day plus four months for virtual wipeout of the Designated Areas, but it now appears more realistic to think in terms of C Day plus six months. Right this minute we’re approaching two billion, which means that all cities and large towns have been zilched. Obviously the dense urban populations were easiest to hit. The rural and less-populated regions will take longer for precisely that reason. But the virus will get to them eventually because nothing can stop it. By C Day plus six”—he turned down both thumbs—“total wipeout.”

Hansom and Madden exchanged looks, smiling into each other’s eyes.

“As I understand it, you’re completely happy about containment.” This was neither statement nor query, but rather a nervous plea for reassurance from Jim Devanney, the assistant secretary of state. Fingers drumming the arm of his chair, eyes behind gold-rimmed bifocals swiveling from face to face.

Madden’s faint smile snapped off like a light. “Completely. Isn’t that right, Lutz?”

“TCDD in the form of the virus as developed at Starbuck is highly contagious and is transmitted either by person-to-person contact or through the water supply,” intoned the scientific officer. “It can’t be transmitted any other way. There is no risk of spreading the infection to landmasses many thousands of miles away, absolutely none whatsoever.”

“Supposing an infected person were to carry the disease to the United States,” Devanney proposed. “That’s possible, isn’t it, if they take days or even weeks to die after being infected?”

Lutz smiled, amused by the naiveté of the layman. “
If
an infected person managed to reach the United States—highly unlikely because the symptoms are debilitating in the extreme—we should know at once. One of the first signs of infection is cloracne, a particularly unpleasant, and very noticeable, skin complaint. Such a person would be handed over to the military and quietly and effectively disposed of. ”

“And what about the people he traveled with—those on the same aircraft or ship?” Devanney persisted.

“They would be quarantined until such time as we were satisfied beyond any doubt that they were free of the disease.” Lutz leaned forward, eyebrows raised, his neck thin and veined like an ostrich’s. “I can categorically assure the assistant secretary that we have provided for all eventualities, unlikely as they may be. Believe me, sir, anyone infected with the virus will be in no fit state to travel.”

Devanney gnawed his lip, still uneasy. “It can’t travel by air? I mean carried by the trade winds?”

Eyes closed, Lutz shook his head.

One of the State Department officials said, “But it can travel by water. Presumably there’s a considerable runoff from the infected bodies that will find its way into the oceans eventually. What happens to it then?”

It was Madden who said brusquely, “Nothing happens to it. The concentration is minute to begin with, only a few parts per million. In the oceans it will simply dissipate until it’s ineffective.”

“You’ve carried out tests to show this,” Hansom said.

“Of course.” Madden reached for his crystal glass and took a sip of Perrier water. “The matter of containment has received the most careful and thorough investigation at Starbuck. I can give you gentlemen an absolute assurance. You need have no qualms.”

Whatever qualms Jim Devanney might still have entertained he kept to himself. He listened to Major Jones, who went on to talk about the Secondary Plan. The Soviets had cooperated fully in the Primary Plan while knowing nothing about the Secondary. They had helped in the extermination of three quarters of the global population by taking care of China, their traditional adversary, but would play no part in the recolonization of the Designated Areas by the mutant breeds now being developed in Zone 4. Though as Major Jones was at pains to make clear, whereas the Primary Plan had taken five years to come to fruition, the Secondary might take fifty years or even longer. Genetic experimentation on pollution and anoxia victims was not only difficult and highly complex, but by its very nature long-term.

“There seems no way of speeding up the breeding cycle of the human species,” Jones explained regretfully. “Even mutants take the usual span of time to reach adulthood. Unless we can adapt our present stock so that it can exist in a redundant atmosphere—that is, with less than five percent oxygen content—we have no choice but to wait for their offspring to reach maturity. Or at least puberty,” he added with a wry smile.

“How close are you to producing a mutant breed that can survive in those conditions?” asked one of the State Department officials, a middle-aged woman with dyed red hair and eyebrows shaped like sea gull’s wings.

Major Jones looked apologetic. “I’m afraid that that information is under strict security classification, ma’am. I’m not at liberty to divulge it, even to the present company, with respect.”

Madden didn’t miss the look of outrage creeping into the woman’s eyes. He said smoothly, “For obvious reasons all material relating to Zone Four has to be restricted, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.” He glanced in Hansom’s direction. “But I don’t see why we couldn’t stretch a point in this instance. Mr. Secretary?”

Hansom waved a condescending hand.

“I won’t go into the technicalities, because they’re pretty formidable, but we are making excellent progress,” Madden informed them. “We’ve been working on this for the past seven years and we’re getting to the point where we can breed suitable specimens in the laboratory using sperm and ova from anoxia victims and genetically manipulating the DNA structure to encourage certain characteristics and eliminate others. The main problem, as Major Jones has already told you, is that it’s going to take at least a generation before we can start to breed in bulk. Starbuck’s director, Dr. Rolsom, has also been conducting experiments in surgical adaptation, but we don’t yet know whether this will be successful. It could possibly be a shortcut to producing the mutes we need for our recolonization program.”

“Mutes?” queried Devanney with a frown.

“The Starbuck term for mutants,” Madden elucidated. “Molecular biologists have their own slang, like all closed communities.”

“The TCDD virus was created by genetic means, isn’t that so?” asked the red-haired woman. When Madden nodded she said, “Then why not use the same technique to produce these mutes of yours? Isn’t the process similar?”

Madden called on Lutz, the expert, who nodded briskly and told the woman, “Yes, you’re quite right, ma’am. Gene splicing—in other words chopping up DNA to obtain the pieces you want and then growing multiple copies—is the same basic technique used in all genetic manipulation experiments. But the order of complexity alters dramatically with different organisms. Let us take, say, a simple laboratory strain of
Escherichia coli,
or
E.
coli
as it’s known. This is the bacterium that lives in the human gut and has a single chromosome. Incidentally, the TCDD-bearing virus is even more primitive in terms of cell structure. Anyway, when we come to deal with human cells, which are roughly six hundred times the size of E.
coli,
these have not just one chromosome but forty-six. Each human cell contains a thousand times more DNA than a simple cell of
E. coli, so
perhaps you can gain some idea of how much more complex it becomes when you’re dealing with the human cell, even though we’re employing the same gene-splicing techniques of restriction enzymes and a plasmid cloning vehicle to—”

“Yes, yes, yes.” The red-haired woman raised a hand in self-defense. “I take your point—or rather, I don’t. But never mind.”

“And when you’ve perfected this mutant technique, or process, or whatever it is,” said Jim Devanney, “how many of these creatures can be produced?”

Madden said, “Once we have the genetic blueprint, as many as we need. A million. Ten million. A billion.” He shrugged. “There’s literally no limit. We can recolonize all of Africa, India, the Far East, China— everywhere—with our own people.”

“People?” Devanney said, staring.
“People?”

“Whatever you care to call them, they’ll be ours,” Wayne Hansom said, his upper lip slightly curled where a fine scar tugged at it. “Ten years from now the Russians will be gasping for breath themselves; they’ll be in no fit state to offer any kind of challenge. At least half their population will be on the verge of extinction. In my opinion we’re very fortunate that General Madden was perceptive enough to foresee this several years ago and to lay his plans accordingly. ASP has proved itself of inestimable benefit to the United States, as I’m sure everyone here today acknowledges.”

“You mentioned something about surgical experiments,” Devanney said to Madden. He was like a man with a loose tooth who couldn’t stop probing it with his tongue. “On whom are you experimenting?”

“Children,” Madden said, smiling at him. If the whining son of a bitch wanted it, he could have it straight between the eyes. “The Pryce-Darc Clinic sends us kids with pollution sickness and genetic deformities. Dr. Rolsom came up with the idea that we could make use of their defects and surgically adapt them for our own purposes. Grafting tissue and transplanting organs and so on.”

“Jesus Christ, what for?” Devanney asked faintly.

“Research,” Madden said, as if he’d been asked a stupid question. “Maybe we can construct the perfect model for the next generation of Americans. I find that a pretty exciting prospect, don’t you?”

The rasping siren was part of his dream, warning him not to step into the minefield. He sat bolt upright, the sound real and all around him as the dream faded into the warm black air.

Chase switched on the bedside lamp and reached for the telephone just as the red light began to wink in time to the urgent bleeping. He snatched up the handset and threw back the sheets.

“Duty Officer, sir, Somebody trying to gain entry through access five.”

He recognized Drew’s voice. “How many, Sam?”

“We’re not sure. Eight, ten, maybe more.”

“Are all other access points secure?”