Thank you for downloading BEGINNINGS, Book One of the Pandemic Series, by Author Bobby Akart

For free advance reading copies, updates on new releases, special offers, and bonus content

Click Here To Sign Up

or visit me online at

BobbyAkart.com

Other Works by Bestselling Author Bobby Akart

The Pandemic Series

Beginnings

The Innocents

Level 6

Quietus

The Blackout Series

36 Hours

Zero Hour

Turning Point

Shiloh Ranch

Hornet’s Nest

Devil’s Homecoming

The Boston Brahmin Series

The Loyal Nine

Cyber Attack

Martial Law

False Flag

The Mechanics

Choose Freedom

Seeds of Liberty (Companion Guide)

The Prepping for Tomorrow Series

Cyber Warfare

EMP: Electromagnetic Pulse

Economic Collapse

Pandemic: Beginnings

The Pandemic Series, Book One

A novel by

Bobby Akart

Contents

Dedications

Acknowledgements

About the Author, Bobby Akart

Author’s Introduction to the Pandemic Series

Epigraph

Prologue

PART ONE  WEEK ONE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

PART TWO  WEEK TWO

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

PART THREE  WEEK THREE

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

PART FOUR  WEEK FOUR

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Bonus excerpt from 36 Hours, The Blackout Series

Copyright Information

Dedications

This book is dedicated to my darling wife, without whom life would be hopeless. Thank you for loving me. Bullie and Boom, seeing your wiggly butts at the end of a long day behind the keyboard makes it all worthwhile.

My friends and readers, please heed the warning of this series. A global pandemic can strike in an instant. I write this book to entertain you, but also to get you ready for the next global war.

Thank you for supporting me!

Finally, the Pandemic series is dedicated to the disease detectives, the shoe-leather epidemiologists of the CDC’s Epidemic Intelligence Service, who work tirelessly to keep these deadly infectious diseases from killing us all. They are selfless, brave warriors, risking their lives and the loss of their families in order to fight an unseen enemy more powerful than any bomb.

Acknowledgements

Writing a book that is both informative and entertaining requires a tremendous team effort. Writing is the easy part. For their efforts in making the Pandemic series a reality, I would like to thank Hristo Argirov Kovatliev for his incredible cover art, Pauline Nolet for making this important work reader-friendly, Stef Mcdaid for making this manuscript decipherable in so many formats, John David Farrell and Kris Adams, who together with Marshall Davis have brought my words to life, and the Team—whose advice, friendship and attention to detail is priceless.

The Pandemic series required countless hours of research. Without the background material and direction from those individuals who provided me a portal into their observations and data, I would’ve been drowning in long Latin words. Please allow me to acknowledge a few of those individuals whom, without their tireless efforts, the Pandemic series could not have been written.

Brant Goode, CDC CEFO Supervisor.

Colonel Mark G. Kortepeter, MD, a preventive medicine officer in the Operational Medicine Division at the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, USAMRIID, where he teaches the medical management of biological weapons casualties.

Rear Admiral Stephen C. Redd, MD, Director of the Office of Public Health Preparedness and Response (OPHPR) at the CDC.

Thank you and thank you for your service to humanity!

About the Author, Bobby Akart

Bestselling author Bobby Akart has been ranked by Amazon as the #3 Bestselling Religion & Spirituality Author, the #5 Bestselling Science Fiction Author, and the #7 Bestselling Historical Author. He is the author of twelve international bestsellers, in thirty-five different fiction and nonfiction genres, including the critically acclaimed Boston Brahmin series, the bestselling Blackout series, and his highly cited nonfiction Prepping for Tomorrow series.

Bobby has provided his readers a diverse range of topics that are both informative and entertaining. His attention to detail and impeccable research has allowed him to capture the imaginations of his readers through his fictional works, and bring them valuable knowledge through his nonfiction books.

SIGN UP FOR EMAIL UPDATES and receive free advance reading copies, updates on new releases, special offers, and bonus content. You can contact Bobby directly by email (BobbyAkart@gmail.com) or through his website www.BobbyAkart.com

Author’s Introduction to the Pandemic Series

In the mid-twentieth century, a new weapon shocked the world with its ability to destroy the enemy.

For centuries, another weapon has existed…

One that attacks without conscience or remorse…

Its only job is to kill.

They are the most merciless enemy we’ve ever faced…

And they’re one-billionth our size.

Be prepared to become very, very paranoid.

WELCOME TO THE NEXT GLOBAL WAR.

Biological weapons, delivered under the right conditions against an unaware, unprotected population, will, pound for pound and dollar for dollar, kill a million times more people than a nuclear weapon. A nuclear bomb doesn’t come close to matching the potential footprint of a biological weapon.

Over the past half century, the number of new diseases per decade has increased fourfold. Since 1980, the outbreaks have more than tripled. With those statistics in mind, one has to consider the consequences of a major pandemic.

Death has come to millions of humans throughout the millenia from the spread of infectious diseases, but none was worse than the Black Death, a pandemic so devastating that uttering the words the plague will immediately pull it to the front of your mind. From 1347 to 1351, the Black Death reshaped Europe and much of the world.

In a time when the global population was an estimated four hundred fifty million, some estimates of the death toll reached as high as two hundred million, nearly half of the world’s human beings.

This plague’s name came from the black skin spots on the sailors who travelled the Silk Road, the ancient network of trade routes that traversed the Asian continent, connecting East and West. The Black Death was in fact a form of the bubonic plague, not nearly as contagious and deadly as its sister, the pneumonic plague.

Fast-forward five centuries to 1918, an especially dangerous form of influenza began to appear around the world. First discovered in Kansas in March 1918, by the time the H1N1 pandemic, commonly known as the Spanish flu, burned out in 1919, it took the lives of as many as fifty million people worldwide.

Why does the history of these deadly pandemics matter?

Because it has happened before and it will happen again—despite the world’s advanced technology, or because of it. People no longer stay in one place; neither do diseases. Unlike the habits of humans during the Black Death and the Spanish flu, an infection in all but the most remote corner of the world can make its way to a major city in a few days.

Terrible new outbreaks of infectious disease make headlines, but not at the start. Every pandemic begins small. Early indicators can be subtle and ambiguous. When the next global pandemic begins, it will spread across oceans and continents like the sweep of nightfall, causing illness and fear, killing thousands or maybe millions of people. The next pandemic will be signaled first by quiet, puzzling reports from faraway places—reports to which disease scientists and public health officials, but few of the rest of us, pay close attention.

The purpose of this series is not to scare the wits out of you, but rather, to scare the wits into you. As one early reader said to me, after reading the Pandemic series, “I now realize that humans can become extinct.” Not a comforting thought.

The Pandemic series is a new dystopian, post-apocalyptic fiction series from twelve-time bestselling author Bobby Akart (the Blackout series, the Boston Brahmin series and the Prepping for Tomorrow series).

The events depicted in the Pandemic series are fictional. The events, however, are based upon historical fact.

Note: This book does not contain strong language. It is intended to entertain and inform audiences of all ages, including teen and young adults. Although some scenes depict the realistic threat our nation faces from a devastating solar flare and the societal collapse that will result in the aftermath, it does not contain graphic scenes typical of other books in the post-apocalyptic genre.

I believe more of our young people need to lead a preparedness lifestyle. Studies show that our millennials do not have any of the basic survival skills. By writing this series free of vulgarities and gratuitous sexual innuendo, I’ve intended it to be suitable for everyone. Thanks.

Epigraph

The single biggest threat to man’s continued dominance on the planet is the virus.

~ Joshua Lederberg, PhD, Molecular Biologist

*****

Today, with how interconnected the world is, (disease) would spread faster.

~ Bill Gates, Microsoft Founder

*****

Sooner or later, there will be pandemic flu. Is it gonna be this one? Is it gonna be the next one? No one can tell.

~ William Kelly

*****

Viruses are very unpredictable. A disease that emerges in one place can be on the other side of the world in twenty-four hours.

~ Mitchell Cohen

*****

Infectious diseases know no boundaries.

~ Dr. Mackenzie Hagan

*****

Could it not be contrived to send the smallpox among those disaffected tribes of Indians? We must on this occasion use every stratagem in our power to reduce them.

~ Lord Jeffrey Amherst, Commanding General of the British forces, French & Indian War, 1763

*****

And let not those who disbelieve suppose that they can outstrip Allah’s Purpose. Lo! They cannot escape. Make ready for them all thou canst of armed force and of horses tethered, that thereby ye may dismay the enemy of Allah and your enemy.

~ Quran 8:59

Prologue

You are free to make your choices, but you are not free to choose the consequences.

Western Africa

They were dragging Dr. Francois Alexis through a dark, dusty hallway. He’d become confused at how long he’d been held in the tiny cell, without light, and no sustenance. For days, he’d been bound and gagged. A dark hood was pulled over his head, which also made it difficult to breathe. Dr. Alexis had become completely disoriented in a world of blackness and terror.

Between the beatings and the fitful attempts at sleep, Dr. Alexis was unable to determine whether he’d been held captive for two days or ten. Many events were impossible for him to discern in this starved, sleep-deprived state. What do they want from me?

All he could remember was leaving the International Medical Research Centre in the former French colony of Gabon on the West Africa coast late Friday night. He stopped to pick up a sandwich and was hit in the back of the neck with a powerful blow, forcing him to the ground. He remembered the black hood being pulled over his head and he was whisked away in a vehicle to an unknown destination. His attackers never uttered a word throughout the abduction.

The Center for International Medical Research where he worked, known as the CIRMF, was staffed by one hundred sixty-seven scientists and had an annual budget of over five million dollars. Based in Franceville, a city of one hundred thousand in southeast Gabon, the facility boasted a biological research infrastructure, which was rare in Africa, including a biosafety level 4 laboratory. A BSL-4 represented the highest level of biosafety precautions and was designed for working with the world’s most dangerous pathogens.

Dr. Alexis was one of a dozen scientists focused on emerging infectious diseases like Ebola, Marburg, and the three varieties of plague. The facility’s primatology center was among the largest in the world. Containing five hundred primates, half of which were housed in a jungle enclosure, the CIRMF was ideally suited for testing and researching viruses in their natural hosts.

With his mind racing, seeking answers as well as anticipating what was happening, Dr. Alexis struggled against his captors while peering through the bottom of the black hood, which continued to obstruct his vision.

The more he struggled, the harsher he was treated. When the hood was removed, enabling him to see the floor, he stopped his resistance.

He was forced through an entryway into a brightly lit room, where a variety of power cords and cables spread across the floor. One of his captors yelled at him in Arabic and pushed him into a nondescript wooden chair in the center of the room.

Another man issued orders, barking the words in a guttural language he couldn’t interpret, and the room lit up with artificial light, causing Dr. Alexis to wince despite his limited vision. He adjusted his posture in the chair and two strong arms pulled him upright in the chair. Then his hands were strapped to the back of the chair with zip-ties. His legs were bound in a similar manner, which effectively immobilized him. He’d become one with the chair.

The room became eerily silent. There was no speaking. No shuffling of feet. Only the faint sound of an internal fan on a computer or other electronic device, which whirred in the background. The anticipation added to Dr. Alexis’s anxiety. His heart was pounding in his chest. He tried to speak, but the gag prevented the words from coming out. What is happening?

ZING!

The screeching sound of metal on metal filled the room. The noise was familiar, but Dr. Alexis couldn’t place it in his agitated state of mind. Horror overtook him as he frantically looked from side to side to locate the source of the sound.

Suddenly, an arm wrapped itself around his forehead and pulled his head back, exposing the pulsating veins in his neck. The young Frenchman felt the cold steel of the blade press against his flesh. He looked down past his nose to catch a glimpse of the weapon. It was a sword, polished chrome glimmering in the light of the room.

He attempted to voice his protest, but that caused his neck to swell and press closer to the sharp blade. His captor let out a throaty laugh, harsh and raspy, which caused the blade to move from side to side ever so slightly.

As if in the hands of a surgeon, the sharp blade pierced his skin, slicing slowly across his neck. His captor’s precision was remarkable—not too deep, but enough to produce the desired effect. Warm blood trickled slowly out of the wound, marring the finish on the sword and dripping down onto his partially exposed chest.

I’m going to die today, Dr. Alexis convinced himself as he closed his eyes. I’m about to become the lead news story on France’s TF-1.

His mind raced to his beautiful wife and two young daughters. Josephine had encouraged him to take this job. His pay was doubled because he was away from home, but she thought it would help them provide for their young family. She’d remained behind in Paris while their darling preteen girls went to the finest schools his salary could afford.

They never were concerned about the risks of his working abroad. Gabon was predominantly French and the city of Lawrenceville was relatively crime-free. The biggest concern for Dr. Alexis was mishandling one of the infectious diseases while working in the laboratory. The facility had a spotless accident record and Dr. Alexis was meticulous in his precautionary measures. He was only six months away from returning to Paris with a powerful reference on his résumé.

The blade pressed closer to his neck, opening the wound a little further and drawing more blood. In English, a man instructed his associates to turn on the camera. This is it, thought Dr. Alexis. He closed his eyes and apologized to his wife and children. Then he prayed to God to protect his family and forgive him for his sins.

Without warning, more lights were turned on, momentarily blinding him again. His head was snapped backwards and the blade dug into his throat a little bit more. He clenched his eyes shut this time and braced for the impact that would end his life.

The voice of his captor hissed into his ear, “You will only die today, Dr. Alexis, by your own choice. Now open your eyes!”

*****

“Where am I?” asked Dr. Alexis as he struggled to find the words and regain his vision. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to speak, but he tried nonetheless.

A fist full of hair caused his head to instantly jerk back, once again stretching his neck and bearing its vulnerability to the blade. This time a sword wasn’t the weapon of choice to inflict pain upon him, a cup of salt did the trick. Dr. Alexis screamed out loud as the stinging pain from the table salt met the open wound on his throat. Tears ran down his face. He had never experienced pain like this, much less the brutality of his captors.

“Pay attention, Dr. Alexis,” whispered the man behind him while he forced the Frenchman’s head to look at the fifteen television monitors mounted on the wall. Only one monitor was on, and it was streaming images of the front of his home in suburban Paris.

Dr. Alexis stared in shock as the single monitor played surveillance video of his house. “What? That is my home! Why are you filming my home?” he shouted at his captor and attempted to wriggle out of his restraints.

A heavy hand covered in salt immediately began to choke his throat, causing him to scream in agony. The man gruffly rubbed his rough hand to grind the salt into the wound. He calmly spoke into Dr. Alexis’s ear. “You will not speak until it is time. Do you understand? My next method of pain will be far worse.”

Dr. Alexis managed a nod but was unable to vocalize the word yes. His throat was incredibly dry from fear.

“Turn them all on,” instructed the faceless man, who continued to stand behind him. He gripped the doctor’s head in both his hands and firmly turned his attention to all the screens.

“Oh no,” moaned Dr. Alexis.

“Do you see, Doctor?” the man whispered in his ear. “Do you see your wife and children as we do?”

Dr. Alexis shook his head as tears streamed down his face. He began to sob as the videos were played on all fifteen screens. His children were walking into school together. His wife, naked, was entering the shower. All three girls were watching television. Every aspect of his family’s life was played out in front of him.

Dr. Alexis’s chin dropped to his chest, despite the searing pain from the wound. He gasped for air as he tried to speak. In Arabic, his captor asked for the pitcher of water sitting on the table to their right. He grasped his captive by the hair and poured water over his head, down his throat, and over his wounded neck. Dr. Alexis coughed violently in an attempt to clear his airway.

“Why? What do you want from me?” he begged.

“It is very simple for a man of your intelligence and position,” came the reply. “You are going to do your job in Franceville, but now, you will take your instructions from me. But remember, we will be watching you, and them.”

*****

Gabon, where the BSL-4 laboratory in which Dr. Alexis worked was located, was not exactly a hotbed of terrorist activity. Unlike Northern Africa, which was predominantly Muslim, Gabon’s population was largely Christian and only five percent of the population was Sunni Muslim.

In the nearby country of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, formerly called Zaire, Islamic State terrorists had created a stronghold as it continued to expand its presence around the world. Unbeknownst to Dr. Alexis, the DR Congo arm of ISIS was designed for this specific operation.

In the aftermath of the abduction and the revelation that his family was in grave danger, Dr. Alexis considered his options. He feared his movements were so closely tracked that unthinkable harm would come to his wife and young daughters. He became a recluse out of fear of saying or doing something that might be misconstrued by his handlers. He’d focus on the assigned task, and then as soon as practicable, he’d rush to Paris, gather up his family, and head for the Alps to hide.

As instructed, Dr. Alexis positioned himself to work with the team assigned to a recent outbreak of plague in Madagascar. Two of the districts in Madagascar had been declared by the WHO, the World Health Organization, as endemic for the plague virus. The most recent outbreak was blamed for sixty-two cases resulting in a fatality rate of eighty-five percent.

Dr. Alexis could not grasp how his ISIS captors came by this information, but their intelligence was correct. The strain of plague that Dr. Alexis was to work with was the deadliest form of the plague known as pneumonic plague, not its more recognizable sister, bubonic plague.

For weeks, he performed his duties in isolation, despite the fact that he was part of a larger research team. He’d become gloomy and unsociable. His co-workers didn’t want to associate with him. He maintained limited contact with his family to mask his troubles. He was singularly focused on one thing—complying with his handler’s directives.

By analyzing case studies of the dead, Dr. Alexis determined that the Madagascar strain of Yersinia pestis, or Y. pestis for short, the bacterium causing plague, could be improved—enhanced.

His handler’s directives were crystal clear, but the choices he had to make were clouded by the love for his family. The moral fight raged within him. There was no one to talk to. The choice was his to make.

Plague was one of the oldest diseases known to humans and had caused over two hundred million deaths worldwide. There was no preventive vaccine. The plague could be treated. However, if it was modified and weaponized…

Sixty days later…

PART ONE

WEEK ONE

Chapter 1

Day One

Guatemala Jungle near El Naranjo

“It’s too early in the morning for interviewing dead people,” mumbled Dr. Mackenzie Hagan as she sloshed her way through the wet jungle path, which was well worn at this point from activity. She attempted to duck under the low-lying branches of a thorny lime tree and was almost successful before it grabbed her ponytail, which protruded through the strap of her cap.

She had taken a hodgepodge of modern transportation from Atlanta overnight, bouncing from a packed-like-sardines Delta flight, to a single-wing Cessna, and finally a decades-old Jeep J8 Patrol Truck, which was utilized by the Guatemalan military for its special guests. With only six percent of the Guatemalan population owning a vehicle, she felt lucky that her options weren’t more unconventional. She had only wished the soldier escorting her to the site would keep his eyes on the road and quit trying to sneak a peek down her blouse.

June was one of the wettest months of the year in Guatemala, and this particular day did not buck the norm. A heavy downpour had just ended as the sun began to rise, causing the plant life to wake up in all its glory and the humidity to kick into high gear.

Mac, as her friends called her, was not an early riser. She often joked she either needed twelve hours’ sleep or just four hours’, although the latter generally resulted in a socially challenged epidemiologist.

After they arrived, Mac stepped out of the Jeep into the wet, soggy jungle. The sounds of chattering monkeys filled the air, as well as a light sprinkle dropping through the tropical foliage. The solider led the way up a well-worn path created by foot traffic and hand carts carrying the CDC’s gear.

Her escort pushed back an areca palm and opened up a gateway to a clearing that stood in contrast to the third-world vistas that made up the northern part of the country. Her counterparts from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the CDC’s Central American Regional Office in Guatemala City, had arrived twenty-four hours prior.

White tents surrounded the village, which was nestled into the eastern edge of the Laguna del Tigre National Park on the country’s northern border with Mexico. A score of native settlements, dwarfed by the rising hills, lay scattered throughout the jungles of this region, which used to play an important political and economic role in the ancient Mayan world.

Like the nearly two million Indians that made up half of Guatemala’s population, the residents of these outlying areas spoke various dialects of the Maya-Quiche language, which evolved from the descendants of the Maya Empire. On this day, as Mac interviewed the dead, the language barrier wouldn’t be a factor.

Mac caught her first glimpse of the dead wrapped in colorful body bags and lying unceremoniously on the soggy ground. Signs of village life still remained—tools to cultivate corn and primitive back-strap looms used to create colorful and complex textiles designed to differentiate the village from others nearby.

This village was small by comparison. Only twenty to thirty small adobe houses were compactly grouped around the central square—where most of the bodies lay.

No roads connected this village with others in the jungle. The inhabitants traveled on foot and occasionally on horseback, along narrow paths that wound around precipitous hillsides. They owned no vehicles except for the hollowed-out canoes fortified on each side by clapboards. Mac could visualize a canoe’s occupants paddling from a standing position, the one in the stern expertly steering the vessel along nearby Santa Amelia lake.

What is wrong with me? She never got distracted on an investigation as serious as this one. Perhaps it was the juxtaposition of a village set in an era a thousand years ago, but now surrounded by modern technological advances. Or it was the sadness of an entire group of people—families, with children, lying dead in their primitive village.

She took a calming breath. She seriously needed to buckle down. Taking her eye off the ball in a situation like this would not be prudent. She let out a tense breath and closed her eyes for a moment.

Mac bit her lip as she studied the scene again, taking into her imagination what life looked like in this desolate village before death came knocking. Several large raindrops snapped her out of her daze as well as the smell of something familiar.

Chapter 2

Day One

Guatemala Jungle near El Naranjo

“Dr. Hagan, I presume?” asked a lanky technician with a British accent. He extended his arm to shake hands with Mac, who opted instead to adjust her white cap with the letters CDC embroidered in blue across the front. She had abandoned the custom of shaking hands with others years ago. She had seen too much.

“Good morning, Sherlock.” Mac chuckled, attempting to bring herself to the land of the living. “Please tell me that’s coffee.”

“Indeed, ma’am,” replied Lawrence Brown, one of the career epidemiology field officers, or CEFOs, stationed in Guatemala City. “A little bird told me that you liked it black, full strength, and piping hot.”

“A little bird?” Mac asked, tipping the warm brew into her mouth. She instantly received a waking jolt of energy.

“Tweet, tweet, Mac!” announced a female voice from behind her. Mac turned to view a friendly face. It was one of the EIS officers from Atlanta, Janelle Turnbull, a former veterinarian whom Mac had worked with in the past.

Created in 1951 during the Korean War, the Epidemic Intelligence Service was a postgraduate program established for health care professionals, physicians, and veterinarians interested in epidemiology. Both during and after their course work, these highly qualified individuals would study infectious diseases, environmental health issues, and other tasks within the purview of the CDC. Acceptance to the program was an honor that all of the nearly two hundred participants took seriously. Mac knew Janie to be a tireless worker and willing to travel to any part of the planet to perform her disease-detective skills.

Mac instantly beamed. “Janie, did you catch the wrong MARTA train?”

“No, the muckety-mucks wanted to make sure you had everything you needed down here,” replied the petite brunette clad in a newly designed, military-grade biological suit created after the West Africa Ebola crisis. The suit used several zippers and fasteners to fall off and peel outward from the wearer, alleviating the need to touch any outer surfaces.

Prior to this new innovation created by a design challenge launched by the United States Agency for International Development, USAID, the EIS disease detectives would suit up with many layers of gear that took a partner and twenty minutes to dress. Even worn properly, the headgear didn’t attach to the body suit, creating an opportunity for a miniscule virus one-billionth our size to slip into the suit.

In addition, the new suit featured an internal cooling system ideally suited for hot climates such as Africa and Guatemala. Air was constantly funneled to the headgear through an air chamber, which helped keep the brain cool. Cooler heads prevented heatstrokes and panic attacks.

“Are you about to go in?” asked Mac. She glanced around to observe the level of activity at this early hour. She also looked to the sky to gauge the possibility of more precipitation. This hot zone had the potential to be a hot mess if it rained much more.

“Yes, but I’d like to bring you up to speed first,” Janie replied. “We can go in together after that. Come into the field ops tent. We’ll get you dried off and then outfitted in your very own space suit.”

Mac followed Janie into a large white tent, which contained an air-locked entry on both ends. The logistics involved in this type of investigation required preplanning and experienced technicians. When dealing with an unknown outbreak, mistakes could be deadly.

Mac got settled in after exchanging pleasantries with some of the field officers from CDC-Guatemala City. Janie quickly returned in her civvies with another cup of coffee for both of them. Disease detectives were very much like their law enforcement counterparts. Coffee fueled their day.

Janie settled in a chair next to Mac and opened a file folder, which contained several thick reports. Mac thumbed through the pages of reports as Janie spoke.

“I’ll recap what you probably already know and then tell you what’s transpired over the last twenty-four hours,” started Janie, taking another sip of coffee before getting down to business. “Four days ago, a young man from another village came here on horseback with a load of yarn to trade. He found all of the villagers to be ill. He described them as being nauseated, weak, and with a high fever.”

“How were we notified?”

“He returned to his village to give an account of what he’d seen. One of the village elders traveled into town to report the incident. According to the interview he gave a health care worker from the local hospital in El Naranjo, there were no deaths at the time. The local police and a nurse arrived here two days later. The entire village was dead.”

Mac reached for the file full of reports and studied the findings. Eighty-one bodies were found throughout the village. There was evidence of vomiting and bleeding from the mouth.

“We need to conduct autopsies as soon as possible,” said Mac. She rubbed her temple as she contemplated the magnitude of the situation. An entire village of eighty people, exhibiting flu-like symptoms, was dead within days.

“That’s part of the update,” added Janie. “Before we could mobilize and arrive on the scene, half a dozen bodies were removed to the hospital in El Naranjo. The local authorities took them early yesterday morning.”

“Are you kidding me? They’re not set up for something like this!”

“I know, Mac. I wish I had been here. We got it together pretty fast, but you know how these hot zones are. There’s protocol. We’ve got to protect our own first.”

Brown approached the two of them. Janie addressed him first. “Well, Sir Lawrence, what say you?”

“We’re gathering specimens now,” he replied. “The good news is that the weather radar indicates this low-pressure system has moved past us. The hot zone won’t be further compromised by rainfall. The bad news is that despite the fact the village is small by comparison to American towns, it’s big enough that it can’t be completely contained.”

“Surely to God we can keep onlookers out of the zone,” barked Mac. While containment was not within her scope of responsibility, she didn’t want to be bumping into looky-loos while she assessed the scene.

“No, ma’am. The problem isn’t people, it’s the spider monkeys. The jungle is full of them. The military tells us that the village was crawling with them when they first arrived. By nature, the monkeys are scavengers. In addition to being overly curious, they’re also looking for food.”

“Food that might carry the disease!” Mac raised her voice, drawing the attention of technicians throughout the tent. She took a deep breath to calm down her anxiety. At the same time, as if on cue, the HEPA air filtration for the tent kicked on, causing the walls to quickly expand and then deflate as stale air was forced out to make way for fresh, filtered air.

“We’ve asked the military to help, but there aren’t enough assigned to our location and the ones that are don’t want to come anywhere within the outer perimeter of the village,” replied Brown. “They’re afraid of getting too close.”

Janie, who was fluent in Spanish, added, “They’re calling the village Cerro de Muerte—the Hill of Death.”

Mac thought of her escort who’d led her up the path earlier. As soon as they reached the clearing, he’d stopped and left. He didn’t want any part of this detail.

She contemplated for a moment and then gave Lawrence instructions. “Is there any place to land a chopper up here?” The village was in the midst of dense jungle vegetation. Mac hadn’t seen a clearing.

“I’ll find out or send someone to locate an opening,” replied Brown. “Do you want me to take the bodies to Guatemala City? I’ll need to get approval from their government for that.”

“Why wouldn’t they approve?” asked Mac. “They called us in, right?”

“True, but they assumed we would deal with the investigation here. They’re in the midst of a presidential campaign. President Morales would like to see this kept out of the media. In fact, my understanding is that the military will raze the village, together with the bodies, as soon as we’re done here.”

Mac considered her alternatives. Transporting dead bodies carrying an infectious disease was a dangerous proposition, as she and others had learned during the Ebola outbreak in Guinea, Liberia, and Sierra Leone. Containment was a challenge anyway, but tribal burial customs, which included a final kiss of the deceased loved ones, had assisted in the transmission of the Ebola virus throughout the West Africa region.

After the first cases of Ebola were reported in Guinea in 2013, containment practices were instituted by the World Health Organization, which published a road map of steps to prevent further transmission. These steps were not always followed, and within a year, Ebola had exploded. Mac was not interested in a repeat of those failures.

The nearest U.S. military base was in El Salvador, which was too far away to ferry dead bodies by helicopter. There weren’t any good options. She gulped down the last of her coffee and stood, ready to examine some of the bodies for herself.

“Well, we’d better get to work. But, Lawrence—” she paused briefly before continuing “—keep the monkeys out of the village. We don’t need this disease spread all over the country.”

Chapter 3

Day One

Guatemala Jungle near El Naranjo

At five foot ten, Mac was accustomed to donning protective gear designed for men. Her slender, athletic build was part genetics, part training. She found working out and participating in athletic events to be an excellent way to relieve stress. Daily, she faced the possibilities of a global pandemic. Some people feared nuclear war or economic collapse. Mac lost sleep over the myriad of possibilities that would result in a large number of deaths like those lying at her feet times millions.

Mac had seen the worst of the worst. She had been to Zimbabwe in Southern Africa to investigate an outbreak of Lassa, a viral hemorrhagic fever first identified in Nigeria decades earlier, but had never been seen outside of West Africa. The natives were exhibiting symptoms common to most diseases—high fevers, severe diarrhea, vomiting, and rashes.

The first investigators on the scene from the World Health Organization made a diagnosis of Marburg disease, commonly known as the green monkey disease. Under the microscope, Marburg was distinctive with its long snakelike loops and twists. Lassa was similar in look, but different in treatments. Mac was able to lead researchers at the WHO to a different diagnosis, ultimately saving a lot of lives.

From that experience and others, Mac never accepted an initial hypothesis. She was known to check and recheck specimens. Her personality suited long hours in the lab, avoiding social interaction with co-workers or potential suitors. Mac had no use for the dating game. She enjoyed a quiet evening at home with a cold beer and a science journal.

Janie took Mac on a brief tour of the village to allow the entire picture to come into focus. As specimen gatherers knelt over bodies, carefully extracting tissue and blood samples, Mac would pause to observe.

She approached one of the technicians. “Have you seen any signs of lesions, pustules, or discolored skin tissue?”

“No, ma’am,” he replied.

Mac nodded and left the man to his work. She continued her walk with Janie, periodically looking into the small adobe homes. The mostly rectangular structures consisted of block walls, thatched roofs, and only a few rooms. Bodies were found in beds or at times near makeshift latrines behind the homes.

She stopped for a moment and looked toward the perimeter, where two soldiers were jousting with a group of spider monkeys who were attempting to get into the village. “Have you found any dead animals in the village? You know, monkeys, rats, bats, etcetera?”

“Only a dairy cow that was still tied to its post near a barn. The horses, which were kept in a small barn up the hill, were unaffected.”

“Have you seen any fleas since you arrived on the scene?”

“No. No mosquitos either. All of the typical carriers of disease appear to be absent except for the monkeys.”

Mac motioned for Brown to join them. “Sir Lawrence,” started Mac jokingly, “will you coordinate with our soldier friends to capture half a dozen monkeys for analysis? Also, we’re gonna need to send our teams out to the surrounding areas to interview anyone who has come in contact with this village.”

“I’m already on it,” he replied. “Well, one more thing. I want to question the boy who reported the illness. He may be able to shed some light on the condition of the villagers before they died. Sadly, he might also be infected.”

Brown hustled off, so Mac and Janie continued. “Why wouldn’t they go for help?” queried Mac aloud.

“They just don’t believe in modern medicine,” replied Janie. “They have their own forms of homeopathic treatments, which obviously didn’t work in this case.”

“I’ve spent a considerable amount of time in Africa,” started Mac. “Those of us who live in the modern world wouldn’t believe that primitive people like this still exist. Despite what happened here, it does prove that mankind can exist without the conveniences of smartphones and fast food.”

The two spent another hour surveying each body and discussing the initial findings with members of the CDC team. Brown secured more troops from the Guatemalan military and they were winning the battle in repelling the curious monkey population.

After completing their decontamination process, Mac and Janie returned to their civilian clothes and entered the administration tent to compare notes. As they entered the tent, a man was standing over the shoulder of a microbiologist while studying the file that Janie had provided Mac earlier.

Mac immediately approached the man and firmly snatched the file from his grasp. “May I help you?”

“Well, actually,” he started as he removed his Ray-Ban Aviators from his head and tucked them into one of the pockets of his khaki cargo pants, “I was doing just fine until you rudely snatched the file out of my hands.”

“Now, hold on, mister,” protested Janie. “This file is not for public viewing. Maybe you should identify yourself.”

“Sure, Nathan Hunter, Defense Threat Reduction Agency.”

“Wait,” interjected Mac. “DOD? Why would the Department of Defense be interested in this?”

He didn’t respond, but instead stuck out his hand to shake. “And you are?”

As always, Mac avoided shaking hands, drawing a puzzled look from Hunter. “My name is Dr. Mackenzie Hagan with the CDC. This is my associate Janie Turnbull. Now, why are you here?”

Hunter acted sincere and apologetic. “I’m sorry, Miss, um, Dr. Hagan, if I’ve overstepped my boundary. I’m a soldier, of sorts, so I follow orders. Someone at Fort Belvoir thought it necessary for me to visit, so I’m visiting.”

“How about some credentials,” said Janie bluntly. Hunter glared down at her for a second before reaching into his shirt pocket and producing an ID issued by the Defense Threat Reduction Agency.

Janie handed it to Mac, who returned the laminated ID card to Hunter. Because of her mother’s background, Mac was familiar with the DTRA, which was an agency within the DOD. Their main function was countering weapons of mass destruction, which included chemical, biological, and nuclear threats.

Hunter continued to focus on Mac, who was momentarily mesmerized by his steel-blue eyes. The man was an intruder into her realm, but he was handsome and built like he was carved out of granite. She seriously doubted this Mr. Hunter’s sole responsibility with the DTRA was bird-dogging an isolated disease outbreak.

“Seriously, I don’t want to get in your way,” said Hunter. “I happened to be in the region and was asked to stop by to get an update. My superiors are interested in this sort of thing.”

“Well, Mr. Hunter, this sort of thing can have catastrophic consequences just as much as Assad’s chemical weapons program or Putin’s nukes,” said Mac, who handed the file over to a scowling Janie, who still had smoke coming out of her ears. “I’m hoping this incident doesn’t give rise to a thing of concern to the DTRA.”

“I agree.” Hunter motioned for them to sit at an empty table. The three got settled and he got down to business. “Is there anything you can tell me? I realize that you’re just getting started. I mean, you arrived this morning, correct?”

Mac hesitated before responding. How did he know that? She shook off the urge to challenge him and decided to respond. She wanted to get this over with so she could travel into El Naranjo. She wanted to see the results of the autopsies.

“Well, you know, I don’t think that this situation will be one of interest to the DTRA. Normally an arenavirus doesn’t rise to the level of a WMD.”

“An arenavirus?” asked Hunter.

“Yes,” continued Mac. “An arenavirus comes from the Latin word for sand. Under the microscope, the virus particle is round, and with further scrutiny under an electron microscope, the particle appears to contain grains of sand.”

“Okay, good to know,” said Hunter somewhat sarcastically.

Mac set her jaw and studied the man sitting across the table from her. If you didn’t want an explanation, you shouldn’t have asked. She continued. “Several of the diseases that are caused by an arenavirus fall under the broad category of hemorrhagic fever, like a dozen other infections from members of different viral groups such as Ebola, Lassa, and Marburg—three very deadly viruses. Make no mistake, in its most critical form, hemorrhagic fever can be as dramatic and relentless as anything you’ll ever see in medicine.”

“Based upon your observations, what leads you to a preliminary conclusion that an arenavirus is involved here?”

Mac leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. She adjusted her blouse and took a quick glance down to make sure there were no distractions. It was warm in the tent and she was a little sweaty, but she resisted the urge to undo another button on her shirt. One set of groping eyes was enough for the day.

“The impact of hemorrhagic fever on the body is swift and severe. It comes on abruptly and leads you on a downward slope as you feel worse and worse with scattered symptoms being felt throughout your body’s vital organs. The sense of fatigue is numbing, as though you were crushed under a boulder. Fever saps your will to work or go about your daily activities. Your skin becomes flushed and so sensitive that you don’t even want your bedsheet to touch it.”

“It sounds brutal. Almost like a really bad case of the flu,” said Hunter.

“But much, much worse,” added Janie. “Unfortunately, a patient stricken with hemorrhagic fever doesn’t know the specifics of what is going on inside them. The liver begins to rot away. Internal bleeding will impact the kidneys. Surfaces of the patient’s internal organs will show signs of hemorrhaging as plasma oozes out.”

With each sentence, Hunter grimaced more. Mac sensed that Janie knew this and was therefore piling on the gory visual. She decided to join in the fun.

“Janie’s right. The small bleeding points are one of the key features of hemorrhagic fever. They are the visual evidence of the many sites of damage to the tiny blood vessels located throughout the body, including on the surface, like your eyes and gums. As the soft mucosal surfaces of your gastrointestinal tract begin to break with the slightest provocation, like after eating too many Tabasco-rich burritos, blood will enter your mouth and eventually leave your body as you experience coughing fits.”

Janie jumped in. “And the eyes. Yes, the eyes are a telltale sign. The small blood vessels will burst the first time a patient rubs them out of sleepiness or due to an allergy. The eyes usually bleed first. It can be gruesome.”

Hunter studied the women for a moment, seemingly visualizing bleeding eyes. “Is that what you have here—hemorrhagic fever?”

Mac chuckled. “Well, we don’t know, Mr. Hunter, because we haven’t performed an autopsy yet. You see, hemorrhagic fever is just one of a dozen or so possibilities, all of which will be considered once we get on with our work.”

“There’s nothing you can give me at this point?”

“Nope, I’ve been on the scene for all of six hours,” Mac responded. “There’s a lot to do before I can satisfy the curiosity of the folks at Fort Belvoir.”

Chapter 4

Day One

El Naranjo, Guatemala

Sister Juanita Gomez was an experienced, skilled nurse. Having come to Guatemala as part of the Catholic Church’s outreach program, she found a home in El Naranjo, where she brought her New World skills to a third-world country. Over the years, she’d performed her job dutifully, and she was sure God smiled upon her accomplishments.

As time passed, she learned more about medicine and began to study postmortem examination of cadavers. This earned her the opportunity to work with the traveling pathologist, as he was affectionately called by the circuit of small hospitals dotting the Guatemalan landscape. These hospitals, challenged by minimal budgets, were accustomed to sharing specialists with other facilities. Without a pathology department per se, the hospital at El Naranjo utilized nurses like Sister Juanita to undertake the occasional rare forensic autopsies.

Sister Juanita still enjoyed her job, but after thirty years in the same place, she was growing weary of the routine. Plus, at sixty years old, the fourteen-hour days had taken their toll. In her younger years, prayers gave her the strength and determination to work the long days at the hospital. With age, however, prayers didn’t have the same impact as they did during her more energetic years.

Over time, the physicians had gone their way, but Sister Juanita remained, dutifully performing her tasks even though, like a rock, she’d become worn down. And with wear and tear, any machine, the human body included, becomes fatigued. And with fatigue came mistakes.

Sister Juanita knew what to be wary of. More people died of lower respiratory infections caused by parasitic diseases than any other cause of death. Over the years, thanks to sexual promiscuity interjecting itself into Guatemalan culture, a new killer had taken root—AIDS. Like other infectious diseases, the precautions during autopsies in dealing with dead bodies inflicted with the AIDS virus were set in stone.

As with the plagues of old, all that a medical professional could do with these potentially deadly diseases was to protect themselves. AIDS was always on Sister Juanita’s mind when she assisted the pathologist during a procedure. But this time, the deceased was a seven-year-old boy. He was too young for sex and not as likely to be a carrier of the AIDS virus.

The bodies delivered to them by the military convoy came without advance warning or explanation. In fact, no one had formally requested that the autopsies be performed. It wasn’t until Sister Juanita learned that the American CDC was going to be involved did she take an interest in the six villagers who rested in their morgue.

As it happened, a new, young pathologist was making his rounds and happened to be in El Naranjo before he left for the much larger city of Poptún located to their east. They determined to undertake the autopsy out of concern for the local villagers. If there was some form of contagion, including malaria or yellow fever, which had been present in the jungle, it was a matter of time before other citizens became infected. Sister Juanita wanted to help protect God’s children.

Typically, the morgue and the pathology rooms were quiet during all times of the day. Sister Juanita liked its basement location and the cool air it contained. While the pathologist scrubbed and donned his protective gear, Sister Juanita prepared the young boy for the autopsy. She set up the tools of the trade and provided all of the customary necessities for the pathologist to do his work.

The doctor arrived and immediately began the procedure. He was new, inexperienced, but methodical. It took him twice as long as the doctors she was used to working with.

He examined the outside of the boy’s body, noting aloud anything out of the ordinary like droplets of blood, signs of bruising, or open wounds. Next, he would normally obtain simple X-rays, which was not possible at the El Naranjo hospital. Small facilities did not have the luxury of digital radiological equipment, so this part of the autopsy would have to wait for the mobile radiologist to visit in two days.

The pathologist took several blood and tissue specimens and then began examination of the boy’s body cavity. Using his scalpel, he made a large Y-shaped incision from each shoulder across the chest and down to the pubic bone. Sister Juanita didn’t flinch as the body’s internal organs were revealed. She’d practiced the incision herself on unclaimed patients.

As one hour stretched into two, Sister Juanita’s mind wandered to an upcoming church social. The pathologist reported his findings into a small recording device in his monotone voice—a voice that lured Sister Juanita into boredom and then sleepiness.

The pathologist asked for a 10 blade in order to make a small incision in the lungs. Sister Juanita snapped out of the doldrums and fumbled through the instruments neatly aligned on the tray. He handed her the larger used scalpel in exchange.

Only the slightest accidental prick of her finger by the bloody tip of the used scalpel brought her back to being fully alert. Sister Juanita didn’t notice it at first, but then a droplet of blood oozed through the tip of her glove and she immediately ran to the wash basin to rinse the wound.

The pathologist attempted to comfort Sister Juanita by assuring her that the quick reaction to irrigate and clean the wound protected her from any disease. But then, whether Sister Juanita’s cut was potentially fatal wouldn’t matter to him, as he would be traveling for months and not see her again until the fall.

Chapter 5

Day One

El Naranjo, Guatemala

Mac and Janie rode down the mountain to El Naranjo to learn the results of the autopsies. The two got a kick out of the Guatemalan soldiers arguing over the honor of escorting them in one of the available Jeeps. Ultimately, rank overtook practicality and the acting officer on duty drove the pair himself. After they had an opportunity to meet with the pathologist, Mac planned on catching a flight back to Atlanta while Janie would travel to Guatemala City to begin the meticulous process of shoe-leather epidemiology. Janie would provide Mac a full report every morning.

“Good afternoon,” a receptionist greeted the women with a heavy accent. Janie conversed with the receptionist in Spanish while Mac observed their surroundings. There were very few locals in the lobby. Two uniformed police officers stood near the entrance. Whereas in America, the presence of armed personnel meant protecting a medical facility from possible terrorism, in a Central American hospital, the concern of law enforcement was a raid upon the hospital in search of drugs. Narcotics could be transported to America for a huge profit. Antibiotics could be sold on the black market within Southern Mexico for even more.

Janie approached Mac, shaking her head in disgust. “Well, there won’t be much to learn here, I’m afraid.”

“Why’s that?” asked Mac.

“Apparently, the nurse assisting the pathologist cut herself during the procedure and was too distraught to continue. As a result, the prima donna pathologist, who, I’m told, has only been on the job for three months, refused to continue without an assistant.”

Mac rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Where does that leave us?”

“He did one autopsy today, on a seven-year-old boy.”

“That’s something,” said Mac. “Where’s his office? We’ll learn what we can from today’s work.”

“That’s just the thing,” Janie added. “He’s a traveling pathologist. He left for another town. There won’t be a new pathologist on duty for many weeks.”

“C’mon,” said a frustrated Mac. She wasn’t qualified to conduct an autopsy, even if the locals would allow her in their morgue. If she could get the chart, even if the findings were handwritten notes, they could narrow down the disease. But could she trust them?

Janie stopped them before they headed down the stairs. “You know what? I’ll go find the chart. Wait here and try to keep the receptionist busy. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Mac smiled as Janie slipped off down a hallway toward the stairwell. Mac chatted up the receptionist and tried some of her conversational Spanish she’d learned years ago when she was growing up. The receptionist seemed to enjoy the opportunity to talk with an American, so she tried out her broken English as well.

On the end of the building opposite the stairwell that Janie took to the basement, Mac caught a glimpse of a man walking back and forth across the light pouring into the west wing of the hospital from the setting sun. The glare of the tile floor blinded her somewhat, but she could make out the clothing of Nathan Hunter from the DTRA.

What’s he doing here? Mac noticed a restroom sign near the entrance to the hallway and asked the receptionist if it was okay to use it. With a wave of the arm as approval, Mac slipped away to get a closer look at Hunter, who appeared to be talking on the phone.

Mac slid behind the wall at the entrance to the hallway and eavesdropped on Hunter. He continued to walk back and forth, talking only sporadically. Janie emerged from the stairwell behind Mac and began to speak.

“Of course, the pathologist is gone, and there’s no sign of his findings. I was alone down there, having my way with their filing system, but I found nothing.”

Mac encouraged Janie to keep her voice down and pulled the smaller petite woman against the wall with her. “I think I know where the autopsy report went.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, look down the hallway,” replied Mac. Janie slipped past Mac and studied the pacing figure. “There’s our new friend Hunter. Doesn’t it look like he’s got a clipboard tucked under his arm?”

“It sure does!” exclaimed Janie under her breath. “What’s he up to?”

“I don’t know, but the DTRA suspects something. I’m not buying his explanation that he just happened to be in the area.”

“But what?” asked Janie.

Mac took Janie by the arm and led her back into the main lobby. “Okay, listen. We have to get these bodies back to the States, where a proper autopsy can be performed.”

“What can I do?” asked Janie.

“Clear the removal of the remains to our custody through the Guatemalan government,” replied Mac. “I’ll call the higher-ups in Atlanta and get approval to use the CDC private jet to pick up the bodies. I wouldn’t trust the autopsy of a part-time pathologist anyway. We need to re-examine these remains in a way this rookie pathologist never contemplated.”

Janie nodded toward Hunter. “What about him?”

“I intend to find out what he’s up to as well.”

Chapter 6

Day Two

Flight from Flores, Guatemala, to Atlanta, Georgia

Mac was about to board the single-wing Cessna aircraft that was to transport her to Belize City and her Delta Airlines flight home when she received a phone call from Janie. The Guatemalan government refused to release the bodies for transportation to America. They stubbornly insisted that native Guatemalans should be buried on Guatemalan soil.

Mac quickly arranged for a pathology team to fly the CDC jet into Flores, Guatemala, a much larger city than El Naranjo. This required her to spend the night, which gave her an opportunity to clear her head and provide written instructions to the team.

She was particularly interested in the condition of the lower respiratory tract, which includes the trachea, the lungs and bronchioles. The symptoms described by the boy who found the sick villagers sounded like a form of pneumonia or bronchitis. Evidence of a bloody mucus mix around their mouths indicated a number of options, including streptococcus, tuberculosis, and Y. pestis—the plague.

She typed out her instructions and prepared an email to Dr. Kathy Farrow, the head of the pathology team. Dr. Farrow was a seasoned veteran of the Ebola battles in Africa and Mac trusted her completely. Nonetheless, she wanted to make her requirements clear.

LOWER RESPIRATORY TRACT—sterile, screw-capped containers, store and transport at 2°C–8°C

BLOOD—transfer at ambient temperature, no refrigeration!

TISSUE/BIOPSY SPECIMENS—sterile container, add two drops of sterile normal saline to keep moist, keep chilled at 2°C–8°C

SWABS OF TISSUE—Don’t bother, transport time too long

“I’m not going to follow in my mother’s footsteps,” muttered Mac as the jet containing the team touched down at the Mundo Maya International Airport. She made her way to the gate area servicing executive aircraft and waited for her associates to disembark. It was unseasonably cool after the low-pressure system crossed the Yucatan Peninsula the day before. Sixty-three-degree temperatures felt like fall in Atlanta.

As Dr. Farrow led the way across the tarmac and into the waiting area, Mac’s mind began to wander back to those days when she was first exposed to fieldwork in the battle against infectious diseases. The West African Ebola virus disease was the most widespread outbreak of EVD in history. She and Dr. Farrow were at ground zero of the epidemic, while her mother was at ground zero of the political firestorm.

“Hi, Mac!” Dr. Farrow greeted Mac heartily with a wave and then a genuine hug. Dr. Farrow was a willing and competent mentor during those days, as well as someone Mac could vent to.

“Hey, Kathy, here we go again, right?” asked Mac with a chuckle.

“Are we? I mean going again?” replied Dr. Farrow with a question of her own.

“I don’t know, Kathy. The situation is odd. The village was isolated from the world—no transportation, little interaction. They were only susceptible to one of the usual carriers of disease—the spider and howler monkeys.”

“Maybe it’s zoonotic,” speculated Dr. Farrow. “I got your email, by the way. One thing bothers me about this. There are some loose ends to tie up such as the boy who discovered the sick villagers. Has he been located? Also, do we have any of the primates to study?”

“No, yes, maybe. How’s that?”

“You learned that from me.” Dr. Farrow laughed in response. “The unit in Guatemala City should be able to study the monkeys. Are they looking for the boy too?”

“We’ve assigned that task to the military, which has been marginally helpful,” Mac responded. “They don’t want any part of the disease. The soldiers assigned to the site kept their distance, which resulted in the invasion of the curious spider monkeys. Our specimens could have been compromised because of their lack of control.”

Dr. Farrow paused as she waited for an announcement to be made over the airport’s public address system. “You need to get back to Atlanta. We can discuss this more later. It’s gonna take us the rest of today to travel. We’ll hit it hard tomorrow and the next day. I’ll have the lab notify you when they’ve received the samples from our autopsies.”

“Thank you, Kathy. We’ll see what the pathology tells us.”

The two women shared an embrace and Mac approached the gate. Two of the ground personnel assisted her with carry-ons and led her up the stairwell into the Learjet. She would have the plane to herself for the flight back to the Peachtree–Dekalb Airport in Chamblee, just northeast of Atlanta.

As the aircraft taxied down the runway, Mac’s mind wandered back to West Africa. Before she was deployed to Liberia, her mother had called her and encouraged Mac with these words, “Never read too much into things. Stay focused, disciplined, and inquisitive. Above all, never give up.”

Chapter 7

Day Three

CDC

Atlanta, Georgia

Ordinarily, Mac avoided leading the Disease Detective tour at the CDC Museum like the plague, but today she felt like a day of transition from what she observed in Guatemala was a good idea. Besides, Dr. Farrow’s team wouldn’t be back with their findings for at least another day or so and Janie was constantly sending her text message updates.

Today’s group was made up of high-school-age kids and their parents. The teens were participating in the Disease Detective Camp at the museum as part of the CDC’s mission of educating the public about their work. Each week, for a period of five days, the campers were exposed to the inner workings of the CDC in order to give them a broad understanding of the agency’s role in public health.

Every year topics varied, but ironically, this summer, the focus was on infectious diseases. Mac was a perfect candidate for leading the tour. She took the group through a series of exhibits that pointed out the specifics of a particular disease and how the CDC helped solve the mystery surrounding it. After the midway point, she opened up the floor for questions.

A parent, naturally, was the first to speak up. Mac often wondered if the Disease Detective Camp should have an adult version. “What’s the difference between an outbreak, an endemic, and a pandemic?”

“That’s a great first question,” replied Mac truthfully. “Understanding epidemiological technical terminology can be confusing—especially with the fact they are misused so often in the media. Oftentimes, reporters throw around these terms without realizing they have very different meanings.”

The group tightened their circle around Mac as she continued. “An outbreak refers to a number of cases that exceed the norm for a given region or disease. Based upon our data, if a disease is common to a particular geographic location, a slight increase in the number of afflicted patients would be deemed an outbreak.

“Now, if you take that same disease in the same geographic area and it continues to exist without eradication, then it rises to the level of an endemic. In other words, the disease is perpetual.”

One of the young detectives raised her hand. “Do you have an example?”

“Dengue fever,” Mac quickly replied. “Dengue fever is a very painful, debilitating, mosquito-borne virus that is typically found in tropical locations like the Philippines and Thailand. In those regions, there are mosquitoes carrying the disease and transmitting it from person to person. Dengue fever has remained in those regions since the middle of last century; thus it’s classified as an endemic.

“Recently, we saw an outbreak on the Big Island of Hawaii. Somebody entered the country who was infected with dengue fever, got bitten by mosquitoes, which then created local chains of transmission throughout the Big Island. In this case, it was declared an outbreak due to the fact the disease was imported with subsequent transfer.”

Three other hands rose. She picked a young man in the rear of the group. “Why didn’t they just stop the person with dengue fever from entering Hawaii?”

Wow, Mac thought to herself. Be careful with this question.

“Well, for one thing, he or she may not have been exhibiting symptoms at the time. If the person was showing signs of illness, oftentimes they mirror those of the common cold or flu. In the United States, we haven’t shown a willingness to quarantine people for cold or flu symptoms.”

More hands flew into the air. “What if the disease was more serious? You know, like Ebola?”

“Okay, let’s finish with our definitions first,” replied Mac, avoiding the question. “We’ve discussed outbreaks and endemics. A pandemic is when there is an outbreak that affects most of the world.”

“You mean like the plague?” queried the young man with a follow-up question.

Mac led them down the hallway toward a display titled Plague—The Three Great Pandemics.

“Yes, that’s one example. In recorded history, there have been three world pandemics of plague recorded.” She pointed to a timeline of events that also depicted estimated death tolls.

Mac continued. “In medieval times, like the year 541 and later in 1347, the plague ravaged the world, causing devastating mortality rates in both people and animals. The disease was so widespread that it travelled rapidly across nations and onto other continents. Both of these events were spread largely by human contact. The third great plague pandemic, which began in 1894, originated in China, then spread to India and around the world. The most prevalent disease host of the plague organism was the rat. Throughout Europe, for example, there were open sewers and ample breeding grounds for rats.”

Mac took another question. “How long do the plagues last?”

“The plague pandemics increased and decreased over time. The third plague pandemic was officially declared over in 1959, although outbreaks of the plague occur from time to time, most recently in Madagascar, an island nation east of Africa.”

“Has the plague come to America?” asked one of the parents.

“Plague was introduced into America in the early 1900s when steamships carried infected rats into our ports. Today, we receive reports of a dozen or so cases per year, primarily in the rural areas of Western states like New Mexico, Arizona, and Colorado.”

Mac laughed to herself. Every time she conducted one of these tours, the questioning always turned to the plague. Every child had heard about the plague, the Black Death, from cartoons or television shows. Of all the diseases that posed immediate dangers to their everyday lives, they wanna talk about something exotic and rare like Y. pestis.

Chapter 8

Day Three

BSL-4 Laboratory

Franceville, Gabon

Dr. Alexis left the BSL-4 laboratory after dark that night. He was a free man, yet he wasn’t. For six months, he had done the bidding of the ISIS terrorists, who no longer attempted to hide their identity from him. He had accepted the consequences of the actions imposed upon him for so long as his family was safe.

He now wondered what was going to happen next. His work would be considered groundbreaking if only he were allowed to share it. Dr. Alexis had made copious notes on the methods he used to replicate the Y. pestis bacterium. A small notebook tucked into his shirt pocket remained with him at all times. But the replication process was not his la plus grande réussite—his greatest achievement.

The genetic modification of the Y. pestis bacterium to make it multidrug resistant was worthy of a Nobel Prize in physics, chemistry, and medicine. Dr. Alexis knew a Nobel Prize would never be awarded to a criminal, so any delusions of being rewarded for his work never crossed his mind.

Dr. Alexis suspected what the terrorists intended to use his work for, but he had no idea of the intended target. He assumed the United States, the very existence of which provoked the ire of every radical Islamic terrorist.

He crossed the street to head toward his modest apartment when a shadow caught his eye in the alleyway to his left. He picked up the pace and began to trot towards the gated entry when he heard footsteps racing toward him.

Without hesitation, he rushed to the steel gate that guarded the entrance to the apartment building and fumbled with his keys to open the locks. Hurry! His mind raced, taking him back to his few days of captivity six months ago.

Once he got through the gate, he stumbled up the stairs, slipping and bruising his shins in the process. He turned to see a hand insert itself between the gate and the latch at the last minute. Dr. Alexis quickly scrambled up the stairs and crashed into his door.

Again, his nervous hands betrayed him. Just as he turned the lock and entered his apartment, he was tackled to the floor and a large man landed on his back in a heap.

Dr. Alexis tried to scramble to safety, kicking his assailant and clawing at the woven rug on the wood floor. But his efforts were in vain as several other men entered the room to assist. Too frightened to scream for help, Dr. Alexis stared at the now familiar face of his captor from six months ago, the man’s look of hate and anger having made an indelible impression on the young scientist’s mind.

His hot breath stank of garlic as he spoke the words, “It is your time, infidel.”

Dr. Alexis begged for his life, to no avail. He was hoisted up on his knees and his head was firmly held down on a coffee table. Following the chant of Allahu Akbar, the striking blow of the knife severed his head from his spine, his eyes wide open in terror.

*****

“Search his flat,” instructed Ali Hassan, the son of a member of the ISIS Fighters Assistance Council and the head of the cell located in the DR Congo. It was Hassan who had proposed the operation at Gabon. While ISIS was actively pursuing biological weapons as a countermeasure to Assad’s chemical arsenal in Syria, the concept of using bioterror agents was beyond most of the comprehension of Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, the mysterious boss of the Islamic State.

After a plan was created, and with his father’s support, Hassan was promised the necessary resources from the healthy war chest of ISIS as the mission was put into place. Hassan, who was educated at St. Mary’s Hospital Medical School in London, had an excellent working knowledge of microbiology. When reports of the Madagascar strain of the plague began to surface, he quickly worked out the details.

At first, he wanted to obtain the plague and weaponize it for an attack upon a high-profile tourist destination in Europe. But his plans grew bigger. He began to study the untreatable superbugs that were constantly being discussed in the American media. Hassan began to hypothesize whether through genetic modification, the deadliest bacterium known to man could be married with one of these so-called superbugs.

Through a small cadre of his brothers who worked for the Gabon government, he learned of and targeted the talented Dr. Alexis—an easy mark because he’d left a young family behind in Paris. The results of the tests in Guatemala proved that he had made the right choice. The Madagascar strain of the plague was deadly, as expected, but it also surpassed his hopes for a timetable from infection to becoming contagious to being symptomatic.

The next test would come in a matter of days. If the Madagascar strain, as modified, was antibiotic resistant, as Dr. Alexis claimed, then it would be ready for production and weaponization.

Either way, it was time for Hassan to cover his tracks and hide the evidence, as the American cop shows like to say. At this moment, the wife and daughters of Dr. Alexis were being sent to their maker. In a few short hours, the BSL-4 laboratory would explode from an unknown electronic malfunction in the effluent decontamination system. Hassan and his men would be well on their way to Kinshasa and then on to Raqqa, Syria, to reunite with his father.

“For you, sir,” said one of Hassan’s subordinates, who handed him a small spiral notebook. Hassan thumbed through the pages and tried to read the notes written in French. He tucked the notebook in his pocket and walked around the apartment. He couldn’t leave anything behind.

“Burn it, my brothers,” instructed Hassan. “There must be nothing left to chance.”

Chapter 9

Day Four

Defense Threat Reduction Agency

Fort Belvoir, Virginia

Nathan Hunter opened up the throttle on his black 1969 Corvette as he passed the Annandale exit on the Capital Beltway. At 5:30 in the morning, traffic hadn’t picked up yet and he convinced himself that the Virginia State Police were still dunkin’ their donuts somewhere.

Hunter spent the majority of his time in the field, so it was rare for him to report to the office for any reason. After his years in the U.S. Army’s Special Forces Group, he was recruited by Major Scott Horn, the deputy director of the Defense Threat Reduction Agency.

Major Horn was very impressed with Hunter’s success in leading the 1st SFOD-Delta operators into Al-Amr, Syria, to capture a senior leader of ISIS named Abu Sayyaf. Sayyaf engaged Hunter’s team in a firefight, resulting in the terrorist’s death, but the mission was declared a success.

The 1st SFOD-Delta, commonly referred to as Delta Force or The Unit, was garrisoned at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. They operated in a similar fashion to their Navy SEAL counterparts, both being capable of executing all types of specialized missions.

While in Syria, Hunter had seen the effects of chemical weapons on the innocent people who opposed the Assad regime. He was infuriated by this, and when Major Horn called on Hunter to head up a new mission for the DTRA that was dedicated to battling bioterror, Hunter jumped at the chance. The fact that his team would be operating off the books, as they say, made the opportunity even more attractive. Every soldier in the Middle East theater was frustrated with the politicization of their efforts and the hamstrings placed upon them by rules of engagement designed to avoid controversy rather than winning. His role with the DTRA allowed him to do his duty without strings attached.

He slowed the ’vette, his pride and joy, as he approached the exit to Fort Belvoir. The facility, located on a peninsula extending into the Potomac River, was home to a variety of U.S. Army units—most notably, the Army Intelligence and Security Command.

The DTRA was not well known outside the military and certain government agencies. When it came to bioterror operations, the CDC, CIA, and FBI usually were mentioned most often in the media. The DTRA added a combat element to the war on terror with its ability to counter weapons of mass destruction. It was under the leadership of Major Horn that an emphasis was placed on bioterror agents as a weapon of mass destruction—a WMD.

In the past, the agency focused on events right of boom—a phrase that referred to the timeline of a disaster, in particular the aftermath. In a world at war with terrorists, governments had concentrated their efforts on what happens after a catastrophic event, hence the phrase right of boom.

The DTRA had done important work in the aftermath of catastrophes. When the tsunami caused a nuclear meltdown at Fukushima, the DTRA was on the scene to assist within hours. When WMDs were discovered in Libya after the fall of the Qaddafi regime, the DTRA quickly neutralized and destroyed the stockpiles.

But the new leadership under Major Horn didn’t think post-catastrophe mitigation was enough. As a result, Project Artemis was born. In Greek mythology, Artemis was the Greek goddess of the hunt. The daughter of Zeus and the twin sister of Apollo, Artemis was known as the protector of young girls, especially for relieving disease in women.

For the DTRA, Project Artemis was designed to liaison with the CIA and the NSA to stop the use of biological weapons by terrorists—before boom. Whether it was the use of anthrax by domestic terrorists within the United States or weaponized smallpox throughout Europe, Hunter and the team at Project Artemis worked around the clock to prevent bioterror events from happening.

In order to do so, the Project Artemis team had to think outside the box. They were adept at analyzing data and intelligence, and piecing threats of evidence together that might seem far-fetched to some. Sometimes their working theories didn’t pan out. When they did, and a bioterror attack was thwarted, it was a rewarding feeling for Hunter, who worked tirelessly for the country he loved.

Just as the sun peeked over the Potomac, Hunter entered the DTRA building and sought coffee, the nectar of the gods and goddesses of Project Artemis. Based upon the phone call he’d received a couple of hours ago, coffee was going to be a necessity for several days to come.

Chapter 10

Day Four

Defense Threat Reduction Agency

Fort Belvoir, Virginia

Hunter walked around the room and spoke to each of the members of the team. It appeared that all hands were on deck for this hastily called meeting. It must be something big.

“Good morning, folks, let’s get started,” announced former USAF Master Sergeant Scott Jablonik, a career military man who coordinated intel gathering with the other intelligence agencies throughout the government. He also acted as a shield to maintain the identities of the Project Artemis operatives discreet, if not anonymous.

Jablonik powered up the monitors attached to the wall and opened his laptop. Using his Apple Mirror capability on the MacBook, he displayed a series of slides depicting satellite images above Franceville, Gabon.

“What you’re looking at are satellite images of the biosafety lab located in Franceville, Gabon, West Africa. The first image was taken during our flyover twenty-four hours ago.” He walked up to the monitor and circled the location of the lab with his finger. Afterwards, he pressed a key on his laptop and an image of the same location came on the screen, showing dark black smoke trailing into the sky, almost hiding the remains of the destroyed building he’d indicated before.

“Jeez, somebody fire a Scud missile at the facility?” asked LaMar Johnson, former Marine and the newest member of Project Artemis.

“No, not enough collateral damage,” replied another member of the team. “A Scud produces a blast radius of a half mile. The destruction shown here appears to be limited to a single building.”

Jablonik stepped into their view of the screen and crossed over to pick up his notes. “The information we have is that the blast originated in a decontamination area that contained highly pressurized tanks. The local authorities were quick to declare this an industrial accident, possibly caused by an equipment malfunction.”

“But you disagree,” interrupted Hunter.

“I do,” Jablonik said as he put his hands on his hips and stared at the monitor again.

Hunter inched up in his chair for a closer look at the screen. “What caused the smoke to the right, roughly three or four blocks away?”

“A small apartment building caught on fire two hours before the blast,” replied Jablonik.

“Coincidence?” asked Johnson.

“No way,” Hunter responded although the question was probably directed at Jablonik. “A building catches fire a few blocks away from where a major explosion destroys a BSL-4 laboratory. No coincidence.”

Jablonik took down the satellite images and replaced them with an image of Dr. Alexis. “This morning, Gabon time, local law enforcement began to search for the employees of the facility, hoping to find them alive and not buried in the rubble. As they worked their way down the roster, one of the first employees to contact was Dr. Francois Alexis. He lived on the second floor of the apartment building that burned to the ground that night. He is missing and so is his family in Paris.”

“Do you think he had something to do with this?” asked Hunter.

“Too early to tell,” replied Jablonik. “At this time, our instructions are to stand by until the Secretary of State can get the permission of the Gabon government to join the investigation. This might take a couple of days.”

“What can we do in the meantime?” asked another member of the team.

Jablonik handed out a list of assignments to each person in the room. Some members of the team were to focus on Dr. Alexis; others were to focus on terrorist cells in the region.

“Sir,” Hunter started to speak.

“Go ahead, Hunter.”

“Do you have any information on what this particular lab, or scientist, was working on? There might be a connection that leads us to a motive for destroying the facility.”

Jablonik nodded and reached into his folder. He scribbled down the name and phone number of a high-ranking member of the Gabon Armed Forces in Franceville. “Contact Ali Massard Benin in Libreville. He’ll make sure that you’re the first outsider to gain access to the details of their investigation.”

“What about the CDC?” asked Hunter. “Would they know what this facility was up to?”

“Probably,” replied Jablonik. “Give them a call first.”

“Anyone in particular?” asked Hunter.

“Don Baggett,” replied Jablonik. “He’s our point of contact. We worked on the Postal Service anthrax matter when I first came on board.”

Jablonik turned off the monitor and took a seat at the head of the conference table. “Good. Now, speaking of the CDC, what have you learned as a result of your trip to Central America.”

Helen Yee, a former NSA analyst who was brought on board for her expertise in tracking people via online resources, spoke up first. “I don’t want to speak out of turn, but let me mention one thing as it relates to Hunter’s trip to Guatemala. There has been a marked increase in terrorist movements from the Middle East into Latin America. I have tagged several flights from Damascus to Caracas for special attention. Literally every flight that has landed in Caracas from the region has included one or more persons of interest. You’d think they were building an army in South America.”

“Or farther north,” added Jablonik. “The CIA has always warned that terrorists are entering Latin America with the intention of creating cells and recruiting. We know Venezuela is a port of entry and places like Trinidad are hotbeds of terrorist activity.”

“Is the Trinidad operation still a go?” asked Hunter.

“It is and I need to speak with you about it after our meeting,” replied Jablonik. He turned his attention back to Yee. “Do you have reason to believe that the Guatemala outbreak was connected to this insurgency of terrorists into Venezuela?”

Yee was noncommittal. “Maybe. Just like Gabon, I don’t like coincidences. You get an unusual outbreak of a mysterious, killer disease and couple it with an influx of bad guys. You never know.”

“Hunter, what do you think?” asked Jablonik.

“I spoke with the pathologist who conducted the autopsy on a young boy killed in the village. He didn’t perform the kind of detailed analysis that I’m sure the CDC folks would expect, but he did reach a conclusion.”

Jablonik removed his glasses and set them on the table. He leaned forward and asked Hunter to explain. “What did he say?”

“There were two things that struck me. One was the speed at which the disease killed the boy. Based on the timeline he’d developed from the reports given to him, he concluded that the disease was highly contagious and fast acting.”

“What’s the second thing?”

Hunter sat back in his chair and sighed. “He’s of the opinion that the boy was inoculated.”

“Do you mean that he was given some type of vaccine to ward off the effects of the disease?” asked Jablonik.

“No, sir,” replied Hunter. “The boy may have been inoculated with the disease.”

Chapter 11

Day Five

Atlanta, Georgia

Mac worked her way through the trees, keeping the dense underbrush between her and the man she was pursuing. He’d been separated from his group, with Mac and Danny Cantore hot on his trail. She darted across a small clearing and joined Cantore behind a limestone rock outcropping.

“Are you sure he’s not leading us into a trap?” asked Mac, fighting for breath in the humid air.

“I thought about that because he doesn’t seem to care that we’re trailing him,” replied Cantore. “Should we let him go and circle back to our guys?”

Mac studied her prey, who’d stopped at the top of the hill. She didn’t like the fact that he held the high ground, but based upon his previous attempts at shooting them, he’d proven himself to be a poor marksman.

“Let’s press the fight,” Mac announced. “Circle around to the right and keep your eye on him. I’m gonna run straight up the hill and force his hand. I’m tired of fooling with this guy. The longer we’re separated, the more vulnerable we become.”

“I’m down with that. Give me a minute,” said Cantore. “I’ll attempt to draw his fire so you can get closer for a clear shot.”

Cantore took off through the woods and found his way to a cluster of oak trees just twenty yards from their target. Upon his signal, Mac slowly walked through the underbrush until she reached the trail and then bolted into the opening.

The man swung his weapon in her direction and fired wildly over her head. Instinctively, she ducked to avoid being hit but continued advancing toward him. Cantore opened fire and distracted the target. That was all Mac needed to make the kill.

SPLAT—SPLAT—SPLAT.

Her Tippmann X7’s superior accuracy easily found the mark, plastering the man with five red splats of paint—a good kill. Her target fell to his knees and raised his hands in an X over his head, indicating he was out of the game.

The air horn sounded, indicating the game was over. Mac and Cantore removed their helmets as they joined their opponent. The three of them shook hands and had a good laugh as the man explained he was lost, out of energy from the pursuit, and appreciated getting killed.

Mac had joined a paintball team three years ago and they regularly competed at Paintball Atlanta in Alpharetta, north of Atlanta. Growing up as a military brat, she enjoyed working with weaponry and honing her firearm skills. Paintball allowed her to practice combat drills and teamwork.

“Let’s count ’em up!” shouted Cantore as the three made their way back to the start of the Woodsball field.

Mac quickly surveyed the number of red-painted opponents and immediately smelled victory. Truthfully, her group won most of its matches. The team known as Alpha Squad was made up of ten DEA, FBI, and National Guardsmen who’d been together for years. Mac was invited in initially because the local rules required that two females be a part of the squad. Mac, who was extremely competitive, didn’t like being added as a token female and worked overtime to prove herself worthy of being on the team. It didn’t take long for her to fit in and excel at the sport.

The other female member of the team was Cantore’s girlfriend, Amanda Sharpe. She worked in Denver’s Immigration and Customs Enforcement Office but frequently came to Atlanta to visit Cantore. As an ICE agent, she trained frequently with firearms and was asked to be a reoccurring instructor at the ICE Law Enforcement Training Program located in Brunswick, Georgia.

“I don’t think it was close, Mac,” said Amanda proudly. This was her second outing with the group and she was hooked. Like Mac, she held her own. “Look at all of that blood splatter!”

“Yeah, we did pretty well,” added Mac. She led Amanda over to her Jeep Grand Cherokee and popped the rear hatch. “How about a beer?”

“Got any Coors?” asked Amanda, a Colorado native.

“Very funny.” Mac chuckled. “This is the South. Have a Bud.”

They popped the tops and enjoyed a swig before leaning against the open tailgate. The guys were in a cluster, bragging on their exploits, which left the girls alone for a few minutes.

“It’ll have to do.” Amanda laughed. “If you ever get out my way, I’ll treat you to a Coors and some Rocky Mountain oysters.”

“Not my first rodeo, Amanda. Yes on the former and no way on the latter. I know what Rocky Mountain oysters are. You can forget it.”

Amanda offered her longneck to toast Mac’s. “It’s a Colorado thing. We have to try to trick people into eating bulls’ balls.”

“Yeah, I get it. Actually, my parents have a place in Breckenridge. I’ve been out there a few times since my mom’s retirement. I tried my hand at skiing but quickly realized that I’d enjoy the cool summers much better.”

“I bet she’s enjoying her retirement,” said Amanda.

Mac hesitated and looked down for a moment and said, “Not really.”

Amanda shrugged, then fumbled through her black 5.11 tactical pants and pulled out her business card. She found a pen and scribbled her cell number on the back. “Anytime you’re headed my way, don’t hesitate to call me. There’s a lot to do around Denver.”

“I will,” said Mac as she tucked the card in her pants pocket.

“Danny tells me you work at the CDC,” started Amanda. “Do they have a law enforcement arm? You’re a heckuva shot.”

Mac laughed. “No, we don’t have the pleasure of using firearms to fight diseases. I’m a senior health scientist and associate director of the Office of Infectious Diseases.”

“Girl, you don’t look old enough to be a senior anything.” Amanda laughed. “Did you skip high school or something?”

“When people looked at my résumé, they thought I was lying,” Mac replied. “I completed undergrad in three years; then I received my dual master’s degree in molecular biology and applied genetics. I got my PhD in microbiology from MIT.”

“Good lord, you were busy.” Amanda laughed.

“I guess I was. I’ve always been an overachiever. I was the youngest doctor hired by the CDC in thirty years. With all of that, I guess that makes me senior.”

Amanda polished off her beer and reached for another one. She was about to offer a second beer to Mac when a cell phone rang.

“Yours or mine?” asked Amanda.

“It’s mine,” said Mac as she looked down at the display. “I’ve gotta take this.”

Mac walked away from the truck for a moment and listened to her counterpart within the OID. She was needed at the lab immediately. There were developments.

Chapter 12

Day Five

CDC

Atlanta, Georgia

It was a forty-mile drive to the CDC campus in Druid Hills, a neighborhood of roughly fifteen thousand residents and the home to Emory University and the CDC. On a typical day in Atlanta, the trip would take more than an hour, but Mac pressed her luck with the speed limits and avoided any traffic snarls. The urgency of the call prevented Mac from stopping by her place in Buckhead to change.

Druid Hills, dubbed Atlanta’s second suburb, was designed by the renowned city planner Frederick Law Olmsted, who laid out Central Park in New York, the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina, and the U.S. Capitol grounds. Located five miles east of Atlanta’s downtown business district, the homes of Druid Hills, approaching several million dollars in value, were spread out among the many parks and lakes. The CDC and Emory University were clustered in the middle of the neighborhood and stood in stark contrast to the Georgian and Victorian architecture prominent in the surrounding neighborhood.

Despite the upscale surroundings, and as a sign of the times, the entrance to the CDC involved more than a nod and a smile at a security guard seated behind a desk. Like all public buildings, visitors and employees alike were required to enter through an X-ray machine and agree to a random pat down. Having CDC credentials and being familiar to the security personnel didn’t grant you a waiver. As Mac patiently waited her turn throughout the process, she thought of the bureaucratic challenges ahead, especially in dealing with a relatively new installment into the CDC organizational chart.

The CDC, like any government agency, had a hierarchy. Her immediate superior, Dr. Kelly Daniel, was a part of the Senior Executive Service, which was charged with executive, managerial, and governmental policy functions. Many of these executives rose through the ranks of the CDC and had hands-on experience dealing with infectious disease.

Donald Baggett, who acted as an ombudsman of sorts, was a political appointee loyal to the administration that put him in his position more than the overall goal of making the world a healthier place.

Baggett was a former accountant with a large pharmaceutical company. His job was to keep the lid on what was perceived to be an out-of-control CDC budget. Admittedly, in recent years, the CDC had been dubbed the Centers for Everything but Disease Control.

Media reports blistering the CDC, which was seen as squandering government subsidies on everything but its core mission, had taken their toll. Congress, in its typical knee-jerk reaction, had slashed their budget considerably in recent years, culminating with a new health care law that reduced their budget by hundreds of millions.

Baggett, whom Mac referred to not so affectionately as D-Bag, was instrumental in cutting such projects as studying video games and television violence, social norming of children in schools, and the implementation of a multimillion-dollar study of the effectiveness of motorcycle helmet laws.

In some respects, he performed his job as instructed. In other ways, he was a failure as an administrator. He had no respect among his staff, especially the women within his charge. He was a shameless flirt who crossed the lines of decency daily. Mac, both single and attractive, bore the brunt of his sexual innuendo on more than one occasion. Her tough exterior shook it off, but it didn’t prevent her from despising D-Bag for what he was—a douchebag.

Mac made her way to the lab and found Janie studying a specimen under a microscope. She waved through the thick, protected glass and got Janie’s attention, who immediately jumped out of her chair and headed for the decontamination chamber.

Cocooned within the complex was a biosafety level 4 laboratory that was built like a submarine. Over ten thousand square feet of airtight, carefully pressurized space housed as many as thirty doctorate-level scientists wearing protective suits and hoods, trying to determine how lethal infectious diseases kill their hosts.

To enter the BSL-4 lab, a scientist must pass through two stainless-steel doors into an air-locked chamber. The air pressure changed in both spaces through the building’s automation system to ensure that high-pressure air in the air lock flowed into the low-pressure, high-security lab, thus trapping airborne pathogens.

Once inside the BSL-4, you were immediately overwhelmed by the feeling of sterility. The walls had a glistening sheen from the many layers of epoxy compound that formed a continuous seal across every surface. Light fixtures and electrical outlets that penetrated the seal were housed in airtight boxes and lathered in protective epoxy. Even the wires that emerged through the walls were stripped of their insulation and sealed with the epoxy compound.

The microorganisms that made up a deadly bacterium were many million times smaller than the eye could see. It didn’t take much for one to escape and wreak havoc on the human population.

Janie emerged with her award-winning smile and her hair pulled back neatly into a bun. The smooth contours of her youthful face made Mac slightly jealous. At thirty-four, Mac sometimes wished she could be as perky as Janie and wondered if she’d ever have a chance to feel young again. Her mother said Mac needed the right partner to spark her personality. Mac told her mother to mind her own business.

“Come see, Mac!” Janie slid behind a computer terminal outside the BSL-4 and immediately began to bang on the keyboard. “The results are preliminary, but I find them conclusive. You look like a ninja, by the way.”

Mac, in her all-black paintball attire, struck a model’s pose like the girls on the Price is Right and then focused her attention on the computer monitor. Janie produced the first slide on the screen. Mac shook her head, hoping to deny what her eyes told her.

“Pneumonic plague,” whispered Mac. Even within the confines of the CDC, the commonly used term for Yersinia pestis wasn’t thrown around often. The Black Death, the label given to bubonic plague in the fourteenth century, was a less lethal counterpart to the perfect killer—pneumonic plague.

“It is, without a doubt,” added Janie.

Mac pulled up a chair and joined Janie at the computer station. “Janie, please humor me on this and know I’m asking this with absolutely no disrespect. Please walk me through your processing of the specimens.”

“I understand fully, Mac. This is big.”

“It sure is,” Mac said under her breath. “Now, talk to me.”

“Okay, first I confirmed proper transportation from Guatemala with Dr. Farrow. They followed your instructions to the letter. We alternately inoculated the blood and tissues specimens with the maximum amount of fluids and incubated at optimal temps.”

Mac needed to hear this, but she was becoming both excited and concerned about the ramifications of the lab’s findings. “What about the agar plates?”

“As is typical, the Y. pestis grew as gray-white, translucent colonies initially. In the first twenty-four hours, they were too small to be seen as individual colonies.”

“Of course,” Mac interrupted. “Janie, look at those plump bacilli. Amazing!”

“Now you know how I felt. After forty-eight hours, the colonies grew to two millimeters in diameter and their color changed from gray white to slightly yellow. At that point, there was no doubt.”

“You ran the enzyme tests?” asked Mac.

“Yes, ma’am. They were positive for catalase and negative for urease, indole, and oxidase.”

Mac leaned back in her chair and studied the screen. The ramifications of Janie’s findings would be far-reaching. Suddenly, a sense of dread came over her. How many people had come in contact with the villagers? Where was the boy who discovered the sick? What about the monkeys? Did the Guatemalan pathologist take the necessary precautions to protect himself?

“Janie, we may have a real problem on our hands.”

Chapter 13

Day Five

CDC

Atlanta, Georgia

Over the next hour, Mac contacted LaWanda Sanford, an emergency management specialist in the CDC’s Division of Emergency Operations. She asked Mrs. Sanford to set up a small ops center initially so she should could gather her team. Throughout the CDC complex, specific outbreaks were given their own level of importance depending on size and locale. Mac felt like a plague outbreak would be considered a high priority.

While Mac was coordinating with the Office of Public Health Preparedness, Janie was gathering the team of scientists and field investigators who would conduct the ground game in dealing with the CDC’s response.

Mac also activated the CDC Laboratory Response Network, an integrated network of state and local public health, federal, and international labs. They were put on notice of the outbreak in Guatemala and were required to notify hospitals to watch for unusual cases involving plague-like symptoms.

Organizations like the CDC and the WHO came under criticism for their inability to prevent outbreaks altogether. Situations like the village in Guatemala proved how prevention was nearly impossible in many cases. The CDC adopted a posture that if you couldn’t prevent an infectious disease from spreading, the next best thing was to identify it as quickly as possible.

In the U.S., the CDC might be working a continually modified list of infectious disease outbreaks from A to Z—AIDS to Zika. If a local health care provider came across any of these eighty or more diseases that require notification to the CDC, he must act quickly to set the wheels of detection and containment into motion. Of paramount importance in preventing the spread of an outbreak was containment.

When an outbreak had the potential to cross national borders, then the World Health Organization got involved. At this point, Mac didn’t have any evidence that would suggest international borders would be compromised. She’d leave the decision as to notification to the WHO in the laps of people higher up the CDC organizational chart.

Mac stood at the head of the room, studying the reports created by Janie and the rest of the research scientists from CDC-Guatemala City. She looked at the pathology reports to make sure nothing was omitted. It was all there, and it was conclusive—pneumonic plague.

She began. “As you all know, bubonic plague is the most commonly recognized strain of Y. pestis. It occurs with regular frequency around the world and in the United States, especially in New Mexico, which reports half of the bubonic plague cases every year.”

Mac paused as Baggett entered the room with his assistant. All of the seats were full and none of her staff offered to give up their spot, an indicator of the lack of respect they had for the bureaucrat. Baggett found a place at the rear of the room and leaned against the wall before nodding for Mac to continue.

“But the pneumonic variant is rare and much more virulent. And, unlike its bubonic sister, it can be spread via airborne particles. Think about the bubonic plague in Europe of the thirteenth and fourteenth century. That’s the typical scenario that you should think of.”

Mac, ironically still dressed in all black, continued her introductory remarks. “At the time, the Black Death started as the bubonic plague, but then it morphed into the pneumonic plague and one-third of the population died. So the consequences for today’s modern society could be enormous.”

Baggett interrupted. “It’s my understanding that this outbreak is isolated to one remote village in the Guatemalan jungle. Isn’t it overkill to declare this to be a five-alarm fire?”

“It depends,” responded Mac, bristling at his insinuation that she was overreacting. “We don’t know how many people and animals have come in contact with the disease, even though it was remote. We haven’t identified patient zero. The monkey population in the jungle is an issue as well. They may have become exposed to the disease for days before our CDC-Guatemala associates took control of the scene.”

“Well, I have a decision to make as to whether we involve the WHO,” Baggett interjected. “That will trigger a whole chain of events that involves the State Department, Homeland Security, and possibly the White House. When those heavy hitters get involved, the press gets a whiff of the action, and it becomes a five-alarm fire whether we like it or not.”

Mac was incredulous. D-Bag was basing his decision on whether to protect people from a deadly disease on who would be troubled by the revelation and media scrutiny. She wasn’t sure how to respond to his statement, so she didn’t. It was a lesson she’d learned from her mother.

“We’ve verified the diagnosis and established the existence and locale of the outbreak,” Mac continued. She looked down at Janie, who had a knack for knowing what Mac was thinking. She provided Mac a wink as encouragement. “Our working hypothesis has to be that the transmission was airborne and possibly zoonotic. Typically, plague is transmitted by rodents and fleas to other animals or humans. But the large spider monkey population in the region cannot be discounted as a possible source.”

Janie raised her hand. “Our Guatemala facility just started analyzing the specimens drawn from the six captured primates. They’ll be able to give us something definitive in a few days.”

“Good,” said Mac. “What about implementation of the control and prevention measures I suggested before I left the country?”

“I wish I had better news there,” replied Janie. “The military personnel were reluctant to cordon off the area, so the village was razed and then burned. They haven’t produced the boy who discovered the sick villagers either.”

Mac pulled her hair behind her ears and closed her eyes. Don’t these people understand? “Janie, please follow up on this. We’ve got to see if the young man is infected.”

“I will.”

Then Mac thought of something else. “This may or may not be connected, but there was an outbreak a year ago on Madagascar of pneumonic plague. If I’m not mistaken, the research on that strain was assigned to the BSL-4 in Gabon. I need someone to get the data on their findings. It’s a long shot, but I wanna do a quick comparison to rule out any correlation between the two outbreaks.”

“That’s not going to be possible, Dr. Hagan,” stated Baggett from the rear of the room. “The facility was destroyed by an explosion two days ago. The cause is still being investigated, but in any event, the lab and its contents were obliterated.”

The room burst into muffled conversation at this news. Many of the scientists had friends and acquaintances who worked in labs around the world.

“Okay,” started Mac, raising her voice slightly to bring the room back to attention. “I’ll consider whether it’s worth the effort to send a team to Madagascar in search of new specimens. More on that later.”

The group started to gather their belongings, anxious to get back to working on this rare opportunity. Mac gathered her thoughts and then added this, “Listen up. I cannot stress the importance of remaining focused on the task at hand. When a surgeon makes a mistake, one patient dies. When we drop the ball, tens of thousands could die. Now, let’s get to it.”

Chapter 14

Day Six

White House

Washington, DC

President Tomas Garcia walked casually through the White House alongside Anderson Cooper as they conducted a hastily arranged interview for 60 Minutes. As the two shared a nonconfrontational, conversation-style interview, President Garcia reflected on the magnitude of the job that he’d held for three years.

“Anderson, this is the People’s House, and I am but a temporary caretaker,” Garcia said with a false modesty. In reality, he was proud to be elected the first Hispanic President of the United States and his political machine was working overtime to keep him there.

“Yes, Mr. President, but you’d like to extend your caretaker position for another four years, would you not?” asked Cooper with a grin.

“Well, naturally, there is a lot of work to be done and I believe the American people will agree that we’ve advanced our nation on many fronts,” replied President Garcia. “Consider the White House, for example. If these walls could talk and the honest truth were told, my predecessors have made decisions that would be deemed inhumane, incorrigible, and outside the bounds of anyone’s moral compass. Yet there would be stories of greatness too.”

“For example?” asked Cooper.

The President led Cooper by the Lincoln Bedroom located on the second floor of the White House. “President Lincoln held this country together through the sheer force of his own will. He will always be remembered as a leader in the fight against slavery. Arguably, the equal rights movement began in 1863.”

“With the stroke of a pen.” Cooper chuckled.

President Garcia laughed as well. “Yes, Anderson, that is a little-known fact. The infamous Emancipation Proclamation, which gave federal legal status to slaves, was in fact an executive order. And, before you add to your comment, I have been known to use the power of the pen via executive order to get things done that a gridlocked Congress refused to do.”

“Okay, Mr. President, I won’t go there.”

The President stopped and looked intently into the cameras. “What matters most is that the achievements of the occupiers of the Oval Office, regardless of their dirty little secrets committed by imperfect men who in moments of weakness made mistakes, have done great things to make America a place of hope and compassion.”

Anderson Cooper, the journalist, took back the interview. “Mr. President, there are those in the world who would like to see America and her way of life destroyed. Obviously, ISIS comes to mind.”

“Recently, their leadership listed six reasons why they hate the West and intend to fight us through their jihadist measures. First and foremost, we are disbelievers who refuse to embrace Islam and hence are branded as infidels. Second, they dislike any freedom-loving nation that opposes Sharia Law. It is this message of hate that has spread across the world, making my job to protect America that much more difficult.”

Cooper referred to his notes and then added, “There are increased reports that Latin America has become a hotbed for ISIS activity, Hezbollah, too. They are operating freely in Venezuela, Central America, and tiny island nations like Trinidad. The reports indicate their recruitment is growing exponentially, and as a result, they’ve been able to raise large sums of money to finance their terrorist activities in other countries, namely, the United States.”

“It has been an ongoing challenge for my administration, one, I might add, that we inherited when I took office. That said, the ignorance involving the threat of jihadist terrorism in Latin America has been such that some governments have refused to cooperate with our authorities and intelligence services in the war on terror.”

The filming crew and the two participants took a brief break as they passed through the Yellow Oval Room, which was primarily used for formal private receptions, and onto the Truman Balcony, which overlooked the South Lawn and the Washington Monument. President Garcia chose this location to continue the appearance of a casual conversation.

The men settled into their chairs with their back to the South Lawn before Cooper continued with the last of the questions. “Mr. President, since 9/11, the war on terror has been successful in fighting terrorists on foreign soil. Over the last decade, the Islamic State has lost territory in Iraq, but continues to maintain a stronghold in Syria. But closer to home, ISIS has made inroads with training camps throughout Latin America.”

“We are aware of this. Islamic terrorists, like criminals, are motivated by money. While ordinary criminals use their money to buy things they cannot afford, terrorists use money to finance more terror. It is difficult to battle an ideological criminal who is hell-bent on the destruction of our way of life.”

“So you are taking these reports seriously?” asked Cooper.

“Naturally,” replied the President. The President paused and reflected for a moment. He focused on looking presidential. “I want the American people to know that our challenge is greater than just defeating ISIS. We also need to identify and extinguish the Caliphate—the establishment of a religious, political leader to lead all of the Islamic State. Islamic Supremacist organizations like ISIS exist in many forms. If we were to eradicate ISIS, there would be a dozen other jihadist groups ready to fill the void.”

Cooper checked his notes and frowned. He managed a follow-up question. “Isn’t ISIS at the extreme end of the scale, Mr. President?”

“Of course, and they’re at the top of news reports, which makes them the likely target of our efforts. You have groups like the Muslim Brotherhood, who some might deem moderate by comparison to ISIS, but make no mistake, they want to bring back the Caliphate, and their fervent religious beliefs want to subjugate non-Muslims. The difference between the two groups is that ISIS is impatient and without a moral compass. The Muslim Brotherhood intends to utilize modern political methods to achieve their goals.”

“Mr. President, we have reports from high-ranking officials in both Paraguay and Columbia that hundreds of ISIS operatives have teamed up with drug-trafficking enterprises to launder money. Do you have a plan in dealing with this expansion of Islamic jihadists into the drug trade?”

The President turned and looked directly into the camera. “Of course we do and let me be clear to those who think they can use our Latin American neighbors as a bridge into our country. We are watching and we will stop you in your tracks. I refuse to allow a terrorist attack on American soil.”

Cooper asked the final question. “As the world gathers in Atlanta for the Summer Olympics next month, can you assure our visitors that they will be safe?”

“I remain confident that Atlanta, and all of the United States, will be a safe environment for a successful and enjoyable Olympic Games experience. Those who attempt to disrupt the Olympics will be dealt with swiftly and decisively.”

Cooper set down his notes and indicated to the camera crew to stop filming. The CBS producers moved in to begin closing down the production with the assistance of White House aides.

President Garcia leaned into Cooper and thanked him for joining him on short notice. Cooper nodded and shook the President’s hand. As Cooper stood, President Garcia’s Chief of Staff joined the two men and also thanked Cooper for arranging the interview.

“Anderson, as I told you,” started Chief of Staff Andrew Morse, “after this operation in Trinidad, you will be provided exclusive video and comment. This interview will provide the President cover in case something goes wrong, and will make him look strong if the mission is successful.”

“Well, the President doesn’t need any losses right now,” added Cooper. “After all goes well, it will be a feather in his cap and make him look tough on terror. It’s a real coup in the middle of an election year.”

“Well said, Anderson,” said the President as he smiled and patted Cooper on the back. “Perhaps I should install you as our White House communications director.”

Cooper laughed. “Well, I guess in a way, I already am.”

Chapter 15

Day Six

Caracas, Venezuela

Ali Hassan slept most of the way on his flight from Istanbul, Turkey, to Caracas, Venezuela. He was comforted by the cargo that was added to the aircraft during their layover in Havana. Despite the corruption rampant in the Venezuelan government, he didn’t want to take any chances that the contents of the crate were scrutinized. He was willing to pay the customary bribe to the Turkish ground crew, but because of the nation’s close ties to the United States, exposure was too risky. Besides, he was surely being watched by the infidels’ NSA.

“We are here,” his longtime companion Mohammed al-Sharif said as he nudged Hassan awake. “I see no welcoming committee.”

Hassan sat upright and reached into his pocket to check one of the many cell phones that he utilized in his daily activities. It was not unusual for him to switch phones and numbers daily, especially in the middle of an operation as important as this one.

“Our brothers will meet us at the baggage-claim area,” Hassan said as he scrolled through several text messages. “We will meet our brothers who work for the airport’s ground personnel in one hour’s time.”

ISIS had operatives working all over the world. Many lived in the open like the two employees of Turkish Airlines who were baggage handlers. Islamic terrorists took many forms. Some strapped bombs to their bodies or stole beer trucks and ran down pedestrians on a sidewalk. Others appeared on the surface as integrated into the society and the towns they inhabited. Their kids played in the parks and their wives served drinks at Starbucks.

They knew there would be a time to serve Allah in their own way. The battle against the infidels did not just include bombs, bullets, and swords. It also included cyber intrusions, security breaches and, today, delivery of precious cargo without notice.

Ten percent of the population of Venezuela is made up of Muslims. Caracas is home to fifteen thousand Muslims of primarily Lebanese, Syrian, and Turkish descent. Hassan and the dozens of other members of his team had systematically made their way to Caracas to prepare for the next phase of his plan.

They were given safe shelter in the El Recreo district of Caracas, near the second largest mosque in Latin America, the mosque of Ibrahim-Al-Ibrahim. Constructed at the base of a rocky cliff, the building was a gift from King Fahd of Saudi Arabia to the Muslims of Caracas. During the Iraq-Iran war in the last century, King Fahd became a staunch ally of the United States once saying, after Allah, we can count on the United States. Today, those who frequented the Mosque would vehemently disagree.

The home where Hassan would reside for a few days lay in the shadow of Banco Plaza, a privately owned Venezuelan bank. Banco Plaza was the depository of choice for the ISIS Financial Council for the many millions of dollars funneled into Latin America from its operations abroad.

Despite the weakening of its position in Iraq, ISIS was far from financial ruin. Through its seizing of Iraqi bank vaults, it was estimated that ISIS had cash holdings in excess of one billion dollars. Their drug partnerships in Columbia and Paraguay netted them an inordinate amount of cash, all of which must be laundered without scrutiny. Banco Plaza was more than willing to assist, which made it the most liquid bank in Venezuela.

Over the years, the ISIS leadership council had learned that what they didn’t have, they could now easily buy. That included political influence and access. As his team began its migration northward through the countries of Central America and to their final destination, America, they could use cash for bribes and false identities. They could change their methods of transportation frequently. Hassan and his operatives could buy their way to their final destination—the Great Satan.

Hassan would disagree with King Fahd in one important respect. In his mind, after Allah, we can count on cash. After prayer, Hassan gathered his most trusted lieutenants. They sat around a large round table containing maps and bundles of U.S. currency. The army of operatives received their final instructions from the man who was now revered by Islamic terrorists around the world.

“Tomorrow, my brothers, with the will of Allah, we will begin the final phase of years and years of planning by men like my father and his father before him. The Great Satan will feel our wrath. We will dance on their dead bodies, giving praise to Allah!”

“Allahu Akbar!”

“Allahu Akbar!”

Hassan continued. “Tonight, we will go our separate ways and follow the routes northward. We will meet our brother Mahmood Khabir in the Mexican state of Chihuahua. Hundreds of our brothers will spread across the border of the Great Satan, waiting for our time to enter. Praise Allah, and peace be with you, brothers.”

The men shared embraces and filed out, leaving Hassan alone with his trusted friend al-Sharif. “We are ready, Hassan,” started al-Sharif. “We have prayed for strength and guidance. We will not fail Islam, or Allah.”

“This I know, my brother. Tomorrow, you and I will cross the Caribbean Sea and make our preparations. The children of Allah will fight in his name and be given a great reward.”

“As will we all.”

Chapter 16

Day Six

CDC

Atlanta, Georgia

Several of Mac’s associates gathered around the television monitors in the small conference room as Dr. Johnson Williamson addressed physicians at the American Medical Association conference in Chicago. The closed-circuit feed carried the speech into CDC facilities around the world.

“Recently, our staff of accomplished research scientists were called upon to investigate a new gene called mcr-1 that had already achieved global notoriety among microbiologists,” continued Dr. Williamson. At six foot six inches tall, he towered over the podium placed in the center of the other dignitaries attending the conference.

“After the discovery of mcr-1 in China in 2015, it came on our radar as it appeared in the U.S. in May of 2016. In conjunction with the FDA and the USDA, we began searching for mcr-1 in bacterial samples from humans, retail meat, and other food animal sources such as the intestines of two pigs from Pennsylvania.

“After the Department of Defense uncovered a Pennsylvania patient who carried the gene, the CDC immediately began its research. Our team of specialists in multidrug-resistant organisms analyzed the samples and determined that E. coli bacteria taken from the woman’s urinary tract carried the gene. We immediately coordinated a public health investigation to prevent mcr-1 from becoming widespread across America.

“The mcr-1 gene is significant because it gives infectious diseases the ability to withstand the effects of colistin, which is, as you know, a last-resort antibiotic used to save the lives of people infected with antibiotic-resistant superbugs.

“Ladies and gentlemen, without being an alarmist, I can say with absolute conviction that it’s only a matter of time before untreatable superbugs begin killing off humans.”

The principal deputy director of the CDC paused and allowed the reaction of the attendees to subside. Mac looked at the screen, partly in admiration and partly in disbelief. Not that long ago, words like this stated by her mother were considered inflammatory and fearmongering.

Dr. Williamson continued. “The arrival of mcr-1 has profound implications for people everywhere. It means that the medicine cabinet is empty for some patients. In essence, it is the end of the road for antibiotics unless we act decisively.

“I am proud to say the medical community is rising to the occasion with new technology. A sequencing machine is in development that can read out the entire genome of microbes, which will provide our research scientists information on what genes can be found in an organism and where they are as well.

Mac began to think of the superbugs and the means to combat them. She had written her doctoral thesis on a type of bacteria known as Bdellovibrio, or BALOs. This cannibal-like bacteria fed on deadly bacteria. It effectively changed the shape of the bug, thus rendering it incapable of continuing on its infectious path.

Scientists at the University of London had begun to research the effectiveness of BALOs on infectious diseases, but their work was in its infancy. The FDA had not approved BALOs for human or animal trials in the U.S., which meant its use was years away.

Mac’s mind wandered into the world of science fiction, where a superbug was married to a deadly bacterium by some mad scientist with hair like Doc in the movie Back to the Future.

Nah, surely not.

Chapter 17

Day Seven

Port of Spain, Trinidad

Trinidad, a tiny island off the northern Venezuelan coast, was a one-of-a-kind, perfectly preserved Spanish settlement where the clocks stopped in the middle of the nineteenth century and never restarted. Land barons amassed huge sugar fortunes in the Valle de los Ingenios during the early eighteen hundreds, resulting in the distinguished colonial-style mansions decorated with Italian frescoes, Wedgewood China, and French chandeliers that were scattered across Trinidad and Tobago.

Within the capital of Trinidad, Port of Spain, the enchanting downtown attracted busloads of visitors from around the world. The cobblestone streets—packed with leather-faced local guajiros, snorting donkeys, and the occasional wandering troubadour—created the outdoor museum that had been declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO in the nineteen eighties.

But within this old-world attraction grew a burgeoning haven for radical Islamic terrorists who had invaded this idyllic island. Over time, under the threat of oppression, the nearly one hundred thousand Muslims in the twin islands of Trinidad and Tobago rose up. ISIS-run schools began to appear in private homes in Port of Spain. Recruitment became a high priority, and locals were brought into the fold with promises of a more fulfilling way of life.

In recent years, Trinidadians made the trip to Syria to fight for ISIS. As these fighters returned to their home in Trinidad, they brought their radical ideology with them and created several terror cells on the island. One such cell was the target of the DTRA operation being undertaken, which now included Hunter.

Intelligence had revealed that a bomb-making operation was in the process of preparing explosives to be detonated on a cruise ship bound for the United States. A Princess cruise originating in Fort Lauderdale was scheduled to make an overnight stop in Port of Spain before returning through the Caribbean and two additional ports of call.

There had been bomb threats against cruise ships in the past, and they were usually determined to be pranks. In this instance, because of the increased scrutiny upon terrorist activity in Trinidad, the NSA had picked up on several conversations between known ISIS fighters who had recently returned from Syria and a member of the Port Authority at the cruise ship complex in Port of Spain.

As the Princess ship docked for the evening, C-4 explosives would be carried on board for detonation by the terrorist team. Hunter and the other covert operatives working under the DTRA were tasked with destroying the explosives and the terrorists within the cell before the ship arrived in port.

The terrorists’ bomb-making facility was located in a small frame and block house in a predominantly Muslim neighborhood just on the outskirts of Port of Spain. Hunter rode in the passenger seat of a nondescript Chevy van being driven by a local CIA station chief named Brian Montano. Montano had been watching this group for months and was instrumental in tipping off the NSA to the possible surveillance of their activities.

Montano navigated the streets and maneuvered through throngs of tourists and local foot traffic. Prior to leaving the CIA safe house earlier, the team discussed the possibility of collateral damage if the operation went south. C-4, the explosive of choice for ISIS, was not inherently dangerous without a detonator. Its texture was similar to modeling clay and it could be molded into many shapes, depending upon the goal of the terrorist. In its malleable state, C-4 was stable. An explosion could only be initiated by the combination of extreme heat and a shock wave provided by a detonator.

Hunter was not wearing his customary battle dress uniform—tan cargo pants and a black shirt. There were too many civilians and no way to know if there was a spotter near the target building. The guys opted instead for the Hawaii Five-O look—Hawaiian shirts over jeans.

They all wore protective vests, however. The latest technological advances obtained by the Department of Defense had created foam body armor. This next generation of bulletproof vest was created with a special type of composite metal foam, or CMF. This advanced, ultralight body protection also stopped armor-piercing rounds. Not only did the CMF defeat the bullet, it smashed it into powder by absorbing its kinetic energy. Hunter wished the technology was available years ago. He’d still have several close friends if it had been.

Montano parked the van several blocks away and the five-man team gradually unloaded onto the busy sidewalk. Hunter was teamed up with Kameel Khan, a London native who had been recruited by the DTRA about the same time that Hunter was.

Khan, a former UK Special Forces operative, was fluent in several Arabic languages and dialects and would lead the team in, providing instructions based upon the reactions of the members of the terrorist cell within the building.

As a devout Muslim, Khan was appalled at the disgrace brought upon his peaceful religion by the radical terrorists. Unlike many Muslims who stood idly by as more and more young men of Islamic faith became radicalized, Khan made it his life’s mission to destroy the terror in whatever form it took. Hunter liked Khan and considered him to be a good guy to have his back.

Both Hunter and Khan carried a beach-bag-style duffle over their shoulders, which contained folding-stock AK-103s built by Russia’s Izhevsk Manufacturing Plant located in Venezuela. The DTRA always maintained a level of plausible deniability for the United States and the Department of Defense. If this mission had problems that created a public spectacle, the narrative would quickly be disseminated to the media that this was a drug heist gone bad.

The team had worked briefly with the AK-103 rifle before leaving Fort Belvoir. This rifle, which was created just after the turn of the century, was a modification of the Russian standard-issue AK-74. Hunter liked the punch provided by the 7.62 mm rounds.

Khan wore a replica Detroit Tigers jersey bearing the name and number of Miguel Cabrera, one of the top Venezuelan baseball players in the Major Leagues. As he and Hunter ambled down the sidewalk, they made small talk about baseball before they quickly ducked into a small garden of local botanicals and readied their weapons. They prepared their communications gear and made contact with the rest of the team.

After the rest of the group gathered and armed themselves, they made one final check with the situation room at Fort Belvoir. The operation was a go and was apparently of particular interest to the White House, which was also following the assault in the Situation Room.

Hunter and Khan gave the rest of the team time to take up their positions. They would not hesitate at this point. Within minutes, all hell would break loose.

Chapter 18

Day Seven

Port of Spain, Trinidad

Hunter emerged from the garden first and immediately squinted as the hot, nearly equatorial sun reflected off the pavement. Khan moved by his side and the two men walked up the slight incline toward the target. As prearranged, they talked baseball to give the appearance of two casual tourists strolling toward the public beach on the Gulf of Paria. Both men had tucked their weapons into their beach towels, which they carried close to their sides.

As discussed in their morning briefing, Hunter and Khan would start an argument in front of the house. “Barry Bonds doesn’t deserve to be in the Hall of Fame!” shouted Hunter as he kicked off the debate.

“Yes, he does,” Khan shouted back. “The steroids he took were legal at the time and they were available to every player. Why should his great career be discarded because he followed the rules?”

“Because he cheated,” screamed Hunter, who kept an eye on the front of the house, watching for any perceptible movement.

The two men went back and forth as a man opened the door and walked onto the covered porch, which ran the length of the house. A breeze blew open the man’s sport coat, revealing a handgun secured in a shoulder holster.

“Hey, you two tourists!” the Arabic man shouted from the top step. “Move along. Go. Get out of here!”

Khan, continuing to play his role, detected the man’s Syrian dialect. He immediately fired back in Arabic and told him to mind his own business. Furthermore, Khan yelled that the man should have anal sex with a goat, something Hunter didn’t learn until later, but which thoroughly explained the man’s reaction.

The man shouted insults back at Khan, who deftly made his way up the three steps until he was nose to nose with the terrorist. The front door opened wider and two faces peered around the door jamb—a woman and a young boy.

Well, that’s just great, but there’s no turning back now.

Hunter whispered into the microphone contained within his Oakley sunglasses. “Go!”

Without hesitation, the rest of the team sprang into action and hit the house from the rear and side entrances. Through the open doorway, Hunter saw the back door kicked open by one of the DTRA operatives. The force was so great that it knocked the door off its bottom two hinges, leaving it dangling like a broken branch on a tree.

Two members of the team flooded the back of the house and screamed, “Lay down your weapons! On the floor!”

Khan used his martial arts training to knock his man against the wall before he could pull his weapon. The man was doubled over, gasping for air, when Khan, with a crushing blow, brought the buttstock of his rifle down onto the base of the terrorist’s skull, knocking him out.

Hunter rushed past Khan and entered the house with his rifle leading the way. Startled by the swiftness of the assault, a group of men huddled around a large oak dining table covered with bricks of C-4 moved away from the table with their hands raised. Hunter quickly determined that there was enough C-4 and detonation materials to sink half a dozen cruise ships.

Gunshots rang out from upstairs as the fifth member of the team, a young man named Joey, engaged another group of terrorists. The gunfire brought the group in the dining room back to their senses and several reached for their weapons. Hunter didn’t hesitate, taking them out one by one with the AK-103.

Through their microphones, the team all began to weigh in on the presence of terrorists and more explosives throughout the two-story home. The intel provided by the NSA was solid. This was going to be a major feather in somebody’s cap.

With the dining room group neutralized, Hunter joined Khan as they moved deeper into the home. Upstairs, the other members of the team were taking out the remainder of the terrorists. Hunter approached a closed door with caution, signaling for Khan to remain behind him. Hunter tried the knob and was greeted with a hail of heavy-caliber bullets ripping through the door and its frame.

Screams and shouts emanated into the home from outside. Car horns and sirens could be heard in the background as well. This operation had been going on too long. While they might be successful in taking out the threat, their ability to slip out the back door undetected was quickly disappearing.

More bullets ripped into the door, tearing at the latch and hinges. Hunter, his back pressed against the wall, allowed the barrage to subside; then he heard the distinctive click of a spent magazine. He nodded at Khan and shouted, “Now!”

He spun out of his protective crouch, crashed against the door, and entered the room, followed by Khan. Hunter immediately fired upon the shooter, a teenage boy of roughly fourteen years. Hunter grimaced after he filled the boy’s body with bullets.

Khan moved to Hunter’s left, scanning the room for any sign of a threat. The gunfire had stopped and the sounds of weapons being kicked away from bodies could be heard scraping across the floors. One by one, the team checked in, announcing, “Clear.”

“Khan, where’s the woman?” whispered Hunter into the comms.

Hunter noticed a door at the back of the bedroom, which he assumed was a closet. Nodding to Khan, the two men carefully approached, taking up a shooting position on both sides of the door, weapons trained on the center of the entryway.

Hunter’s heart was hammering in his chest. The smell of sweat and the copper stink of blood began to fill the air of the house. He hadn’t felt any fear or trepidation during the entire assault until now. The shuffling of feet and the friendly voices of the rest of the team filled his ears. But the job wasn’t done, was it?

Hunter nodded at Khan to open the door to reveal the final space within the building. A long counter-height table occupied the center of a small twelve-foot-wide room. There were no windows and the walls were covered with glass cabinets. The table held several microscopes, petri dishes, and vials filled with blood. It looked like a sterile biology lab with all the bells and whistles. But why is it here?

Chapter 19

Day Seven

Port of Spain, Trinidad

Hunter moved closer to the entry, watching for any signs of movement. In the corner, a woman stood stoic in a burka, the most concealing of all Islamic veils. It was a one-piece garment that covered the face and body, leaving just a mesh screen to see through.

“Don’t do anything crazy,” Hunter calmly said to the woman as he came closer to the door. He watched for sudden movements under her burka, indicating her intentions.

She slowly raised her arms, signaling to Hunter that she was willing to surrender. That was when he saw the wires leading to the detonator in her right hand.

“Get out!” screamed Hunter loud enough for the entire team to hear as he raised his weapon to fire. “Hostile with a vest! Out—out—out!”

Anyone who had been in the Middle East theater knew about suicide bombers who were willing to sacrifice their lives by turning the brightest day into the bloodiest red nightmare. Distracted, Hunter fired and missed, as the woman had jumped from his field of view.

He quickly turned and ran toward the room’s only window, shooting out the glass as he threw himself headfirst through the opening. Just as he cleared the window frame, he saw the pavement of the alleyway twelve feet below when the explosion ripped through the house behind him.

The blast forced air out of the building, propelling Hunter farther away and into the adjacent building. Hunter dropped his weapon and instinctively curled into a tuck and roll position, providing maximum protection for his head. Two banana trees slowed his progress, but they were insufficient to prevent him from crashing into the block wall below.

The lower elevation and being curled up in the fetal position probably saved Hunter from the fireball that burned the air and ignited the broad leaves of the trees. Between the blast and the impact with the wall, all of the air had been sucked out of his lungs. It was the concussive effect of the blast that caused him to lose consciousness.

*****

Hunter woke up in an ambulance with Khan strapped onto a gurney next to him. They were both covered in blood and soot from the blast.

“Hey, buddy,” started Khan. “Glad to see you’re awake.”

Hunter swallowed, attempting to generate some saliva for his dry mouth. “The guys?”

“Don’t know. If they got out, we’ll see them soon enough.”

“This is not good,” whispered Hunter.

Khan leaned over and whispered to Hunter, “Do you have anything broken? Can you move?”

“I’m fine. My head is pounding, but other than that, I’m mobile.”

“Okay, follow my lead when we arrive at the hospital,” said Khan.

Hunter closed his eyes to relive the final moments after he’d shot the boy. His hesitation may have resulted in the deaths of the other members of his team.

“I should’ve taken her out,” he mumbled. Hunter’s voice trailed off as he looked around the inside of the ambulance to see who was in there. A lone emergency medical technician sat at the rear of the truck, making notes on a chart. He continued. “But I’d just killed the kid. I choked.”

“No worries, my friend,” said Khan. “Nobody expected that. Let’s get patched up and worry about the details later.”

“Did you get a look inside the room?” asked Hunter.

“No. It all happened so fast. If you hadn’t shouted, I’d be dead. Thank you, my friend.”

Hunter nodded and closed his eyes, trying to catalog everything he’d seen in that makeshift biolab, none of which was expected either.

Chapter 20

Day Seven

Raqqa, Syria

For years, ISIS had transplanted al-Qaeda as the world’s most feared terrorist group. The Islamic State had a significant amount of experience in conducting both insurgent and regular warfare, although they experienced a learning curve in conducting its terrorist activities transnationally. Using Europe as a training ground, they began to perfect their craft with coordinated attacks in France, Belgium, and Sweden.

Western powers assessed the credibility of a terrorist threat by considering two elements—intent and capability. Intelligence agencies uniformly agreed that the intent to carry out jihad was a given considering their rhetoric and repeated attempts to strike.

But following the enhanced security measures put into place after the 9/11 attacks, terrorist victories had been largely carried out by lone-wolf jihadists. Their weapons of choice ranged from firearms to garbage trucks.

American defense analysts hailed the jihadists’ inability to attack the United States through traditional forms of terrorism as a great success. However, they underestimated the resolve and patience of the enemy. It was easy to forget that eight years passed between the time of the first attempt to bomb the World Trade Center and 9/11—arguably the most successful attack against the United States in its history. Not only had the enemy achieved a high body count, but despite our nation’s political rhetoric to the contrary, the terrorists achieved their ultimate goal—they terrorized American citizens.

The use of a clandestine cell structure for organizing resistance fighters and terrorists had been used by the French Resistance in World War II and the Viet Cong during the Vietnam War. Like-minded groups of individuals came together to conduct covert activity on behalf of their cause. Patiently, they waited until they received their call to action, at which time they struck with a vengeance.

The Islamic State had established sleeper cells in the United States for decades. Radical Islamists systematically infiltrated society, including the American government, and remained dormant until activated by a prearranged signal or event. Until recently, their ability to communicate and gather was largely unhindered until the NSA was granted more authority in terms of domestic surveillance.

In the United States, there was a belief that Islamic sleeper cells did not exist or were not sustainable. Those analysts believed that terrorist organizations like ISIS lacked the requisite organizational skills, financing, and resources to establish a cell of operatives who sit in place and do nothing.

They were wrong.

Primarily through their ability to recruit ideologues into their network of homegrown terrorists, ISIS had expanded exponentially across America. Using the nation’s civil rights laws against it, Islamic fundamentalists hid behind the shield of religion to avoid intense scrutiny. Furthermore, taking advantage of America’s penchant for free speech, social media tools like Facebook, Twitter, and Snapchat became a crucial element of the terrorist organization’s arsenal.

ISIS had become so adept in its use of social media for propaganda and recruitment that most cases of domestic terrorism in the Western world could be traced directly to social media activities. Thus far, however, there had been no evidence of social media being used to activate a terror cell.

When the NSA and its counterparts around the world began to see the same message being posted on social media websites, it was agreed by intelligence agencies worldwide that something was brewing. However, they had no idea what.

The message posted through proxy servers around the world, but initiated from Raqqa, Syria, the capital of ISIS, read The flag of Allah and jihad has been raised!

PART TWO

WEEK TWO

Chapter 21

Day Eight

Defense Threat Reduction Agency

Fort Belvoir, Virginia

Hunter slept for a few hours before reporting to Fort Belvoir and his debriefing with Jablonik. As he sat outside his superior’s office, body aching from the blast he rode out of that window in Port of Spain, he thought about the axiom—no rest for the weary. The phrase was actually a derivative of no peace for the wicked found in the Book of Isaiah. Neither the weary, Hunter, nor the wicked, Islamic terrorists, intended to rest anytime soon.

“Good morning, Hunter,” announced Jablonik as he escorted Khan out of his office. Khan shot him a glance as they left and provided Hunter an imperceptible nod. Something was up, Hunter surmised. “Come in.”

Hunter pushed himself out of the well-worn leather chair with a grunt. It would be days before the soreness from crashing into the wall wore off.

“How are you recovering?”

“I’ve been worse,” replied Hunter.

“Take a seat,” started Jablonik. “As you know, we lost Joey when he got hit by that truck in the street. The kid managed to get out and some panicked driver lost control. In any event, he can’t be traced back to the DTRA, or even the U.S., for that matter, but it has created some anxiety at the White House.”

Hunter used his injuries as an excuse to avoid talking. He sensed that this debriefing, the last of the four, was not going to be pleasant, and Hunter suspected he knew why.

“Joey was a good kid,” added Hunter.

Jablonik leaned back in his chair and studied Hunter. “All in all, this was a successful mission. You and Khan took the brunt of the blast but came out okay. It was a freak event that killed Joey. It will give us the plausible deniability that we need to avoid scrutiny from the Trinidad government.”

“Yes, sir,” said Hunter.

“Hunter, your warning saved lives. Those few seconds gave the team the opportunity to avoid the explosion. We all agree on that.”

Hunter sensed a but coming.

“But Khan indicates that you had an opportunity to take out the hostile, and you didn’t. I’d like you to walk me through those seconds when you opened the door to that back room.”

Hunter recalled the events in detail for Jablonik, including the biolab setup and then the appearance of the woman. Without admitting that he froze, Hunter did offer that he should’ve taken the shot sooner.

“Hunter, you’re a seasoned operator. I know that your tours in Iraq, Syria, and Afghanistan showed you the worst of humankind. Evil exists in all forms and the only way for us to defeat it is to act decisively. Evil will always win the day if good men like yourself do nothing.”

“Sir, I’d just shot the kid. He was maybe thirteen or fourteen years old, blasting a full-auto rifle at me through the door. But the woman…” Hunter’s voice trailed off. Why didn’t I just shoot her and walk out the door?

Jablonik scooted his chair closer and placed his elbows on his desk. His voice changed. He became more compassionate. “Hunter, around the world these vermin are sending their children to be indoctrinated with this Caliphate business. During their school hours, they watch videos of murders. They are trained in the use of weapons and close combat. Many are handpicked to become spies, preachers, soldiers, and suicide bombers.”

“Well, that kid certainly knew how to shoot and, sir, he was not afraid. When I busted through the door and took my shot, he stared straight at me without flinching. Running or taking cover was not an option for him. And, trust me, it was not a deer in headlights look. He stared at me with utter contempt and braveness.”

Jablonik nodded and picked up a pen off his desk. He began chewing on the cap, which was a habit he’d picked up many years ago. “Do you think their women are any different? Women have been used throughout their terrorist activities as suicide bombers. You know this. You’ve seen this for yourself.”

Hunter was part of the team that took down an element of the Al-Khansaa Brigade, an all-female unit of the Islamic State that started out by patrolling the streets of Raqqa and Mosul, ensuring Muslim women were fully covered when in public. They administered punishments to women who did not adhere to ISIS’s strict behavior and dress codes. Soon, the Al-Khansaa Brigade was expanded to other countries, including Libya.

Following the fall of Qaddafi and the debacle at Benghazi, ISIS moved in to fill the power void. The DTRA received intel that an Al-Khansaa cell of suicide bombers was activated to attack government positions. Before Hunter’s team was given the green light to go in, several women suicide bombers who asked for safe passage to avoid ISIS slavery blew themselves up inside a police station. They used children as decoys during the mission, claiming they were hungry and malnourished. Hunter’s team was successful in capturing four other women in the ISIS cell, but they were certain others got away.

“Yes, sir,” replied Hunter. “This mistake will not happen again.”

Jablonik appeared satisfied with Hunter’s response. “Okay. Final word on the subject. There’s always a wild side to an innocent face. In our business, the innocents can and will kill you. Now, tell me about this laboratory.”

Chapter 22

Day Eight

Oval Office, White House

Washington, DC

President Garcia tossed his jacket on an empty chair and loosened his tie at the end of another long day of campaigning. He enjoyed being on the road, providing his stump speech to adoring constituents. In fact, he’d never stopped campaigning after his election nearly four years prior. Fund-raising was always on his mind, and pandering to the numerous special interest groups that constituted large voting blocks was time consuming. Yet it was the most enjoyable part of his job. If the truth were told, he didn’t care that much for governing. He enjoyed the accolades, together with the pomp and circumstance of being the leader of the free world.

“How about a drink, sir?” said Morse, the President’s Chief of Staff. “It’s been a successful week. We added another seventeen million to the war chest and gained the endorsement of the Teamsters.”

The President accepted his glass of brandy and took a sip, allowing the warmth to coat his throat. Another sip finished off glass number one and he shook it in Morse’s direction for a refill.

“How are we doing in Arizona and New Mexico?” asked the President.

“Sir, we don’t have much of a chance in Arizona and we don’t need to win New Mexico as long as we hold Iowa and the Rust Belt,” answered Morse.

“Morse, numbers, please,” insisted the President.

“We’re down seven in Arizona and three in New Mexico, which is within the margin of error. Of course, it’s our immigration policy that is driving the numbers in both places. Arizona voters don’t think we do enough to secure the border. New Mexico voters think that we’re doing too little to take care of incoming immigrants.”

“It’s that damn lawsuit in Albuquerque, isn’t it?” asked the President.

A lawsuit had been initiated by an activist group to release all immigrants in the government-run housing facilities due to overcrowding and unsanitary conditions. The President had been called on by the activist group La Raza to provide housing vouchers in local hotels to deal with the overcrowding. Voters in the area screamed at the top of their lungs in opposition. It was a no-win situation for the President and one of those unforeseen surprises that crop up in an election year that can derail a candidacy.

“I read my State Department daily briefing on the flight back that Hungary has refused to take five thousand migrants from Sweden. That’s in contravention of the agreement we negotiated at the European Union’s Dublin meetings.”

“Yes, sir, although, arguably, the Hungarians have a point,” said Morse. “The accord provided that the migrants should be granted asylum in the country where they were first registered.”

“Didn’t they first seek asylum in Hungary?”

“Only on paper, Mr. President,” replied Morse.

“Seriously, this is ridiculous. They’re no different in the EU than what I have to deal with here. Why are people so afraid of widows and orphans coming into their country? Heck, one governor said he opposed orphans entering his state even if they were under five years old. What in the world can a five-year-old do?”

Morse didn’t respond, allowing the President to vent without interruption. President Garcia took another swig of brandy and changed the subject.

“Let’s talk about the Olympics and turning the State of Georgia into the win column for us,” said the President as he swirled in his chair. Morse scrolled through his iPhone, searching for the latest polling numbers.

“We’re within the margin of error. The key will be the populated districts comprising the Atlanta suburbs. Demographic trends bringing minorities and transplants into the burbs have really helped our numbers.”

“And securing the Summer Olympics on short notice was a real coup, if I do say so myself,” said the President proudly. The Summer Olympics had been slated for Seoul, South Korea, but the sudden military hostilities with North Korea created an unsafe environment for travelers. The last time the United States had hosted the Summer Games was 1996 in Atlanta, which had maintained its facilities for use by the United States Olympic Committee for the training of its athletes.

When the handwriting was on the wall regarding the demise of the Seoul venue, President Garcia quickly stepped in and volunteered Atlanta to host the games. Sweetening the pot with full federal funding for the preparations sealed the deal.

The voters of Georgia on both sides of the aisle praised the President. The games would be a much-needed boost to the Georgia economy in the form of tourism dollars and jobs. The timing during the final months of a brutal presidential campaign couldn’t be better. If the President won Georgia, his re-election would be ensured and then he could really administer his agenda without fear of losing his job.

“It was, Mr. President, and with only a month to go, poll numbers are on the rise as the excitement builds. It has also elevated your stature around the world, sir.”

“Great, I can run for President of the World when I’m done here.” The President laughed as he finished his brandy.

“Well, maybe the United Nations is an option,” added Morse. “With regard to the Olympics, over ten million tickets have been sold to the games, a record that surpassed the Guinness World Record of eight million in the previous Atlanta games. We’ll have visitors from hundreds of countries and nearly nonstop television coverage.”

The President beamed as he slid his empty glass of brandy across the historic Hoover desk utilized by Presidents Herbert Hoover and Franklin D. Roosevelt. After Morse filled it for the third time, the President raised his glass for a toast with a grin on his face.

“And guess whose smiling face will be all over that camera coverage?” quipped the incumbent President.

Chapter 23

Day Eight

Guatemala Jungle near El Naranjo

It had been eleven days since Fernando had visited the Cerro de Muerte—the Hill of Death. He didn’t understand what had happened in the other village, and when he disclosed what he saw to the elders in his home, he was told never to speak of the atrocities again.

During the last couple of days, Fernando began to feel ill, but he kept it to himself. His nightmares of what he’d seen consumed his mind to the point he refused to leave the village on his customary trading missions. His younger brother, Enrique, had agreed to pick up the slack. The two boys, who shared a room in the family’s modest adobe home, were very close and Enrique fully understood the turmoil that Fernando was experiencing.

For days, Fernando didn’t feel any of the telltale signs of illness. Then the headaches came, something that Fernando had never experienced before. In his primitive, third-world lifestyle, Fernando was not exposed to the type of stimuli that caused headaches in young people in developed countries—loud music, anxiety over school, or the constant exposure of glare from a computer screen. The most common cause of headaches, dehydration, was not prevalent in the jungles of Guatemala, where water was readily available.

No, this was different. So was the accompanying fever, which caused him to have uncontrollable chills. Fernando remained in bed that morning and avoided contact with his parents. Enrique had left before dawn to walk nine miles to another village in order to trade yarn for flour.

It was almost ten a.m. when the nausea overtook him. He never made it to the outdoor toilet shared by three families. When he fell to his knees, his vomit came without warning and sprayed across the ground and toward the village’s water well. Embarrassed, and to keep the curious monkeys out of his mess, Fernando quickly covered the contents of his nearly empty stomach with dirt and sand. He retrieved the water bucket out of the well and thirstily drank to remove the taste from his mouth.

Still sweating from the fever, he was desperate to cool himself down, so he dipped the bucket into the well and poured its contents over his head. This provided him some relief, but not as much as he hoped.

After replacing the bucket, Fernando gathered himself and returned to his room. He made a decision that would not please his parents, or the town elders. He was going to walk to El Naranjo and seek help. He wanted a doctor to make him feel better.

He packed some clothes in a mochila hand-woven by his mother and wrote a quick note to his brother. His father was working in the fields, so Fernando didn’t seek him out to say goodbye. But his mother’s heart would be broken if he didn’t take the time to explain.

He ventured into the center of the village, where the women usually gathered to weave handmade creations such as handbags, clothing, and accessories to be sold in Panajachel, three hundred and fifty miles away. From there, the products found their way to the United States through websites like Hiptipico.com that supported the creativity, ingenuity, and passion of local Guatemalan artisans like the women of Fernando’s village.

Fernando scanned the women and noticed that there weren’t as many as usual. At first, he thought they’d been sent into the jungle to gather bananas or papayas. When he inquired, he was told that many had not arrived as of yet.

He looked to the sky and saw that the sun was almost directly overhead. Something was wrong. He returned home, where, when he’d left moments ago, he didn’t think to look into his parents’ bedroom. Now, he found his mother in bed, shivering and suffering from fever just like him.

She pleaded with her son not to leave, citing his father’s wrath as a primary reason for staying. Fernando explained that he had been cursed by the dead at Cerro de Muerte, and now he’d brought the curse to his family and the village. He was banishing himself, he explained, because of his stupidity and selfishness.

As his mother cried, she began to retch into an earthen pot kept by her bedside. Fernando begged her to gather the strength and travel with him to the hospital at El Naranjo. She refused, but urged him to get help. She was aware that other women were cursed as well and that the only way to save their family from ridicule was to seek medical help despite the elders’ warnings to the contrary.

Fernando hugged his mother and kissed her on the forehead. He stopped by the well for one more drink and a bucket bath before he traveled the many miles to El Naranjo. He stopped at other villages along the way to drink from their wells and rehydrate to stem the pain from the headaches. He avoided contact with the other villagers, as he did not want to inflict the curse upon them.

With high hopes, and after two days of walking, Fernando entered the town of El Naranjo, Guatemala, carrying pneumonic plague with him.

Chapter 24

Day Eight

Refugee Camp near Izmir, Turkey

Straddling the east and west, Turkey had become the hub to the spokes of migrants fleeing the turmoil in the Middle East for safer surrounds in Europe. Turkey had always been a very important strategic ally to the United States, having joined NATO in 1952. Since then, the U.S. military had used Turkish soil in key military conflicts such as the Balkan War in the 1990s and the Syrian conflict in the past decade.

Recently, however, Turkey had become a complicated and prickly ally as President Erdogan deepened his hold on power. Following a recent referendum, his autocratic control over the nation became an issue in Turkey’s relationship with the European Union. President Erdogan was growing weary of the constant flood of migrants and refugees flooding the Republic. More importantly, he was irate over the lack of cooperation from Europe in taking the refugees off his hands.

Once it became apparent that the refugees were to be held on Turkish soil longer than agreed upon, President Erdogan established a work program for the refugees to contribute to their maintenance. Across Turkey, migrant farms were established as the Turkish government effectively sanctioned using the refugees as cheap labor, making as little as eight dollars a day.

Every day, thousands of refugees poured into Turkey, ultimately landing in the migrant camps, although the exact number was unknown. The vast majority of refugees crossed the border from Syria into Turkey under cover of darkness and undocumented. And so did the ISIS operatives.

“Look at this place,” said Sayid Ismat to his brother Adnan. The two soldiers of the Islamic State entered with their team of five through Syria’s North Aleppo Province. “You can’t tell the difference between this camp and a toilet.”

The men glanced inside the concrete buildings, where tents were set up using dusty carpets draped over haphazardly positioned metal rods. This warehouse was located in a small farming village on the outskirts of the Turkish coastal city of Izmir. Over two thousand refugees lived here and spent long hours in the nearby fields as farmhands. All were waiting for their ticket to be punched to a better life in Europe and beyond.

“It’s either this or enjoy the bombs from the American planes raining on their heads,” said Adnan. He wrapped his shemagh around his mouth and nose to avoid the stench of a latrine located in between the buildings. In early July, the heat was inescapable, and the creeping odor of the unsanitary conditions filled the air.

The men came upon a group of Syrian women gathered around a lone spigot of running water in the center of the encampment. Flies swarmed greedily around a ball of dough one of the women was preparing for bread. Two young boys raced by, kicking a soccer ball. A third, who was not paying attention, crashed into Adnan.

“Hey, boy, be careful!” Adnan brushed himself off and quickly felt for his weapon under his loosely fitting clothing. He also readjusted the hidden pouches wrapped around his waist.

The men continued to walk through, drawing the attention of the primarily elderly women who performed the mundane tasks of maintaining the camp until the migrant workers returned just before dark.

“Soon, under Erdogan’s orders, they will be released,” Sayid said as he gestured for the men to stop under the shade of several large olive trees. Olives are praised in the Quran for their health benefits. “Like these olives, we will bathe and nourish them with the love of Allah. In a week’s time, they will take their leave and enter Europe with a gift for infidels around the world.”

“Al-hamdu lillah.” Praise be to God.

Chapter 25

Day Nine

CDC Emergency Operations Center

Atlanta

It was early in the morning, just a few hours after the CDC’s Guatemala unit had phoned in the news that the boy who discovered the bodies had returned to his village and then vanished. Their investigative team had located the village, where they found several sick locals exhibiting signs of the plague.

The CDC’s Emergency Operations Center was buzzing with activity. Just like a police officer experienced an adrenaline rush associated with being in the middle of a dangerous pursuit, the disease detectives at the CDC were amped up by the prospect of an outbreak of a rare disease with an historical past.

“This is not the kind of news I wanted to hear from Lawrence Brown,” admitted Janie. She continued to study the email received from the CEFO stationed in Guatemala.

Mac focused on the map of the Laguna del Tigre National Park region of Northwest Guatemala. The initial hot zone was identified with a red circle while the second village was marked with a blue X. “This place isn’t on the map.”

“I know, Mac. None of them are, which is why it’s been so difficult to locate the young man’s whereabouts.”

Mac used her ballpoint pen as a ruler to gauge the distance from the first village to the location where the boy lived. It was approximately ten miles.

“Do we know whether he made any other stops along the way? I mean, there doesn’t appear to be a road, much less any more villages.”

“We’re not certain, obviously, because the boy is gone. But based upon the interviews conducted with the few survivors, there is no indication that he did.”

Mac reached for the email and read it again. “Do we have any updates on this? There’s not much to go on other than nine deceased, twenty-seven exhibiting symptoms, and the boy is missing yet again.”

“I did speak with Lawrence just before you called us in,” started Janie. “He said one of the deceased women was the boy’s mother. The other patients are random adults and children in the village.”

“Janie, do we have a name for our young man?”

“Fernando.”

“Okay, does anyone know where Fernando went? I mean, this kid has become pretty elusive.”

Janie twisted the map on the conference table so that she could get her bearings straight. She reached for Mac’s pen. “May I?”

“Sure.”

“According to Lawrence, Fernando was seen in the center of the village, holding a mochila, a type of backpack, looking for his mother. When he didn’t see her, the villagers stated he returned to his home.”

“What does the mother say?” asked Mac.

“We couldn’t speak with her. She was dead when our team arrived.”

Mac stood with her hands on her hips, shaking her head. “Fernando probably contracts the disease thirteen days ago, then returns to his village. We arrive on the scene of the first village nine days ago to a population of all dead bodies. Twelve days after Fernando returns to his village, his mother dies first, and he departs for some unknown location. He must be on the brink of death.”

“Yes, if the twelve-day infection-to-demise time frame is accurate,” said Janie. “He is, or at least was, a healthy young man. It could be that his body’s stamina was greater than his mother’s in warding off the symptoms.”

“Of the other villagers exhibiting symptoms, what do we know about them?”

“Various ages and genders. Initial symptoms include headaches, fever, chills, weakness, some nausea—you know, the same symptoms that millions of people experience every day associated with the common cold and flu.”

Mac turned her attention to the rest of the room as laptop computer screens were powered up and real-time maps were shown on the large television monitors mounted on the wall. She contemplated the magnitude of the information provided by Janie.

This disease was spreading and they had a highly contagious carrier who was wandering to some unknown destination. Logic told Mac that he was going to seek help, which from studying the map, was El Naranjo, where the initial autopsies were performed. She would instruct CDC-Guatemala to distribute alerts to apprehend Fernando and quarantine him immediately.

“Okay, let’s get started,” said Mac to the group as they took up their positions around the conference table, which seated a dozen epidemiologists, laboratorians, and logistics personnel. Their assistants lined the room in another dozen chairs, prepared to take notes on this deadly outbreak. The majority of those present were part of the EIS in the midst of their two-year training program.

Just as Mac was about to address the group, Janie’s cell phone produced an audible ding, indicating that she’d received a new text message. She leaned into Mac and whispered, “We have a problem.”

“What is it?”

“Another one of the villagers is missing. It’s Fernando’s brother, Enrique.”

“Was he exhibiting symptoms?” asked Mac.

“We don’t know, but the two boys slept in the same room together.”

Mac rubbed her temple as an anxiety-induced headache took hold. She looked at Janie and said, “Whoever said sometimes things have to get worse before they get better was full of crap.”

For the next hour, the entire team shared their knowledge of pneumonic plague and the situation that presented itself in Guatemala. It was agreed that the isolated nature of these villages was a plus in that the inhabitants were not mobile and had little social contact with other villages or towns. In most other instances, her concerns would be for the infected individuals boarding planes, trains, and automobiles, zipping from country to country, traversing the world, carrying a deadly plague. At least their alerts could be limited to Northwest Guatemala.

On the other hand, it presented a challenge to the CDC’s usual first line of defense—containment. Between the two missing brothers and the large population of spider monkeys in the region, the probability that this contagion could spread outside of the containment area was high.

She would leave the matter of containment to the Guatemalan office of the CDC and the local authorities. She would have to speak with Baggett and her bosses about notifying the World Health Organization. But first, she needed to draft a team for deployment to Guatemala in order to learn more about this disease. Now they had live patients to study.

“Obviously, our first step in dealing with any deadly virus, bacterium, or pathogen is containment. We have boots on the ground in Guatemala to effectuate that purpose. It’s going to be our job to learn about this disease from the people who are still alive to tell their story. Direct interviews and information gathering is critical to learning more about this strain and how to approach our response.”

“What do you need from us?” asked one of the EIS officers at the rear of the room.

“I need to put together a team who are willing to travel to Guatemala. This is not glamorous duty, folks. In many respects, it’s worse than West Africa. There are no hotels, no running water, and no restaurants. There is, however, the opportunity to study one of the rarest and deadliest contagious bacterial diseases in the history of the planet. There are risks, as you know, because the only known cure for pneumonic plague is a blast of antibiotics. You’ll all need to be careful out there.”

“How many of us do you need?” asked Janie.

Mac recalled the number of EIS officers utilized in the West Africa outbreak of Ebola. The disease detectives had been sent into the region to track down infected patients’ possible contacts. Mac and two members of the team would enter a village that had had two of its residents die. As a result, nearly two hundred people had been added to their contact list that day.

She didn’t think this outbreak warranted more than a dozen on the ground because of the remote location. As was true in West Africa, these diseases typically started in relatively remote locations. If the team could get in place quickly, the chance of spreading to a more populated town or transportation hub lessened and the ability to contain the pathogen would be more effective.

The other variable in terms of deployment was time. In order to fully resolve an outbreak, the team might need to be in place for weeks, if not months. That required a herculean effort on the part of the EIS officers with family commitments. She decided to pad her numbers in case of attrition.

“At least fifteen. So, how many of you are in?”

Two dozen hands rose into the air without hesitation. Basically, everyone in the room.

Chapter 26

Day Ten

DTRA

Fort Belvoir, Virginia

Hunter felt like a new man. The soreness was wearing off from his Hollywood-style stunt in Trinidad. But the visions of the biolab and the woman holding the detonator still haunted him. When the Project Artemis team was called into the operations room for a briefing, he jumped at the opportunity to wipe his mind clean of Port of Spain with a renewed focus on another mission.

“They say in Greece, wise men speak and fools decide,” said Jablonik as he entered the room, quickly stifling the chatter amongst the DTRA operators.

“Are you feeling philosophical today, Chief?” asked Hunter.

“No, not really, but considering the challenges facing the Greek government, they don’t need any more problems added to their series of bad choices made in recent years. Their debt has skyrocketed, the unemployed outnumber the employed, and they engage in a constant war of words with their European neighbors.”

“What’s the latest?” Hunter asked.

Jablonik fired up a PowerPoint presentation prepared by one of his aides on the wall-mounted monitor. A map of the region was immediately displayed.

“This map depicts ISIS cells located throughout the region. The numbers shown in boxes are small cells created over a year ago. The numbers on the Greek mainland stretching toward the borders with Albania and Bulgaria are established cells formed within the last twelve months.”

“They’ve been busy,” said Khan from the back of the room.

“Indeed,” said Jablonik. He used a pointer to illustrate the strategic importance of Greece in the war on terror. “Greece has found itself at an unwitting crossroads—both for jihadists trying to reach Iraq and Syria from Europe as well as those infiltrating the wave of refugees fleeing Syria via Turkey.”

Hunter sat up in his chair and studied the map. “Look at the amount of shoreline they have and the close proximity to Western Turkey. We think we’ve got problems along our southern border.”

“Our intelligence shows that Abdel-hamid Abaaoud, a well-known jihadist of Belgian descent, traveled from Syria to Greece recently. Shortly thereafter, the terrorist chatter within the country exploded.”

“What about the Greek border guards? Aren’t they attempting to control the influx?” asked Khan.

“They’re overwhelmed,” replied Jablonik. “They did detain a nineteen-year-old French national who had a USB stick in his possession with bomb-making instructions included.”

Jablonik returned his attention back to the map.

“What’s unknown is how many jihadists are traveling individually, in either direction, and how does this support network play a role.”

Hunter look puzzled. “Chief, typically Greece hasn’t been a target of the terrorists’ ire. Isn’t the country more of a gateway into Europe and a convenient stopover for the operatives as they return home?”

“That’s correct. The large immigrant communities throughout Greece, particularly in Athens, which are associated with the numbers shown on the map, willingly supply jihadists with housing and protection.”

“How extensive is it?” asked Hunter.

“ISIS is establishing logistical, recruitment, and financial cells throughout the Greek Isles and the mainland. The network is used in part to facilitate the travel of the growing number of fighters between Syria and Europe, but also to produce and disseminate weapons for their attacks.”

“What do you mean produce?” asked Hunter.

“Bomb-making?” queried Khan.

“The Greek National Intelligence Service has provided us evidence that ISIS is trying to add biological weapons to their armaments.”

The room erupted into muffled chatter. Hunter’s mind flashed to Trinidad and then to Guatemala. Is there a connection?

“Come on, people. This shouldn’t come as anything new to anybody. We’ve always known that these scumbags can buy what they can’t create on their own. Just last year, an ISIS operative was caught in Paris with a rudimentary bomb full of anthrax. Granted, this bomb was crude, but it was intended to be deadly.”

“Al-Qaeda has experimented in biological weapons for years,” added Hunter. “It’s as old as civilization.”

Jablonik continued. “We know that bioterror’s unique capacity for gradual destruction is already attractive to any group attempting to sow the maximum amount of fear and chaos. Clearly, ISIS is not afraid of the political risk of causing widespread death. Unlike Assad in Syria, there is no external pressure that can be placed on their leadership.”

Hunter continued to connect the dots. “Despite having a defined hierarchy, ISIS has the type of decentralized structure that allows them to operate in secrecy, even from each other. A weapon of mass destruction, including bioterror alternatives, is actually more dangerous in the hands of terrorists than a rogue nation like Iran or North Korea. A nation-state may produce such weapons as a bargaining chip, or out of some need to create a strategic balance of power, but it’s unlikely they would initiate a biological weapon attack.”

“Hunter is correct,” said Jablonik. “Terrorists have no need for the nuances of politics. Of late, they make their statements by doing, not threatening.”

Chapter 27

Day Eleven

Port of Spain, Trinidad

Mac disembarked from the CDC jet and turned her face to the hot sun with her eyes closed. For a brief moment, she envisioned herself as a high-flying heiress traveling to an exotic locale for a day of shopping and cocktails. The sound of a man calling her name reminded Mac that dead bodies awaited her.

Mac stepped onto the tarmac and shook hands with a smiling Dr. Sterling Roshan, the chief medical officer of Trinidad and Tobago.

“Greetings, Dr. Hagan. So good of you to come and assist us. Are you in the military?”

Mac was a lieutenant commander in the U.S. Public Health Service Commissioned Corps, which was a part of the United States Public Health Service. As part of the seven uniformed services, which included the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marine Corps, Coast Guard, and NOAA, Mac was afforded a rank and a title. On official visits that didn’t involve fieldwork, she wore her dress whites in the summer. When conducting investigations at a hot zone, she’d wear her service khakis. The uniforms, similar to those worn by naval officers, were intended to inspire pride and respect for their country and the important work that these health care professionals did for the CDC.

“Thank you for contacting the CDC,” replied Mac, ignoring his question about her uniform. She followed Dr. Roshan through the entrance to the airport without attempting to shout a conversation over the active tarmac.

The hallways were lined with the blue and white uniformed officers of the Ministry of National Security. The country had put enhanced security measures into place in light of the destruction of the terrorist bomb-making facility. The official word was that the explosives had been detonated by accident through the carelessness of the terrorists. There was no mention of American involvement—sanctioned or otherwise.

“We will take a brief ride to our General Hospital. It’s an old facility, originally built in 1855, but it is fully modernized, I can assure you. We are a teaching hospital for the University of the West Indies. Our pathology department, as you will see, is second to none.”

Dr. Roshan opened the passenger door of the Jaguar for Mac, who got settled in for the ride. She wasn’t going to argue the point, but her dossier on the Trinidad medical facilities differed from Dr. Roshan’s words of praise for his pathology department.

The lone pathologist for their Forensic Science Centre had walked off the job recently, stating that he would not continue working until there was an improvement in the facilities’ operations.

Through May, Dr. Peter Alexandrov had performed three hundred and ten autopsies, half of which were homicides due to the increased criminal activity in the country. That was more than double international standards, which could result in his license being censured. He demanded more staff, new equipment and, of course, a raise.

“Today, you will be meeting with Dr. Evelyn Burris, a new addition to our staff. She comes to us from St. Kitts as our regular pathologist takes a brief leave of absence.”

More like a time-out, thought Mac.

Dr. Roshan parked the car outside General Hospital. “Give me just a moment while I retrieve Dr. Burris. She will ride with us up to Barbados Road and the Forensic Science Centre. In the meantime, let me provide you this updated file on the patient in question.”

Mac thumbed through the reports created by Dr. Alexandrov. The unidentified male was of Arabic descent. He was found on the front porch of a house destroyed by a bomb several days ago. The cause of death was indicated as blunt-force trauma when the porch supports and trusses fell on top of him, crushing his skull. The report seemed to be fairly routine considering the man was adjacent to an exploding house.

Then Mac found something within the clinical information that wasn’t provided to her in the original dossier. Dr. Alexandrov had taken tissue samples from the liver, spleen, and lungs. In his clinical notes, he pointed out that the patient’s lymph nodes appeared to have been enlarged prior to being obliterated by necrosis—the death of the lymph nodes’ cells due to infection.

Mac slammed the folder closed and thumped her head against the seat’s headrest. Had she not been actively involved in the Guatemala cases, she might not have noticed the obvious signs.

When Baggett told her to fly here for the day, she immediately questioned him about the purpose. The investigative team on the ground in Guatemala would be providing hourly updates and she wanted to remain informed. Mac didn’t need the distraction of an isolated case that might or might not have infectious disease implications.

Suddenly, she became apprehensive. She shoved the folder onto the dashboard and exited the Jaguar. She paced back and forth on the sidewalk, unaware that she was attracting the attention of several nurses who’d gathered outside the hospital to have a cigarette.

Dr. Roshan and, presumably, Dr. Burris, approached Mac from behind. “Is everything okay, Dr. Hagan?”

No, everything is not okay. Mac stared briefly at the two before unconsciously taking a step backward. “Dr. Burris, have you examined the patient in question?”

“No, I’m sorry. I have not. Dr. Alexandrov left suddenly and—”

“Where is he?”

Dr. Roshan stepped toward Mac, who once again shied away. “Dr. Hagan, I can assure you that Dr. Burris has the requisite knowledge to answer any questions you might have. She is most competent in forensic—”

“Sir, this is important. Where is Dr. Alexandrov?”

“Well, he was in need of some time off, so he returned to his family home in Ukraine.”

Mac started to rub her face and then pulled her hands away from her face. She turned her attention back to Dr. Burris. “Doctor, we may have a serious problem here. I just reviewed Dr. Alexandrov’s notes. He conducted extensive tissue sampling and specimen taking. Do you know why? Did he not tell anyone about this?”

Dr. Roshan interrupted and answered, “Dr. Alexandrov was under a lot of pressure. Working long hours and handling a lot of cases.”

Mac shook her head. “No, there’s more. He must’ve suspected something. Why else would he conduct the clinical tests that he did?”

“Our medical facilities are all part of the University of the West Indies teaching complex. It was likely that this was routine for him.”

Mac retrieved her briefcase from the car and pulled out her cell phone. Before she called Atlanta, she gave instructions to the dumbfounded doctors.

“Number one, you must immediately quarantine the facility. Nobody is to go in without proper biological safety level 2 precautions.”

“What, why?” stammered Dr. Roshan.

“Number two, Dr. Burris, you and I are going to retrieve the tissue samples, patient specimens, and any subcultures for delivery to the CDC. Nobody else goes anywhere near this patient or the results of the prior autopsy. Are we clear?”

“Yes, but—” began Dr. Burris prior to Mac interrupting her.

“Number three, find Dr. Alexandrov and tell him that he may have been exposed to the plague.”

“What?” shouted an incredulous Dr. Roshan.

“You heard correctly,” replied Mac. “The autopsy report provides strong indicators for a diagnosis of Yersinia pestis, the causative agent of plague. Dr. Alexandrov and every one of the students who assisted him may have contracted the disease. We have to act quickly to start an antibiotic regiment or they will die.”

Dr. Roshan fumbled for his cell phone. He dialed the head of the TTPS, the Trinidad and Tobago Police Service. He quickly explained the situation and the officer on the other end of the line assured him that the contacts would be made.

He turned to Mac. His face was ashen and pale. Dr. Roshan was holding something back, Mac could sense it.

“Dr. Roshan, what are you not telling me?”

“Our crime scene investigators found remnants of something in the debris caused by the explosion. It was out of sorts and did not make sense considering this was an alleged bomb-making facility.”

“What was it?” pressed Mac.

“A microscope.”

Chapter 28

Day Thirteen

CDC

Atlanta

It was late in the day when Mac returned with the results of her autopsy of the Trinidad patient. Dr. Alexandrov was fairly thorough in his procedure, although he didn’t maintain the specimens following standard protocols for Y. pestis.

Plague was a naturally occurring infectious disease that affected rodents and other animals throughout the world. The Y. pestis bacteria was a holdover from centuries of transmission through fleas and human-to-human contact. Mac surmised that Dr. Alexandrov considered his autopsy results an anomaly, or it scared him out of the country.

Of the three types of plague, bubonic plague was most widely known. This form, as was true in medieval times, was transferred by fleas and rats. Once a human was bitten by a flea, the bacteria entered the body and accumulated in the lymph node closest to where the bacteria was inserted. From there, the bacteria multiplied and spread throughout the body. Catching an infected person early has always been the key to a patient’s successful recovery.

Pneumonic plague, which was indicated in the patients from Guatemala, and now Trinidad, was far more deadly and easily transmitted. After inhaling infectious droplets, the disease spreads to the lungs, resulting in pneumonia. Without immediate antibiotic treatment, the patient experiences respiratory failure and shock. Pneumonic plague was the most serious because it is easily spread from person to person.

But of particular concern to those who monitor terrorist activity was the ability to become infected by inhaling respiratory droplets after close contact with diseased animals, individuals, or contact with the virus via an artificial vessel like an aerosol spray.

After repeated testing of the specimens from Trinidad, the results showed an F1 antigen level—meaning that the bacteria within the body’s immune system was producing antibodies against it. The results were conclusive and now a second case would have to be investigated.

Mac had already set the wheels in motion to dispatch another team to Trinidad. They would need to examine the crime scene where the structure was destroyed by the explosion. There were med students to locate and interview. Finally, there needed to be a determination if something more was happening in that house. Common sense told her that a microscope wasn’t needed to make bombs.

Mac ordered genetic testing of the two strains. With genome sequencing, she could determine if there was a connection. The host patients appeared wholly unrelated. She couldn’t think of a scenario where a man of Syrian descent could be related to a remote village in the jungles of Guatemala.

However, the Syrian patient might have traveled to Madagascar or nearby Mozambique. The Trinidadian authorities hadn’t identified the man, much less determined his recent travel activities. They had called the FBI in to assist with the investigation, but information would be slow in making its way to her.

She really needed to learn more about the Y. pestis strain in Madagascar. Based upon her research while flying back from Trinidad, there were seventeen whole genomes of Y. pestis across the planet. Of the cases studied in the last decade, all six hundred twenty-six cases in Madagascar reflected one strain and all eighty-two cases in the United States contained a different strain.

Overlaid on a map, the seventeen different strains were easily segmented to separate parts of the world. On only a few occasions did the strain jump continents, probably due to human-to-human contact.

Like bacteria, the plague virus could survive outside its host on a variety of surfaces. Studies had shown that it could survive in humidified soil for up to twenty-four days, if not longer. Typically, the surface life span of Y. pestis was seventy-two hours. By comparison, salmonella could only survive for one to four hours while most flu viruses lived only twenty-four hours.

Mac’s mind raced as she considered all of the possibilities of surface-to-human contact that could occur in a seventy-two-hour period. How many people pulled the door handles to enter Macy’s at Lenox Square in a given day? Then, how many times did they touch their mouth or nose thereafter?

Every time people touched their mouth or nose, they transferred bacteria and viruses between their hand and their face. Self-inoculation, as Mac’s mother called it, was the primary way that germs winded up spreading from contaminated surfaces to people’s faces and from sick people to often-touched surfaces.

Research has shown that people touch their faces an average of four times per hour and they handled common objects in public places more than three times an hour. While the body’s immune system offers good protection against diseases like the cold and flu, it was incapable of fighting the more deadly bacteria that reside among us.

Pneumonic plague was rare, isolated and considered a disease that had run its course. Yet it still existed and had reared its ugly head once again. The question for Mac was why did they have two potential outbreaks occurring in Central America within a couple of weeks of each other. The plague was making a return, it seemed, but why now?

Chapter 29

Day Thirteen

Park Place on Peachtree

Buckhead

Mac kicked off her Skechers and reached into the refrigerator to grab a cold Budweiser. She searched for anything edible and opted for an unopened package of Cracker Barrel sliced cheddar cheese. Okay, wine and brie, it’s not, but it is basic sustenance. She opened one of the drawers in the spacious, rarely used kitchen in search of Fellini’s take-out menu. After biting off a hunk of cheese and throwing down a long gulp of the cold Bud, she decided a meat and cheese calzone would be a pretty good option.

Mac made her way into the living room, which offered incredible views of the Atlanta skyline to the south and the bustling retail district of Buckhead below. She turned on the TV, which displayed CNN and her customary closed-caption setting. On a typical day, by the time Mac returned home, she was exhausted from twelve to fifteen hours of interaction with others. She wanted to keep abreast of newsworthy events. She just didn’t want to hear the voices accompanying the reports. Besides, too often these cable news networks offered argumentative interaction rather than straight news reporting. She wasn’t interested in the negativity tonight.

Fellini’s delivered her calzone and a side of their signature marinara sauce, which Mac quickly devoured. She glanced at the packed gear, which was still laid out by the front door. Should I even bother to unpack? Who knows where they might send me tomorrow?

She immediately thought of something she’d learned from her dad. She’d had her heart broken during her senior year in high school by a high school jock who had suddenly showed an extraordinary interest in her prior to their senior prom.

Mac suspected the boy had an ulterior motive, but when he asked her to go with him, she readily accepted. As it turned out, he was using her to make another girl jealous, and Mac had to call her dad to pick her up after the dance, as she’d been left alone, abandoned for another girl.

His words rang in her ears to this day. “Honey, always trust your gut. Your brain can be fooled and your heart is an idiot, but your gut doesn’t know how to lie.” Mac chuckled to herself as she let out a belch. She disposed of the Styrofoam calzone container and washed her hands. Remembering his advice suddenly made her want to call her folks. She opened up another beer and returned to the couch with her cell phone.

Her dad answered on the third ring. “The name’s Bond, Hydrogen Bond,” Thomas Hagan said to his only daughter. He began laughing. “Get it?”

“Of course I get it, Daddy. How are you?”

“Great, honey. And you?”

“Fine. Well, tired.”

“Okay, let me perk you up, then,” said the retired high school chemistry teacher. “A photon checks into a hotel and is asked if he needs any help with his luggage. The photon replies, no, I’m travelling light!” Her dad guffawed at his own cornball joke, one of hundreds he’d picked up over the years and entertained his students with. Mac laughed along but shed a few tears as well. She really missed her parents and wished they didn’t live twenty-seven hundred miles away in Coos Bay, Oregon.

“Daddy,” started Mac, with an attempt to reciprocate.

“Yes, dear.”

“Did you hear the one about two blood cells who met and fell in love?”

“Nope.”

“Alas, it was all in vein.”

Silence.

“Daddy?”

“Honey, I love you. Stick to your day job, okay?” Then her dad busted out laughing. “That’s not bad for an amateur. I’ll try it out on the boys at breakfast tomorrow morning.”

“Are you still going to the Pancake Mill Restaurant over at North Bend?” she asked. It was a regular haunt for her parents. Mac loved the sour cream blintzes topped with blueberries. Her mouth began to water at the thought of some down-home cookin’.

“Heck yeah, once a week with the boys. Then your mom and I go at least twice a week for lunch. She’s not much of an early riser.”

Mac laughed about the wonders of heredity. She wasn’t an early riser either. “I love you, Daddy, and I miss you. Maybe we can get together soon?”

“Anytime, honey. I love you too. Your mom’s reaching for the phone. Love you!”

Mac glanced at the news, which was discussing the Zika virus. Over a week ago, the CDC had issued a bulletin warning that the virus had mutated and spread into the southwestern part of the country. Genetic mutations in the virus had made it more deadly.

Zika had started in Africa as a seemingly harmless strain, but as the virus spread across South and Central America, and subsequently into the Caribbean, it picked up some nasty genetic modifications. Birth defects and paralyzing disorders were becoming more common.

The changes in Zika’s genetic structure explained why the disease spread exponentially in the human population throughout the Americas. The new, improved Zika virus could replicate more efficiently, invade new tissues that customarily provide protective niches for viral propagation, or evade the immune system altogether, leading to a deadly viral persistence.

“Mackenzie? Are you there?”

Her mom’s voice snapped her out of the rabbit hole she was about to descend into. If Zika could mutate to become more deadly and transmittal, why couldn’t Y. pestis?

“Hey, Mom. Sorry,” replied Mac. “How are you?”

“Just fine, dear. Your dad is driving me crazy, of course. He still plays golf. Once in a while, he’ll mosey down to the Oregon Dunes and watch the windsurfers. The other day he threatened to take up the sport, just to see if I was paying attention. Naturally, I told him to go for it!”

“Mom! Don’t encourage him. He might do it just to spite you.”

“Dear, he’s gonna spite me one way or the other. Might as well be hanging on to a kite board while he sails off to Alaska or some such.”

Major General Barbara Stinchcomb Hagan was the complete opposite of Mac’s father. He was a throwback to the sixties with a little bit of hippy in him. It was probably his California upbringing. Mac’s mom was raised an army brat who was used to a regimented life and had little use for frivolity. The Army years cemented her approach to life and it rubbed off on Mac during her childhood. Barbara Hagan had, in her retirement, loosened up somewhat, but would never reach the level of silliness that Mac’s father achieved.

Barbara retired as the commanding general of the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases—USAMRIID, at Fort Detrick in Maryland, a position she held for six years and through two administrations.

She’d earned her master’s degree in clinical and patient centered technologies from the University of Washington as well as a master’s level certification in emergency and disaster management from the American Military University. This launched her into a military career, which began as a clinical staff nurse at Fort Sam Houston, Texas, and ultimately landed her in charge of the prestigious unit charged with the responsibility of conducting important medical biological defense research.

Her mother’s career was considered stellar until politics got in the way. Her efforts accelerated research efforts on diagnostic and treatment approaches for the Ebola virus in West Africa. But when a single patient, a Liberian man, entered the United States and was diagnosed as having the Ebola virus, a media firestorm erupted. The man, who later died, was the first of several Ebola-infected individuals from both the medical community and ordinary travelers who entered the country.

Mac’s mother warned Homeland Security of the potential threat that more infected visitors posed to the health of all Americans. She was instructed to back off from creating an unnecessary panic. As Ebola began to spread in Africa and more cases were being reported in Europe and Central America, General Hagan took her case to the American people via a media interview with Good Morning America.

Pundits largely credited this interview with kicking off the delirium in the U.S. known as Ebolamania. Barbara thought that the potential for a deadly outbreak was being underreported. She also chastised the media for not reporting the practical steps everyone could take to avoid contracting the disease. By the time the interview had replayed in living rooms and on the Internet across the country, the media had created a frenzy.

All Ebola, All the Time was the phrase used by one CNN executive. The amount of ink spilled or computer bytes used on a story should be proportionate to the real impact on the public, but such was not the case with Ebola. No media outlet could restrain itself by reporting the facts without overexaggerating the entire story of the virulent disease. It was fake news on steroids.

The end result of her proclamations on Good Morning America that day was the resignation thrust before her by the President’s Chief of Staff when she was called to the White House for a tongue-lashing. She resigned and the Hagans found a quaint retirement home in Coos Bay, Oregon, where they lived a nondescript life.

The irony of the entire affair, one which infuriated Mac to this day, was that after her mom’s interview, not a single Ebola-positive person entered the United States and no one died of Ebola on American soil.

“Mom, I need to run something by you that’s not public knowledge,” started Mac. In her mind, there was no better advisor in the world on the potential spread of infectious diseases than her mom.

Chapter 30

Day Thirteen

Refugee Camp near Izmir, Turkey

The Quran promises that fighting the unbelievers, the infidels, will satisfy the breasts of a believing people and remove the fury in the believers’ hearts. It further encourages Islamists to fight them as Allah will punish them by your hands and will disgrace them and give you victory.

Prayers in the name of Allah provided Sayid and Adnan Ismat the inner peace required to carry out their task of infecting the entire camp of over two thousand Syrian refugees. They would draw their strength from the words of the Quran, inflicting the disease created by their brothers upon the children of Allah.

The commitment of jihadists was difficult for Westerners to comprehend. Holy war, in whatever form it took, was an integral part of Islam. The word jihad occurs in the Quran in one hundred sixty-four verses. Jihad as a form of war was sanctified by Mohammed as a special and divinely blessed activity. True believers in Islam, it was taught, considered it both a duty and an opportunity to gain in divine favor.

Throughout the centuries, Islam’s greatest philosophers, from the Persian Avicenna to modern author Ahmad al-Misri, exhibited a consistent feature of the writings of the finest minds in Islam—Islam must conquer the world.

The Ismat brothers, and thousands of others like them, were prepared to die for this belief. They had taken the steps necessary to protect their families. They’d made their peace, and now they were prepared to wage jihad against the infidels.

ISIS was more than a bunch of thugs running around the desert, shooting at people and blowing themselves up in marketplaces around the globe. They were astute readers of the political tea leaves as well.

When a narrow majority of Turks voted in a constitutional referendum to grant President Erdogan sweeping new powers, it was obvious that the fragile accord between the European Union and Turkey regarding the detention of migrants was coming to an end.

Rumors were circulating through the camp that the refugees would be told to leave within days. Turkish military had been more active in the area and one soldier confided to Sayid that the refugees would be escorted into Izmir and instructed to take specially commissioned ferries into several ports in Greece.

After prayer, Sayid announced to his team that the time had come. Upon the completion of their task, they would move quickly to another refugee camp to the north, which would be closer to the Bulgarian border. From there, the men would fly to Stockholm, carrying the weapons of jihad within their bodies and looking for the delicacies of Swedish women to pass along their disease.

That evening, American Baptist missionaries were escorted into the camp by a handful of Turkish soldiers. As complicated and sensitive as the situation was in the Middle East from a geopolitical standpoint, so was it tricky for Christian organizations that sent missionaries into Turkey to lend aid to the refugees.

Missionaries in the Middle East have always faced government restrictions on their activities, especially on any attempts to convert Muslims to Christianity. Instead, their tactic was to provide love, kindness, and assistance to those in need, hoping to show the refugees a better way of life.

Adnan, the younger of the brothers, initially scowled and made derogatory remarks at the Christians as they entered the camp. His older brother, a more seasoned ISIS operative, tamped down his brother’s attitude and convinced his team that the missionaries provided an opportunity.

Every evening, the missionaries brought packaged food, toiletries, and empty water containers that could be refilled by the refugees who worked in the fields during the day. Sayid befriended one of the elderly men and offered his assistance. He was now considered an able-bodied assistant, who even expressed an interest in learning more about Christianity, a lie which he begged for forgiveness from Allah daily.

On this evening, Sayid and his brothers would add poison to the empty water containers from the vials provided to him in Raqqa. Only a drop was sufficient, he was told. He told his brothers that these one hundred bottles of death would kill thousands here, tens of thousands in Greece, and hundreds of thousands around the world.

“Tomorrow,” he promised, “we will continue our holy war in another camp just like this one.”

“Allahu Akbar.”

Chapter 31

Day Thirteen

Greek National Intelligence Service

Athens, Greece

Intelligence services are by nature opaque. Their natural tendencies are toward autonomy, secrecy, and a strict avoidance of checks and balances that beset other government agencies. Within the global intelligence community as a whole, there was an unwritten understanding that at times, international cooperation transcended the wishes of the executive branches of their particular governments. While some might consider the concept of the deep state a conspiracy theory, when it came to intelligence agencies, working in the shadows was the only way to be effective.

Hunter traveled to Greece, knowing that his counterparts at the Greek National Intelligence Service, or GNIS, would be cooperative in his investigation. The intelligence game was a matter of give and take, as well as identifying common purposes. The war on terror had created many alliances as radical Islamic jihadists became global enemy number one.

Hunter’s contact at the GNIS, Georgios Doukas, was a longtime operative and a master at information gathering. He was an old-school, gumshoe detective who’d started his career knocking on doors and asking questions. As the technological age advanced, Doukas applied his well-honed detective skills using the tools that were provided him. He had a nose for intelligence, because to be a good detective, you had to think like a crook, a terrorist, or any other immoral and unethical person.

“Hunter, welcome back to Athens,” shouted Doukas up the sweeping stairwell leading to the bottom floor of the GNIS complex in Central Athens. Doukas, a balding, pudgy man, would not instill fear in anyone at first glance. Ask any of the famous politicians he’d brought down for corruption who were associated with the former Velentzas crime family, which had its roots in Athens, but tentacles spreading as far as New York. Doukas shouldn’t be underestimated. He earned the nickname Dr. Detective in his homeland for his efforts.

His latest test was an element of the Allied Democratic Forces, an ISIS affiliate of Ugandan origin that had recently made headlines in the Democratic Republic of Congo. In the midsize city of Beni, a government spokesman reported that over fifty bodies were found mutilated by machetes, believed to be the work of the ADF. It was the latest in a string of attacks that left over six hundred people dead.

The killings drew the attention of the Greek government and its Ministry of Public Order when it was revealed that two Greek scientists on loan to the International Medical Research Centre in the former French colony of Gabon were among the dead. The research scientists performed the majority of their work in the lab located in Franceville, so it was odd that they would be among the dead in DR Congo, some two hundred miles away.

It was this death and the possible connection to the destruction of the BSL-4 lab in Franceville that piqued Hunter’s interest. A bioterror connection was beginning to form and the Greeks might have uncovered a piece of a much larger puzzle.

“Yassou, Doc!” greeted Hunter as the two men embraced each other followed by a hearty handshake. “It’s been years, my friend.”

“Yassou to you, as well. Your Greek is rusty. It is an improvement over the days when you could only manage to say Állo oúzo parakaló.”

The two men laughed as Doukas patted Hunter on the back and led him down a darkened hallway.

“Well, after that visit, I’ve sworn off ouzo for life. I lost brain cells over that weekend.”

“We had much to celebrate,” said Doukas. “Taking down the resurgent Revolutionary Nuclei required an incredible effort by both of our countries. It is still talked about in these halls.”

“Speaking of which, I see you’re still working in the dungeon.” Hunter chuckled. He genuinely liked Doukas and it lifted his spirits to joke with the man who was twenty years his senior.

“Your arrival is most timely. We’ve apprehended one of the scum who participated in the Congo massacre. If you will indulge me, I need to have a conversation with him.”

Visions of his prior visit to Athens immediately entered Hunter’s mind. Hunter had interrogated bad dudes in the past with relative success, but the unobtrusive Doukas was the master whose skills were on a whole other level. His techniques and results were legendary in the intelligence community around the globe.

“Sure, I’ll wait until you’re finished with him,” said Hunter, who began to drop back as Doukas reached a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. Two officers of the Hellenic Police stood expressionless at the doorway.

“Not a chance,” said Doukas, motioning to Hunter to catch up. “I’d like you to be with me for the interrogation. Do you think you can play bad cop?”

“Of course, I suppose. But isn’t that your job?”

“Oh, it will be,” replied Doukas. “But better the devil you know than the devil you don’t, right, old friend? Just follow my lead.”

Doukas turned to the guards and gave them instructions in Greek. They immediately summoned two more officers from a nearby office and the four of them led Hunter and Doukas into the darkened room, where Hisham al-Moustafa hung from the ceiling with his hands shackled to a steel ring. The terrorist was completely nude and struggling to keep his footing. He scowled but failed to make eye contact. Despite his vulnerability, he was going to be a tough nut to crack.

Without speaking a word, Doukas reached into his pocket and pulled out a key ring. He made his way behind Moustafa and opened a door, which squeaked on its hinges, adding to the eerie effect of the silence in the room.

The medical-style implement tray was wheeled around in front of Moustafa. The normally shiny tray was rusted and stained with the blood of a prior interrogation. The tools of the trade were arranged haphazardly on top. A variety of scalpels, snips, saws and scissors stood at the ready.

Doukas circled the man, studying his facial expressions. “I have allowed you two days to live until my associate arrived. He has been busy with your associates in Libya. Their days are over, but not before your activities were exposed.”

“You know nothing, infidel,” hissed Moustafa.

Hunter didn’t need to play a role. This piece of crap had active intelligence that could tie the Greek scientists to the Franceville explosion and possibly elsewhere. ISIS was up to something, and Moustafa might have the answers.

He reached under the medical table and retrieved a surgical mask and protective gloves. Clipped to the underside by Velcro was a pair of clear protective eyeglasses. After donning the gear, he looked like someone who was about to get bloody. And he was.

“Why did you massacre the people in Beni?” demanded Doukas.

“I will say nothing to you,” replied Moustafa, who attempted to spit in Doukas’s direction but was unable to do so because of the dryness of his mouth.

Hunter picked up the scalpel and grabbed Moustafa by the hair to hold his head still. He poked the scalpel towards the man’s left eye and whispered, “Your mouth is dry. Are you thirsty?”

And then, without warning, Hunter sliced off the tip of the Libyan’s nose, causing blood to gush over his moustache and into his mouth.

Moustafa screamed in pain and the guards inched forward. Doukas had a look of shock on his face, as Hunter had gone off script. Hunter wasn’t sure if the interrogation tools were really covered in blood, or if they were only used as props. But the net effect was that Moustafa now had the requisite look of fear on his face that generally prompted loose lips.

Doukas seized the opportunity after shooting Hunter a glance. “Why did you kill those people? Answer me or my associate will continue!”

Defiant, the terrorist stuck his chin up and began to blow air from his mouth to keep the blood from entering. He muttered some form of curse words in Arabic, which prompted Hunter to reach back and land a punch directly on the man’s nose. The sound of breaking cartilage and bone overshadowed the loss of the tip of the nose. Mustafa was now drenched in blood as it flowed over his beard and down his chest and groin.

He moaned in agony from the excruciating pain, but managed to talk. “I am a soldier. I follow orders as given to me by Allah.”

“Allah-schmallah,” Doukas yelled in his ear. “Why?”

Hunter picked up a large set of pliers and walked closer to Moustafa, his hand held low near the man’s genitals. The terrorist’s eyes grew wider and he began to babble.

“They couldn’t be allowed to talk. They had to be silenced!”

Hunter stepped closer as the man attempted to twist his body to avoid the pliers.

“Why!” demanded Doukas.

“The experiment. The experiment. It failed with them. That’s all I know.”

Hunter stopped. A connection!

“What experiment?” screamed Doukas.

“I don’t know. I am but a soldier. This is all I know.” Mighty Moustafa began to choke on the blood pouring out of his nose and stretched in a desperate attempt to wipe the bloody mess from his face.

Doukas looked toward Hunter and shrugged. Hunter nodded, affirming that this was probably all the terrorist knew. If Hunter’s hypothesis was correct, it was likely Moustafa’s superiors wouldn’t have disclosed any more than what they just heard. Besides, Hunter really wasn’t interested in twisting the man’s penis around and around, although he knew it might elicit more conversation.

Chapter 32

Day Thirteen

Hellenic Centre for Disease Control and Prevention

Athens, Greece

Mac was deep in thought as she rode in the taxi from the Athens Airport into the city. The twenty-mile ride gave her an opportunity to take in her surroundings. She’d never been to Athens and had preconceived visions of massive ancient structures dotting the landscape in ornate Greek architecture. As they approached the city, her visions were doused.

The city’s streets and sidewalks were covered in garbage. Mac, who had conversed only briefly with her English-speaking driver, had to know what was going on.

“Sir,” she addressed the elderly gentlemen, “is there some type of garbage collectors’ strike? I have visited many European cities and I’ve never seen so much trash on the streets.”

“I am sorry for this bad first impression, miss,” he replied. “There are many reasons for the mess, but a strike is not one of them. To put it simply, Greeks are not interested in recycling and the refugees are not interested in cleanliness.”

“Wow, it’s so much,” said Mac, still amazed at the amount of refuse littering the landscape.

“Yes. One-third of our twelve million population lives in Athens. We’ve added nearly a million more in recent years, flooding in from Turkey, Syria and Libya. Greeks have no desire to recycle and the government is slow to create new landfills. The immigrants have no intention of remaining here permanently because there are no jobs. Therefore, they treat our once beautiful city as a temporary layover. They do not understand that the saying when in Rome, do as the Romans applies only to Rome, not Athens.”

Mac laughed at the man’s joke but then noticed the seriousness of his face and realized he might not be joking. She decided not to pursue the conversation further.

As they approached her destination, some of the great Athenian landmarks came into view. Five thousand years of history had left its mark on the Greek landscape. Many ancient Greek monuments and landmarks had survived the eons under the sun and often windy conditions. A few even remained in use, such as the Acropolis, built in the fourth millennium BC, which, following its restoration, was reopened as a museum.

Their route took them directly past the Panathenaic Stadium, which reminded Mac of the historical significance of the Olympics in Greece. The first games were part of a religious festival in honor of King Zeus, the mythical king of the gods. The first Olympic Games, which historians believed occurred around the seventh century BC, inspired the modern games started in 1896 in Athens.

More than a century later, the Olympics have been viewed as a way to bring nations together in an apolitical setting, under the presentation of competitive sporting events. Of course, that was not always the case, but the good intentions were there. Mac verily believed that in today’s political climate, all activities that transcended a nation’s boundaries had a political impact, including the Olympics.

Her mind then wandered to the number of people who would travel to Atlanta in a few weeks from the more than two hundred nations competing in the Summer Games. This was far more than the fourteen nations that participated in the first Olympiad.

Mac had studied the 1918 Influenza Pandemic extensively. Known as the Spanish flu, the pandemic lasted from early 1918 until late 1920. It infected half a billion people across the world and resulted in the deaths of nearly one hundred million, making it one of the deadliest natural disasters in human history.

By the summer of 1920 when the Games of the VII Olympiad were held in Belgium, the influenza virus had mutated to a less virulent strain, which often happened with influenza. The games went on, as the Spanish flu was no longer perceived to be a threat of spreading.

It was amazing to Mac how things had changed in a hundred years. In 1918, at the time, it was said that a large factor in the worldwide occurrence of the Spanish flu was increased travel via modern transportation systems like rail and boat.

Mac laughed to herself. Modern transportation systems? Today, according to the International Air Transport Association, over ten million passengers took a flight every day. Nearly two million of those had originating flights in the United States. Ten million a day, thought Mac. The Spanish flu would’ve loved that opportunity.

“Here we are, miss,” the taxi driver interrupted Mac’s calculations. “As requested, this is the Hellenic Centre for Disease Control and Prevention. It is commonly known as the HCDCP, as I’m sure you know.”

“Yes, and thank you for bringing me here,” said Mac. She paid the driver in dollars, which he graciously and warmly accepted. The euro was the legal currency of Greece, as it was part of the European Union, although the government had threatened to cut its ties with the EU from time to time and return to the drachma.

Mac stepped out of the taxi into the bright sun of Athens.

*****

The HCDCP was established three decades ago as a division of the Greece Ministry of Health. Like the CDC, its mission was to promote public health through a national strategy of increasing public awareness and education. It also coordinated the efforts of Infectious Disease Units contained in hospitals throughout the country. Their Sentinel surveillance system coordinated with the WHO and provided valuable epidemiological data on infectious diseases that were found within their borders.

She would be meeting with Dr. Spiros Vondas, the director of their Epidemiological Surveillance and Response Department. He’d alerted CDC-Atlanta of the new case of pneumonic plague discovered on an infected migrant who’d recently arrived into the country by a boat originating in Libya.

Floods of migrants were fleeing the political upheaval there and made the treacherous two-hundred-mile ride on overcrowded ferries across the Mediterranean. If they survived the unstable boat trip and the pirates who frequently boarded the ships, they would find their way to the Peloponnese Peninsula.

The patient, a fourteen-year-old girl, was immediately quarantined when she was observed exhibiting flu-like symptoms. As they gathered information about the girl from her traveling companions, the Greek police learned that she was originally from the DR Congo. She had left her family, who wanted to force her to convert to Islam, in hopes of a better life in Europe.

After her death, an autopsy was performed and tests were administered. According to the communiqué received from Dr. Vondas, the child tested positive for pneumonic plague.

Another case in another part of the world. The coincidences were starting to mount up.

Chapter 33

Day Thirteen

HCDCP

Athens

Dr. Vondas welcomed Mac into his office and offered her a bottle of water, which she accepted. Between the visits to the hot, arid climate of Trinidad, and now the warm, dry air of Greece, Mac was feeling dehydrated. Plus, airline travel with its lack of humid air in the cabin could quickly lead to dehydration. Water is life, as Mac had learned from her mother, and therefore hydration was always a priority for her.

“Greece takes infectious diseases quite seriously,” said Dr. Vondas, whose English dialect reflected his schooling at Cardiff University in London. He’d graduated at the top of his class before performing his residency at the King’s College Hospital. “As you can tell, we’re all about history here.”

Mac nodded. She wasn’t that interested in small talk. She was on a mission.

Dr. Vondas continued. “Typhoid fever, caused by a strain of Salmonella, killed a third of the population in Athens in the fourth century BC. That same strain is still alive and well across the globe. By last estimates, millions of people are afflicted by Salmonella through contact with one of its many non-typhoid strains in the form of food poisoning.”

“Yes,” added Mac, still engrossed in the pathology report. “Half of those cases are in the U.S.”

“Of course, the plague, in its three forms, has evolved and survived as well. Bacterial pathogens don’t truly go away, they evolve and find new hosts.”

Mac closed the folder and handed it back to Dr. Vondas. “I’d like to get some images of the gram stains and the serology tests, if you don’t mind. I’d like to compare them to another case that I’m investigating.”

“Certainly,” he replied.

“Also, Doctor, your report format is different from what I’m used to seeing at the CDC. Would you mind if I run through my quick thought processes to ensure that we’ve left no stone unturned?”

“Yes, of course.”

Mac had confidence in Dr. Vondas, but he was the head of the department. It was not likely that he’d conducted the autopsy or any of the testing.

Dr. Vondas summoned his assistant and asked her to bring up the genetic pathologist and the epidemiologist who were hands-on with this case. After several minutes of small talk, the two physicians arrived and sat next to each other on the couch.

“Thank you for taking the time to discuss this unusual case with me,” started Mac. “Have either of you examined a patient, pre- or postmortem, who had contracted the plague?”

“No.”

“Okay, from your reports, it appears that you conducted the appropriate tests for Y. pestis. Was that your initial diagnosis?”

Dr. Vondas spoke up. “No, our attending physicians initially ordered testing for what we see most often, viral hemorrhagic fevers, including Ebola, Marburg, and Lassa. The symptoms of the three plague diseases are similar to the hemorrhagic fevers, and because of their rarity, they aren’t considered early on.”

“Yes,” added the pathologist. “In fact, most cases are discovered postmortem because the plague requires early and aggressive treatment.”

“According to the reports, this patient experienced fever, headache, stomach pain, vomiting, and diarrhea. To your knowledge was there anything else?”

“No.”

“What about dyspnea or even rapid breathing? Any problems breathing at all?”

Again, Dr. Vondas answered. “I interviewed the attending physicians and they didn’t mention this.”

Mac continued, growing perturbed at Dr. Vondas and his interruptions. “Let me ask you about course of treatment. Which form of antibiotics did you use?”

“Streptomycin.”

Mac made several notes in her iPhone, including the use of streptomycin, usually the antibiotic of choice in treating a plague victim exhibiting early symptoms. She typed in the words too late, indicating her opinion that the young patient was beyond the time that any antibiotic could make a difference. She turned her attention to the epidemiologist.

“Tell me about your efforts at containment.”

The young woman hesitated and her eyes darted back and forth to Dr. Vondas. She was clearly nervous and made no effort to respond. Mac immediately picked up on this and looked directly to the man charged with the responsibility of responding to a potential infectious disease on this nation’s soil. She cocked her head, waiting for an answer.

“Well, at first the police unit that separated the young lady from the rest of the migrants thought she might have the flu. Their interest was in making her more comfortable and getting her medical attention. They turned her over to a local clinic in Kalamata.”

This information hit Mac like a bolt of lightning. Her body became rigid, almost unresponsive. She took a deep breath and gathered her composure.

“Doctor,” she stared directly in the eyes of Dr. Vondas, “how many people were on the ferry from Libya?”

“Almost two hundred. Dr. Hagan, you have to understand, our shores greet thousands of refugees a day. We have—”

Mac couldn’t wait for him to finish. “Did you quarantine or even interview any of them?”

“Um.” He hesitated before admitting the mistake the Greek authorities had made. “We didn’t because the police and the local immigration personnel thought she might be seasick or have a cold. None of this was on their radar.” He pushed the file away from him on his desk as if he wished he’d never seen it.

“I take it that you have no idea where these people are,” Mac continued.

“That’s correct.”

“And the local clinic, in Kalamata, I think you said. Has it been contained?”

“Yes, this morning,” responded Dr. Vondas.

Mac stared at him for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. “When was the girl transferred from the clinic?”

“After she died three days ago. She was there for forty-eight hours before death.”

“Were any BSL-4, or even two, protocols followed?”

“No, not until the girl was transported to the local medical facility. Like I said, we didn’t know.”

Mac closed her eyes. This was a disaster movie in the making.

Chapter 34

Day Thirteen

GNIS

Athens

Doukas left instructions for the guards and escorted Hunter up the stairs to the main floor of the GNIS. Not a word was said between the two men and Hunter immediately feared that he’d overstepped his bounds.

“Hunter, you Americans have a saying, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. In Greece, and within the confines of these walls, we know one thing. It’s that we know nothing. You and I will start our day as if you’d just arrived. Agreed?”

Hunter regretted his compulsive actions, but tact and tire-kicking were never his strong suits. “I’m sorry for overstepping—”

“Oh no, my friend, do not misunderstand. That went very well and the results came much faster than I would’ve expected. I didn’t expect you to handle the tools in such a manner.”

Hunter looked over at Doukas to gauge his level of seriousness. He never knew whether the Doc was kidding or serious. “You would’ve done it differently?”

“Yes,” replied Doukas. “I start with the fingertips—one by one. Your initial blow was masterful, yet almost… How shall I say? Angry?”

Hunter thought about this for a moment. Was he angry when he sliced off the end of the man’s nose? In a way, he supposed he was. He was sick and tired of defiant, holier-than-thou terrorists killing innocent people in the name of their religion. His mind raced back to the deaths of the kid and the woman in Trinidad. What’s wrong with these people?

“Well, I suppose I am in a way,” replied Hunter.

Doukas stopped in the hallway short of the elevators and pulled Hunter to the side. “My reason for stating our activities should stay within the confines of the room is our new director at GNIS would not approve.”

“Who is he?” asked Hunter.

“His name is Roubatis, a former journalist, who was appointed by Prime Minister Tsipras. He was part of the Papandreou administration and is adamantly anti-American. He has unwritten directives prohibiting cooperation with American intelligence.”

“I understand. We should rename your room to Vegas.” The two men shared a hearty laugh as the elevator doors opened. A beautiful Greek woman stepped out and smiled as she passed Hunter. Hunter turned and allowed himself a second look.

“Do not consider her, my friend. She is Raider Forces, our version of your Special Forces. She would not treat you kindly, rest assured.”

“Hmm,” was all that Hunter could manage in reply as the elevator doors closed, taking away his view. He hadn’t seriously dated in years, as his career took him all over the world and into some very dangerous situations. In his mind, it would be unfair to bring someone into his life that would worry every time he left on a mission. There would be a time for the right woman to marry, but for now, he’d consider risking his life with a woman as beautiful as Miss Raider Force that just crossed his path.

“Come. Let’s talk about the reason for your visit—biological weapons, not biological urges, young man.”

Hunter took a seat across the desk from Doukas. He offered Hunter a cigarette, who declined. Hunter had never smoked one, although he was happy to enjoy a fine cigar from time to time.

Hunter began. “First, now that I know about your new director, I appreciate the fact that you contacted us with this information about a possible bioterror connection.”

Doukas took a drag on his filter-less cigarette and blew smoke towards a cracked window, which immediately floated outside. “Recently, we raided a drug house in the northern province of Macedonia near the border with Bulgaria. The house was tucked away in a remote part of the mountains. It was a routine raid in all respects except our investigators uncovered a small laboratory.”

“A drug lab?” interrupted Hunter.

“This was the opinion of the investigators at first,” replied Doukas. “Crystal methamphetamine has become prevalent in Europe, and Greece has become, unfortunately, a gateway for drug trafficking from the Middle East.”

“So how is this bioterror related?”

“After closer scrutiny by our forensic team, we took detailed photographs and delivered them to our experts at the Hellenic Centre for Disease Control and Prevention, our equivalent of the CDC. Both sets of investigators agreed the lab was not designed for illegal drug production, but rather appeared to be an experimental facility for something else.”

Hunter sat up in his chair as the biolab he’d viewed in Trinidad crossed his mind. “Did they find anything specific in the lab?”

“No. The lab was prepared for something, but it had not been put into use yet.”

“Did you capture anyone who might be able to lend some answers?” asked Hunter.

“No, but our people are investigating all possible leads.”

A dead end, but not necessarily, thought Hunter. A dead end was not always a one-way street. You could always turn around and find another road.

Chapter 35

Day Thirteen

Athenaeum Intercontinental Hotel

Athens

After checking in, Hunter made his way to the lobby bar of the Athenaeum Hotel and placed his order. After a frown of disapproval, of course, the bartender pulled a couple of Budweisers out of the cooler and presented them to Hunter. Hunter was certain the bartender considered Budweiser to be swill for the swine rather than the King of Beers.

“Sir, your beverages are ready,” announced the bartender. “Would you like two glasses, sir?”

“No, thanks,” replied Hunter. Declining the glasses for his beers turned the furrowed-brow frown of the tuxedo-clad bartender into a full-blown scowl of contempt for the uncouth, plebian American. Hunter provided his room key to charge the beers and slung his duffle bag over his shoulder.

Hunter admired the incredible view of the Acropolis from the bar’s outdoor terrace. The hotel was minutes away from all of the major attractions of Athens, although Hunter wouldn’t be able to enjoy them.

Hunter traveled frequently and was never interested in social interaction with others. He hated eating alone in a restaurant setting, so he typically ordered room service. A couple of beers for an appetizer would allow him to settle in and relax while he waited for his dinner to be delivered.

He made his way down the marble steps and turned in the direction of the elevators when he caught a glimpse of a uniformed American officer. In the middle of the lobby was a neon-blue glass sculpture of a business-suited traveler cartwheeling through the spacious entryway.

Amidst the well-dressed clientele of the Athenaeum, the American in dress whites was clearly eye-catching. Hunter, curiosity taking hold, moved closer to the registration desk to get a better look. The woman was tall with blond hair and quite shapely. This was the second beautiful woman that had caught Hunter’s eye that day, in Greece of all places. Maybe I need to get back into dating?

Momentarily awestruck, Hunter was busted staring when the woman turned around after completing her check-in and looked directly at him. Embarrassed, Hunter immediately sank into himself and frantically looked back and forth for a place to hide. When the immediate moment of awkwardness passed, he then recognized who the woman was—the CDC doctor he’d met in Guatemala.

Mac walked confidently directly toward Hunter as if she were going to challenge him to a duel. He moved his lips, but no words came out. Later, after reflecting on the moment, he realized that he’d never experienced an encounter like this before.

“Hey, I know you,” said Mac as she approached. Hunter couldn’t move or reply. “Aren’t you the DOD guy from Guatemala?”

“Um, yes. Nate Hunter, DTRA. We met at the outbreak site in the jungle at—”

“Oh, yes, Hunter. I remember you vividly. No need for reminders, thanks.”

Hunter! Snap out of it, old buddy!

“That’s correct. I’m sorry I forgot your name, Commander.” Hunter was making reference to Mac’s uniform.

“Lieutenant Commander, but thanks anyway.” Mac chuckled, pointing to her gold leaf. A silver leaf designated a commander. “Dr. Mackenzie Hagan, CDC.”

Hunter was regaining consciousness after surviving the initial hit by the thunderbolt. He couldn’t figure out why Dr. Mackenzie Hagan was having this effect on him now, whereas it was different in the Guatemalan jungle.

“I apologize for staring, Dr. Hagan. It’s just, um, a little unsettling to see someone you know halfway around the world. We’re both a long way from the States, and Guatemala.”

Mac stared at him as if she were assessing his intentions. They’d got off on the wrong foot the first time they met, although he blamed her for the awkward first encounter. She was borderline territorial that day.

“You can call me Mac.”

Breaking the ice, this is good.

“May I offer you a beer?” said Hunter as he thrust the moisture-covered bottle of Bud in her direction.

“Oh, no, thanks.”

“Well, maybe a glass of wine?” asked Hunter as he swung his body to draw Mac’s attention to the lobby bar.

Mac laughed. “No, not wine. Actually, one of those Budweisers would be great, except I can’t drink in uniform.”

He desperately wanted to throw down a few swigs to get his courage up, but instead he just went for it. “Yeah, I get it. So maybe you’d like to change and come down and have a drink with me?”

Mac hesitated and continued to assess Hunter. He had never felt uncomfortable like this around a woman before. Normally, he was confident in his game.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll have a drink with you. Just give me time to change and I’ll meet you in the bar.”

“For sure?”

Mac had a puzzled look on her face. “Of course, why wouldn’t I?”

The sweating beer bottle began to create a puddle at Hunter’s feet. If he didn’t move this along soon, there would be a serious slip-and-fall hazard in the middle of the lobby.

“When we met in Guatemala, I got the distinct impression that you didn’t like me.”

“No, I didn’t like the person who was holding out on me. When I come back down, we’ll talk and then I’ll reevaluate.”

Yes! exclaimed Hunter to himself as he waived down a bellhop to deliver his bag to his room. He hustled to find the perfect table.

*****

After Mac returned in a very girlish, white cotton dress, the couple began to get to know one another. The first topic of conversation was their reason for being in Greece. Mac explained the issues surrounding the migrant from Libya and the misdiagnosis, which could result in a significant outbreak of the plague.

“The world is completely unprepared for a global pandemic,” said Mac as she finished off her second beer. “In 2003, a doctor who contracted SARS in a laboratory setting unknowingly infected several guests at a hotel in Hong Kong. Overnight, the virus spread across the planet. In China, they are fighting a new strain of the bird flu, which kills half of the people it infects. Zika has now reached over fifty countries and I just received a report that it’s become more widespread in the American Southwest.”

“This is part of the work we do at the DTRA,” interjected Hunter. “You have nightmares of an uncontrolled outbreak. We have nightmares of a bioterror attack that accelerates the spread of infectious diseases.”

Mac motioned for their server to bring her another beer. “World governments focus on the terror threat. There is always conversation surrounding nuclear attacks or weapons of mass destruction. Yet the threat of a deadly pandemic remains dangerously overlooked. Pandemics now occur with greater frequency due to factors like international travel, overpopulation in urban areas, and a health care system that is stretched too thin.”

“Things have changed since the days of the Spanish flu,” added Hunter.

“They have, and so have these deadly pathogens. Over time, they’ve mutated, which allows them to spread and kill faster than their predecessors. Now, we have to deal with superbugs that are antibiotic and antimicrobial resistant.”

Hunter had read about superbugs and they’d become a topic of the conversation in DTRA briefings. “There’s a new one, Canada something or other.”

Mac laughed. “You know, the use of Latin can certainly make understanding the science of epidemiology difficult. You’re referring to Candida auris—an emerging fungus that has sent shockwaves through health care facilities around the world. It was first discovered in Japan when it was found in a man’s ear, but now this superbug has spread to four continents.”

“What does it do?” asked Hunter.

“C. auris, as it’s referred to, is capable of entering open wounds, where it moves through the bloodstream until it infects the urinary tract. It’s resistant to most antifungal drugs. But like the plague, which we discussed earlier, it’s often misdiagnosed as a common yeast infection. The infection spreads, causing death in nearly seventy percent of patients.”

Hunter leaned back in his chair and studied Mac. This was an incredibly engaging conversation with a beautiful woman. In the past, because of his lack of interest in forming a committed relationship, he hadn’t pursued the type of woman he’d consider marrying. When he fell in love, he’d have to make career changes that he wasn’t prepared to do yet.

Hunter was interested in pursuing this discussion from a bioterror aspect. “The world looks at terrorists as a bunch of flag-waving, gun-toting fools riding around in the desert, killing people. The media sensationalizes the so-called lone-wolf terrorist who is willing to die in exchange for taking the lives of innocent people on the street behind the wheel of a garbage truck.”

“You’re right,” Mac added. “On the flight into Athens, I picked up an English version of a French newspaper, which reported that six out of ten people in France don’t feel safe anywhere. They believe the police and the gendarmerie are understaffed and that national security has taken a backseat to assimilation of refugees from the Middle East. The isolated terror attacks have taken its toll on all of Europe.”

Hunter passed on another beer when the server came to check on them. This conversation was too intriguing to cloud his mind with more alcohol. “The EU has funded a new program called EQuATox, a network of laboratories and research facilities from twenty countries.”

“Yeah, I’m familiar with it. Their Early Warning and Response System is tied into our network so that we can exchange information quickly.”

“Good,” said Hunter. “Wouldn’t that help in preventing a bioterror attack from spreading on a large scale?”

“Yes, but only if the attack was directed at a particular location, like the release of anthrax in Brussels two years ago.”

“What if the bioterrorism incident involved multiple patient zeros?” asked Hunter.

“That would be a worst-case scenario,” said Mac as she received a text message from Janie. It simply read strain match. “Well, as Alice once said, things just got curiouser and curiouser.”

“How so?” asked Hunter.

“The strains of Y. pestis are a match.”

“What are the odds of that happening?” Hunter, who had his own theories on the interrelationship between Guatemala, Greece, Trinidad, and possibly Gabon, wanted Mac’s take.

“I could say one in seventeen, as there are seventeen known strains of pneumonic plague around the world, but these strains are typically compartmentalized by region. Even if I consider the strains found in Guatemala and Trinidad to be regional, the Greek patient would be considered an anomaly or something else.”

“Trinidad?” asked Hunter, his mind racing, analyzing.

“Yes, there have now been four reported cases in Port of Spain.”

Hunter looked around the bar and saw that it was filling up with early evening drinkers. The noise level had increased considerably, although he had been unaware due to his captivation with Mac. He had been singularly focused on Mac and their conversation—one which had now turned into the direction of being deadly serious.

Hunter pushed away from the table and stood, looking down into Mac’s bewildered face.

“Did I say something wrong?” she asked.

“No, it’s just that it’s getting a little crowded in here.”

“Well, okay. I thought, maybe. Well, I thought that you might ask me to dinner.” Now she was hit with the awkward shyness.

Hunter composed himself as he realized that his abrupt response could be misread. He admired Mac for a moment and then came back with his usual witty self.

“How did I do on my reevaluation?” he asked her with a boyish grin.

Mac smiled, apparently relieved. “Let’s just say that you’ve made the cut into round two.”

Smiling, Hunter extended his hand to assist Mac out of her chair. “Come on, I know this place with a view and all of the Greek delicacies your heart desires.”

Chapter 36

Day Thirteen

Dionysos Zonar’s Restaurant

Athens

Mac took in the views as the taxi made its way to the restaurant. Hunter had grown suddenly quiet while they were having drinks and remained so during their ride. She took the opportunity to text Janie about the file on the Greek patient.

JANIE: Why don’t you just call me?

MAC: Can’t talk right now.

JANIE: Still at HCDCP???

MAC: Going to dinner.

JANIE: Alone?

MAC: Nope, a guy I met, twice.

JANIE: ????

MAC: Antio Sas. T.T.F.N. Adios. Later gator!

JANIE: What? Wait, spill!

Mac ignored the rest of Janie’s messages and then turned off the notifications on her phone. She hadn’t been on a dinner date with a man, if that was what this was, in, well, longer than she could remember.

After they’d met in Guatemala, it took Mac a couple of days to forget his haunting steel-blue eyes. But, as usual, she got caught up in her work and the thoughts of a relationship with a man quickly disappeared.

Tonight was different. Hunter, as he insisted she call him rather than by his first name, Nate, seemed more vulnerable, real. He was not the same cocky DTRA operative who had lurked around the outbreak site in Guatemala. Nor was he the shady character on the cell phone at the hospital in El Naranjo. Hunter was interesting, astute and, most importantly, attentive. Not once during their conversation in the increasingly noisy bar did Hunter’s focus on her seem to wander elsewhere. He had no idea how many brownie points he earned because of that.

Like reading a good book that drops an unexpected cliffhanger on her, she was both puzzled and intrigued by his abrupt decision to leave the bar and come to dinner. She’d hoped that he would ask her, but the circumstances seemed odd.

The taxi driver wheeled the Mercedes wagon up the cobblestone driveway to the entrance of the Dionysos Restaurant and Zonar’s Cocktail Bar. The historic restaurant was well-known as a legendary high-end eatery serving traditional Greek as well as international dishes. The views of the Acropolis were stunning, which accounted for its frequent use in movies. Once, a political treaty between Greece and Italy was signed on the terrace overlooking the city.

Because it was still daylight, Hunter requested a terrace table so they could enjoy the sunset and the up-lighting of the ancient landmarks dotting the Athenian landscape. After being seated, the two laughed that it didn’t seem appropriate to continue enjoying their beloved Bud in a bottle, so Hunter ordered a chardonnay from a local vineyard owned by the Antonopoulos Estate.

“A toast to a new friendship,” said Hunter as he raised his glass to Mac.

“Salud!” Mac giggled as she raised her glass and gently tapped Hunter’s, creating an audible tink.

“That’s Spanish.” Hunter laughed.

“Yeah, it’s the closest I’ve got to Greek,” she said as the waiter politely approached their table. He spent a minute introducing their specialties and then, following several questions from both guests, dinner choices were made.

Hunter chose the braised wild boar shanks, which was served with potatoes and onions. Mac opted for the traditional moussaka, luscious layers of minced lamb and eggplant cooked in a tomato-based sauce. After the server left the table, Hunter leaned forward toward Mac.

“Listen, I feel like I owe you an apology and an explanation,” he started.

“I knew it! You’ve been stalking me since Guatemala!” Mac said, drawing a laugh out of them both. Mac was truly enjoying this relaxing evening in the presence of a polite, gorgeous man.

“No, seriously. Well, kind of unknowingly, I guess.”

This caught Mac off guard. Was he in fact trailing her activities for some reason? Her body language must’ve given away her thoughts because Hunter got right to the point.

“Mac, I have several things to share with you. I feel like I can do so because they are not classified, but shortly after my return to Fort Belvoir, they might be.”

Mac took a sip of wine and leaned back as one of their servers brought a basket of bread. Soft, whipped butter was offered as well. Left alone once again, Hunter continued.

“Our meeting in Guatemala was happenstance, as I said. The DTRA has been following a terrorist lead in Central America, and when the outbreak occurred, which you were investigating, my superiors asked me to stop by and take a look.”

“Okay,” said Mac. “I found it odd that you knew about it so quickly and, I might add, you implied that you knew I had just arrived in-country. That sounds like a little more than a casual stopover.”

“It was,” admitted Hunter. “Prior to the outbreak, we’d received credible intel that ISIS terror cells were expanding exponentially in Central America and they might be contemplating the use of bioterror agents on American interests there. When we received word of the outbreak, it raised all kinds of red flags.”

This made sense to Mac. She wanted to know what he was doing at the hospital, so she blurted it out. “I saw you at the hospital.”

“I know.”

“No, you didn’t. You never looked in my direction.”

“Mac, I saw you in the hospital’s reception area. It’s my job to notice these things. I was reporting in to Fort Belvoir that the hospital and its staff were in over their head in El Naranjo, but I felt like you would get the situation under control. So I left.”

Mac appreciated the vote of confidence he’d placed in her based upon their limited interaction at the hot zone. However, she sensed he had more to tell.

“At the bar, you had quite a reaction when I brought up Trinidad. What do you know about that?”

Hunter took a deep breath and took a sip of wine. One of the many servers roaming the terrace quickly grabbed the bottle and topped off their glasses. Hunter smiled and nodded his thanks and then continued.

“I was part of a five-man team conducting an operation on a terrorist cell in Port of Spain. Our intelligence, which proved dead on the money, in part, told us that a bomb-making facility was started by ISIS operatives. The intel analysis showed that they would use the C-4 explosives on a cruise ship full of American tourists. We were to take out the facility, but there was a problem.”

“I know, an explosion that killed a lot of bystanders and a terrorist,” added Mac. “One of those terrorists tested positive for pneumonic plague. The CDC sent me there to investigate.”

Hunter fidgeted with his napkin and then leaned onto the table, clasping his fingers in front of him. “Mac, I saw something in that house just before the woman detonated the bomb strapped to her body.”

“What was it?”

“There was a room tucked away in the back of the house that appeared to be a functioning laboratory. There were microscopes, petri dishes, test tubes, syringes, you know, all the tools of your trade.”

Mac instantly recalled the charred microscope found near the blast scene. “Now it makes sense. I know about the microscope and was puzzled as to why it would be part of a bomb-making facility. Hunter, are you sure about the lab?”

“Yeah. I mean, it wasn’t up to CDC standards, I’m sure, but it was more than a meth house might contain. When you told me that the plague killed someone in Trinidad, then it all fit.”

Mac tilted her head slightly. “That’s just one location though. Is there evidence of a terrorist biolab in Guatemala?”

“Not that we know of, but there’s more. Let me tell you about my day, dear.” Hunter chuckled as he took another sip of wine. He wanted to lighten the mood somewhat, although what he was about to tell Mac could send her screaming into the night.

“Very funny. Like an old married couple exchanging stories over a glass of wine.”

Hunter nodded. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the explosion at the Franceville, Gabon, facility. It was in the news, but I imagine it sent some buzz through your world especially.”

“Yes, I am. Some of my colleagues in Atlanta knew people who were killed or went missing.”

“Did you also read about the slaughter of locals in a small town in the Congo?”

“No, was it related?” asked Mac.

“I believe it was,” replied Hunter. “I participated in the questioning of an ISIS terrorist this morning at the Greek equivalent of the FBI. Two of the murdered people in the Congo were Greek research scientists on loan to the BSL-4 in Gabon. Mac, they were beheaded.”

“Why?”

Hunter looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “After some careful prodding, he stated that the killings occurred because, quote, the experiment failed.”

“What experiment? Something in Franceville?” asked Mac.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” replied Hunter. “According to my contact here, there would be no reason for the Greek researchers to travel to Congo, much less a remote town in the east, two hundred miles away from Gabon. I believe that ISIS may be experimenting with, or attempting to obtain, a bioweapon.”

Mac suddenly lost her appetite just as their meals were delivered. She couldn’t decide whether to order a to-go box and race to the airport, leaving her luggage behind, or to continue the conversation.

“Hunter, I’m here because a Congolese teen traveled by boat from Libya to the southernmost shores of Greece. She was carrying pneumonic plague—the exact same strain as in Trinidad and Guatemala.”

“That’s what you said at the bar, which caused my sudden reaction. There’s one more thing. Recently, the local police raided a possible drug house in the northern part of the country near Bulgaria. It contained a similar biolab although it hadn’t been used. But the point is, the lab was ready and waiting.”

Mac took a moment to enjoy her meal. The silence was awkward as she tried the moussaka. It was delicious, although it had become slightly cold. Hunter also picked at his food, periodically glancing at Mac, seeking a reaction or a sign of what she was thinking.

The beautiful sunset had passed unnoticed by both of them. As was typical in her life, Mac had missed the opportunity to share a beautiful, romantic moment with a man because she was preoccupied with her career. She wondered if she could ever change.

Hunter broke the silence. As if he’d read her mind, he said, “Mac, I’m afraid my talking shop caused us to miss a fabulous sunset in a special place. I’m sorry.” He put down his knife and fork, then looked toward the Acropolis as it lit up against the dark backdrop of the sky.

She took a chance. Mac reached across the table and squeezed Hunter’s hand. It was strong. Masculine. Her gesture also caught him off guard and she caught another glimpse of a tender soul hidden within his chiseled body.

“Listen to me, Hunter. I haven’t had this enjoyable of an evening in many, many years. You’re intelligent, witty, and above all, you’re a gentlemen.”

“I feel a but headed my way.”

Mac smiled as she looked at his eyes again. Why can’t you just let yourself go? “No, not a but, just a warning. I really like what I do, and I’m good at it. I just don’t have much time for a relationship.”

“Buuut,” said Hunter, stretching the word out as he said it.

“But, that said, I hope that we can see each other again. You know, back home, and not in some foreign country. You, however, have to agree to stop stalking me!” She smiled as she took her hand back. She sipped the rest of her wine and studied his reaction.

“So I will see you again?” he asked inquisitively.

“I think that it’ll be complicated, especially in light of the fact that our careers have now intersected in a big way. However, if you can put up with my work ethic, I can put up with your, well, whatever your faults are. At this moment, I can’t seem to identify any.”

“Nor shall you, Dr. Hagan.” Hunter didn’t wait for the server and finished off the chardonnay with half a glass for each. “A toast. I came to Greece, and as the Athenian motto goes, I found a perfect mind in a perfect body!”

Mac blushed from her shyness. It had been a long time since a man had noticed her appearance in a respectful way, and it felt good. She accepted his toast, with pride, and rewarded him with a flirty smile.

“So where are you off to tomorrow?” she asked.

“I believe I’m gonna pay a visit to Gabon. I’ve got a lot of questions.”

Mac leaned onto the table to provide Hunter a glimpse, if he wanted it. “Would you like to bring a girl from home a present when you return?”

“If it will help me advance to round three, you betcha.”

“I need a sample of the Madagascar strain of pneumonic plague. Do you think you can pick one up for me?”

The look on Hunter’s face was priceless. She would never see that expression of shock on him again.

Chapter 37

Day Fourteen

Oval Office, The White House

Washington

President Garcia flipped through the pages provided by his speechwriter, who sat nervously on the sofa next to him. Morse, as Chief of Staff’s frequently did, paced the floor, waiting to hear a comment from the President. This policy speech on immigration was long overdue, but the gang slaying of a young family in Chula Vista outside San Diego provided the perfect backdrop for the President to make his case for stricter border enforcement.

“We’ve got to nail this, gentlemen, without seeming unsympathetic to those who are fleeing horrible living conditions in Mexico and Central America,” said President Garcia. He picked up a highlighter off the table in front of him and began to color a paragraph. Then he scribbled some notes in the margin.

He handed the papers back to his speechwriter, who started to get up when the President grabbed him by the arm. “Listen, I’m walking a fine line here. My opponent is trying to soften his stance on illegal immigrants entering the country, but I know full well it’s a load of crap. He’s pandering to the Chamber of Commerce and their big business constituency. He’ll turn his backs on them as soon as he takes the oath of office.”

Morse added, “Mr. President, your perspective and stance is unique and is lauded throughout the Hispanic community. Because of your heritage, sir, they respect your policies.”

“Very true, Andrew,” said the President with a chuckle. “At least they can’t paint me as a racist because of my tough immigration stance.” The President looked at his watch. Perhaps it was time for a brandy.

“Polling shows that the demographics of America are changing. Twenty-three percent of public schoolchildren live in immigrant households. That’s more than doubled in twenty years. Once, news reports indicated that white Caucasians would become the demographic minority by the year 2050. Now, that estimate has been moved up to 2044 when the nation becomes minority-majority.”

“Might I add, sir,” started his speechwriter, “the Associated Press conducted a survey in Nashville public schools and found there are over one hundred twenty different languages spoken by their students. After English, Spanish and Arabic were number two and three.”

“Nashville is a southern, relatively traditional city. It’s hardly LA or New York,” added Morse.

The President rose and casually strolled over to the corner table, which held the brandy and glasses. He poured himself one, but didn’t offer it to his staff. “This is why I said I was walking a fine line. I don’t want to alienate the constituencies of the future, but by the same token I want to stand on my principles. I firmly believe that illegal immigration advances the drug trade more than it assists the poor and downtrodden.”

The men sat in silence for a moment and considered their options. Morse tapped some notes into his smartphone. He was still blasting at the small keyboard when the President interrupted him.

“Andrew, you wanna share your thoughts with the rest of us?”

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I wanted to jot down some notes before I lost my train of thought. We have tomorrow’s news cycle to set up your speech. I’ll call on one of my friendly reporters at the Times or the Post to write an article on the drug cartels’ use of human-smuggling routes to advance their criminal activities to include the transport of drugs, especially opioids like fentanyl, in addition to heroin. This will set the stage for another policy announcement.”

The President poured himself another glass and plopped into a side chair. “A new policy?”

“No, not really,” replied Morse. “Let’s establish that the drug mules are males. We’ll announce a catch-and-release policy for women and children after they’ve been processed through the refugee centers at the border.”

The speechwriter raised his hand to interrupt. “But those centers are overwhelmed and the subject of several federal court suits for overcrowded conditions. Won’t that encourage more refugees to flood over the border?”

“Maybe, but not in the short term,” replied Morse. “It will allow us to stay firm on our immigration stance through the President’s re-election, but it will also allow the President to show compassion toward the innocents—the women and children.”

President Garcia nodded toward Morse. “I like it. By assisting the women and children who enter the country with expedited processing, we can gain the sympathetic vote. Unfortunately, the innocent males trying to find a better life in America will have to wait until after the election when I can do more. Gentlemen, our second term will be a lot easier than swimming the shark-infested waters of this first go-around.”

Chapter 38

Day Fourteen

Corinto, Honduras

Corinto, Honduras, was a tiny hilltop town of roughly two thousand people located at the border of Guatemala and Honduras. A week ago, Hassan and his two most trusted operatives, Abbud Omar and Hamza Ahmed, left Caracas, Venezuela, and made their way across the Caribbean Sea by boat to Rio Coto, twenty miles to the northeast of Corinto. The small town was the predetermined rendezvous point to join a dozen other terrorists who’d arrived after travelling through Central America.

Corinto was not of any particular significance except for the fact that it was on Highway CA13, the most travelled north-south route from South and Central America into Mexico. It was the first stop in a long journey for migrants heading into Mexico and their ultimate destination—U.S. soil.

Hassan gathered the men in the small home of Pablo Cortez, the local pharmacist and an ally of Mahmood Khabir, their associate in the Mexican state of Chihuahua who was connected to the Juarez cartel. The pharmacist was not included in the planning of Hassan’s mission and hastily departed his home when the other operatives arrived.

“Show me the vials,” said Hassan to the men who had arrived by boat. Each carried a small black briefcase, which fit into their backpacks. One by one, the men proudly presented Hassan with their case. He opened them up and admired the vials of fluids and powders protected by foam. The vials stood upright like soldiers awaiting their orders, arranged in eight rows of ten, nine hundred sixty in all.

“As requested, Cortez has provided us syringes and empty glass aerosol spray bottles,” said Abbud. “We have all been instructed on the proper mix ratio for the liquid spray and the syringes. The powder is to be used last, as we cannot avoid contaminating ourselves in the process. It must be introduced to the largest number of people.”

“Thank you, brother,” said Hassan as he patted his friend on the shoulder. “Tomorrow, we travel to Mexico, one step closer to glory.”

Hassan carefully returned the contents to his twelve brothers and managed a smile. This is just the beginning.

Chapter 39

Day Fourteen

CDC

Guatemala City

The most effective hosts, the vessels of mass destruction, for many infectious diseases are animals. A zoonotic disease can easily be transmitted from animals to people. With seventy-five percent of all infectious diseases coming from animals, the CDC placed a particular emphasis on researching diseases such as West Nile virus, dengue, malaria, salmonella and E. coli. Many infected animals are found where animals are displayed, such as petting zoos and pet stores, but in developing worlds, natural habitats such as beaches, woods, and jungles were the most common.

Lawrence Brown and the rest of the CDC team in Guatemala were overwhelmed with the outbreak in the second village. Their second undertaking, after containment, was to begin the arduous task of contact tracing. In epidemiology, contact tracing was the process of identifying people who might have come in contact with an infected patient. It was considered the primary means of controlling infectious diseases capable of human-to-human transmission.

In a perfect world, an interview with the infected patient would reveal whom he had interaction with, and when. He would be identified as patient zero, and a hub and spoke analysis of his activity would begin. Depending upon the circumstances, especially in an urban setting, the process of contact tracing will leave any seasoned CEFO inundated with leads. In some cases, a contact list could expand to dozens of leads per day to chase down. Manpower for a large outbreak was the biggest challenge, especially for the satellite office of the CDC located in Guatemala City.

In some respects, establishing a contact tracing investigation for this particular outbreak was not as difficult as most because the villagers rarely traveled outside of their little part of the world. Except for Fernando, who was last seen boarding a bus headed for El Naranjo, their investigation concluded that the villagers had no outside contact.

However, five days ago, Fernando had left his village and his dying mother for points unknown. It was assumed that he would seek medical attention in El Naranjo, but the hospital personnel had no record of admitting him. The bus, which might have carried as many as forty people on board, was commonly known as a chicken bus, an English name for the thousands of colorfully decorated buses that transported goods and people between communities throughout Latin America, especially Honduras, Guatemala, and El Salvador.

These buses were modified to cram seats together to allow for extra passengers. The drivers accepted everything from currency to animals to sexual favors as payment for allowing a passenger to board. The chicken buses were inexpensive, but they could be dangerous on the treacherous, winding roads of Guatemala. Accidents were commonplace.

For the CDC team in Guatemala City, this particular chicken bus proved to be a nightmare. No passenger records were kept. There were no preplanned stops or pickups. If a passenger shouted alto, then the driver would pull over and let them out. If the chicken bus was flagged down in the middle of the jungle, as long as the passenger could pay, he was granted a ride.

The CDC team concluded that, depending how long Fernando was on board the bus, he might have infected forty people initially, plus new passengers, who in turn would infect anyone they came in contact with. The potential spread of the Y. pestis strain among the population of Guatemala had just grown exponentially.

That was only part of the team’s problem. Searching the jungles surrounding the stricken villages, the team was surrounded by the booming cries of the howler monkeys, who along with the spider monkeys, were the predominant primate species inhabiting the Guatemalan tropical forest.

In 2004, a demographic survey was conducted at the Mayan sites of Guatemala and later expanded to other jungle regions of the country. It was found that the howler monkey troop size ranged from fifteen to twenty-one individuals per square mile. In addition, their smaller counterpart, the spider monkey, had a population density of fifty to as much as one hundred sixty individuals per square mile. Guatemala contained over twenty-four thousand square miles of jungles and wooded areas.

Even after the CDC cordoned off the first village, the curious monkeys frequently invaded the containment zone, looking for food or anything else that might have caught their curious eye. Their interaction prior to that with the diseased villagers was anybody’s guess. In the second village outbreak, the situation was the same.

Both species of monkeys formed loosely associated groups of twenty to forty individuals. During the day, they’d break up into subgroups of two to eight, who traveled about hunting and foraging. Their disproportionately long limbs and tails provided them the ability to travel long distances. Because they were social animals, interaction with other troops, and especially nonthreatening humans, was common.

It was impossible to conduct contact tracing on monkeys. But the dead primates were now appearing throughout northern Guatemala and southern Mexico. In contrast to modern, developed countries like the United States, in developing nations such as Mexico and Guatemala, there was not an animal control department that came along and collected dead animals from the side of the road or people’s yards.

It had become such an annoyance for local residents that they didn’t even bother to bury the animals. Most were thrown on top of a trash heap or in a dumpster, where dogs, cats, rats, and birds picked at the carcasses.

The dead monkeys still contained the contagion, and those animals or humans who came in contact with the cadavers would become infected as well. On day fourteen of the outbreak in Guatemala, nearly twenty thousand dead monkeys lay rotting across the country.

Chapter 40

Day Fourteen

Somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico

The fly on the wall sees it all, as the saying goes. And this fly happened to be enjoying the confines of the inner sanctum of a freighter that had just slipped into the Gulf of Mexico undetected. The Tasallul, a four-hundred-nine-foot-long Saudi Arabian–flagged freighter, was chugging along in the general direction of Tampico, Mexico. Its normal cargo would be crude oil, although at a capacity of under a million barrels, it would typically be used for regional deliveries throughout Africa and the Middle East.

The Tasallul had embarked on a different mission, and upon entry into the Gulf, its name had been scrubbed from the back of the cargo ship. The Saudi flag, when the time came, would be replaced with the notorious Black Standard, the Banner of the Eagle, used by ISIS jihadists. The flag of the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria bearing the white shahada, the Islamic creed, would whip in the wind proudly.

Inside the freighter, within the lower hold at midship, was a sophisticated laboratory that rivaled that of any health research facility in the world. The sterile room, like the ship, was the best money could buy. From one end to the other, stretching one hundred feet, multiple stations were created containing the tools of the trade—microscopes, refrigerators and freezers, biological safety cabinets, and two bioreactors.

This laboratory was not only capable of processing and analyzing specimens, but it was also able to conduct the chemical processes to replicate the growth of cells or tissues. Any biochemical engineer would be proud to work in an advanced facility like this one, except most scientists’ morals and ethics would prevent them from participating in the tasks required by the ISIS leadership team. But then, there were those who could be bought, and others who had trained for years in the finest research facilities around the world, waiting for this moment when their talents could help the cause.

At this moment, the lab was empty. The scientists had departed momentarily. Their handlers, the trusted soldiers of ISIS, weren’t required to monitor their activities.

The same was true for the ship’s bridge. The technologically advanced command center, the place where modern advances allowed remote control of all pieces of equipment necessary for sailing an oceangoing vessel, was empty. The ship’s electronics required to safely navigate the Tasallul, including its engine controls, its Navtex receiver, the radar, and chart systems were all operating properly and as programmed by the ship’s crew.

One vital piece of equipment, however, was disabled—the global positioning tracking device. The Tasallul, an Arabic word meaning stealth, had sailed into the Gulf undetected by disappearing from monitoring devices.

This was a tried and tested method of unloading their operatives into Europe in the past. Hundreds of ghost ships would sail suspiciously close to known terrorist hotspots as they entered European waters, smuggling people and weapons onto the European continent. Typically, the ghost ships would remain dark for twenty-four to forty-eight hours and then mysteriously reappear on radar many miles away from their last reported location.

As the sun rose in the east, the Tasallul was a ghost ship, except it was not unmanned. As it ambled along at an idle speed of two knots, the freighter’s spacious, open deck was occupied by the crew who had assembled for Salat al-fajr, early dawn prayer.

Nearly one thousand prayer rugs measuring roughly three by five feet were neatly arranged in rows and faced Mecca—or Makkah, in Arabic—the holy city in Saudi Arabia. Traditionally woven with images of Islamic symbols and architecture, each rug was personal to the Muslim who knelt upon it.

The prayer ritual was over fourteen hundred years old and was repeated five times throughout the day by hundreds of millions of people across the globe. Carrying it out was not only highly spiritual, but prayer connected each Muslim to all others around the world, as well as to those who have uttered the same words and made the same movements at different times in Islamic history.

Muslims made sure they were in the right frame of mind before they pray. The set prayers were not just phrases to be spoken. Prayer required the uniting of the mind, soul, and body for worship, and therefore strict adherence to the movements and the prayer was expected.

From the sky, a passing gull could observe the ship, gently pressing forward in the blue-green waters of the Gulf of Mexico. On her deck, there was the spectacle of a thousand men dressed in their prayer-ritual white thobe, engaging in the centuries-old movements—standing, bowing, kneeling prostrate and finally, turning their face to the right, and then to the left, as they repeated the words peace be upon you, and the mercy and blessings of Allah.

On this day, those praying for peace for themselves and for their fellow Muslims would embark on the Final Jihad.

PART THREE

WEEK THREE

Chapter 41

Day Fifteen

Arriaga, Mexico

Hassan disconnected the call with Mahmood Khabir. He kicked at the rocks that lined the tracks at the train station in the dusty, rural city of Arriaga in southern Mexico. Khabir had told him that the Juarez cartel had taken a major hit by the Federales, the Mexican Federal Police, as a result of a drug bust coordinated with the American DEA. After much discussion, the decision was made. They were not going to use the strategically important drug tunnels under the protection of the Juarez cartel. Their backup strategy for crossing the border was to be implemented, one that had inherent risks and, more importantly, possible delays.

“Do we still travel to the border?” asked Abbud.

“We will wait for our brothers,” insisted Hassan. “The ship is in position, and they will have three dozen men here by tomorrow evening.”

The delay would only be two days and Hassan hoped the cartel would change their position on helping his operatives enter the country. It wasn’t just the Federales he had to be concerned with. The Mexican narco-cartels constantly fought for the lucrative drug corridors along the border. From the Tijuana cartel south of San Diego all the way to the Gulf cartel near Brownsville, Texas, each region was controlled by organized crime alliances under the Mexican cartel banner.

Hassan was prepared to deal with the Gulf and Tijuana cartels, with whom he had no relationships. All of the Mexican cartels were paid and fueled by illegal immigration. No one crossed the border without paying the cartels. The quest for the American Dream had turned into a nightmare for migrants, but that was not Hassan’s concern. If his operatives could not cross into California and Texas, then they were instructed to make their way to Chihuahua, where Khabir would help them enter New Mexico and Arizona.

Hassan and Abbud stood with their hands on their hips, taking in the surroundings. Hundreds of Mexican and Central American migrants shuffled around with their belongings, primarily consisting of a backpack and a bedroll.

They were waiting on La Bestia, or the Beast. Several hundred thousand migrants a year rode within the heated freight cars or upon the roof of what had been dubbed El Tren de la Muerte—the Train of Death. The quantity of illegal passengers had doubled with the number of unaccompanied children from Central America traveling to America.

The trip, which took four to five days, transported the migrants to the northernmost desert region of Mexico. If the migrants survived the trip, after they reached the border, and crossed it, they must then avoid detection of the Customs and Border Patrol before they could reach populated areas.

Because the passengers might change trains as many as a dozen times along the way, the chance of sustaining a major injury was high. But nevertheless, migrants took the risk and began their journey from Arriaga daily.

Once the Beast reached the centrally located capital, Mexico City, the rails led them in several directions depending upon the migrant’s ultimate destination. The primary destinations included Tijuana outside of San Diego, Nogales across the border from Tucson, Juarez in the Mexican state of Chihuahua located near Las Cruces, New Mexico, and Nuevo Laredo, across the narrow Rio Grande River from the U.S. city of the same name.

Along the way, the migrants became ill or even died. It was not uncommon for a passenger to fall asleep on top of a train and become thrown to the ground below, where they were killed by decapitation, blood loss, or shock. There was no one to help them if they fell.

Hassan and his companions would travel to Chihuahua, but they would not ride the trains. His jihadi brothers would systematically infect passengers with the plague at the various train stops as they approached the United States border. The notes he obtained from the research scientist in Gabon, Dr. Alexis, indicated that the incubation period was typically two to four days, but more likely six to seven with his modifications. The notes cautioned that these periods could vary depending on the subject’s age, health, and size.

Hassan would instruct his operatives to wait until the final opportunity to begin the inoculation process. He didn’t want all of the infected migrants to die on top of a train or in the middle of the desert. Hassan expected better results than that.

Chapter 42

Day Fifteen

ESPN Special Assignment

Atlanta Olympiad

ESPN News Anchor Neil McHenry sat upright in his chair as the network came back from a commercial break. He had sports reporter Kwami Sharp on the large-screen monitor behind him, waiting to continue his report from Atlanta, the new site of the Summer Olympic Games.

“Kwami, preparing the Atlanta venue has required a tremendous effort from everyone involved and the USOC should be commended for bringing these games to America,” started McHenry. “But, in today’s day and age, security is always a factor. What has been done to protect participants and attendees from a potential terrorist attack?”

Sharp held the earpiece closer to his ear as McHenry posed the question. He nodded his head, periodically looking around as the background noise seemed to distract him.

“As the United States prepares for millions of people to descend upon Atlanta for the Summer Olympic Games, the specter of terrorism is ever-present. The Department of Homeland Security has been running mock terror drills here for weeks and the main venues are already experiencing an increased amount of scrutiny.

“Armed guards, jeep-style vehicles filled with law enforcement toting automatic weapons dart to and fro at all hours. DHS officials promise to deploy thousands of plainclothes agents, including intelligence officials, into the crowd to work undercover, hoping to thwart an attack.”

McHenry riffled through the papers laid out on the desk in front of him and prepared for his next question. “Kwami, with the uptick in terrorist activity in Europe of late, do officials believe that Atlanta may be a target?”

“Of course, Neil. One official echoed the sentiment that it’s quite unfortunate. We have this sporting event that transcends political and cultural differences, and rather than focusing on the events and competition, the potential for a terrorist attack has to be in the back of everyone’s minds.”

McHenry nodded and turned his attention to the camera. “After the most recent attacks in London and Sweden, you can’t help but think about it. Thank you, Kwami. But our viewers should consider this. There has not been a mass attack at the Olympics since the bombing at the 1996 Games in Atlanta. That occurred before the word terrorism was used in our everyday conversation. The attacker was not of foreign descent, but rather a right-wing extremist from Merritt Island, Florida. Harbingers of death come in all shapes, sizes, and nationalities, folks.”

Chapter 43

Day Fifteen

CDC Briefing

Atlanta

The Division of Emergency Operations is responsible for the overall coordination of the CDC’s activities during public health emergencies. The DEO works closely with its sister divisions, which focus on state and local readiness, national stockpiles of medications, and the department that oversees the use and transfer of biological agents like anthrax, smallpox, and plague.

The large operations center looks very much like a modern college classroom. Four rows of light oak, modular desks stretch from one side of the forty-foot-wide room to the other. As many as forty staff members occupy these seats at any given time, studying data, communicating with the field officers and adding information to the eight-foot-tall monitors, which are constantly updating, especially in the midst of an outbreak.

Mac entered the room and immediately sought out the duty officer. Sandra Wilkinson, an eighteen-year veteran of the Office of Public Health Preparedness and Response, was frantically typing on her keyboard. Mac approached her slowly, not wanting to disrupt her train of thought.

Finally, she finished, hitting the enter key with authority. She leaned back in her chair and let out a loud sigh. “Sometimes, Mac, you just gotta tell ’em, you know?”

Mac, who had no idea what Wilkinson was talking about, just nodded and smiled. She took another sip of coffee and glanced towards Wilkinson’s triple-panel monitors.

“Guatemala?” asked Mac.

“Yeah. Their military ain’t much to speak of, I reckon. Like Mexico, they apparently lose sight of who they work for.”

Mac looked over her cup of coffee and she took another sip. Wilkinson had a flair for drama, and this apparently was going to be one of those moments. “I suppose it depends on who’s paying them the most at the moment.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” said Wilkinson. “They tell me the soldiers have to pull off our second village to do a private security job.”

“What? They can’t do that. The site must be contained.”

“It gets better. The private security job is for the Mexican Los Zetas drug cartel. The members of the Kaibiles forces, special ops people who were assigned to the detail because of their jungle warfare specialties, also work for the cartel.”

“That’s illegal, isn’t it?” asked Mac.

“From what I was just told, it’s part of the working relationship between the Guatemalan government, Los Zetas, and the Kaibiles. The Kaibiles provide security for shipments of cocaine from South American ports; the Los Zetas cartel promises to get the illegal drugs out of the country and bound for America as soon as possible. Everybody’s happy, in theory.”

“Except for the mothers of the dying and drug-dependent children in our country,” said Mac with disgust. She tried to forget the distraction, but it angered her nonetheless.

“Listen, Sandra,” started Mac. “I don’t want to wander through the rows and distract your people. Can you provide me the updated medical reports on the patients in Guatemala? I’d like to see how they’re responding to the medication protocols.”

“Sure.” Wilkinson began to type away on the keyboard and located the data specialist who was receiving the reports from CDC-Guatemala City. “Row two, position seven. That’s Henri le Pen, one of our new people from France. He’s trilingual—French, Spanish, and proper English, as he says it. Smart kid. You’ll see.”

“Thank you, Sandra.” Mac finished her coffee and returned to the rear of the room and set it on a table near the trash receptacles. An attendant was assigned to the operations center to act as a restaurant server and cleanup person, of sorts. The analysts kept their nose to the grind, rarely getting up for breaks. The room was active twenty-four seven because diseases never sleep.

Mac slipped past the several stations and sat in an empty chair next to le Pen. Using her best French pronunciation, which started with ahh instead of heh, she introduced herself. “Henri, I hope you don’t mind the interruption. My name is Dr. Hagan and I am overseeing the two outbreaks in Guatemala.”

“Yes, good morning, Dr. Hagan. You are mentioned frequently in my communications. It is my pleasure to meet you in person.”

Mac laughed as the small-statured Frenchman spoke so proudly in a British accent. “Sandra was correct, you do speak proper English.”

“It is the King’s English, as I learned in boarding school, Dr. Hagan.”

“It’s excellent,” said Mac. With his ability to speak multiple languages, he could be a real asset to her team at some point. “Have you considered fieldwork?”

“I have, but I wish to learn the inside operations first. It will allow me a better respect for what my associates do before I enter the field and start to bombard them with my investigative data.”

Mac was very impressed with the young man. He was a real find. “Well, Henri, I’ll remember that we’ve had this conversation. There will come a time that I can use someone with your talents and attitude.”

He smiled and nodded before asking how he could help her. “I have the latest reports from the morning rounds if you’d like to see them. Sadly, they lost two more patients overnight. That’s four in the last two days.”

Mac frowned at this revelation. At this point, patients should be improving, not dying. “I assume the cause of death is reported as pneumonia.”

“Yes, Doctor. Furthermore, as I will show you in these samplings, many more patients are showing signs of respiratory failure.”

Mac leaned forward with her hands on her knees while resting her chin on her clasped fingers. Screen after screen revealed the patients’ most up-to-date charts, none of which showed improvement. All vitals were either stable or trending downward.

“The antibiotics aren’t working,” mumbled Mac. All of the patients were now on oxygen and intravenous fluids. Some were being treated with streptomycin, while others were being given ciprofloxacin.

“Dr. Hagan, half of the patients have been moved to critical status and are being prepared for transport to the hospital at El Naranjo. CDC-Guatemala City is in the process of readying the facility for handling infectious disease patients. It will be two more days before the task is complete.”

They’ll be dead by then. She needed to talk to Baggett.

*****

Mac walked across the complex to the executive offices and found Baggett on the phone. His secretary asked her to wait for a moment because she’d just received instructions to locate Mac as well. After a couple of lighthearted comments regarding perfect timing, Baggett hung up the phone and shouted for Mac to come into his office.

“Dr. Hagan, please, come in and take a load off.” Baggett was one of the few colleagues at the CDC who Mac never offered her nickname as a means of addressing her. She preferred Dr. Hagan when dealing with Baggett.

“Good morning. You wanted to see me.” Mac decided to let her superior speak first before she hit him with the bad news.

“Dr. Hagan, you’ve been doing admirable work on this Guatemala outbreak and your containment efforts have been proven effective.” He paused as he shuffled some papers on his desk.

Mac filled in the silence. “Thank you, but the matters of containment have been handled by the local office and Lawrence Brown, the CEFO on station.”

“Yes, well, good job in containing it. Now, these other two cases appear to be isolated, am I correct?”

“Not necessarily,” she protested. “Trinidad is up to four cases now and—”

“Yes, Port of Spain. All four cases appear to be related to an explosion, am I correct? And further, there have been no other reported cases in the region, right?”

“Well, yes, but it is too early to declare the outbreak subdued,” replied Mac. Why is he downplaying this?

“Okay, good,” said Baggett, ignoring the premise behind Mac’s statement. “Now that these cases of the plague have subsided, I’m going to ask you to travel to Washington and provide a report to the White House and the National Defense Team. Book a flight this afternoon, as they’re expecting you in the morning at 7:00 a.m. at the White House.”

Mac sat back in her chair. “The White House? I mean, shouldn’t there, um, isn’t there a person for stuff like that?”

“Not this go-around, Dr. Hagan. You’re the most familiar with the situation. They want a full briefing. You’ll need to educate them about the disease, as well as inform them of the present status of the outbreaks.”

“Okay,” said Mac with a shrug. Mac held back her concerns about the antibiotics, which arguably needed one or two more days to determine their effectiveness. In the meantime, she had to get ready. Tomorrow, I’m going to the White House. Ain’t I special?

Chapter 44

Day Sixteen

The Situation Room in The White House

Washington

Attending the morning briefing was not a regular occurrence for Jablonik, who as a master sergeant rarely had the opportunity to sit at the table with generals. But in his capacity as the coordinator of Project Artemis, he was best suited to brief the President’s National Security team.

Jablonik had the requisite security clearance to be privy to the contents of the Morning Book, which was prepared by several intelligence agencies on a daily basis. These representatives, known as the Watch Team, compiled diplomatic cables, the contents of the State Department’s National Morning Summary, and the National Intelligence Daily Report in the early hours of the morning. The final product was delivered to the National Security Advisor, who then provided a copy to the President, the Vice President and the Chief of Staff.

Chief of Staff Andrew Morse conducted the meeting. After some preliminary matters such as the President’s schedule and Secret Service matters were disposed of, the topic of Project Artemis was discussed.

“Who do we have from the DTRA this morning?” asked Morse, looking at the chairs lining the perimeter of the wall, which were filled by a variety of staff members.

“Good morning, sir,” said Jablonik as he rose out of his chair. “I’m Master Staff Sergeant Jablonik, sir. I’m the coordinator of Project Artemis for the DTRA.”

“Yes, of course, Jablonik. Tell us what you have.”

“Thank you, I’ll be brief.” Jablonik moved to the head of the room and drew the attention of the most powerful military and intelligence personnel on the planet. He was awestruck for a moment, but then found his groove.

“The intelligence we’ve received from the NSA and reports obtained via the DOD leads us to believe that ISIS terrorists are planning a bioterror attack upon Europe in the coming weeks. Further, they’ve deployed hundreds of operatives into South and Central America, quite possibly for a move northward toward our border with Mexico.”

Morse interrupted as he thumbed through the Morning Book. “I take it that the weapon of choice, based upon the CDC report, is the plague. Am I right?”

“Yes, sir. I can’t speak to those details, naturally, but that is the information that we have at this time.”

“Okay, proceed,” said Morse. “Is there something imminent?”

“Not that we know of, although their activity indicates a mobilization that we’ve not seen before. ISIS has all but abandoned Syria and Northern Iraq. Our intel and satellite imagery has shown caravans of women and children headed for the northeastern highlands near Mosul and Kirkuk, along the borders of Turkey and Iran.”

Morse chuckled. “Sounds to me like we’ve got ’em on the run, you know, head for the hills!”

Many of the attendees laughed along with the President’s Chief of Staff, but Jablonik did not.

“Sir, I might add—” Jablonik paused to allow the playful banter time to subside “—I might add that the fighters, the jihadists, are traveling as I stated earlier, into Europe and Latin America. In addition, several days ago, an ominous message was posted to social media websites that we monitor for ISIS interaction. The message read the flag of Allah and jihad has been raised. Since then, they’ve gone dark.”

“Do you have any intelligence that leads you to the conclusion that a credible threat exists to the United States?”

“No, not at this time,” replied Jablonik, before adding, “But, clearly, they’re setting the table for something.”

“Also, has there been any form of threat levied at the Olympic Games, which are right around the corner?” asked Morse.

“No, sir. Not at this time.”

“Well then, Sergeant, stay the course and continue to monitor these events. If a bioterror action is planned, or undertaken, I suspect that you’d inform us. Now, let’s hear what the CDC thinks about all of this.”

Jablonik sat down, dejected. He wasn’t there to raise an alarm, but he didn’t expect to be dismissed out of hand. Bioterrorism was every bit as dangerous as a nuclear attack or the latest threat—cyber warfare. What will it take for the Chief of Staff to take this threat seriously?

*****

Mac was startled by the abrupt opening of the door leading to the hallway where she waited. The soundproof corridor prevented her from hearing any of the conversations within the Situation Room, not that she would have eavesdropped anyway. She was too nervous, frantically reviewing her notes like a college freshman cramming for her first semester final. In the end, she reassured herself as she followed the aide into the room. She was very knowledgeable on the subject and that gave her plenty of confidence as she caught her first glimpse of admirals and generals, cabinet members and other leaders of our government.

“Good morning, Dr. Hagan. Is that correct?” asked Morse.

“Yes, good morning. Dr. Mackenzie Hagan,” she replied proudly, wearing her dress whites.

“My notes tell me that you are also Lieutenant Commander Hagan, daughter of now-retired Major General Barbara Hagan, Commander at USAMRIID. Is that also correct?”

Mac set her jaw slightly. Obviously, Morse was reminding the participants in the morning briefing of who her mother was. Well, I know you just as well, Mister Former Lawyer.

“Yes, sir.” Mac was led to the head of the table by an aide, who offered her a glass of water, which she declined.

“Let’s get right to it,” said Morse, thumbing through the pages marked with yellow Post-it notes. “I’ve read the summation provided by the CDC and noticed that a more detailed analysis was not provided. Was that an omission on your part, Dr. Hagan?”

Mac bristled at the implication that she was unprepared. “Not at all, sir. I only learned of my involvement in this briefing less than twenty-four hours ago. In addition, this is some heady stuff and I wouldn’t want your eyes to gloss over. It will be easier for me to hit the high points, if you’ll allow me to, sir.”

Mac was forceful, yet respectful. In the past, she’d watched as bureaucrats ran over her mother because she was trying to protect the dignity of her position and rank within the military. Mac had learned from her mother’s experiences and was thick-skinned as a result.

Morse scowled at her and dropped his pen on the Morning Book. He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “Please, proceed, but keep it brief. We have matters of national security to discuss.”

Listen, Morse, if you didn’t want me here, why did you request my presence?

Mac refused to get flustered. Instead, she focused on the people in the room who seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say. She opened her planner and referred to the notes she’d prepared yesterday and last night. As she spoke, she never once referred to her planner. She didn’t have to.

“Yersinia pestis, or its common name, the plague, is an ancient disease that continues to rear its ugly head from time to time around the world. At the CDC, we have characterized it as a re-emerging infectious disease. Last year, worldwide incidents of the plague reached three thousand cases, of which four hundred eighty-two died.

“The disease is endemic in rodent populations in much of Southern Asia, parts of Africa, and rural areas in the Americas. It is extremely rare in the United States, with only five to fifteen cases occurring each year.”

“Where?” asked one of the generals seated to Mac’s left.

“Primarily in the Southwest, sir. Half of all cases arise in New Mexico, and the rest in California, Texas, and Colorado. Advances in living conditions, public health awareness, and aggressive antibiotic therapy make future natural plague pandemics improbable.”

One of the cabinet members to Mac’s right leaned forward and addressed her. “You’ve mentioned the word natural twice so far. I take it that unnatural is something quite different.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Mac. “For the most part, naturally occurring cases of the plague are few and far between, and manageable. Plague outbreaks following a bioterror attack would pose a serious risk. At the CDC, we consider plague to be one of the most serious bioterrorism threats along with anthrax and weaponized smallpox.”

The general to her left interrupted. “The plague was developed as an aerosol weapon by several countries in the past, most notably Russia. Fortunately, it hasn’t been deployed by anyone that I’m aware of.”

“Yes, sir, that’s true. Aerosol dissemination of the Yersinia pestis bacteria would expose the population to an otherwise uncommon, highly lethal, and contagious infectious disease—pneumonic plague.”

“If plague is so rare, why would terrorists use it as a bioterror agent rather than anthrax, which is more readily available?” asked one of the cabinet members.

“There are many reasons. First, let me address availability. Because pneumonic plague still occurs naturally in the endemic areas and is held in numerous microbe banks around the world, it is easily obtained compared to smallpox, for example. Second, the fatality rate with plague is high, not only for the immediately infected, but for those who come in contact with the infected patient—what we call the secondary spread. Anthrax, to put it bluntly, doesn’t contain the same punch as pneumonic plague.”

Morse leaned forward in his chair and studied the reports provided in the Morning Book. “It does have a high fatality rate, but that’s because of misdiagnosis. According to this, and what I can recall, the proper antibiotic treatment will cure most infected patients, correct?”

“That’s true, but not in all cases. Studies have shown that some strains have developed an antibiotic resistance in nature. Further, there is the possibility of genetic modification of a pneumonic plague strain to couple it with an antibiotic- and antimicrobial-resistant cell.”

“Do you have evidence that has occurred in your present outbreaks?”

“No, not yet,” Mac lied, sort of. She was concerned this had happened in Guatemala, but it was too early to make that declaration. In a way, she was glad that Baggett’s request to participate in the morning briefing stopped her from sharing her theories with him. She didn’t want to be labeled an alarmist. Whether it was a fair label or not, Mac would always carry the burden of her mother’s history on her shoulders and would be unfairly tainted as a result.

Morse leaned back and folded his arms. “There appears to be an increase in terrorist movements in Central America and Southern Europe. Is there any connection between these minor outbreaks in Guatemala, Trinidad, and Greece and bioterrorism, in your opinion?”

“Not definitively, sir, although the next week or so will reveal more.”

Morse looked over the heads of those seated at the main conference table and sought out Jablonik. “Dr. Hagan, I suggest that you establish a line of communications with Jablonik over there. If something more comes out of this, run it up the proper channels. In the meantime, I don’t see a need to create a panic. Fear and rumor are far more dangerous than the virus itself.”

No, not in this case.

Chapter 45

Day Sixteen

Park Place on Peachtree

Buckhead

After she arrived back in Atlanta, she took the MARTA red line train into Midtown and then caught the North Springs train until her stop in Buckhead. During the ride, she called Henri le Pen for an update on the condition of the patients destined for the hospital at El Naranjo. The body count had risen with three more deaths since she’d spoken with him yesterday. He did confirm they would be ready to transport the most critical patients to the hospital tomorrow. El Naranjo’s hospital would belong to the CDC by the end of the week.

The fact that the strain appeared to be antibiotic resistant bothered Mac. Like she’d advised the attendees in the Situation Room, there had been extremely rare cases of Y. pestis in nature that had been determined to be antibiotic resistant, but the testing had occurred in primates and laboratory rats, not humans.

If the Guatemalan patients were unresponsive to normal medication protocols, including colistin, which hadn’t been administered yet, then the situation would turn catastrophic in Guatemala. They still had not located the boy, Fernando. Further, the number of deceased monkeys was in the tens of thousands, too many to count. With an incubation period of up to six or seven days, Mac expected to be receiving more reports from the region of Y. pestis-positive patients.

She needed to make a decision on the use of colistin and whether the alarm needed to be sounded via GPHIN—the Global Public Health Intelligence Network, a network created by Canada’s Public Health Agency and designed to provide a public health early warning system when potential disease outbreaks occur around the world. Part of the WHO’s Global Outbreak Alert and Response Network, GOARN, the electronic system at GPHIN monitored Internet posts, media and news reports, and data shared with the WHO, compiling the information for use by health care professionals around the world.

GPHIN—GOARN—WHO.

The acronyms bombarded Mac’s mind as she grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator. She decided to run it up the flagpole to a higher-ranking officer—her mom the general.

When her mother answered the phone, she secretly breathed a sigh of relief. She loved her father dearly, but tonight she was too consumed with all of these events to endure his jokes. She’d make it up to him in the next call.

“Hi, dear,” her mom greeted her in the same even-tempered tone as always.

“Hey, Mom. Are you busy? I’ve had an interesting day.”

“Do tell.”

Mac settled in a chair and stared out the window as daytime came to a close and the night life of Hotlanta took over. “If I told you that I was locked in a room in the basement of the White House, with Andrew Morse, would you believe me?”

“Sure. Now, do I need to get you a lawyer? Do you need bail money?”

Mother and daughter shared a good laugh. Mac had contemplated taking up her mother’s fight in the past, and considered destroying the man responsible for her resignation, but murder or bodily harm was not an option.

“Would you blame me for giving him what he deserves?” asked Mac.

“No, because you wouldn’t do anything that I haven’t contemplated myself. But, you know, I’m in a pretty good place now and time has allowed the anger to float away with the tide.”

Mac smiled and propped her feet up. She was glad that her mother was able to let go of that dark time that ended her career. As a protective daughter, Mac might never forgive the political lynching her mother had endured, which had been driven by one Andrew Morse.

“Mom, there are several new wrinkles in the plague cases that I’d like to run by you. Are you up for it?”

“Are you kidding, dear? I live for your phone calls. That’s why I’ve started carrying the cordless around the house with me when your dad’s home. I’m tired of him monopolizing your phone time.”

“He means well, Mom.”

Her mom coughed away from the phone. “Sorry about that.”

“Are you sick?” Mac had concern in her voice. She’d been around the plague for the better part of two weeks. You never knew where it would rear its ugly head next.

Her mom coughed again and then cleared her throat. “No, I’m fine. They adjusted my meds and the blood pressure pills have given me a tickle. No big deal. So you really went to the White House?”

Mac gave her the details of the encounter with Morse but also the details of her trip to Greece. She didn’t tell her about Hunter for fear of the conversation getting sidetracked into the is-he-the-one conversation. She’d only had drinks and dinner with the guy, who, Mac just realized, hadn’t called her since. Although it wasn’t a date per se, which might warrant a follow-up call, Mac wasn’t sure what to make of the silence on his end.

She brought her mind back to the present and explained to her mother how the patients weren’t responding to the antibiotics. They considered the colistin option. Colistin had been developed decades ago as an antibiotic drug of last resort when a particularly difficult pathogen invaded a human host. Its initial use caused kidney toxicity in patients, but its effectiveness in preventing death from the pathogen outweighed the potential for kidney damage.

Her mother had suggested colistin while fighting the Ebola outbreak for those patients who were not responding to the regular course of treatment. She’d had some success with the drug and suggested that Mac try it in Guatemala with select, closely monitored patients.

Her mom cautioned Mac against expecting great results. “I don’t know if it will work, but the streptomycin and other commonly administered antibiotics are not. Colistin is effective against most known multidrug-resistant pathogens except one.”

“Which one?” asked Mac.

“Oh, don’t concern yourself with it. NDM-1 is very rare.”

“I’ve heard of it. It’s an enzyme that makes certain bacteria resistant to a broad range of antibiotics. Is it resistant to colistin as well?”

“Not at first, but like so many things in our field, they evolve. NDM-1 has found ways to avoid the attacks of antibiotics that we’ve bombarded upon them.”

Mac decided to move onto the next subject. “Listen, I don’t want a repeat of Sierra Leone, so I wanna stay on top of this outbreak.”

During the 2014 outbreak of Ebola in the West Africa nation of Sierra Leone, a San Francisco company was hired to monitor the spread of the deadly disease. It was later learned that not only did they underestimate the size of the epidemic, they contributed to botched lab results, undermined governmental authority, and placed people at risk in the region. The private contractors took shortcuts in their investigation, which resulted in lost samples of the Ebola virus.

The use of private contractors in a sizable outbreak like Ebola in West Africa was not unheard of. There simply were not enough field personnel to assign to all of the outbreaks. But after the revelations hit the media, everyone, including Congress, was looking for a scalp. Andrew Morse quickly provided them one—Major General Barbara Hagan.

This was the first event that brought Mac’s mother into the public eye. Later events allowed her to become the perfect shield for an administration that showed no loyalty to the career public servants that gave their lives to making the world a safer place to live.

“Dear, I get it. You’ve got quite the quandary. We haven’t talked about the WHO and GPHIN yet. I subscribe to the GPHIN service, and I haven’t seen any updates on Guatemala, much less Trinidad or Greece. I take it Baggett isn’t ready to notify the rest of the world at this juncture.”

“There’s politics involved, Mom. I figured that out today. Morse was hostile toward me for more than our relationship. He wanted to downplay all of it.”

Mac’s mom laughed. “Listen, you’re way ahead of the learning curve than I ever was. I was horrible at reading the political tea leaves. It wasn’t until I was out of the service that I realized how much politics played a role in anything involving a government agency.”

“You know what I’ve figured out, Mom. It’s all about money and votes. But in the end, it’s really money that drives their decision making. In this case, they don’t want to alarm the public. Morse said that to me before I was dismissed this morning. Why? People will stop shopping and spending money. They won’t travel on vacation.”

Her mom interrupted. “The foreign visitors will cancel their plans to attend the President’s precious Olympics in your fair city. He talks about those Games at every campaign stop like it’s the solution to our twenty-trillion-dollar debt.”

“So what do I do?”

“Cover your backside with Baggett. If he won’t take the steps to put the word out, come back to me. I still have friends, you know.”

Chapter 46

Day Seventeen

Park Place on Peachtree

Buckhead

Mac fumbled for the phone, cursing the person who woke her up at 5:00 a.m. She knocked her cell phone off the nightstand and sprawled across the bed, trying to reach it on the floor. It continued ringing, adding to the frustration of retrieving the rude and insubordinate device. She finally found it and gave it a squeeze for acting out of line.

“Hello, this is Dr. Hagan.”

“Good morning, sunshine,” greeted an overly chipper male voice through a static-filled connection. “Have you had your coffee yet?”

“No. Who is this?” she barked.

“Oh, how soon we forget. This is Nate Hunter. Remember the guy you used to hate, but now moderately tolerate because he wined and dined you in an exotic locale? That guy.”

Mac subconsciously pulled the covers over her chest as if Hunter might be able to see her naked, in the dark, through the phone. She frowned slightly and then pulled them up higher. He probably could!

She cleared her throat and managed to speak. “Well, Mr. Hunter. It’s nice to hear from you. Now, please call back during normal business hours. Goodbye.” And she hung up.

Mac placed the phone back on the nightstand and easily closed her eyes, trying to grab those last winks that she was just deprived of.

The phone rang again.

He’s a dead man.

“What? Don’t you have any concept of time, Hunter?”

“How did you know it was me again?”

“Talk or I’ll hang up,” Mac snarled through the phone.

“Okay, okay. It’s 11:00 a.m. here and I figured you’d be up by seven. I’m sorry I woke you.”

Mac closed her eyes and shook her head. She looked over at the clock on the table to confirm the time. “It’s only 5:00 a.m.”

“What? Really?” His voice trailed off as he apparently pulled the phone away.

“Yes, it’s only 5:00 and I’m going back to sleep.”

“Wait! No. I have to tell you something. I got you a present.”

Mac perked up and took the phone with her as she went to the bathroom, holding the display against her arm to muffle the sound and block his view if he was spying on her somehow.

“What is it?” she asked as she flushed the toilet and made her way back to bed.

“What was that noise?” asked Hunter.

“I took you to the bathroom. I just flushed.”

Hunter laughed. “Wow, Dr. Hagan, you move fast. I don’t even have a drawer in the dresser yet.”

“Nor will you. Now, tell me about this present.” Hunter was fully awake, but remained under the covers. She didn’t fully trust this member of the male species yet.

“I’m in Johannesburg, South Africa, outside the National Institute for Communicable Diseases.”

“Okay, what are you doing there?” Hunter was really full of himself this morning. This better be good.

“You said you wanted the plague, so I got it for you.”

Mac wasn’t sure what to say. She didn’t know Hunter well enough to determine if he was joking or serious. “You mean…”

“Yeah, I had to run around Africa a little bit, but I made my way to the Johannesburg facility. It’s the only BSL-4 left on the continent now that Gabon is out of commission. By the way, that explosion was no accident, but more on that in a minute.”

Mac flipped on the light next to her bed and looked around on the floor for her oversized Braves T-shirt. She couldn’t find it and scanned the room. It was tossed on a chair near her mirrored dresser. The inner debate took hold again. Can he see me or not? She didn’t want to take the chance.

“Hold on a sec,” she said as she shoved the cell phone under her pillow. She darted to grab her shirt and then took up an Indian-style, cross-legged position on the bed. “Did they have the Madagascar strain there?” She had forgotten that she’d mentioned it to him until now.

“Yes, ma’am. I had to flirt with a perky little blonde doctor to get it for you, but that’s okay, right?”

“Whatever,” she said, smiling at his flirtatious nature. “Wow, Hunter, thank you. This could be the piece of the puzzle that connects Gabon with the patient who died in Greece.”

“And, may I add, after what I learned in Franceville, there might be a connection to the other cases.”

Mac retrieved her planner from her briefcase and turned the pages to check her schedule. “When will it arrive in Atlanta? It has to be handled a certain way.”

“I know, they explained that to me inside the facility. It’ll be in your hands tomorrow afternoon. They’ve made all the arrangements.”

“Hunter, I can’t thank you enough. This will confirm some of our theories that we discussed at dinner the other night.”

“Yeah, about that. I really enjoyed every minute of our time together. I wanted to call, but I was all over the place. I’ve seen a lot of Africa the last couple of days.”

Mac was thrilled that he’d thought about calling her. This guy continued to impress her. “I totally understand. Are you headed back now?”

“I spoke to AFRIKOM a little while ago while I was waiting for you to wake up. I’m gonna hitch a ride on a military transport out of Tambo International this afternoon. It’ll get me back to Virginia tomorrow night.”

“Will you call me when you get a chance? There’s so much to discuss.”

“You bet. Listen, I talked to one of my colleagues who said he met you at the White House. Your presentation was very impressive, he said, among other things.”

“Yeah, thanks. Wait, what other things?”

“Boy talk, that’s all. Listen, I’ll call you tomorrow night, I promise. I’ve gotta catch this flight. Bye!”

Mac disconnected the call and bounced back against the stack of pillows. She couldn’t decide what excited her more, the phone call from Hunter or the Madagascar plague that was en route to her.

Chapter 47

Day Eighteen

CDC-Guatemala City

Charisse Jones, the deputy chief of mission, a career diplomat for the State Department in Latin America, had seen many ambassadors come and go. Typically, these ambassadors were political insiders, donors, or friends of donors, who contribute in heavy doses to a presidential campaign in exchange for an ambassadorship that they could flaunt at cocktail parties for the rest of their lives.

Jones was first assigned to Central America in 2003 when the CDC-Central American Regional Office was established. Two years later, she was asked to join the State Department as the deputy chief of mission, where she had remained a constant for nearly two decades.

A foreign embassy had many purposes. They issued visas to promote international visits to the United States. Ambassadors played a vital role in negotiating trade agreements between the U.S. and the host nation. On a personal level, they provided information and assistance to American citizens every day—replacing lost passports, assisting injured or ill travelers, and coordinating business relationships between American business interests and foreign governments.

All activities were coordinated through the chief of mission personnel, like Jones. The ambassadors shook hands, attend diplomatic functions, and then went home to the States upon the installation of a new administration. Jones, as was the case with others like her around the world, continued in their service.

Depending on the stability of a given host country, the embassy might enjoy lavish dinners and favorable surroundings, or the consular officers might fear for their lives on a daily basis. Jones had never feared for her life in her decades of service, until now.

This was the first time that the embassy in Guatemala City had closed. Jones issued a short message on the embassy’s Facebook page, which read:

U.S. EMBASSY TEMPORARILY CLOSED DUE TO THREAT

The United States Embassy in Guatemala City will close until further notice. We take seriously the security of embassy personnel and the people who regularly visit the embassy on business. Further statements will be posted on the embassy’s website and on this Facebook page.

Despite being followed by nearly two hundred thousand Facebook users, only a dozen or so commented or liked the post.

Jones also prepared the following security message for U.S. citizens to be posted on the embassy’s website, which was part of usembassy.gov.

SECURITY MESSAGE: U.S. EMBASSY TEMPORARILY CLOSED DUE TO THREAT

Due to recent gang-related violence and use of aggressive tactics in communities across the country, all embassy employees have been instructed that all travel anywhere outside of the embassy compound requires notification and coordination with the embassy’s Regional Security Office.

Further, the embassy recommends that private U.S. citizens take precautions when traveling outside their hotels or residence at all times.

The security message prepared by Jones contained an additional paragraph, which read:

The nation of Guatemala is experiencing a widespread influenza-like disease that can result in death. Although the outbreak was first discovered in the northern region of Guatemala, it has now spread as far south as Guatemala City. If travelers experience high fever, headache, shortness of breath, cough and weakness, please visit a health care provider immediately.

The ambassador requested that this paragraph be stricken from the security message. His liaison at the State Department advised him that such an alert would unduly frighten American citizens from entering the country and could, in fact, generate a mass panic out of Guatemala.

Despite a heated argument in which Jones pointed out the news reports from Nuestro Diario, the most widely circulated paper in Guatemala, of the unusual number of deaths from the flu, the ambassador struck the paragraph from the official text of the message.

But he was willing to grant her a compromise in deference to her years of service. She generated another, watered-down, travel alert. If there was something to this flu outbreak, the ambassador didn’t want their sickness on his hands, he’d said. Then he added that he anticipated the President being re-elected and planned on enjoying his ambassadorship for four more years, which implied that he didn’t want to go against the grain.

Jones thought the ambassador to be a spineless coward, but in the end, she wanted to keep her job too and was glad to publish the travel advisory, which read:

TRAVEL ALERT—Potential Implications for Travel Because of Influenza Outbreak

The Department of State alerts U.S. citizens to possible increased screening procedures, travel restrictions, and reduced transportation options as a result of a recent influenza outbreak in the northern Guatemalan departments of Peten, Alta Verapaz, Quiche, and Izabal. Visitors are cautioned to use proper hygiene methods when visiting these areas and see a health care professional if experiencing flu-like symptoms.

After the release, a reporter from Nuestro Diario contacted the embassy for comment, but didn’t receive one. No other news outlets picked up the story, and it certainly wasn’t reported in the United States.

Jones did one other thing on that day. She put in a request to the State Department for additional security and requisitioned ninety days of food rations and supplies for embassy personnel. Jones didn’t care what the ambassador thought, she was going to take care of the people within her charge.

Chapter 48

Day Eighteen

Izmir, Turkey

Yusuf had been a soldier in the Turkish Army for only seven months when refugees from Syria began to pour into Turkey in droves. Like his comrades, he was sick and tired of dealing with them. The refugees were dirty, they carried diseases, and above all, they refused to follow his orders.

After Turkey closed its border with Syria in 2015, ending their much-vaunted open-door policy for Iraqi and Syrian refugees, there were frequent claims that the refugees were being targeted by the Turkish border guards.

On a particular day in January, a group of refugees were killed trying to sneak through the rolls of razor-wire fencing installed by Turkish soldiers. According to the military, the dead were armed terrorists, although none of them showed up on any watch lists.

A few weeks later, in one stretch of border, guards shot dead eight Syrian refugees in one weekend, including three children and four women. At that point, international human rights organizations got involved, including the London-based Syrian Observatory for Human Rights—SOHR.

Through the use of confidential informants, Yusuf’s unit was identified as being the most egregious in their treatment of the refugees. As a result, Yusuf and his fellow soldiers were reassigned to other duties, including the Department of Foreigners, Borders and Asylum, a division of the General Directorate.

Yusuf didn’t mind when he was assigned to Izmir, although processing the Syrians and Iraqis still disgusted him. Izmir was a metropolitan city on the Aegean Sea and directly across from Athens. The city was far more progressive than Istanbul and Ankara. Besides, if he had to deal with the refugees, at least let it be when they were getting kicked out of his country.

With President Erdogan’s new orders to close the work camps and show the refugees the exit, his work days had picked up considerably. He barely looked at their travel papers as they crossed his desk, much less make eye contact with them. Conversation was kept to a minimum because he was sick and tired of being coughed or sneezed on. In fact, Yusuf was sure it was one of these vermin that gave him this cold.

But that didn’t stop him from partying. He was snappily dressed and splashed on a little kolonya to mask the sweaty smell from his illness. Yusuf was really feeling it tonight, and he even spruced up his flat in hopes of bringing home an overnight guest.

The taxi delivered him to the BIOS bar, which was packed well beyond its five-hundred-person capacity. Sweat was pouring out of his body as he found one girl after another willing to dance with him. Yusuf downed a couple of tequila shots, liquid courage to engage even the most beautiful women on the dance floor.

The band would be playing soon and Yusuf began to scope out the booths that lined the dance floor in search of a companion or two. That was when his wildest dreams came true.

Laughing and giggling in a booth to themselves sat two of the most heavenly bodies Allah could bestow upon a young man like himself. With a purchased bottle of authentic Mexican tequila, Yusuf introduced himself and offered to keep the ladies’ drinks full all night.

They were blonde, shapely, soft, and lively—and Yusuf would’ve been in Heaven if he could just rid himself of this throbbing headache. Tequila and the hopes of a sexual encounter would cure his ills, he surmised.

The women, both flight attendants on an easyJet Airbus 320, were on a two-day layover on a trip that originated at London Heathrow. Their flight was scheduled to return tomorrow evening, so the ladies could party until dawn without violating their contracts with the airline. And so they did.

THUMP—THUMP—THUMP.

The music provided the mood and the drinks fueled the fire within them. Yusuf loved English women—their accents, their relaxed nature, their promiscuity. Westerners stood in far contrast to the burka-laden women he’d grown up with. With another swig of tequila and a wipe of the forehead, Yusuf imagined himself becoming a refugee and heading for London one day.

The two flight attendants really enjoyed Yusuf, so much so they began kissing him. First one, then the other, repeatedly. They danced and made out on the dance floor. They’d return to their booth and make out some more. Laughing, drinking, and kissing.

Although Yusuf was disappointed at closing time when the ladies refused the offer to join him in his flat, he still enjoyed himself. Outside of BIOS, the trio took selfies, exchanged cell phone numbers, and ever the gentlemen, Yusuf helped his new friends into a taxi.

Yusuf had forgotten about being sick as he left that evening, but he was proud of himself as a proper ambassador of good times for the young ladies of London. They’d shared a lot that night, including a sickness that had a one hundred percent mortality rate, the plague.

Upon their departure from Turkey, the flight attendants of easyJet flight 8850 to London Heathrow, the seventh busiest airport in the world, would share their evening with Yusuf with the one hundred and fifty passengers and crew onboard—who would share it on their connecting flights with those passengers, and so on, and so on, and so on.

Chapter 49

Day Eighteen

CDC EOC

Atlanta

Mac joined Janie in the lab as the analysis of the Madagascar strain of the plague continued. A meeting was scheduled in the Emergency Operations Center with the entire contingent of department heads, including the director. The plague cases were too widespread and frequent now to consider them within the norm. Mac hoped the test results would provide her the last piece of the puzzle to generate a working theory upon which the CDC, and now the WHO, could adopt in formulating a course of action.

“Are you gonna tell me where you got this specimen or not?” asked Janie as she leaned back in her chair with her arms crossed. Mac looked at Janie and saw that dog-with-a-bone expression. Janie would allow these machines to run for days until she got the answers she sought. Time to fess up.

“After I checked into the hotel in Athens the other night, I turned toward the elevators and Hunter was standing right in front of me with a couple of beers in his hands and a boyish deer-in-the-headlights look on his face.”

“Who? Hunter?” asked Janie.

“You know, the agent from the DTRA who invaded our ops in Guatemala the day I arrived.”

“Really? Blue eyes was there in Greece? Why?”

Mac carefully slowly turned in her bulky protective clothing that was mandatory when working with a contagion such as Y. pestis in the biosafety lab. She wanted to confirm they were alone.

“Hunter was running down a lead on an investigation being conducted by the DTRA. During dinner, we compared notes and have both come to the conclusion a terror angle to all of this has to be considered.”

“Dinner? You had dinner with those steel-blue eyes?”

“Janie, yes, and drinks. And he’s cute, funny, charming, a gentleman and all of that. You need to focus on what I’m saying. We may be in the midst of a worldwide bioterror attack.”

“Do you like him? He’s really cute. You hated him in Guatemala.”

“Hate is a strong word. But it doesn’t…” Mac’s voice trailed off as she was about to admit aloud, to another person, that she in fact had an attraction to Hunter. “Janie, yes, I like him and I hope that I can see him again. In the meantime, would you mind helping me protect the world’s seven and a half billion people from an ugly death?”

Janie smiled through her headgear and respirator. “Okay, for now. To be continued, but then I want all the deets.”

“There are no other deets. I mean details. We ate dinner, had drinks, laughed and then got deadly serious. No kiss and no extracurricular side action, as you like to call it. Now, let’s confirm what we think we know.”

“Fine,” grumbled Janie. She began a series of keyboard entries, and then one by one, the four strains of plague under investigation from Guatemala, Trinidad, Greece, and Madagascar filled their own quadrant on the monitor.

Mac leaned closer to the screen and pointed to the Madagascar strain first. “If you hadn’t identified them, there would be no way to tell them apart, although Madagascar appears to look like a textbook example of Y. pestis. The rod-shaped bacterium, the bacillus, are perfect.”

“The others are slightly different, almost imperceptible without further magnification,” said Janie. She clicked on each image, using her mouse to enlarge the other three strains. “Are they different strains? It’s hard to tell without getting into the genetics. That’s gonna take some time.”

“Janie, the trouble is you think you have time when you might not.”

*****

Mac had attended these high-level briefings before, although none in the past had compared to her experience in the White House. But not since the Ebola outbreak had the director of the CDC addressed the group. He must be taking Mac’s reports and findings to heart.

Before the discussion started, Mac handed out the results from their analysis of the Madagascar strain. The notes provided a very important caveat—genetic testing was recommended due to the complexity of the bacterium and the slight variations in appearance. A trained eye and additional analysis would provide answers.

“Good evening, everyone, and thank you for sticking around at this late hour,” started Dr. Tom Spielman, a highly-respected public health servant who started his career with the EIS twenty-six years ago. He’d seen some of the worst outbreaks in the last three decades, including the SARS outbreak in Beijing, the bioterrorist anthrax response in Washington, and of course, Ebola in West Africa.

Mac liked Dr. Spielman, not just because he started at the bottom like she did, but because of his support for her mother during the Ebola crisis. He was on the ground in Liberia as well as Sierra Leone during the worst of the epidemic. Unlike the politicians who threw her mother under the bus, Dr. Spielman backed her up all the way in the media. Unfortunately, the media was more interested in taking scalps than reporting the successes.

“I’ve been thoroughly briefed along the way and, naturally, so has the secretary of Health and Human Services. What happens next will be determined by our conversation in this room. As you all know, fighting infectious diseases in modern times not only involves the combination of investigation and response, but it requires multiagency coordination, both within our nation’s government as well as internationally.”

Mac dropped her chin and smiled. Dr. Spielman had learned from her mother’s mistakes. You had to play the game because losing could ruin your career.

Dr. Spielman continued speaking. “It’s important that we come out of this room with a single voice, one that we all can agree upon. Further, our counterparts around the world will be looking to us for a solution, an overall game plan, for dealing with this rare set of outbreaks.”

Dr. Spielman rose from his chair and began to walk around the room until he reached Mac. He patted her on the shoulder and instructed her to take his seat at the head of the table.

“Dr. Hagan has provided some new data to help us create a working model. Please update everyone on your working theory, Dr. Hagan,” said Dr. Spielman as he took her seat.

Mac didn’t expect this, but because she’d been completely immersed in these outbreaks, summarizing them for the attendees was not a problem. She walked them through the outbreaks from day one, the discovery of the village in Guatemala, to her receipt of the Madagascar strain. During this revelation, she couldn’t help but notice the glare she was receiving from D-Bag. He was a control freak who would probably admonish her afterwards for hiding the Madagascar specimen from him.

During some discussion about monitoring and containment, Mac fought an inner debate. Should she disclose the terrorist angle, or was that beyond the scope of this discussion? Hunter had confided in her the details of the DTRA’s activities although she was sure he was holding out on some things. However, it was logical for her peers to question the incidents being spread in unconnected parts of the world. It was Dr. Spielman who put her on the spot.

“Dr. Hagan, do you have a theory as to how this exact strain could jump from Madagascar to the remote jungles of Guatemala? Is there a connection between Madagascar and Central America from a geopolitical or international commerce perspective?”

“Only one, sir, but it is a very remote connection,” replied Mac.

“Let’s hear it,” said Dr. Spielman.

“Sir, the International Fund for Agricultural Development, IFAD, is a specialized agency of the United Nations designed to help developing nations with food production. During the world food crisis of the seventies, the IFAD began to develop programs to prevent famine.”

“If I may,” Dr. Jack Fontaine raised his hand. “I worked with the IFAD in Africa before I joined the CDC in 2014. I’m familiar with their programs and internal operating structure.”

“Okay, thank you,” said Mac. “Here’s what I have and you might be able to assist further. A recent project of IFAD involved scaling up micro-irrigation systems in India, Madagascar, and Guatemala. Known as SCAMPIS, IFAD moved into areas where water scarcity and low soil fertility negatively impacted productivity. They provided organic fertilizers and micro-irrigation to address the poor growing conditions.”

Dr. Fontaine raised his hand again. “Have you contacted them? If not, I’d be glad to assist.”

Dr. Spielman answered. “Yes, please do. Dr. Hagan could use the help, I imagine.”

“Yes, of course,” replied Mac. It was worth running down the lead, but Mac knew it was a waste of time. Without definitive proof, Mac did not want to raise the issue of bioterrorism. She’d try to find the time to discuss it with Dr. Spielman privately. He’d understand her need for keeping the terror angle under wraps for now.

Chapter 50

Day Eighteen

CDC EOC

Atlanta

“Have we ruled out the zoonotic element of the typical Y. pestis spread?” asked one of the research scientists assigned to the EOC.

“We haven’t,” said Mac. “The village in Guatemala was set deep in the jungle in a remote part of the country near the Mexican border. The villagers had very little contact with outsiders, but the monkey population in the area is enormous. Over the last eight or nine days, at least twenty thousand monkeys have become ill and died all across the country. They are passing it among their population and also to domestic animals like dogs, cats, and farm animals. Because of the timing of the deaths, I’d expect a second wave of infected patients in Guatemala immediately.”

“This is why warnings need to be issued,” said Dr. Spielman. “I’ve been in contact with our friends in Geneva at the WHO. Because they don’t maintain a regional office in Latin America, they’ve agreed to let us continue running the lead on this one. Dr. Nakajima, the director, has voiced her full support for your efforts.”

“Why haven’t we seen more cases?” asked Baggett.

“We are still defining a timeline for this disease,” replied Mac. “Because the first outbreak involved a remote locale with no survivors to interview, we were at a disadvantage. After the second village was located, we’ve been able to be more definitive.”

“And your conclusion?” asked Baggett. He is so rude.

“Based upon our evaluations of all the infected patients, including those in Trinidad and Greece, the incubation period can be up to seven days. Then the misleading flu-like symptoms appear in days eight through eleven. Once the disease advances into the latter stages, onset is acute with high fever, difficulty breathing, and chronic coughing, including bloody sputum. The resulting pneumonia progresses rapidly. Finally, death comes in days twelve to fourteen.”

Dr. Spielman added, “With that timeline, we could be entering a period where the death toll rises significantly.”

“That’s correct,” said Mac. “If the patient is not treated with a course of antibiotics in the first twelve to twenty-four hours, pneumonic plague results in a near one hundred percent mortality rate.”

Baggett looked around the room. “Fourteen days from infection to death? Wouldn’t that give us sufficient time to locate and treat infected people?”

Dr. Spielman took that question. “There are two aspects to this, Donald, timing and treatment. First, with the advent of modern medicine, plague is treatable with commonly available antibiotics that we have large stockpiles of here and at the WHO facilities. The earlier a patient seeks medical care and receives treatment, the better their chances are of full recovery. From what I’m hearing, the incubation period is nearly double. If patients aren’t symptomatic for a week after being infected, the less likely they can be admitted and placed under observation.”

“What about a vaccine?” asked Baggett.

“There isn’t one,” answered Mac dryly. Do your homework, D-Bag.

Dr. Spielman continued. “The second aspect is treatment. Assuming that a patient seeks treatment upon seeing the first signs and is properly diagnosed, antibiotics work in most cases. Misdiagnosis is a real problem, however.”

One of the physicians interrupted. “I studied the field notes from a case study in Oregon. Both patients contracted the illness on August 21, 2010. The patients, a father and son, lived in the same home and it was determined that they were infected by fleas from one of their dogs who tested positive for Y. pestis. They initially self-diagnosed as having the flu, and after following the suggestions on WebMD, they drank plenty of fluids, ate chicken noodle soup, and got plenty of rest—until they began to cough up blood. By then it was too late.”

Baggett asked, “So they didn’t seek medical treatment?”

“No, like most Americans who don’t want to pay to treat a minor illness, they turned to the Internet,” responded the physician. “But there’s more. After the dog suddenly died, an autopsy was performed on all three, which produced a pathology report including a gram-negative rod with bipolar staining. It was sent to four different clinical laboratories in an attempt to accurately identify the isolate. All four produced different results. It took twenty-five days to identify the isolate as Y. pestis.”

Mac shook her head as she realized that the only way to save lives was to warn health care providers in the outbreak regions. There was no other option.

“They would all be dead by then,” surmised Baggett. “Listen, I understand that some type of warning or advisory needs to be issued. We, I mean the CDC, should limit it to the regions where the outbreaks have occurred. This does not affect the United States.”

Mac visibly shook her head in disgust. She noticed how D-Bag stumbled over the word we. Was he referring to the people in this room or his true allies, those in DC?

Dr. Spielman turned his attention to Mac. “How are the patients from the second village responding to the antibiotics?”

“Not well, sir,” replied Mac. “The standard regimen of antibiotics has failed to provide us the expected patient response. It might be the fact that we were too late in discovering the village, or it could be something else.”

Mac paused again, drawing the puzzled look of Dr. Spielman. There was more to discuss, and he could sense it. He took over the meeting and issued marching orders to all present. He pacified Baggett by limiting the warnings to the affected countries. He added more personnel by recalling CEFOs in the field stations around the country to report to Atlanta for further deployment at Mac’s request.

After the meeting was adjourned, Mac gathered her notes and started to leave when Dr. Spielman approached her. “Dr. Hagan, I’ve admired your mother and her work for a long time. I’ve also followed your career at the CDC. You’re incredibly talented and a dedicated public servant. You’re also lying. Make no mistake, a lie of omission is still a lie.”

“But, sir, I…” Mac stammered as she quickly surveyed the room to see if they were alone.

“Sit down, Dr. Hagan,” said Dr. Spielman sharply as he pushed the door closed. He took a seat directly across from her and stared at her for a moment. Mac remained silent.

“Start talking or else I’m gonna call your mother. Barbara will be on my side on this one.”

Mac chuckled as Dr. Spielman reminded her of the close relationship he had with her mother. It helped ease the tension, as she was suddenly feeling like she’d been called to the woodshed.

“Strict confidence, sir? I mean, I have an unproven working theory that is based upon a lot of circumstantial evidence.”

“For Pete’s sake, Doctor, nothing leaves this room. I saw what happened to your mother, but that doesn’t mean I’m some wet noodle bureaucrat afraid to stick his neck out. I can’t help you through this unless you tell me what you’re thinking. Last call before I pull out the big guns!” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He started to thumb through his phone directory. He’s got Mom’s home number. They are close. Now she had questions.

Mac started to provide him the terrorist connection first, without giving away her source. She detailed the Trinidad raid and the Gabon explosion. She explained the connection between the BSL-4 lab in Gabon studying the Madagascar strain and the unlikelihood that it matched the other outbreaks.

“Pneumonic plague is a likely bioterror agent,” said Dr. Spielman. “Plague, like anthrax and smallpox, can decimate a population, as it did in Europe during the Middle Ages. Further, an outbreak of plague could easily cause hysteria in the target population, as did the outbreak in India in ninety-four when hundreds of thousands fled the city of Surat. Countries embargoed flights to and from India, and their imports to other nations were restricted. In his defense, Baggett is trying to avoid that for America.”

“Yes, sir, I understand the economic and political impact of a terror warning. I just don’t want to be perceived as dropping the ball if it happens.”

“Understood. Now, there’s something else regarding the treatment, isn’t there?”

Mac swallowed as she prepared to give him the worst news. “The patients in Guatemala are not responding to the antibiotics.”

“I know,” he interrupted. “Isn’t it likely due to the late introduction to medical attention?”

“It’s not just the villagers, sir. There are now two new infected patients—a pathologist who conducted a sloppy autopsy early on, and his untrained nurse who assisted in the procedure. Their conditions have deteriorated despite the antibiotic regimen.”

“What are you suggesting? Is this strain antibiotic and antimicrobial resistant?”

“Based upon the clinical reports from the field, it’s a possibility. I need approval to introduce colistin as a treatment option. I think this should be done immediately.”

“Done, I’ll advise Baggett. Also, I want you in Guatemala City tomorrow. I don’t need to paint a picture of what a world with an uncontrollable strain of plague would look like, do I?”

Mac simply shook her head. She’d already envisioned that possibility.

Chapter 51

Day Eighteen

Izmir, Turkey

Bill Rollins had no idea what caused his wife’s illness. His wife of forty-three years had always been the picture of health. Through their years of unselfish missionary work around the world, they’d always been mindful of what they ate and drank and the real possibility of communicable diseases in the areas they traveled.

When the Turkish government suddenly announced that the refugee camps would be closed and their residents forced to go home or move along to their destination, he expressed frustration. He, and other members of the First Baptist Church in Austin, were there to help, and their good work was just getting started. He had no stomach for politics and, of course, had no inkling of the bioterror plot unfolding around him. Nor would he care.

Thousands of miles from home, in an unfamiliar place, Rollins shuddered as a wave of panic gripped his body. He looked down to the love of his life, Wanda Rollins, and begged her to hang on.

“Please, Wanda, talk to me. Can you look at me, sweetheart? Please.”

But Wanda was unable to respond. Her breathing was shallow and her pulse had weakened. Again and again, Bill cried out into the scorching hot night—thick with the stench of sweat and sickness, amid the grotesque moans of the dozens of people huddled outside the small clinic located on the outskirts of Izmir. Roads leading into the city were now blocked to prevent the refugees from entering. President Erdogan had shown them the exit, and the path led out of Turkey and nowhere else.

Bill’s heart was racing. How could this be happening? He couldn’t be losing her. They’d known each other since they were children!

He had no idea what was wrong, and he cursed himself for not insisting that she seek help. But Wanda, the consummate Christian missionary, wanted to make sure every last refugee departing for greener pastures in Europe had supplies for their journey. She’d persevered through the headaches, fevers, and difficulty breathing—dismissing the symptoms as a bug of some sort. But this morning, when she woke up with bloody drool on her pillow, she’d become alarmed.

It had taken Bill all morning to find transportation, only to be turned away at multiple entry points to the city. Eventually, with the guidance of a taxi driver, the Rollins found their way to this medical facility, which wasn’t much more than an outpatient clinic. Along with several dozen other families, he waited his turn.

Bill looked with dismay as his wife began another violent coughing episode. She sounded like she was drowning. Then more blood spewed out of her mouth onto his face, which he quickly wiped off with his sleeve. He couldn’t wait any longer.

He frantically looked forward, hoping to see a doctor, a nurse, a soldier, someone—anyone—besides the sick, who could help. He didn’t dare leave Wanda alone. What if he took too long? What if he was detained? He could never forgive himself.

Despite his advanced years, Bill was strong and he was on a mission. He scooped up Wanda’s limp and lifeless body and rushed her out of the waiting line toward the entrance to the clinic. He elbowed his way past other sick people with their families, drawing shouts of protest and threats of violence.

Bill and Wanda arrived at the steel security gates that protected the simple block and tile building with grate-covered windows. His heart raced faster. The muscles in his arms were burning. His legs were ready to collapse. But he stood tall as he cried, begging the armed soldiers for entry to save his beloved wife.

“You have to allow me to bring my wife inside,” he pleaded with the guards. “She’s burning up from fever. She’s gravely ill and needs help now!”

As Bill raised his voice, the guards raised their weapons in an attempt to calm him. Suddenly, the two main doors to the clinic opened up and a nurse covered in a white Tyvek suit with gloves, goggles, and a face mask approached the steel gate.

“Come closer,” the nurse instructed Bill. He pushed past the guards. The nurse placed a temporal thermometer on Wanda’s head. She never made eye contact with Bill as she placed two fingers on Wanda’s neck.

“Please, you must help my wife,” Bill begged once again.

“I am sorry, sir, but I cannot.”

Tears streamed down Bill’s face. “Why, why not? Please.”

“Sir, I cannot because your wife is dead.”

*****

Throughout the night, Bill Rollins grieved, holding his wife’s limp body in his lap as he leaned against a dead olive tree outside the clinic. He was oblivious to the dozens of other infected patients who had arrived seeking treatment. Around him, nine bodies lay in a dead heap, having succumbed to the deadly plague.

By noon, the bodies were piling up and the smell of death permeated the air. Turkish soldiers arrived with a bulldozer and dug a mass grave in the desert nearby. Without ceremony or prayer, Wanda Rollins was dumped in the grave and covered up as Bill watched in disbelief. What was happening? And why?

Bill Rollins boarded the first flight out of Izmir that afternoon, carrying nothing but his Bible and a photograph of his beloved Wanda. And he was carrying the plague. In fourteen days, he died at his home in Austin, surrounded by friends and family.

Chapter 52

Day Eighteen

Defense Threat Reduction Agency

Project Artemis Briefing

Fort Belvoir, Virginia

Hunter waited in the conference room as the rest of the Project Artemis team made their way to Fort Belvoir. While he waited, he studied the maps provided by the NSA analysts of ISIS troop movements. In the war on terror, you were fighting an unidentified enemy. They didn’t wear uniforms. There were no identifying markings like tattoos or gang symbols worn on their clothing. They walked among us in most cases, just like the 9/11 hijackers. But now, they had cover, camouflage, in the form of hundreds of thousands of migrants entering Europe, America, and other nations around the world who’d extended their hand of freedom and hope.

The people who’d taught Hunter the most in his career were the ones who pointed out what he didn’t see, not the obvious. Hunter was now firmly convinced ISIS was using an infectious disease, probably the deadliest form of plague, as a low-tech weapon of bioterror.

From what he’d learned from Mac and some additional research on his own, the plague wouldn’t have to be weaponized to wreak strategic global infection. The Madagascar strain, likely stolen or procured from the biosafety lab in Gabon, could be used by terrorists who were willing to intentionally infect themselves and then disseminate the deadly virus via the world’s air transportation system.

The yellow dots shown on the wall-mounted monitors reflected the locations of known operatives. The pattern was unmistakable. Dozens of dots flowed from Damascus to Havana and Caracas. Hundreds of dots crossed the Mediterranean Sea from Libya to Italy and Greece, and from Turkey into Eastern Europe. It looked like a map of General George Patton’s advance on the forces of the Third Reich during World War II.

Hunter was still in thought when his trusted comrade Kameel Khan joined his side. “Here’s the problem with this graphic, my friend. The dots only represent the soldiers of Allah that the NSA is aware of. Perhaps just one percent of the total.”

“I agree,” added Hunter. “If the last intercepted communications are read correctly, they’ve sent the women and children into hiding while the men invade Western civilization.”

“This is definitely coordinated,” said Khan. “There will be bombings, stolen vehicles run through open marketplaces, and mass shootings.”

Hunter remained quiet, processing everything that he’d learned. “No.”

“What?” asked Khan as he quickly turned his attention to Hunter.

“No, this is different. Bigger.”

“What do you mean?”

“Khan, think about it. If a jihadist is willing to strap a bomb to his chest or empty several magazines into a crowded theater, knowing he’ll die in exchange for a few dozen infidels, what would stop him from acting as a human carrier for the deadliest infectious disease known to man—the plague?”

Jablonik and several other members of the team entered the room and the briefing was set to get under way. Hunter had spoken with Jablonik earlier in the day regarding the recent findings at the CDC. Hunter, through Jablonik, had a direct pipeline into the CDC that transcended Mac’s operational level. He would soon have to make a decision regarding his relationship with her. He didn’t like the thought of withholding information from someone he cared about.

“Okay, people, let’s get started. It’s gonna be a late night and an early morning tomorrow for you all. To begin this briefing, I’ll hand out your team assignments and travel docs. As you can tell by the monitor, we’ve got a lot of cockroaches to chase down. You can’t fight terrorism on a laptop or a cell phone. We’ve got to get boots on the ground and confirm what we think we know.”

Hunter and Khan made their way to a couple of seats at the rear of the room before Jablonik caught their attention. “Hunter, Khan, up here with me.”

Jablonik slid dossiers and folders to each member of Project Artemis. Hunter and Khan were paired together, as expected. They’d established a good working relationship and a level of trust like two cops who got in their squad car every morning unsure of what the day might bring, but knowing they had each other’s backs.

“Thanks to some excellent detective work by Hunter while he was in Africa, we believe we’ve unmasked one of the largest, most deadly terror plots in the history of mankind. Yeah, that sounds overdramatic like it came from some Hollywood movie trailer, but the facts are indisputable. And, I might add, there’s precedent for this.”

Jablonik pulled out the chair at the head of the table and settled in. He took a moment to look around the room to make sure he had everyone’s attention. As everyone turned their attention to Jablonik, he provided a quick history lesson.

“We have some folks on loan from the FBI, so for their benefit, let me remind all of you the idea of using biological weapons has been around for centuries. In the fourteenth century, the Black Death, as the bubonic plague was widely referred to, was responsible for the death of a third of Europe’s population. The mortality numbers in the Middle East and Northern Africa were just as large.

“The Black Death was considered the greatest public health disaster in history. What most people don’t know is how the plague was introduced into Europe. In 1346, in the ancient city of Caffa on the Crimean Peninsula, a battle raged against the city and its protected walls. Italian sea merchants assisted in the fight by blocking the ports to the city, cutting off their supplies

“But the crowning blow was when the attackers began to heave plague-stricken bodies over the walls. In short order, the inhabitants of Caffa were infected, but so were the merchant ships that assisted in the blockade. When they returned to Italy via the ancient city of Constantinople, at the time the largest and wealthiest city in Europe, the plague was spread into Europe.

“I’m reminding you of this for a reason. We’re fighting an enemy who plays by a different set of rules than we do. I’d like to believe that our government, and most Western powers, would never resort to the use of biological weapons. ISIS, however, has no moral compass. They are the modern-day heathens, similar to the Barbarians of the Middle Ages. History is repeating itself today.”

Jablonik continued by bringing the team up to date. Although he espoused to Hunter’s working theory developed with Mac, he still wanted to rule out other possibilities. He assigned two teams to investigate the eighteen repositories around the world that traded in plague bacteria. He pointed out that in the last five years, twenty-seven research laboratories had published papers on Y. pestis, but only four had ordered the cultures from the approved repositories. Where did the others get the bacterium? The Internet?

Hunter and Khan were assigned to Guatemala. The local military police had interrogated a pharmacist from the small town of Corinto, Honduras. The man had entered the country and was accused of purchasing black-market antibiotics from gangs in Guatemala City, which drew the attention of the Joint Task Force Tecún Umán, a new antigang unit within Guatemala’s law enforcement structure.

The man had become nervous and attempted to flee during the interrogation. He began shouting jihadi phrases in Arabic, which were interpreted to mean the Black Death was coming and the infidels would die. Jablonik picked up on this during his weekly Homeland Security briefing and thought it would be worthy of investigation by Project Artemis.

Hunter coordinated his departure for Guatemala with Khan and then started home to pack. On the way, he made a phone call.

Chapter 53

Day Eighteen

Fort Belvoir, Virginia

“Hey, Mac, this is Hunter.”

“Well, you sound serious,” Mac said into the phone. Hunter certainly wasn’t in a bad mood. Contemplative would be more accurate.

“No, I’m sorry. I just got out of a briefing that expanded on what we discussed at dinner last week. A lot has developed that, well, is surreal.”

Mac was silent for a moment; then she spoke. “Let me tell you about my day. First, I’m satisfied that the Madagascar strain is a match to our other three outbreaks, but with a slight wrinkle.”

“A wrinkle?” asked Hunter.

“Yeah, a genetic modification is the best way I can describe it. There will be some testing required and further patient study in order to get a handle on it. Nothing that time can’t solve.”

Hunter shook his head as he accelerated, bringing the Corvette just over eighty miles an hour. Time was something they might not have.

“The trouble is you may think you have time, but others may have different plans for your use of it,” added Hunter.

“Whoa, buddy, that’s pretty deep and philosophical. Are you gonna tell me what’s goin’ on, or am I gonna have to bust out our secret stash of truth serum?”

Hunter laughed in appreciation of Mac trying to brighten his spirits. Then he got a second wave of chuckle when he thought about her truth serum. If she only knew what was in the DTRA’s pharmaceutical arsenal.

“Ha-ha, very funny. No truth serum or waterboarding necessary. Listen, we haven’t had that much time together to, you know, talk.”

“You’re married,” Mac shot back.

“Huh? No, I’m not married.”

“Gay?”

“Enough! No.” Hunter now laughed in earnest at Mac’s playfulness. All of his concern was washed away and he was able to shake off the malaise resulting from the prospect of an army of human carriers of a disease that had the potential to kill millions. “I need to tell you more about my work and some intel I’ve received. Also, I have to travel to Guatemala to chase a lead that might relate to your investigation there.”

“Really? I’m flying to Guatemala City early in the morning with my associate Janie. Remember? You met her in the tent.”

“Of course, she was just as protective of your turf as you were. You two make a formidable pair. Do you have a break in your investigation?”

Mac hesitated and then her voice became serious. Both of them had thoughts weighing heavily on their minds. “I’m afraid that the infected patients from the second village are not responding to the antibiotic treatment. It could be the disease was too advanced or that the strain has been modified.”

“Modified?” asked Hunter.

“Hunter, I don’t know and I’m going out on a limb with this hypothesis because I simply don’t have enough live cases to study. But I believe Y. pestis has been modified into a superbug, one that is antibiotic resistant.”

Hunter’s heart raced and so did his car. He was unknowingly topping ninety miles an hour and caught himself. Being stopped by law enforcement wasn’t a concern because his identification acted like a get out of jail free card, but with his mind elsewhere besides the road, his reaction time would be delayed at that speed.

“Are you saying it can’t be stopped?” he asked.

“Let’s not go there yet. I’m bringing a supply of colistin, an antibiotic of last resort, as it’s called in the pharmaceutical field. I need to administer the regimen to some test patients whose health hasn’t deteriorated too far.”

“I’ll be at the Civil National Police station first thing; then I’ll join you. I will have someone with me from the DTRA. We work on the same project together.”

“Okay. Is this project something I’ve heard about?” asked Mac.

“No, but we can discuss it over dinner if you and Janie are up for it,” he replied. “But you need to be aware of the situation in Guatemala City and the rest of the country. I’ve heard about the thousands of dead monkeys. It’s spooked the locals and caused local law enforcement to become inundated with calls.”

“I’m aware,” added Mac. “Twenty thousand plus, and they’ve tested positive for the plague. This disease is zoonotic, Hunter. We might be wrong about its origin. It could have started naturally in the primate population and spread from there.”

Hunter looked at his face in the rearview mirror and then shook his head grimly. He responded to Mac. “It may be propagating that way, but I don’t believe that this is natural.”

“Truthfully, neither do I,” said Mac.

“Mac, listen, there’s one more thing. You need to be extremely careful while you’re on station. The country is on the brink because of the void created by the lack of law enforcement personnel. The military plays an active role in day-to-day police functions, but they’re running all over the country putting out fires related to the spread of the disease via the monkeys.”

“Thank you for the heads-up, but we’re very careful about sanitation and handling of infected patients,” said Mac.

“No, it’s not that. The local gangs are filling the void left by the undermanned police force. They’re brutal and should not be underestimated. Guatemala City is a powder keg.”

Chapter 54

Day Nineteen

CDC

Guatemala City

Guatemala’s public health sector was just rebounding from its worst crisis in history with hospitals and clinics across the country suffering due to lack of funds and government corruption.

Several Guatemalan public officials had been implicated in a massive tax-evasion scheme that forced public hospitals to pay the price. The scheme, called La Linea, was orchestrated by the former President and Vice President of Guatemala. The officials received bribes from health-industry businesses to provide them favorable tax breaks. When the scheme was discovered, the government’s health care budget collapsed, leaving the hospitals in debt.

Budget cutting had finally taken its toll, reducing personnel and needed medications. Guatemala’s government spending on healthcare was the lowest in Latin America. Currently, it hovered around one percent of the nation’s GDP, whereas the average public investment in Central America ranged between four and six percent. During an interview, one physician told the local media that her hospital was running on the supplies their patients provided when admitted.

Now, a new crisis overwhelmed the health care system—patients experiencing flu-like symptoms. In Guatemala, the number of patients seeking treatment in the last forty-eight hours might collapse the health care system of even a developed nation.

Mac and Janie were greeted at the airport by Lawrence Brown, who was his usual amicable, British self. But within minutes of their ride to the Hospital San Juan de Dios, their friendly banter disappeared and the scenes of Guatemala City shocked the travelers from Atlanta.

“This looks like the streets of Athens except a thousand times worse,” said Mac. “Look at all of the dead animals!”

Carcasses of dead pets and strays littered the sidewalks, alleys, and even the middle of the road as they entered the city.

“This has happened in the last thirty-six hours,” said Brown. “In addition, the number of walk-in patients into local emergency rooms has skyrocketed. A frail system is on the verge of collapse.”

“Since yesterday?” asked Janie.

“Yes,” replied Brown. “Two days ago, local radio stations reported the problems with the diseased animals around the country. Yesterday, the U.S. Embassy issued two vague advisories. One closed the embassy for the quote safety of their personnel and visitors and the other one warned of travel restrictions in the northern part of the country where the outbreaks occurred.”

“Did they mention the outbreaks?” asked Mac.

“No. The closing of the embassy was due to increased gang violence—namely, MS-13, La Mara Salvatrucha.”

Mac thought of Hunter’s warning the night before. “I’ve heard of them. They have large operations back home in LA and Boston.”

“They rule the roost in Guatemala City,” added Brown. “The majority of the gang members are transplanted El Salvadorans. They’re notorious for their use of violence and acts of merciless revenge.”

“In Boston, they’ve established a major human-trafficking operation,” said Mac. “I investigated an outbreak of salmonella that was transported into East Boston by illegal aliens courtesy of MS-13. I’m familiar with their brutality. A thirteen-year-old girl who’d been forced into prostitution confided in me. She offered to assist the police in a child prostitution sting. Four days later, they found her body floating in Boston Harbor.”

Brown wheeled the Ford Explorer onto Avenida Elena following their brief ride from the airport and that was when Mac caught her first glimpse of the chaos. The military had cordoned off the hospital perimeter with razor wire and heavily armed soldiers. The hospital resembled one in Fallujah, Iraq, not in America’s backyard.

“Are they gonna let us in?” asked Janie.

“Yes, our CDC credentials will suffice,” replied Brown, who worked his way to the emergency room entrance. After a few minutes, the armored vehicles were moved out of the way, allowing them entry. Mac looked to the rear to see if they were followed in by any of the locals demanding entrance. She was suddenly afraid for their safety.

“How far is the CDC facility from here?” asked Mac.

“Only seven or eight blocks,” replied Brown. “It’s relatively quiet over there. The Guatemalans are focused on the three hospitals in the city, small doctor clinics, and the pharmacies.”

Brown parked the truck and led them to the rear hatch. He retrieved two large rolling aluminum carrying cases packed with doses of colistin. He also popped open an oversized duffle bag full of personal protective clothing.

“We’ll want to suit up,” said Brown. “Not only for the obvious reasons, as you can see. But the hospital doesn’t have enough to protect their own staff, much less outsiders.”

Mac and Janie suited up with masks, eye protection, and gloves, in addition to the protective suit. It would be hot as blazes in this older-style gear, but better than being infected.

If the madness surrounding the outside of the hospital wasn’t eye-popping, the mayhem inside the facility was. Gurneys were full, so infected patients lay slumped in the hallways and stairwells. The frenzied, limited staff was ineffective at rendering treatment. Their state of mind prevented them from helping anyone properly.

Mac pulled Janie and Brown aside before they approached the hospital’s admissions area. “Guys, this won’t work. The purpose of our trip was to gauge the effectiveness of the colistin on newly infected patients. There are plenty of those to go around, but this is not a controlled environment.”

“There’s no way to monitor their progress,” added Janie.

“Exactly,” Mac said. “This situation is unsustainable. It’s only been a day and a half since the media broke the story full of half-truths, and look around you. Imagine what tomorrow will bring?”

“No, imagine what will happen when they know the whole truth,” interjected Brown.

Mac pressed her body against the wall as an orderly ran past them, pushing a gurney with a vomiting child. “Lawrence, do you have any medical facilities on the CDC’s premises? I know it’s out of the ordinary.”

“Well, not part of our complex, but next door in the same block is a veterinarian’s office,” replied Brown.

“That’ll do,” said Mac. “Do you have a relationship with them?”

“Well, not the vet, who left the country yesterday. But I have sort of dated his assistant, Camille. She lives in the small apartment above the vet’s office. Why?”

Mac looked around the hospital one last time and then arrived at a decision. “Come on, let’s go. Lawrence, can you sweet-talk your lady friend into letting us use their examination rooms to see patients?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he replied with a half bow.

Chapter 55

Day Nineteen

Hospital San Juan de Rios

Guatemala City

Oscar Paz and his two trusted lieutenants, Manuel Abrego and Jose Alvarez, leaned against his 1970 Chevelle Super Sport. As Paz rose up the ranks of MS-13 in Guatemala City, he was rewarded with the muscle car that would have been valued at over thirty thousand dollars in the States. The black paint and chrome wheels shone in the hot sun, but it was the Chevelle’s three-hundred-and-fifty-horsepower motor that provided the real heat in Guatemala City.

Oscar Paz was a top producer and captain for Hector Quintero, the son of famed Mexican drug lord Rafael Quintero. When MS-13 established a working relationship with the Sinaloa drug cartel in the mid-eighties, the Quintero family married into the leadership of MS-13. As a result, Hector became part of the leadership team.

He and his associates were carefully watching the activity around the hospital. They didn’t have to read the newspaper to know that something extraordinary was happening in Guatemala. Many of their soldiers and their families had come down with the mysterious flu illness in the last several days. The military police were preoccupied dealing with the sick and trying to keep order around medical facilities like the Hospital San Juan de Rios.

When the white Ford Explorer was granted entry into the hospital, the trio of MS-13 gangbangers studied the occupants. The truck was marked CDC in blue letters and the passengers appeared to be Americans. This piqued the onlookers’ interest, and when they wheeled the large aluminum cases inside, they smelled opportunity.

“Drugs,” Paz said without elaboration. The three continued to watch and their adrenaline spiked when the CDC personnel suited up into their protective gear. “Medicamentos importantes.”

Paz pulled his cell phone out of his faded jeans and called Hector Quintero. Paz explained what he’d seen and Quintero promised to send him additional men. They were instructed to wait for them to leave and follow safely out of sight. Quintero thought American-made pharmaceuticals used by the CDC would be more valuable than MS-13’s beloved cocaine under the circumstances.

“Oscar, they’re coming out,” said Abrego, causing Paz to wind up the call with the big boss.

Paz calmly walked to the driver’s side and got in. Alvarez slid into the backseat of the two-door muscle car and Abrego rode shotgun, literally, as he pushed a sawed-off Remington out of the way to make room for his ample frame.

They sat quietly for a moment while they watched the three Americans remove the protective suits and pack the rear of the Explorer. Both of the women unfurled their long hair from the hair bands that held it up, allowing the wind to straighten and blow it back into shape. A smile came across the face of Oscar Paz as he began to accept the praise of his boss in his mind. Perhaps he would earn a turn when Hector was done with them.

“Let’s see where they go and what they’ve got for us.”

Chapter 56

Day Nineteen

CDC Offices

Guatemala City

Brown navigated the busy downtown streets of Guatemala City, using alleys and side streets to avoid main thoroughfares to avoid congestion. This was not a typical day for the city inhabited by three-point-three million, many of which were from the twenty-three distinct Mayan groups present in Guatemala. The indigenous people of Guatemala had packed the city in the last thirty years, fleeing the impoverished rural areas of the country. Those who couldn’t find a living in Guatemala City headed north, seeking opportunity in America—the shining city on a hill.

“This is utter madness,” yelled Brown as he carefully drove through a group of children begging for food. “Look, there! They’re breaking into that small grocery store. This city has delved into chaos in the last twenty-four hours.”

Mac had never experienced anything like this firsthand. In Africa, during the Ebola outbreak, she observed unrest, but it was more out of despair for the spread of the illness to loved ones than out of economic conditions deteriorating. Africans had never experienced economic prosperity, even on the level of Guatemala City. Despite its poor economic state, Guatemala was far better off than West Africa nations.

No, this was different. The people appeared panicked. These were not the looters of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, seeking out big-screen televisions and laptop computers in order to survive. They appeared to be desperate for anything that might save them or a family member from the disease that was sweeping their nation.

Hour by hour, the plague virus had blasted the population with panic. “Janie, let’s run through the timetable again.”

“Okay,” she responded. “In rough terms, keeping in mind that we still don’t have a controlled environment to establish a case study because of where the outbreak has occurred, this is what we’ve surmised. The incubation period is one to eight days, double what the Y. pestis bacterium has indicated in the past. The infected become symptomatic days nine through twelve, roughly. After day twelve, usually around day fourteen, the infected die with, thus far, a one hundred percent mortality rate.”

“Contact to death is one to fourteen days,” summarized Brown. “That’s at least five to six days longer than a normal case of the plague.”

“Normal, right,” added Janie.

Mac sat quietly for a moment as she did the math in her head. It was difficult to focus with the activity going on outside the vehicle. A woman collapsed on the sidewalk next to their truck, and no one stopped to help her. Mac resisted the urge to assist, knowing that the elderly woman was infected and it was too late to start a course of treatment. It was heartbreaking.

Mac gathered her thoughts and continued the discussion. “We have to look at Fernando, from village number two, as our patient zero for sake of argument. Based upon the timetable that Janie just provided us, other deaths caused by the disease would’ve surfaced already. That means the first outbreak in village number one was isolated and contained.”

“Correct,” said Janie. “Twenty-one days ago, Fernando discovered the deaths in village number one and left. He would’ve become infected on that date.”

“Yes,” interjected Brown. “Our investigation shows that Fernando was seen boarding the chicken bus seven or eight days ago, probably close to death.”

“At which time, he would’ve infected the forty passengers, if not more who boarded the bus, depending on how long Fernando lived,” said Mac. “During the last eight days, those forty-plus infected passengers started their incubation period and in the last forty-eight hours began to exhibit symptoms. The timing is just about right.”

Janie counted on her fingers until she reached eight on the middle finger of her left hand. She grabbed it with her right and wiggled it, as if to drive the point home regarding her feelings about this killer virus. “Assuming the bus riders were more socially interactive than the remote villagers, it’s likely that each of them came into contact with hundreds of others in the last eight days.”

Mac shook her head in disbelief as the aggressive transmission of the virus swirled through her own calculations. “And then there are the monkeys.”

“The monkeys are spreading the disease faster than the human carriers,” said Brown. “The bottom line is that this outbreak has hit the country all at once. The combination of the infected and fear associated with the news reports has detonated the psyche of Guatemalans.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Mac. “Panic can go from zero to a hundred in an instant. The question is which can race faster, the panic or the spread of the disease?”

Chapter 57

Day Nineteen

CDC Offices

Guatemala City

“Listen, Mac,” Brown whispered into her ear. “This situation is deteriorating by the hour. There’s an Avianca flight that leaves around 10:00 tonight. I think you and Janie need to be on it.”

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it,” Mac whispered in response. “But my guess is that the flight is full. We’ll be fine until our American flight departs at two tomorrow. It’s only twenty-four hours, right?”

“Okay, it’s your call, but I’ve got this if you wanna go this evening. Tomorrow will be worse, I suspect.”

“Thank you, Lawrence.” Mac smiled as she patted the young man on the back. She’d come to admire him since they’d met nineteen days ago at the original hot zone. In the frenzied aftermath, he’d become a reliable resource on the ground here. “Now, go find your friend while Janie and I unpack the truck.”

Lawrence nodded and smiled as he hustled off towards the rear entry to the vet’s office next door. She watched as youthful exuberance sent him off on a new adventure. Although Brown sensed the impending danger caused by the instability of the city, he still soldiered on in his duties. Mac would be sure to mention this to the head of the Central American Regional Office.

Mac casually walked to the rear of the Explorer as Janie hoisted the heavy aluminum cases out of the cargo space. The classic Chevelle caught her eye as it slowly drove past them, three sets of eyes rubbernecking them as it picked up speed and left. The car gave her an uneasy feeling, sending a slight chill up her spine. Suddenly, she felt vulnerable and wished she had her guns.

Inside, two office personnel and a research assistant manned the fort. They spent most of their days on the phone, attempting to track down people on the contact lists generated over a week ago. Mac didn’t have the heart to tell them it was a waste of time. From what Mac had observed since their arrival in the city, chasing down people in contact with the original carriers would involve calling every name in the Guatemalan phone book, if there was one.

“Janie, find a secure location for the bags,” said Mac, who then asked the receptionist if there was an office she could use to place a couple of calls. After being directed to Brown’s small corner office, she called Atlanta and spoke with Baggett.

Baggett, as usual, tried to downplay Mac’s observations on the basis that none of the local hospitals had positively identified any of the sick as plague victims. To Mac, this was absurd and she tuned out the rest of his suggestions. She had a direct line to the director of the CDC now, and she should have called Dr. Spielman in the first place.

She spoke with his assistant, who told Mac the director was unavailable. She asked the following simple message be passed along—Guatemala has erupted with symptomatic human carriers.

Finally, Mac tried to call Hunter, but received his voice mail instead. Her message to him was simple as well—At the CDC. City in chaos. Be careful.

As Mac hung up the phone, Brown emerged through a side entrance to the building, with a pretty Latina woman in her mid-thirties. She appeared apprehensive, but after Mac spoke with her for a moment, the woman’s nervousness stemmed from the situation outside and not for the task being asked of her.

In fact, one of her co-workers, a veterinary school intern, had come to her for help yesterday. The man’s parents had taken ill and they were unable to access the hospital. He and his younger sister had been caring for the parents for two days. Camille had provided them Clavamox, a form of amoxicillin used to treat respiratory infections in small animals. Mac admired her attempt to help the family, but the Clavamox would be ineffective.

In any event, Mac was pleased they had a group of test patients. She instructed Brown and Camille on safety procedures. From this point forward, they were to use personal protective clothing and avoid all skin-to-skin contact. When the family arrived, they would be given surgical scrubs out of the CDC’s supply closet and their old clothing must be discarded. No one must come in or out of the vet clinic except Brown and Camille.

Brown locked the entry doors to the CDC building and gathered up the three remaining staff members to head across the alleyway to the vet’s office. The four of them would sterilize the interior with antibacterial wipes and also stock the building with MREs and bottled water. The situation was not ideal, but it was all Mac had to work with.

Janie prepared detailed notes on how to administer the colistin and then created makeshift charts to monitor the progress of their four patients. Sadly, Janie and Mac agreed, the son and daughter would be starting the drug regimen as well. They’d been exposed to the parents during the incubation period and as symptoms began to surface. There was little doubt they were infected too.

Finally, Mac instructed Janie to warn Brown to take care of himself and Camille too. If they showed the slightest signs of being symptomatic, they were to administer the colistin regimen to each other.

Chapter 58

Day Nineteen

CDC Offices

Guatemala City

Hunter and Khan were frustrated as they made their way to the local CDC office. Unlike Greece, where Hunter was able to take an active role during the interrogation process, he was relatively stonewalled here. The local law enforcement, now primarily made up of the military, cooperated in terms of sharing information. But, as Khan put it, they didn’t allow Hunter to have a go at the pharmacist who’d likely assisted a group of ISIS operatives to pass through Honduras and into Guatemala. Looking at the scared man through the two-way mirror in the police station, Mac was certain that he could learn everything the man knew in all of five minutes if he had been allowed to use the proper methods.

“Hunter, there,” said Khan, pointing to a vacant gravel lot across from the CDC building. “Do you see them?”

“Yeah, looks like a bunch of punks to me,” said Hunter.

“More than punks, my friend. They’re Mara Salvatrucha, the deadliest gangbangers in the world. Do you see the tattooed faces? That’s how they distinguish themselves from punks, as you called them.”

Hunter studied the group without being obvious as he parked the rented Dodge Caravan in front of the building next to the CDC’s white Explorer. He sat there for a moment as he and Khan counted heads through their rearview mirrors.

“Seven?” asked Khan.

“Yeah, seven. Why would they congregate there, I wonder?”

“Also, did you notice they weren’t carrying on a conversation?” asked Khan. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were casing the joint, as your American crime shows like to say.”

Hunter nodded. There were a number of reasons a gang like MS-13 would be interested in the CDC, or the veterinarian’s office next door, including the ability to score pharmaceuticals and to prey upon the defenseless women who typically worked in those facilities.

Hunter reached in the backseat of the van and grabbed his duffle bag. Khan appeared to read Hunter’s mind and did the same. Each man unzipped their bags and revealed two-gun shoulder holsters. Hunter turned the combination lock on his Pelican Storm dual-weapon carry case, which revealed identical Sig Sauer P320 nine millimeter handguns.

He strapped one to each side of his shoulder holster after pressing two magazines into place. Khan was one step ahead of him as he removed the foam tray, revealing four more twenty-one-round magazines, which were easily slipped into the straps of the holster.

The rig, which contained both weapons and a hundred rounds of one-hundred-forty-seven-grain ammo, was heavy. But, from the looks of the bad hombres across the street, necessary for their protection.

Hunter pulled out his cell phone and called Mac, who picked up on the first ring. “Hey, where are you?” she asked.

“Listen, we’re right outside the building. I see the blinds are closed, including on the front door. Is it locked?”

“Yeah, we needed to lock the building down. I suspect the city is full of infected people, and we don’t need them wandering in here.”

“Mac, get ready to open the door for us and tell the staff to stay away from the windows. Okay?”

Mac peered at Hunter and Khan through the blinds of the door. She pushed the door open slightly to give them the green light to enter.

“Khan, I think you can circle through that alley unseen because the two vehicles obstruct their field of vision. See if they have the back being watched. Call me when you’ve got a feel for things. I hope my gut’s wrong, but it rarely is.”

“Got it,” said Khan. “Cheers.”

Khan slowly exited the truck and made his way around the front bumpers until he was out of site. Hunter kept his gaze on the men across the street, watching for a reaction. There was none, which prompted him to exit the van and walk toward the building’s entrance.

As he entered, Mac immediately locked the door and gave him an unexpected hug. She whispered in his ear, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Surprised, Hunter hesitated, but then he embraced her back, enjoying this genuine moment of affection between them. Their hug was natural, as if the two had been together for years instead of casually knowing each other for a week or so. Hunter wasn’t going to question the transformation in their relationship. He liked it.

“Me too,” he whispered back to her as he split the blinds slightly to locate the gang members across the street. One was on the phone and two others had taken up positions on the street corner a hundred feet to his right.

Mac gently patted his weapons and looked Hunter in the eyes. “Are you expecting trouble?” she asked him calmly.

Hunter attempted a smile and replied, “Maybe. There are some gangbangers across the street—MS-13. Real bad dudes. We suspect they’re watching the building.”

“We?”

“Yeah, my partner, Kameel Khan, is with me. He’s checking out the perimeter of the building.”

“Is he okay out there alone?”

“Sure, he’s former UK Special Forces. It’s the gangbangers who should be afraid.” Hunter turned to look around. Only Janie was in the large open workspace. She didn’t bother to say hello, only managing a wave from behind a computer monitor.

“Janie’s preparing instructions and charts for our patients,” said Mac. “We went to the hospital and it was an absolute disaster. We turned around and walked out.”

“You’re gonna see patients here?” Hunter looked around at the desks and cubicles. A small glass-enclosed laboratory was positioned toward the left rear of the space.

“No, actually, we’re setting them up next door at the vet’s office. We needed a controlled environment to study the effects of a different antibiotic. The customary treatments aren’t working, so we have to move towards a drug that isn’t typically used.”

Hunter turned around and touched Mac on the shoulder. “You’ve confirmed the strain to be resistant?”

“I think it’s a possibility,” she replied. “It’ll take a week to determine if it has an impact on the test patients next door. Two are fully symptomatic in the early stages and their kids will be soon, they just don’t know it yet.”

Hunter led Mac by the arm toward the rear of the building. They pulled a couple of chairs together and sat alone, outside of Janie’s earshot.

“Hunter, what is it?”

Hunter swallowed and leaned forward, arms resting on the top of his thighs. “Listen, I need to tell you about a covert operation called Project Artemis. Khan and I are part of a handpicked ten-person team that was set up to prevent bioterrorist attacks.”

“Is this new? As in the last few days?” asked Mac.

“No, I’ve been with the DTRA since its inception a few years ago. Project Artemis is off the books, not public knowledge, and shouldn’t be discussed with anyone, including you, frankly. But I’m not comfortable keeping you in the dark.”

“What do you do that requires being off the books, as you call it?”

Hunter popped his head up to make sure they wouldn’t be interrupted. “Mac, we look for ghosts and wild-goose chases. We don’t just create working theories, we act upon them. That conversation you and I had over dinner in Athens? It’s become the working theory for the DTRA and Project Artemis.”

“Our conclusions were based upon supposition, not hard evidence,” said Mac. “There were an awful lot of dots connected without any basis for drawing the lines between them.”

“Mac, we’re in the beginnings of the biggest war known to mankind,” said Hunter. “This is not just a run-of-the-mill terrorist attack. We believe ISIS, possibly with the help of al-Qaeda, Hamas, etc., has initiated the so-called Final Jihad. And they’re using weaponized plague as the mechanism for carrying it out.”

Mac leaned back in the chair for a moment. “That is consistent with what we discussed, but how do you know it’s a coordinated attack? You know, to infect that many people, ISIS would need a boatload of the plague bacterium.”

“Yes, that’s true. But it’s possible, right? Whether its spread by human-to-human contact or using an aerosol form, the results can be catastrophic.”

Mac nodded. “You saw what’s happening here. The incredible escalation of sick people in Guatemala is a direct result of the highly contagious disease that the plague is. In reality, thousands upon thousands of people are infected because of one individual, a young man named Fernando who happened to find the original village where the plague had killed all of the inhabitants. That was three weeks ago, and we’re seeing the repercussions now.”

“Exactly,” added Hunter. “Now, have you considered how the first village was infected to begin with?”

“That’s been puzzling for all of us,” replied Mac. “The strain is consistent with Trinidad and Greece, but the timing is all wrong. Guatemala is too far from Madagascar and the village is too remote.”

Hunter interrupted her. “What if the village was a testing ground? The terrorists used the villagers as lab rats to study the incubation periods and the interval to the time of death after inoculation.”

“Beyond belief, but nothing surprises me,” said Mac.

Hunter continued. “They infected the village, then sat back with their popcorn and watched the carnage. They needed to know the timetable in order to plan their attack for maximum impact.”

“What’s their target?” asked Mac.

“In this case, the Final Jihad, anybody but themselves—all of us infidels.”

Hunter’s phone buzzed with a text message from Khan.

Tried to call. Some Spanish gibberish said all circuits are busy, I think. Ready to come in. Getting dark. Scared. LOL!

Hunter laughed and turned to Mac. “Come on, I’d like you to meet my partner.”

Hunter took Mac by the hand and led her to the front door. Janie glanced at the two of them and smiled. Hunter wasn’t sure if she was still working on the task for Mac or giving them plenty of room to talk.

Hunter peered through the blinds and confirmed Khan’s arrival at the door. Dusk had settled in and his view of the surroundings had diminished. The night benefitted those familiar with their surroundings, not a good feeling for Hunter as he caught a glimpse of someone moving through the shadows to his right.

Chapter 59

Day Nineteen

Guatemala City

It was just past seven and darkness had overcome Guatemala City in more ways than one. Sirens wailed, echoing off the sides of the taller buildings in the city. Sporadic gunfire could be heard, causing the group to remain on alert, wondering if the gang members were going to make their move.

“I don’t like this,” said Khan. “They’re still across the street and another car just pulled in. Who knows what’s happened outside our periphery?”

Brown had just returned to the building to provide an update on their progress in the vet’s office. Camille administered the medications and everyone was resting comfortably. It was understood that it would take at least three days for the symptomatic patients to show improvement.

After receiving the initial doses of colistin, the children of the sick couple, age nineteen and twenty-three, might exhibit flu-like symptoms initially, but they would not progress to the respiratory failure that caused death. If the condition of the four test patients worsened, then the colistin experiment could be declared a bust. They’d know in seventy-two hours.

“Hunter, I’ve got movement outside,” said Khan. “They’re fanning out around the front of the building.”

“Listen up, we’re sitting ducks in here,” said Hunter with a sudden sense of urgency. “These guys have waited and they’re coming for us. We’ve got to pull them away from the task at hand—attending to those patients next door.”

“What should we do?” asked Mac.

Without answering, Hunter turned to Brown. “Is there anything of value here other than computers and lab equipment? Drugs? Money? Etcetera?”

Brown shook his head. “This facility performs an administrative function for the most part. Rarely do we conduct field operations, which is why there are only a handful of CEFOs stationed here. We don’t even have any infectious diseases on-site worth stealing.”

“Hunter, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but MS-13 might think there’s something more,” interjected Khan.

“Or maybe they saw Mac and Janie unload two big aluminum cases full of medicine for the ill,” said Hunter. “Medicine worth its weight in gold on the black market.”

Khan added, “There was a situation in Lagos, Nigeria, after the Ebola outbreak, in which Black Axe members stormed a clinic and forcibly took all of the antibiotics being used to treat patients there. The drugs were used to treat their members, who repeated the process at another facility weeks later. In that raid, they killed everyone in the clinic, including the dying patients.”

“What should we do?” asked Mac, her voice cool and controlled.

“Leave,” replied Hunter bluntly. “We’ll have Brown take all of the colistin to the vet’s office for treatment of those patients and any others he deems necessary. The four of us will make a break for the van, carrying the aluminum cases to draw the gangbangers away from the CDC and, more importantly, away from the vet’s office so the treatment can continue.”

“I should stay to help Lawrence with the patients,” said Mac.

“No,” insisted Hunter, catching Mac off guard with his brusque reply. “If we don’t all leave, they’ll know someone is left behind and they won’t follow. They need to believe that we’re taking the drugs with us in order for them to take the bait.”

“I think it’ll work and we’ll be fine, Mac,” said Brown. “The clinic is secured with steel bars and I can barricade the rear entry. I believe Hunter is correct. They’re after those cases; otherwise they would have robbed our offices already.”

Mac still appeared hesitant and Hunter sensed she was concerned for the safety of Brown, Camille and the patients in their care. He was impressed by her demeanor. He pulled one of his weapons and an extra magazine, then offered it to Brown. “Here, this will provide you over forty rounds with good stopping power.”

Brown held his hands up and shook his head. “No need, Hunter, but thank you. I have my own. There’s a Beretta tucked in a holster around my ankle and I’ve already given Camille a shotgun. We’ll be fine.”

Mac grinned and exchanged a surprised look with Janie. Janie mouthed the words who knew back to Mac.

Hunter began to issue instructions. “Okay, let’s roll. Brown, slip across the alley and be ready in case I’m wrong. The rest of us are gonna make our way to the American Embassy.”

Brown reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys to the CDC truck. “Here, take the Explorer. The embassy is closed, but the CDC markings may help you get past the guards.”

Hunter took the keys and nodded his thanks. He gave Brown the keys to the rented Dodge Caravan. “Take it back if you get a chance, okay?”

“Sure, mate,” replied Brown. He hugged Janie and Mac, then quickly made his way to the side door with a handled grocery bag filled with the remaining colistin. Khan opened it for him and, after checking that there were no surprises in the alleyway, assisted Brown to the rear entry of the vet’s office while Hunter watched the front of the alley.

Although it took less than thirty seconds for Brown to cross the alley and disappear inside the building, Hunter found it odd that he didn’t observe any movement on either end of the narrow alley. Am I wrong?

Despite his second thoughts, Hunter did know they were in a dangerous situation as society collapsed around them. The embassy would be safer, but on that American Airlines flight bound for Miami tomorrow afternoon would be even better.

Back inside with only the four of them crowded around the front door, Hunter took one last look outside and confirmed the presence of their watchers. He debated with himself as to which side would take the first shot. He was about to find out.

Chapter 60

Day Nineteen

Guatemala City

Hunter flung the door open and Khan quickly moved through the entry, taking up a position at the rear of the Explorer with his guns pointing from side to side in search of a target. First Mac and then Janie darted to the passenger side of the truck, using the Caravan for cover. They shoved the cases through the rear doors and over the back of the passenger seat before sliding in.

The men surrounding them began to cry out in Spanish, alerting their companions to move in. “¡Ándale! ¡Ándale!”

The sounds of men running toward their position caused Hunter to look in all directions to assess the threat. There were at least four men rushing towards his side of the truck with weapons raised.

“Here we go,” shouted Hunter as he fired the engine and threw it into reverse. He squealed the tires in the loose gravel and spun into the middle of the street. Suddenly, two men burst in front of the truck and held shotguns. The speed and unexpectedness of their sudden appearance caught Hunter off guard. His initial reaction was to continue in reverse toward oncoming traffic.

“Look out!” shouted Mac as cars passed them on both sides, horns screaming in displeasure.

The close call caused a temporary distraction for the two men in front, but it allowed others to close in on them.

“Ladies, stay down. Khan, it’s all you, buddy.”

Khan lowered his window and fired in the direction of the two gunmen, causing them to scatter. The powerful engine of the Chevelle roared to life in the vacant lot and its headlights immediately illuminated the side of the Explorer, providing an easy target for the shooters standing nearby.

Bullets riddled the left front fender of the truck, causing sparks to flicker in the darkness. Hunter lowered his window and fired several rounds in their direction as he mashed the gas and sped past.

The Chevelle whipped out of the vacant lot and gave chase. Suddenly, a second set of headlights appeared behind their truck. The Chevelle dropped back, allowing a raised pickup to take the lead. The truck closed on the bumper of the much slower Explorer and then turned on a set of fog lights, blinding Hunter.

Khan dropped his arm out of the passenger window and fired several rounds in the direction of the pickup. “I can’t get a clean shot!”

The truck sped forward, the gangbangers now firing at the Explorer from both the truck bed and through open windows.

“We can’t hold them off!” shouted Janie from the rear seat.

Hunter suddenly realized that he was headed away from the embassy. “Hold on!” he shouted and took a hard left in front of oncoming traffic. The trailing cars had to slow to cross traffic, but within seconds they were behind them again.

“Does anybody know where the embassy is?” asked Khan. There was no answer.

“I’ll pull it up on Google Earth,” shouted Janie over the wind noise and the honking horns. “I don’t think it’s—”

Before Janie could finish, the sound of a shotgun blast caught them off guard as pellets riddled the rear window of the Explorer, throwing pieces of glass throughout the interior of the truck.

“This is bull—” began Mac before another blast caused her to shriek. The shooter was effectively using birdshot to pepper the Explorer in an effort to slow it down, confirming to Hunter that the assailants wanted the contents of the truck intact.

“Turn left in three, two, one—now!” shouted Janie. Hunter whipped the wheel and threw his passengers hard to the right side of the truck. The abrupt maneuver did not, however, lose the two chasing vehicles.

Khan continued to fire but was unable to stop the gangbangers’ progress. Mac reached into the front seat with her right hand. “Hunter, give me a gun, now!”

“What? Do you—”

Mac cut him off. “Now, Hunter!”

He handed her one of the P320s. “Stay down, Janie!”

“Don’t worry!” she shouted back.

Mac fired off three quick rounds into the grille of the pickup truck, causing it to slide back. The Chevelle sped up and attempted to pull alongside the Explorer’s passenger side. An arm waving a pistol hung out of the small rear window and fired wildly toward Khan, but missed.

Khan returned fire and hit the attacker’s arm, causing the weapon to hit the pavement and break into several pieces. The Chevelle slowed momentarily and then whipped across the Explorer’s rear bumper before making a run on the driver’s side.

“We’ve got traffic ahead! We’re gonna get boxed in!” shouted Hunter.

Mac didn’t hesitate. She fired at the windshield of the Chevelle, shattering the passenger side. Undeterred, the passenger avoided getting killed, and when the Chevelle pulled alongside the driver’s side of the truck, he unloaded half a dozen rounds into the rear door, blowing out the glass.

“Hold on!” shouted Hunter, who jammed on the brakes, sending the Chevelle sailing past, but allowing the pickup to close on their bumper.

“Take any right, Hunter!” shouted Janie. “We’ll try the back entrance.”

Hunter veered to the right, narrowly missing several locals standing just off the curb. The screech of the pickup’s tires could be heard as it tried to navigate the sharp turn. The pickup hopped as the brakes were applied until it slid into a parked car.

“Left, left!” shouted Janie, and Hunter obliged. They roared down an alley, crashing into several plastic trash cans along the way. “Keep going straight!”

Hunter checked his mirror. “Mac, are you all right?”

“Yeah,” she said, rising out of the backseat. “I think we lost them.”

She was wrong. Out of the corner of his eye, Hunter saw headlights speeding toward them from a side street. The muzzle flash told the rest of the story. His left rear tire exploded and immediately shredded around the wheel well, disintegrating rapidly. Within seconds, the rim was grinding into the asphalt and the Explorer was about to grind to a halt when it lurched to the left and struck a dumpster.

Then the sound of a car plowing into a block building could be heard. Metal crunching and a gas tank exploding were the last things Hunter could hear before the air bags filled the front seat, instantly trapping Hunter and Khan in position. The bags quickly deflated and the two men regained their composure from the low-energy impact.

Hunter exited the vehicle first and took up a position to cover the rest of the group. “Hurry, everybody out!”

“What happened?” asked Khan as he joined Hunter’s side, prepared to shoot at anything that moved in the alley. The Chevelle had burst into flames.

“What a waste,” Hunter lamented.

“Great car, wanker driver,” added Khan.

Janie rolled her head around her shoulders as she emerged from the backseat. “Where’s Mac?”

Hunter turned around and found Mac crawling through the broken rear window, picking glass out of her palms. She wiped the blood onto her khakis.

“I had to get my gun,” she said. “It flew in the back.”

“My gun?” Hunter chuckled.

“Mine now,” she responded. Hunter could tell she was serious.

He grinned at her and then turned to Janie. “How far is it to the embassy?”

“Four blocks.”

“Who’s up for an evening stroll?” asked Hunter.

Chapter 61

Day Twenty

Las Virginias, Chihuahua

Northern Mexico

Hassan arrived at the Las Virginias ranch to a hearty greeting from Mahmood Khabir, a longtime ISIS operative who had been imbedded with the Juarez cartel since the early days of the relationship being established between the two organizations.

For years, the Juarez cartel controlled the largest percentage of cocaine traffic from Mexico into the United States. Their wealth generated loyal foot soldiers, and by the late nineties, they were the dominant player in Central and Northern Mexico. The death of Carlos Fuentes at the turn of the century brought the beginning of the decline of the cartel, which relied heavily upon the ties between Fuentes and General Pablo Gutierrez.

Like all quasi-political entities, the Juarez cartel installed new leadership and set a new course to make its profits—human trafficking. Gone were the days of recruiting drug mules. A loosely formed relationship with the Los Zetas and the Gulf cartel was formed whereby the Juarez cartel reduced its cocaine operations. Cocaine became a secondary source of revenue, while smuggling migrants into the United States was their new cash cow.

Their best customer in recent years had been ISIS. The group paid handsomely—fifty times the cost of a common migrant from Central America. As a result, they were given preferential treatment and virtually guaranteed entry into the U.S., complete with near perfect false identification documents.

Mahmood had personally cultivated this relationship, and when he called upon Joaquin Fuentes to assist in the massive effort of exporting over a thousand jihadists into the U.S., Fuentes jumped at the opportunity. But along came the Federales in an unexpected drug operation coordinated with the DEA a week ago, and Fuentes attempted to pull out of the deal.

Hassan didn’t anticipate this issue arising, so he was blindsided at first. But in the days traveling northward, he determined that money was no object in the pursuit of the Final Jihad.

Besides, it would be worthless soon anyway. Only the massive amounts of gold taken from the Iraqi banks in Mosul would be of value. This had been anticipated by the leaders of the terrorist group for years. Years ago, a film was released titled The Rise of the Caliphate—Return of the Gold Dinar, touting the one billion dollars’ worth of gold held by ISIS. The original plan was to push the world economy toward a renewal of the gold standard, causing countries like China and Russia to dump the American Treasury bills. The result would be a complete collapse of the U.S. financial system.

The plan never came to fruition, but a collapse of another sort would certainly hasten America’s already fragile financial system into collapse. Therefore, Hassan willingly paid more to the Juarez cartel to accomplish his goals.

Hassan stood alone on the terrace of the Fuentes hacienda, admiring the mountains and valleys that lay in the hundred miles between him and the Great Satan. Tomorrow, he would set foot on the land that would be ravaged by disease over the next several weeks. He would do his duty to serve Allah, but he also hoped that he would survive the scourge.

He wanted to live to see the day that the banner of the eagle, the Black Banner of the Islamic State, hung on the side of the infidels’ White House.

Chapter 62

Day Twenty

Refugee Transit Center

Edirne, Turkey

From the BBC World News Wire…

German Chancellor Frieda Müller arrived in Istanbul, Turkey, today, kicking off a high-stakes visit aimed at boosting a refugee deal struck with Turkish President Erdogan, a deal that has now been plagued with ethical and legal concerns.

The chancellor, joined by European Council head Franz Zimmerman, met with the beleaguered Turkish President, who recently scrapped the agreement with the EU and began systematically closing refugee camps across the northern border shared with European nations Greece and Bulgaria.

Tensions escalated between the geopolitical allies after the camp closings began without notice, prompting Zimmerman to cry foul. The relationships were further strained when the chancellor’s jet arrived in Istanbul to begin the high-level meetings, only to be greeted by a huge banner draped across the airport building, which read Welcome to Turkey, the world’s largest refugee-hosting country. This banner, in and of itself, was not what raised the ire of the visitors. It was the words added below by a supposed vandal, which read NOT FOR LONG.

The closed-door meetings between the European leaders and President Erdogan were said to be tense and ended abruptly. The Turkish President, in an attempt to show his humanitarian side, suggested a hastily arranged trip to the northernmost part of the country near the Greek border to visit a refugee transit center.

The diplomatic contingent then traveled to Edirne, a city of nearly two hundred thousand Turks and home to several thousand refugees in transit to Europe. What they found there was certainly not what President Erdogan had in mind.

The German chancellor was reportedly horrified at the dreadful conditions of the refugee transit center. Reports of the refugees being badly beaten by Turkish soldiers and stories of starvation immediately surfaced. One man came close enough to the chancellor to speak with her directly.

The man, only identified as Ahmad, displayed his broken arm to the chancellor. Through an interpreter, he explained how he’d been beaten for refusing to return to Syria as instructed, and then was refused medical treatment. When asked who told him that he was required to return to Syria, the man could only feebly point at the guards who stood between him and the chancellor.

This revelation is of particular significance because under the non-refoulement principle of international humanitarian law, a state is prohibited from deporting individuals to a war zone, especially one where the forcible return of refugees or asylum seekers might make them subject to prosecution.

The visit by Chancellor Müller did have one touching moment, however. Some of the transit center’s younger residents pushed closer to the entourage at one point in an attempt to display their coloured drawings. One young girl who caught the chancellor’s attention showed her a picture of beautiful grass-covered mountains, a sparkling blue river, and the sun shining brightly overhead.

“Deutschland! Deutschland!” the young girl shouted, pointing to the artistic work, much to the delight of the largely German contingent. With the guards’ permission, the young girl ran to Chancellor Müller and proudly presented the drawing as a gift. Overcome with emotion, the chancellor embraced the child and the two traded kisses on the cheek. The chancellor was seen touching her hand to her cheek in appreciation of the gesture before subtly wiping the tears from her eyes.

From here, Chancellor Müller and Herr Zimmerman will travel directly to Washington, DC, for a meeting with President Garcia whom she will encourage to accept more refugees amidst this humanitarian crisis.

Seven days later, the young girl died in her mother’s arms from respiratory failure. She never made it to Deutschland.

Chapter 63

Day Twenty-One

The White House Rose Garden

Washington, DC

The Rose Garden was a formal flower garden created by President Woodrow Wilson’s wife, First Lady Ellen Wilson, in 1913. Once occupied by horse stables, Mrs. Wilson envisioned a grassy area with a variety of plant material to provide a more suitable backdrop for outdoor gatherings. Over time, the space was used for press conferences in the sunny, open garden with the West Wing of the White House colonnade as a backdrop. It was in this idyllic setting that President Garcia and Chancellor Müller walked to their respective podiums.

During his morning briefing with Chief of Staff Morse, President Garcia was advised of the outbreak of illness spreading across Guatemala. This health crisis in Guatemala had not yet grabbed the attention of the mainstream media in the U.S. With the fever warning issued by the New Mexico Department of Health due to the discovery of the plague-stricken feline, it was a matter of time before news outlets made a proverbial mountain out of a molehill, as Morse quipped. The media would always find a way to exploit an international story to make it all about the U.S.

If the truth were known, the timing of Müller’s visit was horrible, but the President suspected she was using that to her advantage. In a matter of days, he was scheduled to make a major policy speech on immigration, one which was intended to please the electorate temporarily. But it would also displease his European allies, who were pressuring the U.S. to accept more Syrian refugees.

The briefing by Morse on the Guatemalan situation and the doggone cat in New Mexico were only the beginning of a bad news day for the President and his re-election campaign. An incumbent President never wanted to create a campaign issue in the final months before an election. Rule one was never provide your opponent an issue to pounce on, and rule number two was don’t provide the media fodder for speculative and sensationalistic news reports.

His behind-closed-doors meeting with the chancellor didn’t go well. She practically called him a spineless coward for not living up to his agreement to accept additional refugees into the States. President Garcia countered with the fact that through an arrangement with the Canadian prime minister, America was taking ten to twenty thousand Syrians via Canada, a method that flew under the radar of the media. Despite his promises, his counterpart in Germany felt his public refusal to accept more refugees sent the wrong message to his friends in Europe, Australia, and Canada, who were doing their part. In effect, she said as the meeting came to an end, the President was no different than Erdogan in Turkey. He kicks them out, and you, she’d said, refuse to let them in. Sounds protectionist to me, she had grumbled.

Those words stung the President and accounted for his foul mood for the rest of her visit. He resisted the urge to sneak a snifter of brandy, but only because the chancellor was a teetotaler and would surely say something.

The next step in the President’s bad-news day occurred when he joined Chancellor Müller for the traditional media photo op in front of the fireplace in the West Wing. President Garcia, who was known to be somewhat of a germaphobe, didn’t shake hands with the chancellor, a courtesy usually extended to foreign leaders visiting the White House.

At one point, she leaned over to his chair and whispered, “Do you want to shake hands?”

President Garcia pretended not to hear her over the cameras, which snapped photo after photo. Perhaps it was the reports of the sickness in Guatemala, or maybe his germaphobic nature got the better of him. Either way, the tension was thick as the media pool photographers began to ask questions, hoping to get a sound bite. Neither leader responded.

Finally, after a moment, the President leaned in to deliver private assurances to Chancellor Müller, a conversation that was later aired on every major network. The President had been caught in the dreaded open-mic moment when he said, “On all of these issues, particularly the influx of refugees, they can be solved. I just need you to give me a little space.”

Chancellor Müller nodded and smiled after the President added this, “I’ll have more flexibility to deal with this after this election. It’s going to be my last, you know.”

Those quotes became media gold, alongside this exchange between the President and the mainstream media in the Rose Garden.

“Chancellor Müller and I have time for a few more questions before we have lunch, Jim.”

Jim Acosta of CNN news stood and asked, “Mr. President, your opponent has called for more border control in light of reports that ISIS terrorists are working with the Mexican drug cartels. Do you plan on assigning more agents in response to your opponent’s suggestion?”

“I have all the confidence in the world in our intelligence agencies to keep me abreast of terroristic threats to our country. There is nothing more important for a President to do than to protect the citizens of the United States. Naturally, I’d like to assign more personnel, and throughout my first term, I have called on Congress for the necessary funding. But as you know, we inherited a considerable deficit, and cuts must be made across the board to sustain our nation’s credibility to repay our debts.”

Acosta persisted. “But, Mr. President, what about the allegation that ISIS has gotten into bed with the Mexican drug cartels?”

“Jim, I have no intelligence that would suggest that. Perhaps my opponent should quit riding up the Rio Grande in his kayak and pay attention to the real concerns of American citizens like jobs and health care.” This drew a laugh from the attendees.

The President pointed to Olivia Lopez with Reuters. “Mr. President, the death toll in Guatemala continues to rise as the nation is in the grips of some type of flu outbreak. Will you be suggesting travel restrictions to and from that country, or Central America in general?”

Great, the President thought to himself. Do these vultures not miss any tidbit of information?

“Olivia, at this point, the Department of Homeland Security has not suggested travel restrictions. Our outstanding doctors and scientists at the Centers for Disease Control are familiar with this situation and will keep us abreast of the outbreak.”

Lopez continued standing, and asked, “A follow-up, Mr. President. Is there any connection between the illnesses in Guatemala and the recent advisory issued by the New Mexico Department of Health regarding the deaths of small animals and the corresponding cases of fever and flu-like symptoms in the southern portion of the state?”

President Garcia shot a glance at his Chief of Staff, who attempted to cower behind the shrubbery that surrounded the rosebushes. The President decided to lie about his knowledge of the New Mexico reports.

“Olivia, I’m not familiar with the New Mexico cases, so I can’t comment at this time. But I will say this. We will follow the advice of the CDC and the World Health Organization. What we will not do is repeat the mistakes of the past that resulted in Ebolamania. I will not pit citizen against citizen because of fear of the unknown. Frankly, to report that the two isolated events are connected would be reckless, expanding beyond the concept of irresponsible news, but rather, into dangerous fake news.”

Chapter 64

Day Twenty-One

Memorial Medical Center

Las Cruces, New Mexico

Dr. Kwame Okoli came to America after successfully battling Ebola in Nigeria since March of 2014. Born and raised in Lagos, he was destined to attend the College of Medicine at the University located there. Growing up in Africa didn’t provide a young man the best of odds. Dr. Okoli knew suffering, famine, and disease—not from a medical perspective, but because he had been surrounded by it. At an early age he vowed that although the world was full of suffering, it was also full of possibilities to overcome it.

He began hanging around the Isolo General Hospital, which was walking distance from his home. At thirteen, he’d procured a janitorial job, taking out trash, cleaning floors, and washing bed linens. Over the years as he continued with his schooling, he became a hospital mascot of sorts, earning himself an honorary uniform with his name, Okoli, Kwame, embroidered on the chest. Soon, he was affectionately called Dr. OK.

With the financial help and encouragement of the contacts he’d made at Isolo General, Dr. Okoli earned his way into the College of Medicine, where he graduated with high honors. His chosen field, infectious disease, was a given considering the widespread incidents that occurred throughout Africa.

Ebola had been around Africa since the mid-seventies when it was discovered in DR Congo, formerly Zaire. Ebola outbreaks had been common in the decades to come until the widely publicized 2014 epidemic.

In Lagos, Dr. Okoli was one of the physicians who treated Patrick Sawyer, a Liberian-American attorney who flew into Nigeria in July of 2014. Upon arriving at the airport, Sawyer became violently ill and was transported to the hospital. It was Dr. Okoli who recognized the telltale signs of Ebola and alerted the Nigerian government. His quick thinking saved the lives of his co-workers that day, except for the admitting nurse, but it did not prevent Ebola from spreading throughout Lagos and Nigeria.

After years of battling the disease, Dr. Okoli settled down and married a USAID worker from New Mexico. USAID played a critical role in stabilizing West Africa following the AIDS epidemic and the Ebola crisis. His wife encouraged him to bring his expertise to New Mexico, which had been known as a hotbed of activity for emerging infections, Ebola, and plague.

“Well, I must say, that was a first,” said Dr. Okoli as he emerged from the decontamination chamber at the new infectious disease unit of Memorial Medical Center. The rest of his team began to peel off their protective clothing as well. “I’ve never received a directive like that in all my years of dealing with governmental agencies. I mean, since when does it become a matter of national security to perform an autopsy on a cat?”

Two days prior, a stray cat was found dead and the initial determination of death by a local veterinarian was plague. This was not unusual for felines in New Mexico, as the plague had been prevalent among dogs, cats, and small animals for years in the region.

Dr. Okoli continued. “Does the CDC not realize that in the Southwest, fleas are a common carrier of the plague after they bite rodents. Cats are especially susceptible to the Y. pestis bacterium and usually die.”

A lab technician joined them with a hospital administrator in tow. “Were you able to procure the lung specimens as requested, Doctor?”

“Sure, you’ll find them safely stored in quarantine. Can you tell me if there is something in particular the CDC is looking for?”

“No. I mean we don’t know,” replied the administrator. “We have been told to issue a fever watch warning for the neighborhood where the animal was found. Also, local authorities are asking residents to report sightings of sick domestic animals or wildlife.”

Dr. Okoli, who had seen real sickness, shook his head. “Am I to expect a phone call every time a dog drools or a cat coughs?”

The administrator simply shrugged, turned on a dime, and headed for the exits. Dr. OK had become disenchanted as he got older. He didn’t have much respect for Americans, who had no idea what real suffering was.

As a parting shot, Dr. Okoli stuck his head out the door and shouted to the backs of the hospital personnel as they headed for the elevator, “Call me when there is a real disease to fight!”

PART FOUR

WEEK FOUR

Chapter 65

Day Twenty-Two

U.S. Customs and Border Protection Processing Facility

Tucson, Arizona

The goal of migrants crossing the U.S.-Mexican border in recent years was to simply set foot on American soil. The policy of the United States, which had been designed to protect Cuban political refugees known as wet foot, dry foot, was being applied to the nation’s southern border. In essence, once you’d entered the country, you’d be detained in a holding facility maintained by the U.S. Customs and Border Protection Agency for further disposition.

In recent years, the majority of migrants were released into the country and given a court date to appear before an Immigration Court operated under the Executive Office for Immigration Review. Most of the migrants failed to appear for court.

At the same time, the number of unaccompanied minors crossing the border increased ninety percent between 2013 and 2014, which drew the attention of the mainstream media. The nearly one hundred thousand children were provided Temporary Protected Status and were placed in hastily created processing facilities.

These detention centers were understaffed and undersized. In Tucson, a former warehouse was retrofitted to handle the unprecedented surge of mostly Central American child migrants. When it reached eleven hundred children, nearly double its capacity, a whistleblower contacted the local media about the overcrowded and unsanitary conditions.

The media gained access, and explicit photographs emerged of the facility. Ten-foot-tall chain-link fences were constructed and topped with razor wire. Within the compartments of fencing divided by gender and age lay hundreds of children on prison mattresses, covered by nothing more than Mylar blankets. Portable toilets, which lined the perimeter of each pen, as it was described by the reporters in attendance, provided an odor described as a combination of feces and Mr. Clean.

The uproar regarding the detention facilities reached a fever pitch when the images surfaced, resulting in lawsuits filed by Grassroots Leadership in the four border states.

Immigration activists were abuzz at the prospect of a decision being handed down in the next couple of weeks that should order the facilities closed, or in the alternative, the population greatly reduced by releasing the children to sponsoring families in the cities where the CBP housed them.

During the pendency of the litigation, in CBP processing facilities from San Diego to Brownsville, unaccompanied minors from Latin America were admitted by the dozens per hour—many of whom were feverish and weak from the grueling days of travel to America.

Chapter 66

Day Twenty-Two

CDC

Atlanta

It was all hands on deck as reports flooded the CDC from around the globe. Mac created teams split up by continent for information gathering and to liaise with local health care officials. For days, after her experience in Guatemala City, Mac could sense a building up of pressure regarding this plague outbreak. The cases were proliferating in regions that just a week ago reported an isolated patient or two. This rarely used conference room had become Mac’s personal war room for this outbreak, and the teams would meet here daily to provide an update on their regions.

“Team Africa, you’re first,” started Mac as she approached a whiteboard at the end of the room. In a world full of electronic gadgets and PowerPoint presentations, Mac still preferred to write on a wall. In a way, it helped her grasp the gravity of the situation when she wrote it down.

Jamaican-born CEFO Michelle Watson headed up the team tracing back the origins of the young teenager who died in Greece after traveling there from Libya. “We’ve confirmed that the first patient to die in Greece from the disease originated in Beni, a midsize city in the Democratic Republic of Congo. She came into contact with two research scientists that possibly worked with the Madagascar strain of Y. pestis at the BSL-4 in Gabon.”

“Are there new cases in Congo, Gabon, or anywhere in Northern Africa?” asked Mac.

“Yes,” replied Watson. “There are twenty-seven cases in DR Congo and ninety-four more in Libya. Seventy unexplained deaths in Congo and Gabon are under investigation.”

Mac took to the whiteboard and wrote Africa at the top and underlined it. Then she scribbled Congo – 27 and Libya – 94. “Team Europe, what’s your update?”

Alexis Mikonos, a second-generation Greek immigrant, stood with a legal pad full of countries, numbers and arrows pointing in every direction. “Dr. Hagan, to say that my notes are obsolete would be an understatement. I prepared for this meeting during breakfast, but with my hourly updates, it keeps changing. In a word, the spread through Europe is astonishing.”

“Go ahead, Alexis,” said Mac.

“Keep in mind, to the best of our knowledge, patient zero in Europe was the teen that Michelle spoke of. She died on Greek soil ten days ago, but while contagious, she had contact with as many as two hundred refugees on a boat. Upon reaching Greece, there were countless other direct contacts with immigration officials, doctors, and civilians before she died.”

Mikonos scratched through some numbers and wrote in the margins. She seemed deep in thought when Mac interrupted her. “Alexis, just give us what you’ve got so far, even if they’re ballpark numbers.”

“Okay, sorry, Dr. Hagan. Greece has two thousand ill throughout the country, five hundred fifty deaths under investigation by the Hellenic Centre for Disease Control and Prevention, and nearly two hundred confirmed plague-related deaths.”

Mac recorded the findings on the whiteboard under the heading Europe. She wrote South America on the board and turned toward that team when Mikonos interrupted her.

“Dr. Hagan, there’s more. We now have cases in Turkey, Bulgaria, and Italy. In the past seventy-two hours, the cases have increased tenfold each day.”

“Numbers, please.”

“Turkey, thirteen hundred infected, one hundred fifty deaths. Bulgaria, seven hundred infected, fifty deaths. Italy, four hundred infected, forty-nine deaths. If I created a map of the outbreaks in the Mediterranean, the color red would emanate from Libya and Turkey and gradually spread north and east into Bulgaria and Italy.”

Mac filled in the whiteboard by creating a crosshatch in order to compartmentalize each region. Under the word Europe, she wrote 10X, meaning a possible proliferation rate of ten times. After she’d received the reports, she planned on sitting down with Janie to create an epi curve.

“South America, go.”

“Trinidad and Tobago reports three hundred fifty infected and one hundred twelve deaths. Venezuela, to the extent they are cooperating, advises eight hundred infected and four hundred twenty dead. We are still awaiting numbers from Columbia and Brazil. They are low at this time.”

Mac compared the death-to-infected ratio for these countries. The number of deaths was considerably higher. The Trinidadian health care system was woefully unprepared for a disease outbreak of this nature.

The high death toll there was expected. In Venezuela, economic collapse of what was once the leading economy in South America had taken its toll on all government-run facilities, including hospitals. To complicate matters, the government refused any outside help from the United States, which doomed the infected patients to a certain death, after they infected countless others, of course.

Mac continued. “Last, but not least, our original outbreak, Guatemala and the rest of Central America. Chris Patterson is receiving reports from the Guatemala City office. What’s the latest, Chris?”

“The numbers are off the charts in Guatemala. Honestly, I’m not sure how accurate they can be. The hospitals are too overwhelmed to keep Lawrence up to date. The military police are more interested in keeping order than counting the sick or dead.”

“We understand, Chris. Give me the best estimate,” interrupted Mac.

“In Guatemala, eight thousand dead and over one hundred thousand infected. Also, the World Wildlife Fund reports that as many as thirty thousand primates are dead and even more are infected. One can only imagine the potential of thirty-thousand-plus monkeys roaming the country, infected with the Y. pestis bacteria.”

Mac noted the figures on the whiteboard while Patterson continued.

“Let me add one more thing about the spread of the disease in Guatemala. Based upon our analysis of the original outbreak and the date of discovery of the second village, it appeared that Guatemala was experiencing a twenty times spread, higher than Europe.”

Mac nodded and turned to the whiteboard. She quickly scribbled 20X under Central America.

Then Patterson continued. “Dr. Hagan, my 20X number was based on the early figures. Like Europe, in the initial stages of the outbreak, Guatemala experienced a ten-times-per-day increase. Today, the number is 20X. For each infected person, twenty more will become infected per day, and so on.”

“Even a nation with isolated pockets of population centers?” asked Mac.

“Yes. While the rate is significantly lower in the rural parts of Guatemala, for the highly populated areas like Guatemala City, the rate is much higher than 20X.”

Mac shook her head in disbelief. She stared at the number on the whiteboard — 20X. 20X! In highly populated areas, gone unchecked, this disease could wipe out humanity in less than two weeks. Mac wasn’t even sure the rest of the figures were necessary at this point, but she received the numbers from Patterson just the same.

The plague had spread into nearby Honduras and Mexico, in much smaller numbers, but it was early. She was anxious to get started on formulating a final hypothesis on the widespread impact of the plague outbreak when Patterson added one more bit of information.

“Finally, Dr. Hagan, I’m sorry to report that the couple stricken with the plague did not respond to the colistin therapy. They both died this morning.”

“What about their children?”

“They’re both symptomatic. Brown said he will continue the regimen, but he doesn’t have high hopes. I’m sorry.”

It’s antibiotic resistant. God help us.

Chapter 67

Day Twenty-Two

CDC

Atlanta

Mac replayed the words Hunter had used while they were in Guatemala City—we’re in the beginnings of the biggest war known to mankind—not just a run-of-the-mill terrorist attack—Final Jihad. Her thoughts were clouded as she repeated those words and related them to the numbers she’d just received from her team. Creating an epidemic curve, an epi curve, was a necessary element in determining the potential of a given outbreak, but all one had to do was look at the notes on the whiteboard. Folks, the proverbial crap is about to hit the fan!

An epi curve was a graph representing the frequency of new cases over time based on the date of the onset of the disease. There are three types of epi curve graphs.

There are those that involve a common source, or point source, such as contaminated food or an infected food handler. These are used most often because exposures tend to occur in a relatively brief period and all of the cases tend to fall within a single incubation period.

Next, for cases such as cholera, where there is a continuous, common source but the cases don’t all occur within the span of a single incubation period, the downslope of the graph may appear sharp following the initial spike, but then smaller peaks and valleys will appear as the outbreak rejuvenates itself. The ongoing infection resonates from the single common source.

For this outbreak, Mac applied the propagated epidemic curve utilized when there is a progressive index case that then infects a number of other individuals. The difficulty in applying the propagated epi curve is that there were at least three people identified as patient zero in unconnected geographic regions.

Once the index case was identified, the progressive curve would reflect the person-to-person transmission, creating a series of successively larger peaks that were one incubation period apart. The classic pattern resembled a ripple in the ocean that generated a slightly larger wave, followed by a tidal wave, and culminating with a wall of water in the form of a tsunami.

For some outbreaks the descriptive information—person, place, and time—was all that was needed to figure out the source, and control measures could be undertaken rapidly. In other cases, this descriptive information helped generate hypotheses about the source when it wasn’t obvious what the source was.

Under those scenarios, like the case at hand, it was necessary to test the hypotheses by conducting an analytical study—either a case-control study or a cohort study. This required collecting data and analyzing it in order to identify the source. Unfortunately, there wasn’t time for that.

Mac began to plug in the data. This outbreak was a bugger because of the remote locations and the lack of available test results. They were finding the infected after they died. Further, her data didn’t include an increasing number of infected persons who would not be detected by their country’s surveillance systems. Instead of being discovered, many would remain in their homes and communities throughout their illness, further spreading the disease and ultimately dying.

She worked with an incubation period of eight days, which, as they surmised, was double the four days typical for pneumonic plague. This provided her an x-axis, or interval, of two days. The interval would apply to the bottom of the graph.

Next, she began to fill in the left side of the graph, which was labeled number of confirmed cases, or the y-axis. Because of the large number, she calculated the cases in millions. Based upon the 10X spread factor, this took the graph off the charts.

“This is impossible,” Mac muttered to herself. She modified her spread factor but returned to 10X, which was below the Guatemala rate but slightly above the European data. Within ten days, thirty million people would die from the plague. Three weeks from now, two hundred million human beings would die per day.

Based upon identifiable cases, nearly half the planet’s population would be dead by day fifty. Over three billion people—gone. The significant drop in the death and infected count was based upon unidentified persons and the likelihood that social distancing would be utilized as people fled populated areas. The disease would still exist until the spread stopped, perhaps at the sixty-day mark. There was no cure to arrest its propagation to every corner of the earth where human-to-human contact existed.

Mac sat there alone, staring at the monitor, unaware that a figure stood in her doorway, watching as she struggled with the reality that mankind might be in the beginnings of an extinction-level event.

Chapter 68

Day Twenty-Two

CDC

Atlanta

“Dr. Hagan,” Baggett said finally as he lightly knocked on the open door, “may I interrupt?”

“Sure,” said Mac as she spun around in her chair.

“I’ll get right to the point, Doctor,” said Baggett. “I’ve learned that you’ve had several conversations with Director Spielman without my knowledge. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt here and assume that those conversations excluded me because I’m not a physician or a scientist. Nonetheless, I am a fast learner and I insist upon staying in the loop regarding your activities. I can’t do my job unless I have all the information. Are we clear?”

Whatever, she thought sarcastically.

“Oh, yes, sir. Absolutely,” said Mac dryly. She contemplated laying the truth on him and seeing if he’d take his pudgy self out the door and head for a bunker in the Appalachians. “He approached me after a briefing and I kept the dialogue open between us. I’ll keep you abreast of our findings.”

Baggett seemed to relax. Mac sensed he was the typical bureaucrat protecting his turf, but she still wasn’t going to give him a break.

“Thank you,” he said and turned to leave. “Say, it’s late. You wanna grab a drink?”

Ugh.

“No, thanks,” she replied with a faint smile. “I need to finish up this epi curve and alert our CEFOs of our findings.”

“May I ask what your findings show?”

Mac decided to hit him with it. “Absolutely.” She tapped on the keyboard and powered up the large monitor in her office. She then mirrored her own computer so that Baggett could see the results.

“Okay,” he started. “What am I looking at here?”

“This is a progressive epidemic curve based solely upon the early results of our investigation. The information was aggregated by region and was used to create our hypotheticals.”

He stared at it for a moment, and then asked, “May I assume the bottom number reflects the number of days since the first cases were discovered?”

“Yes,” Mac replied.

Baggett walked closer to the screen and ran his fingers along the darker shaded areas from left-to-right in an attempt to gauge the death toll. He shrugged and turned to Mac.

“Looks like it gets pretty bad about days thirty to forty-five, but then it tapers off. But still, one hundred to two hundred deaths per day isn’t as bad as I expected.”

Mac stared at him and waited for the punch line. She never thought of Baggett as someone with a sense of humor. After an awkward moment, when he didn’t offer a smile or a chuckle, she realized he was misinterpreting the graph.

“Mr. Baggett, those numbers on the left side of the graph are in millions. By day thirty-five, fifty million people will die per day from this disease.”

He went back to the monitor and studied it again. He traced the upward curve and asked, “This line is in millions?”

“Yes.”

“How many, um, millions would die by day fifty?”

“Three—” Mac delayed the remainder of the answer for effect. It was time that D-Bag took this seriously and quit worrying about saving nickels and dimes. “—billion.”

Chapter 69

Day Twenty-Three

CNN Center

Atlanta

“Okay, Dr. Gupta, we’ll be counting you down now,” said the young producer as they performed the final light and sound checks on the set of Vital Signs, hosted by CNN’s Dr. Sanjay Gupta. The program provided a global perspective to health issues from both a medical and sociological aspect.

As director of the CDC, Dr. Spielman had been a frequent guest on the program. Today’s episode was focused on the recent plague outbreaks and the CDC’s response. As always, it was Dr. Spielman’s goal to reassure the public that the CDC was in control of the situation, whether he believed it or not. This was neither the time nor the place to raise red flags. The person responsible for that job occupied the Oval Office.

A production assistant quickly powdered the guests’ faces to avoid appearing shiny under the bright studio lights, and the stage producer reappeared to begin the countdown. “Okay, gentlemen. And, five, four, three…” The last two counts were expressed with his hands. Dr. Spielman checked his poster and turned his attention to Dr. Gupta.

The viewers’ screens filled with an aerial video of the northwestern part of Guatemala, revealing its beautiful jungles and mountains, separated by rivers flowing toward both Mexico and deeper into Guatemala.

Dr. Gupta began the introduction to this segment. “From above, the northwestern region of Guatemala is a picturesque, unspoiled jungle filled with mountains, rivers, and teeming with natural resources. But below these treetops lie villages filled with dead indigenous Guatemalans from an infectious disease that has reared its ugly head with a vengeance. With me today is Dr. Tom Spielman, the director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, to discuss this horrific outbreak and provide us an update on the CDC’s ability to contain it. Welcome, Dr. Spielman.”

“Thank you for having me.”

Dr. Gupta continued. “Doctor, what we are dealing with here is the plague. Oftentimes, the plague comes from jungle environments like these that our viewers are looking at now. Pathogens living inside of animals, like the spider monkey, somehow get into humans via direct contact. Like Ebola, the plague is scary because it’s a swift, efficient and very bloody killer. In fact, unless treated, nine out of ten people who become infected actually die from this. It can take anywhere between four and eight days for someone to start to get sick after they’ve been exposed. That’s called the incubation period. And during that time, they can travel around the country or even between countries. That’s the concern. But here’s a little bit of good news, and that is, for the most part, during this incubation period, you’re really not contagious. You aren’t going to spread the virus to other people until you’re sick yourself.”

Dr. Spielman shifted nervously in his seat, but not because he was camera-shy. He wanted to be careful in his contribution to the program without leaving a false sense of security.

“This is true in part,” Dr. Spielman said. “This disease is very deadly, and based upon our limited analysis, it has proven to be zoonotic, meaning animal-to-human transfer occurs. But it is highly contagious between humans as well. We have more case studies to conduct, but it’s likely that a human carrier is contagious at least four days before they become symptomatic. That is very different from Ebola and other diseases. But, let me stress, the CDC and our counterparts at the World Health Organization have a significant amount of work to do before we can define the characteristics of this outbreak.”

“How can this disease be spread?”

“Of course, exchange of bodily fluids is one way. But also, based upon the deluge of new cases in Guatemala, it’s clear that the disease is airborne and the plague bacteria can survive on surfaces for up to seventy-two hours. Surface-to-human infection is very likely.”

Dr. Gupta took a sip of his coffee. He lifted it up to the camera. “Let’s use this coffee cup as an example. If I was a carrier of the disease—in that four- to twelve-day contagious period—and touched my hand to my mouth and gripped this handle, the plague bacteria would be present on the cup, correct?”

“Yes, for up to seventy-two hours,” replied Dr. Spielman.

“If my production assistant picks up this cup after our interview, she would also become a carrier.”

Dr. Spielman nodded. “If she didn’t properly wash her hands after touching the cup, then she too would become infected. Keep in mind, the average human touches a foreign surface, like this desk or your coffee cup, just over three times per hour. On top of that, we touch our eyes, nostrils or mouth around four times an hour. Now ask yourselves, how many times a day do you wash your hands? I mean properly, not running cold water over them and wiping them on your jeans. The odds are high that your assistant will become infected under this scenario.”

Dr. Gupta hesitated as if he was contemplating the likelihood of the spread of the plague bacterium. He continued by asking, “Have any cases been reported here in the United States?”

“Not yet, but let me say that we are pretty confident that any large hospital could handle an infected patient with plague-like symptoms. The key is to seek treatment as soon as you think you’ve come into contact with another person, or animal, that appears symptomatic. Do not delay, or the antibiotics may not be effective.”

“Well, if a case of the pneumonic plague were to show up at our doorstep, hospitals using traditional isolation measures with a negative-pressure room as well as traditional droplet and respiratory precautions can assist the patients toward recovery.”

Dr. Spielman leaned forward and looked toward the camera and decided to speak directly to the health care providers who put their lives on the line to save others. “Let me add for those health care professionals who are watching this program, the CDC says a mask, goggles, face shield, a protective gown and gloves can provide all the protection you need for most situations. However, we urge you to take extraordinary precautions if you suspect a patient has been infected with the plague virus.”

“Finally,” Dr. Gupta began to conclude the segment, “I should point out that the World Health Organization is now declaring this a public health emergency of international concern. That’s going to have an impact on airline travel and also screenings at airports. They are also advising all the nations where they have cases of pneumonic plague currently to declare a state of emergency.”

Dr. Spielman smiled at the camera, glad that it was over.

“Thank you for discussing this topic at length with us,” said Dr. Gupta, who then turned toward the camera and announced the topic for the next segment. “Next, I will have Dr. Spielman’s counterpart at the Public Health Agency of Canada, who will discuss the new superbug threatening the planet—Candida auris. If you think the plague is bad, wait’ll you learn about a fungus that our next guest calls one of the scariest threats facing our planet. We’ll be right back.”

Chapter 70

Day Twenty-Four

CDC Conference Room

Atlanta

The director of the Office of Public Health Preparedness and Response, the PHPR, called a meeting of his top staff and requested that one senior member of the other departments sit in as well. When Mac heard that he was going to give a briefing on newly reported cases of Candida auris, abbreviated to C. auris, she insisted upon attending.

Dr. Malcolm Braswell, a rear admiral and assistant surgeon general in the United States Public Health Service, was the acting director of the PHPR. In the last ten days, Mac had worked closely with his office as she considered the possible repercussions of the plague spread around the world. If the United States was not prepared to respond quickly and appropriately, outbreaks could escalate into pandemics and the human toll of a terrorist attack could mount, as her epi curve predicted.

“As you know, our state and local health departments play a vital role in responding to potential outbreaks and must stand ready to handle many different types of emergencies,” said Dr. Braswell. “Having people in place who know what to do, and having the resources available to help them do their jobs, will absolutely save lives. That’s part of our job at the CDC. We have an obligation to capture information, analyze data, and formulate the best plan of attack in the war against infectious disease.”

Dr. Braswell reached for the remote control off the conference table and powered on the monitor. “May I introduce you to Candida auris?”

“We now have sixty-one cases of C. auris in six states, primarily New York and New Jersey,” continued Dr. Braswell. “The fungus has been found on the skin and clothing of patients and hospital workers. C. auris has shown its ability to move from one person to another in hospital settings, unlike other invasive yeast infections. The likelihood of outbreaks within medical care facilities is high because the fungus can live on contaminated surfaces such as bedrails, fabrics, and equipment, not to mention on skin.”

A hand rose in the rear of the room. “Dr. Braswell, how does C. auris impact the patient?”

“The fungus is different because it acts like a bacteria, causing serious wound and bloodstream infections in people who are already hospitalized and ill. Like these bacteria, it causes overwhelming infections that overtake the immune system and doesn’t respond to drugs.”

Another question was raised. “What is its lifespan outside of its host?”

Dr. Braswell set down the remote and put his hands in his pockets. He had a grim look on his face. “What’s also unique about this organism is that it can actually stay on skin surfaces for prolonged periods of time, even months, after the initial infection is cured. A carrier of the disease is likely to be discharged from a physician’s care and still be infected with C. auris. What we’ve been able to find out is that, in fact, C. auris is colonized in patients even after they undergo an antifungal drug regimen. The patients still have it on their skin.”

Mac’s mind raced as she thought about the correlation between an antibiotic-resistant fungus like C. auris and an infectious disease like pneumonic plague. Could the two be married together to create a superbug?

*****

Mac arrived back at her office and found Baggett waiting for her. He was sitting quietly in a corner of her office, not saying a word. His sudden appearance startled Mac.

She looked down at her watch. “Were we scheduled for a meeting? I was in a briefing with Dr. Braswell.”

“No, but I needed to see you,” started Baggett with an air of mystery. “Please sit down.”

Mac slowly made her way to her desk, where she eased into her chair. She purposefully left her door open. She didn’t trust Baggett and had no problem with other CDC staff overhearing what he had to say. She might need a witness someday.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Tomorrow, both the New York Times and the Washington Post will be running front-page stories on the disease outbreak in Guatemala. The CDC is going to come under attack for its ineffective response.”

“But we were on top of this from the beginning,” protested Mac. “Because of the long incubation period and the extremely isolated early hot zones, it was impossible to contact trace any potential infected locals. The disease has only mushroomed in the last few days.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Dr. Hagan. However, in an election year, political opponents and the media look for issues to sell whatever they sell. Here’s what I can tell you about the business of politics. When you work for a government agency, your loyalty is to the hand that feeds you. You keep your nose to the wind and follow the lead of the party in Congress who controls appropriations, or the occupant of the White House who dictates policy.”

“Well, how do you deal with a situation like now where Congress and the President are at odds with one another?”

Baggett let out a genuine laugh. “I call it the politics of fence riding. You try your best to be apolitical and focus on the task at hand, but when your funding is on the line, you stand up for your agency. No matter what the circumstances are, when you have an opportunity to speak in front of a President or a congressman, the answer is always the same—more money. You ride the middle of the fence as the power changes hands in Washington. When a new administration or Congress takes hold, you can speak to them as if you’re old pals.”

Mac shook her head and relaxed. This was a side of Baggett she’d never seen before. If the man could just set aside whatever insecurities plagued him, he could be likable. “Well, that’s why I could never enjoy politics. It’s a nasty game that I don’t know how to play.”

“Dr. Hagan, that’s why I’m here. You have to learn to play the game. You’ll represent the CDC in front of the House Committee on Energy and Commerce.”

Mac looked at Baggett and smiled while rocking back and forth in her chair. Ten seconds seemed like an eternity. “What?” was the only word she could muster.

“The chairman of the committee has requested a representative of the CDC to appear before a House panel to discuss the CDC’s response to the outbreak in Guatemala and to answer questions about the possible spread of the disease to the United States.”

“Okay, what’s that got to do with me? I mean, the White House Situation Room was one thing, but Congress. Surely this is something for Dr. Spielman, right?”

“No, actually, he asked me to come see you. He received glowing reports about your performance in the Situation Room, as did I. You’ll be the face of the CDC on this one.”

“When?”

“End of the week.”

“What do I say? I mean, after all of that talk about politics and fence-riding, I’m not sure I’m the one you want.”

Baggett hesitated and then bluntly provided Mac her marching orders. He stood up and approached her desk, looking down at her as he established an intimidating, power position of authority.

“You’ll keep it simple. You’ll complain about lack of funding and resources. You’ll constantly reiterate that there are no active cases of the plague on U.S. soil. You’ll deflect attention to another topic like this new fungus thing, the superbug. You will not be overdramatic or cause a panic.”

Mac glared back. Looked like the old D-Bag was still around.

*****

Baggett dialed the White House before he reached his office. He was finally routed to Chief of Staff Morse.

“Mr. Morse, everything is in place for the committee hearing,” started Baggett. “I believe she has a good understanding of what’s expected of her.”

“What’s she gonna say?” asked Morse, who added an additional comment. “We don’t want any headlines to come of this hearing. You do remember Ebolamania, don’t you?”

“I do. Listen, she’ll be fine. I know what your concerns are, but I don’t believe she’s in the same mold as her mother. Dr. Hagan isn’t interested in politics or grandstanding. She’s more of a science nerd.”

“I hope you’re right, for your sake, Baggett,” Morse subtly threatened. “If she turns out to be a loose cannon, it’s your job on the line. Are we clear?”

“Got it,” replied Baggett as the White House Chief of Staff slammed down the phone.

Chapter 71

Day Twenty-Four

The Ivy

Buckhead

Hunter arrived at The Ivy early. He’d heard about their legendary three-hundred-inch television, which loomed large over the outdoor terrace, and he wanted to secure a table for the two of them outside. In a way, this was their first formal date, unlike the chance meeting in Athens. Hunter hoped this would be an opportunity for the two of them to get to know one another on a personal level, and leave the terror that threatened their existence in another part of the world, at least for one night.

The Ivy was a renovated mansion that was converted decades ago into a Buckhead social fixture. With its twenty-eight flat-screens in addition to the monstrosity that hung on the terrace, the space had become one of Atlanta’s hottest nightspots, especially for those who were looking for a trendy sports bar.

Hunter stood at the rail of the second level, taking in the view of the surroundings. He saw Mac pull into the valet parking stand and get out. She had a certain grace about her, with a strong air of confidence. Perhaps it was her five-foot-ten stature or her physical build, but even to men, she could appear intimidating. Hunter, on the other hand, admired this in a woman. For the first time in his life, Hunter found himself in pursuit of a long-term relationship.

He left the rail and found his way to the Gazebo bar and ordered two Bud longnecks. One thing they had in common—they were both bottle babies. Hunter planned on looking for more common ground tonight.

When she approached the table, he immediately stood and pulled out a chair for her to sit. She reached up and touched his shoulder as she smiled and said thank you. All of these little contacts between them gave Hunter the butterflies. Yes, he thought to himself, even I can have the butterflies.

“Hunter, this is one heckuva surprise,” said Mac as she scooted in her chair. “When I received your text a few hours ago, the first thing I thought was here comes my knight in shining armor to save me from this day.”

Hunter provided his best rendition of a medieval knight’s bow. “I am at your service, milady.” Hunter slid into the chair across from Mac.

This drew a smile and a laugh from Mac, who immediately reached for her beer and proposed a toast. “To the good old days!”

Hunter clinked bottles and they both took a swig. “You mean, the good old days of the fourteenth century. Seems like we’re about to relive it.” Darn it, Hunter, that’s borderline shop talk.

“Well, maybe so, but I’ll fight the battles with you, my loyal knight.” Mac laughed as she took another swig. She glanced up to the big screen, which was showing the Braves-Marlins game. “Do you like baseball? Around here, everybody is a Braves fan, naturally.”

Hunter spun around in his chair to get a better look. “That thing’s incredible.”

“Yeah. Why don’t you slide around the side next to me?” offered Mac. “I don’t bite, you know.”

“Okay,” said Hunter, who moved faster than a vampire on True Blood to take up his spot next to her. “I’m kind of a Marlins fan. Growing up around DC, I watched a lot of Nationals games on TV, but when Derek Jeter and Jeb Bush bought the Marlins, I switched allegiances.”

“Do you like Jeb Bush?” asked Mac. “You don’t seem like the political type.”

“That’s true, I hate everything about politics. Everything has become hyper-politicized, especially for those who’re constantly looking for a hidden meaning in everything. One might assume that I’m a Republican because I like the Marlins and they’re owned, in part, by Jeb Bush. But, because I recycle, someone else might assume that I’m a save-the-whales Democrat.”

Mac started laughing. “Do you recycle?”

“No.”

“Then you are a Republican because you like the Marlins!”

“No!” Hunter protested. “I’m not a Republican. I’m a none-of-the-above. I love my country and I do my duty to protect her. I wish the politicians would all go home and do nothing. We’d be better off.”

Mac finished her beer and was studying Hunter. He sensed that she was teasing him.

“So you invite me out for a drink, in the land of the free and home of the Braves, and declare your allegiance to the Florida Marlins, who really should be called the Miami Marlins.”

“You’re the one who asked if I like baseball. Besides, it’s because of Derek Jeter anyway.”

Mac was relentless. “You’re a Yankee fan?”

“Oh my God, no. It’s just that I met him a long time ago and we stayed in touch for a while before I entered the service. He’s a really good guy.”

Mac touched his hand, which had a firm grip on his beer. “You know I’m just bustin’ your balls.”

Hunter laughed after her statement. Mac was a guy’s girl. With every passing minute, he liked her more and more. “I know. You wanna hear the story?”

“If it comes with another beer, I’ll manage to endure it,” she said, laughing. Hunter flagged down a server and ordered two more Buds. Then Mac shocked him by ordering a couple of tequila shots.

“Wait, make those Patron Gran, please,” said Hunter.

“Well, that’s the high-dollar stuff. They must pay you well over at the DTRA.”

“No, not really, considering what I do. I have a little money of my own that I spend wisely.”

“On expensive tequila?” asked Mac.

“I consider it an investment on future earnings.” Hunter laughed as the server returned with their drinks.

“Let’s do this,” said Mac, who immediately licked her hand between her thumb and index finger, doused it with salt and licked it again. Hunter followed her lead and they slammed back their Patron shots and simultaneously sucked their limes. Both of them burst out laughing at their first effort at choreographed tequila shots. “Salud!”

“Salud!” said Hunter. “Now I know where you learned your limited Spanish.”

“Yup, enjoying tequila is a carryover from my college days,” she said, leaning forward on the table with both elbows, her chin resting on her hands. “Now, tell me a story.”

“Back in ’07, I was a junior at VMI when the shooter killed those thirty-two people. It had an impact on me, as well as most of my friends.”

“Wait, you were at VMI in ’07?” interrupted Mac. “I was a sophomore at Virginia Tech when the shooting occurred. Of course I remember it.”

“Wow, small world. I had no idea,” said Hunter. “Okay, so you remember. Were you still there the following year when the Yankees came to Blacksburg to play the Hokies in an exhibition game?”

“I was at the game! Most of us cried during the whole thing because it was so emotional.”

Hunter sat up in his chair and grabbed Mac’s hand. “This is unbelievable. I was there too. That’s when I met Derek Jeter. We used to exchange emails and he’d get me tickets to the Yankees games when they played the Orioles or the Senators. We fell out of touch, but I still admire the guy for his support of the families of the people killed by that crazy idiot.”

“Wow, Hunter,” said Mac, still holding hands with Hunter. “We were both at that game and didn’t know it. This is a really small world.”

“That shooting forced me to grow up that day. Life is short and time goes by fast. There’s no replay or rewind. I vowed to make an impact on the world that day, in whatever way I could.”

Mac looked into his eyes and smiled. “Are you fulfilling your promise to yourself?”

“In part,” he replied.

“What’s missing?”

Hunter shyly looked down at the table and twirled a beverage napkin in a circle. “Someone like you.”

Chapter 72

Day Twenty-Four

Park Place on Peachtree

Buckhead

Hunter and Mac were wrapped in a blanket, holding each other quietly on her sofa. What happened between them was not a tequila-induced booty call, but rather, it was a genuine feeling of love, or at least a budding romance. Sometimes the extraordinary pressure of a career, or a threat upon your life, can cause your emotions to overflow, landing you in the arms of someone. Other times, two people fall in love because they’re meant for each other, and events in their lives nudge them together, allowing human nature to take over from there.

Such was the case for Mac and Hunter. The odds of the two of them being in the same small college baseball stadium so many years ago and then meeting each other in an obscure place like the jungles of Guatemala were too large to fathom. There was only one explanation—fate. Mac believed people didn’t meet by accident. They were meant to cross paths for a reason. She was glad Hunter crossed her path.

Hunter was beginning to stir and Mac knew that potentially awkward moment was about to face the two of them. One of two things would happen. He would have that oh-my-what-have-I-done reaction, which she had felt in the past. Or he’d embrace the moment like she had.

He opened his eyes and squeezed her tight. “Hey, that was awesome. Let’s do it again.”

Then, there was the boy reaction.

“You have to wait, mister,” said Mac as she left him to his devilish devices. “I’ve got to hit the head.” She got up and walked to the bathroom, glancing at the mirror to see if he was watching her. Naturally, his eyes followed her down the hallway.

Mac emerged in a robe and went to the kitchen. She checked the clock. 10:15. Still early, but she debated a nightcap. The congressional hearing immediately popped into her mind. She had a few days to prepare, but maybe she shouldn’t have any more beer. Mac glanced into the living room and saw Hunter. No, this is my time. I have a gorgeous man in my home and I’m going to explore a relationship with him some more. She popped the top on the Budweisers and returned to the sofa.

“Thanks,” said Hunter as he accepted the cold beer. “Are you okay? I mean, you know.”

Mac dropped her robe and slid under the blanket with him. They easily and comfortably intertwined their legs, as if they’d been doing it for years.

“I’m better than okay, Hunter. I knew this would happen.”

“You did?” asked Hunter as he tipped up his beer.

“Yup, I’m irresistible.”

Hunter busted out laughing and poured beer down his chest and onto the blanket.

“I see that I’ll have to housetrain you, however.” Mac laughed, never taking her eyes off his muscular chest. She told herself this relationship started on several levels, but having seen his physique, she was pleased at the bonus he provided in that regard.

“Sorry about that.” Hunter set down his beer and tried to wipe the mess off the blanket, to no avail.

“Don’t worry, Hunter. It’ll wash.” Mac grabbed his hands and forced him to quit fussing over the blanket. “Let’s talk about something.”

“Are you about to kick me out? Pat me on the head and say that was great but—”

“Would you stop and listen to me, please.” Mac laughed. “This is hard for me, okay?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve thought a lot about you, and a possible us, since Athens. I want this more than anything in the world. But look at our lives right now. I’ve begun to feel the magnitude of what’s happening in the world. I know you are too. How in the heck do we start a relationship under these circumstances?”

Hunter reached for his beer and took a sip. “I personally feel like we’re off to a rousing start, pardon the pun.”

Mac tossed a pillow over his head. “Would you be serious?”

“I don’t know, Mac. I’ve never really had a relationship before, and I’m glad. I’m out-of-my-mind in love with you and that’s the only true love I wanna know.”

“You love me?”

“Yes, I love you.”

“It’s not just the beer and tequila and magnificent sex?”

Hunter pushed himself up on the sofa and leaned into Mac. “I loved you way before all of that. I knew it in Athens. It just overcame me. I can’t explain it, but here’s my heart. It’s yours.”

Mac started crying and hugged him. They held each other for several minutes as she let her emotions out. “I love you too, Hunter.”

For the next thirty minutes, they talked and laughed about the unlikely couple they’d created—the different worlds in which they lived. She was the nerdy scientist on the one hand and he was the Mission Impossible dude on the other. But none of that mattered because they had challenges to face and they couldn’t imagine doing it without being by each other’s side.

Mac had just invited Hunter to spend the night when she received a text message from the CDC Operations Center.

Three new plague patients were admitted in Las Cruces, NM. Check your emails for travel arrangements.

She handed the phone to Hunter. “See what I mean?”

“I’m going with you,” he replied.

Chapter 73

Day Twenty-Five

Las Cruces, New Mexico

The three-hour Delta flight from Atlanta to El Paso, Texas, descended towards a landing. Hunter stared out the window, with Mac asleep leaning on his shoulder. He’d have to wake her before landing so she wasn’t startled. They’d barely slept during their first night together and he was reminded that she was not an early riser. It took a lot of cajoling to get her to Atlanta-Hartsfield for their 6:33 departure.

El Paso and Juárez Mexico coexisted uncomfortably like an estranged couple, surrounded on all sides by mountainous desert. The cities were separated by the thin trickle of the Rio Grande River, which flowed through concrete channels and aqueducts, built years ago to control the river’s natural habit of changing course and muddying up the boundaries between the two countries.

One side was Texas, a state that would rather be its own country, as their citizens had proven with constant secession petitions. On the other lay Mexico—similar in geography, but wholly different in most other respects. The border’s way of life, its purpose, legitimate and otherwise, had always been dependent upon respecting this dividing line.

Just a few miles to the west of downtown El Paso, that dividing line crosses from east to west through a vast and open desert, stretching through barren wasteland along New Mexico, then through Arizona as the land becomes more mountainous, and finally all the way to sunny Southern California and the Pacific Ocean. Along the deserted stretch, thousands of migrants waited for the opportunity to kiss the soil of the United States. Most were simply looking for a better life for themselves and their families. Some would live simply in the United States while sending the vast majority of their earnings back to Mexico.

Then there were those who came to America to join gangs and other forms of criminal enterprises. Their activities tainted the innocents who just sought a better life. These criminals and terrorists would use the innocents as tools to advance their agendas.

*****

Hunter found a Starbucks and loaded Mac up with caffeine. Although it was mid-morning in Atlanta, Mac’s watch read before 8:00 a.m. “That’s the clock that counts,” she grumbled as she took her first sips of caramel latte with extra caramel. Her eyes closed as she savored the moment, the latte providing her instant rejuvenation.

Hunter headed northbound on Interstate 10 for the forty-five-mile ride to Las Cruces. Mac quietly scrolled through her emails, periodically responding to them. She glanced up as they entered New Mexico and read the welcome sign.

“Welcome to New Mexico, the land of enchantment,” she said, looking around at the sparsely populated landscape. “It doesn’t look very enchanting to me.”

“I guess beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” added Hunter. His mind was still on the fate of thousands of Hispanics who give up everything to step foot in the land of enchantment.

“I suppose. There are new numbers coming in, new cases. Team Europe reports three dozen new cases in Spain and dozens in Italy. We now have cases in London as well.”

“Any surprise there?” asked Hunter.

“I expected there to be more, but you can’t read anything into that,” she replied. “This disease is misdiagnosed all the time. Really, this whole plague outbreak reflects the inadequacies of the system in general. If you can’t prevent pandemics from occurring, the least we can do is strengthen the system to detect them as soon as possible. We need to enhance surveillance measures. We need to step up our response, which is known to be slow and passive.”

Hunter checked his speed as he drove up on a law enforcement vehicle. It was a border patrol truck that slowed to assist a New Mexico State Trooper with a traffic stop.

He added, “That’s a little difficult to change when these diseases make their presence known through outbreaks in remote parts of the world. By my calculations, you were nearly two weeks into the outbreak before you had anything to study.”

“Exactly, which is what I intend to tell Congress,” said Mac.

Hunter looked over at her and briefly wandered off onto the shoulder of the road before he corrected his course. “What?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’m testifying in front of a congressional committee in three days.”

“Really? About what?”

Mac thumbed her iPhone and found Google News. The Washington Post article was the first result under the U.S. News section. She clicked on it and it filled her phone’s display.

“This,” she replied, sticking the phone in front of his face. Hunter alternated watching the road and trying to read the headline. “CDC under fire for outbreak response.”

“Seriously? You’re going to Washington, in front of Congress, to defend the CDC’s response? Not a chance.”

“Thank you again, knight in shining armor, but I can handle myself just fine.”

“No, Mac, listen to me. One of the guys I work with, Scott Jablonik, told me you knocked it out of the park at the White House, but this is different. These people are predators. They’re grandstanders. They’ll figure out a way to ruin your career to have another scalp in their trophy case.”

“Jablonik? I met him at the White House briefing. I was told to stay in contact with him, but Baggett took that responsibility away from me.”

Hunter furled his brow. He knew Jablonik had a contact at the CDC that provided him updates. He didn’t realize it was one of Mac’s superiors. He decided to stick to the subject because he was genuinely concerned for her attending this hearing alone.

“Let me hire you a lawyer,” he abruptly announced.

“Why do I need a lawyer?”

“Because everybody has a lawyer when they testify in front of Congress. It gives you an out when you don’t want to say anything.”

Mac shook her head and laughed. “I don’t need a lawyer, but thank you.”

They were entering the outskirts of Las Cruces, so Hunter decided to let it go. There was still time to convince her. Several memorable congressional hearings crossed his mind—Hillary Clinton at Benghazi; Watergate; Joseph McCarthy; Colonel Oliver North at Iran-Contra; Barry Bonds regarding steroids in baseball. They tried to put him in jail. Hunter set his jaw. He was getting her a lawyer.

*****

“Hello, I’m Dr. Kwame Okoli, the attending physician to three patients whom have been diagnosed with contracting the plague.”

“Nate Hunter.” Hunter extended his hand to Dr. Okoli, who remained standing still, with his hands in his lab coat pockets. Hunter, embarrassed, quickly withdrew his hand and muttered, “Well, okay.”

Mac rescued him. “Doctor, my associate doesn’t understand. People in our line of work don’t typically shake hands with others. There is no greater way to spread disease between strangers than the custom of shaking hands.”

“Oh, yes,” said Dr. Okoli. “My apologies, Mr. Hunter. After what I’ve seen in Africa, I’ve determined the practice of shaking hands should be abandoned.”

“Dr. Okoli, I’m Dr. Mackenzie Hagan with the CDC. Thank you for contacting us.”

Dr. Okoli grinned and said, “I’m glad you came so quickly. But I must ask you first, are you related to Barbara Hagan?”

“She’s my mother.”

“A great woman, Dr. Hagan. We worked together during the Ebola crisis. Her decision making was exceptional, despite what was written about her in your newspapers. In Africa, she was considered a hero.”

“Well, thank you, Dr. Okoli. I will tell her you said that. The media is not always fair and evenhanded, is it?”

“So very true, much like pneumonic plague.”

Hunter started laughing. “Great analogy. The American media—unfair and heavy-handed, just like the plague.”

“Yes, of course,” said Dr. Okoli dryly. Addressing Mac, he said, “If you will join me.”

Hunter looked to Mac and shrugged. “You go ahead without me. I have a few calls to make.”

Hunter left them and stepped outside into the searing heat of the New Mexico summer. He couldn’t fathom how they dealt with this every day. He dialed Jablonik and was finally connected.

Hunter took a moment to explain why he was in New Mexico and Jablonik brought him up to speed on the latest NSA reports on terrorist movements. Two Saudi Arabian men were taken into custody in San Diego, attempting to pass through customs with phony Brazilian passports. They were working on identification now. They discussed Mac’s appearance before Congress and Jablonik reassured him that she would be fine. Jablonik had been very impressed with her demeanor and fortitude at the White House that day and he encouraged Hunter not to overreact.

After the conversation, Hunter made his way back into the hospital, where a physician assistant was waiting for him. He led Hunter through several hallways and stairwells until they reached the pathology department. He arrived as Mac and Dr. Okoli were reviewing a deceased patient’s chart.

Dr. Okoli explained, “This man was a Muslim who died yesterday. He was unresponsive to the antibiotics, as we discussed.”

“When can I get the autopsy results?” asked Mac.

Dr. Okoli shook his head. “That is a problem with this patient. Because he is a Muslim, by state law, we are prohibited from performing an autopsy on him in deference to his religious beliefs. Because he cannot be identified and there is no known family in the area, our hands are tied.”

“Muslims don’t approve of autopsies?” asked Hunter.

“It depends,” replied Dr. Okoli. “In Nigeria, many Muslims were fundamental in their beliefs, following the Quran to the letter. The sheikhs believe that Islam prohibits autopsies. Islam deems the human body to be sacred and therefore does not allow it to be violated for any reason.”

Mac interrupted. “That seems archaic.”

“I believe it is, and so do many followers of Islam. This is a modern issue that is not addressed by the traditional books of the four schools of Islamic Law. As a result, many fatwâ councils and Islamic Law conferences have issued rulings that autopsies for medical and scientific purposes are permitted. In their opinion, Islamic Law clearly looks toward safeguarding human life and promoting human welfare. Protection of life is one of the five objectives that Islamic Law exists to realize.”

Hunter chuckled. “Some of them have a funny way of showing it.”

“This is true, Mr. Hunter, but I, too, am Muslim. I believe that any interpretation of Islamic Law that needlessly works against human welfare should be evaluated carefully. However, in New Mexico, the law prohibits an autopsy without familial consent.”

“Where was this man found?” asked Hunter.

“He was taken into custody in the desert near the Mexican border. Because he was ill, he was brought directly to Memorial. He was the only survivor. The other two died en route.”

Mac looked behind the glass where the man’s body rested. “Dr. Okoli, the bodies are still infected.”

“Yes, I am aware. This portion of the building has been closed. We will have to make arrangements to deal with him and the others.”

“What others?” asked Hunter.

“Wait, there were others?” asked Mac almost simultaneously.

“Yes, I received the call just before you arrived. The Border Patrol has found seventeen dead bodies within two miles of each other. It is quite sad. They were mostly women and children.”

Chapter 74

Day Twenty-Five

Near Columbus, New Mexico

Dr. Okoli put Hunter in contact with the Customs and Border Patrol in Columbus, New Mexico, about an hour drive southwest of Las Cruces. This small town of seventeen hundred was best known for being the location that sparked the Border War with Mexico in 1916. After famed Mexican revolutionary Pancho Villa crossed the border and slaughtered the residents of Columbus, the U.S. Army sent ten thousand troops to the region to begin the Mexican Expedition, which was launched in retaliation. Villa escaped, but the Expedition sent a clear message to stay on their side of the border. That was over a hundred years ago.

After driving through miles of desert landscape, Hunter finally found the CBP station in Columbus. He ran inside and located Agent Juan Alvarez. The two spoke for several minutes and Alvarez exited the rear of the building to retrieve his SUV.

“Mac, we’re gonna ride with Agent Alvarez. The bodies are in the middle of nowhere, which should come as no surprise.”

“Naturally. I’ve notified Atlanta and promised a report. Hunter, when we get there, we can’t get too close.”

“I understand, and so does Agent Alvarez,” he replied. “He confided in me that he refuses to leave the truck without a Tyvek suit, mask, and gloves. You know, the whole nine yards.”

“Does he have protective clothing?”

“Yes. He picked it up in Las Cruces after the first body showed up. He has a backup set if you want to get a closer look.”

Alvarez pulled alongside their rental car and the two joined him for the thirty-minute ride eastward along a rocky road. When a metal pole with a fluorescent orange flag appeared, Alvarez slowly turned off the road and headed due north.

As they bounced along in silence, Hunter and Mac observed the raw desert landscape. Periodically, a twisted desert tree or cactus would appear. These trees would rise out of a small grassy patch surrounded by rock and hard-packed dirt baked by the never-ending supply of sun.

These trees began to increase in frequency and then they started to catch Mac’s eye. “Agent Alvarez, why are women’s undergarments tied to some of these trees? I’ve seen panties and bras several times.”

Alvarez glanced over at Hunter in the passenger’s seat and then looked in the rearview mirror at Mac. He didn’t respond.

“Agent Alvarez?” Mac pressed for an answer.

“Those are known as rape trees,” he finally replied. “The drug cartels and their human smugglers bring migrants across the border, marching them for days in this intense heat. The migrants are not given water, but the women are offered a drink in exchange for favors. If they refuse, it doesn’t matter. It’s part of the smugglers’ culture to take pride in raping any of the migrants the smuggler deems attractive, regardless of their preference. Afterwards, the rapist will tie an undergarment from the victim on a tree near where the rape occurred as a trophy.”

The truck became quiet except for the sounds of Mac sniffling and attempting to hold back tears. Hunter looked to Alvarez and asked him to stop the truck for a moment. He exited the SUV and opened Mac’s door, encouraging her to step outside. The hot, blowing wind caught them both by surprise, but Hunter thought it would help Mac deal with the reality of what happened in this desert.

She held him for a moment, not saying a word. She walked around the truck and stared at the dozens of trees bearing the trophies of the smugglers. She was furious. Mac wanted to kill them all.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that, Mac.”

“You know, Hunter. I somehow suspected what the answer was, but I wanted to hear it.” She turned to him and held him again. “What’s wrong with these animals?”

Hunter held her and kissed her tear-covered cheeks. Mac began to respond and compose herself. Then she added one last thought.

“Ironic, isn’t it? When humans act cruelly to others, we call them animals. Yet the only animal that displays cruelty is humanity.”

Chapter 75

Day Twenty-Six

CDC Operations Center

Atlanta

Mac was operating on just a few hours’ sleep, but her adrenaline wasn’t failing her. By the time she arrived at the Operations Center at noon local time, the team was already under way with notifications to health care providers throughout the state of New Mexico. Phone lines were busy and the room was abuzz with activity.

Mac urged them on. “All right, people, this is a disease that knows no borders. It has proven itself to be a perfect killer, one that fights without conscience or regret. Its only job is to kill, and without a doubt, it is the most ruthless enemy the world has ever faced.”

Mac had just received word from Guatemala City that all four of the patients being treated by Brown had died. None of them were responsive to the colistin. Mac suspected that might be the case, so she was anxious to hear back from the microbiology team at Northwestern in Chicago to shed some light on what had made this strain of Y. pestis antibiotic resistant.

A hush came over the room as Dr. Spielman entered. He immediately walked up to Mac. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you, Dr. Spielman. It’s here and I’m afraid our nation’s health care system is not prepared for this. This disease is no different than any weapon of mass destruction. Hospitals and clinics will not be able to deal with issues of decontamination, mass casualties, and the mental health care for families, first responders, and the affected communities.”

“I understand, Mac. I’ve been ringing the clarion bell to my peers for decades that a bioterrorism attack on American soil would require a response that is fundamentally different from a natural disaster or even a bombing. Fighting an infectious disease depends on the speed and accuracy with which physicians can reach a correct diagnosis and laboratories can report accurate findings.”

Mac reviewed a chart handed to her by one of the CEFOs, and she initialed it. She continued. “Plus, in this case, we are dealing with a highly contagious infectious disease with a rapid spread rate. The public has to be warned.”

“We need to talk about that aspect,” said Dr. Spielman.

“Dr. Spielman, this outbreak could reach pandemic levels within days. In the U.S., we are ill-equipped to handle the large numbers of patients needing immediate and sustained medical care.”

“I know, Mac. I agree with you one hundred percent, but the fact of the matter is the cases discovered here so far are limited to the two dozen or so bodies in a remote area of New Mexico. We’ve had no reports of symptomatic patients appearing in any of the towns or cities along the southern border.”

“Yes, I know, but—” started Mac before Dr. Spielman interrupted her.

“A team has already been dispatched to Las Cruces to set up a regional command center. The New Mexico Department of Health is very capable, as is Dr. Okoli, whom I’m familiar with. They will coordinate the efforts on the ground in conjunction with our team’s containment suggestions.”

“Shouldn’t we notify the public? Don’t they have a right to be warned?” asked Mac.

“Mac, here’s the problem, which you have pointed out more than once. The early symptoms of the plague look remarkably like the common cold or perhaps the flu. If we sound the alarm prematurely, clinics, doctor’s offices, and hospital emergency rooms will be inundated with people complaining of headaches, coughs, or overall weakness. Not only will the system collapse, but the health care providers will become jaded to the actual symptomatic patients.”

“Dr. Spielman, you know I can’t disagree, but if we don’t put out some kind of warning, this strain of the plague will spread faster than wildfire.”

“Yes, which is why we’ll issue general public service announcements like we did with H1N1 and Ebola. The first thing that we’ll do is set up a dedicated toll-free number for the public to receive a recorded message. We’ll create a specific page on the CDC.gov website, providing a list of symptoms, proper hygiene habits, tips on traveling into infected areas, and community planning so that people can feel like they’re doing something to prevent transmission of the disease.”

“What about the media? Can’t we make some type of announcement to let people know?” asked Mac.

“Yes, that’s in the works, but it’s being handled in Washington. Our job is to get the word out to health care providers, and for you, it’s getting a handle on every aspect of this strain so we can defeat it, or at least contain it.”

Mac feared this plague outbreak could not be contained.

Chapter 76

Day Twenty-Six

CDC

Atlanta

Mac returned to her office with Janie in tow. During her absence, Janie had conducted the team meetings to get updates on the new cases and the spread of the disease around the world. It was time to update the whiteboard.

Janie, referring to her notes, systematically brought the numbers up to date. Seven new countries were added—Niger, Columbia, Brazil, Honduras, Belize, Mexico, and now, the United States. In the remaining countries that reported deaths and infected patients, the numbers had doubled, except in Greece and Bulgaria, where the number of infected had increased tenfold.

“No burnout on this one,” commented Janie as she completed the task. She took a seat across from Mac and waited for further instructions.

Mac reviewed her emails and then looked at Janie. “How’s your family?”

Janie was caught off guard by the question, but replied, “They’re doing fine. Thanks. They still live here in Atlanta with my younger sister. She’s a junior at Georgia Tech.”

Mac continued to scroll through her inbox. “Janie, tell them to be careful. You too, okay?”

“Yeah, Mac, of course. You’ve got a bad feeling, don’t you?”

“I do, and I want to scream run and hide at the top of my lungs, but everyone around me is telling me I can’t do that. They don’t want to cause a panic. They don’t want to instill fear in the public. Well, I think fear is a great motivator. Why shouldn’t we instill a little fear into the public to raise their level of awareness? Would that really be so bad?”

Janie hesitated. “People can’t handle the truth, Mac. People can’t handle it when the cable goes out for an hour. People can’t handle it when their favorite sports team loses a game. People can’t handle diddly-squat.”

“Diddly-squat?” asked Mac as she laughed. “Is that something you learned in your psych classes at Emory?”

“No, it’s kinda a Southern thing. But you know what I mean. People are like sheep, Mac. They have to be told what to do and be coddled. If we freak them out, we can’t help the ones that really need help.”

Mac thought of this for a moment. She understood Janie’s logic and appreciated her honest, straightforward opinion. “Janie, honestly, is that the mistake my mother made? Did she unnecessarily spook the public?”

“Listen, your mother was a dedicated public servant who served her country admirably, blah-blah-blah. Just like the Washington big-mouths said before they ran her off. The fact is you and I both know that she loves people and would give her own life to save any stranger in America from Ebola or any other deadly pathogen. You, Mac, are just like her. Make no mistake about that.”

Mac sat quietly as her PC produced a notification of new emails arriving in her inbox. “Janie, you know I have to go in front of Congress in two days. What should I do? Tell the truth or downplay it the way they want?”

“It depends. Do you wanna keep your job? Here’s what my daddy always said. When he was in banking, he’d say that bankers don’t lose their job for not making enough loans, they lose their job for making the one bad loan. The same thing applies to any of us working for the government. You go along to get along, but if you wanna ruffle feathers, you better be prepared to get kicked out of the nest.”

Mac again laughed and was feeling much better after a dose of Janie. “Thanks, Janie. Now, fly out of here and save the world!”

“Tweet, tweet,” she said as she hustled out of the room.

Mac turned her attention to the new email, one that she’d been waiting for from Dr. Walter Latham, her former microbiology professor, who was now a senior fellow at the Northwestern University Feinberg School of Medicine. She’d contacted him about the possible genetic modifications of this strain of Y. pestis.

She opened the image he sent with his email and looked closely at the strain produced under his scanning electron microscope, which generated a detailed micrograph of the bacteria. She immediately noticed the differences.

Gone were the clean, rod-shaped lines. The bacteria were surrounded by additional genetic material, which created a mutated, bastardized version of the pure form that existed in nature.

Mac continued reading Dr. Latham’s email.

Mac, I’ve certainly enjoyed studying this groundbreaking organism, although I suspect that it’s giving you fits.

Y. pestis, as you know, has a history of undergoing genetic change. My colleague, Dr. Zimbler, discovered the single gene that reshaped the bacteria from causing a primarily gastrointestinal infection to the more serious and often fatal respiratory disease. Over the millennia, the plague has adapted to its hosts and learned to avoid its attackers by acquiring small bits of DNA.

With Dr. Zimbler’s revelations, we now have a better understanding of how the Y. pestis bacteria adapts via genetic modifications. Over time, through the genetic adjustments involving the surface protein Pla, the pneumonic form of the plague enhanced its ability to infect the lungs, which was all this ancestral strain of Y. pestis needed to produce a fatal lung infection, followed by death due to pneumonia.

Now, enough of the class lecture, you’ve heard enough of those. Here’s the bad news.

It will take several days, if not a week or more, to identify the new genetic markers associated with the subject strain. I will answer your anticipated insistence that there’s no time to wait for the testing, but alas, you must.

In order to unravel the molecular changes that underlie this new strain of the world’s deadliest and most infamous bacterium, I’ve got to bring in my entire team of microbiology and immunology students from around the country. It’s summer break, but I have no doubt they’ll jump at the opportunity to assist on this one.

Naturally, I will keep you informed. Until then, I bid you adieu!

Days. Weeks. Ugh.

Chapter 77

Day Twenty-Seven

The Hunter Residence

Lake Barcroft, Virginia

Hunter picked Mac up from Reagan-Washington National Airport and took her on the nickle tour past the Pentagon and Arlington National Cemetery before their arrival at Lake Barcroft, a community southwest of Arlington. Hunter wanted to show Mac the sights, but she was more enamored with his Corvette. He suspected he’d have to give it to her at some point. The price of true love was never too high.

Mac’s gaping open mouth without saying a word actually spoke volumes as he drove up the quarter-mile-long driveway to the stone Tudor house nestled in the woods overlooking Lake Barcroft. As he pulled through the circle driveway toward the front door, Mac looked quickly from the stately two-story home, back to him and again toward the house.

“This is yours?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Hunter shut off the engine and exited the car.

Mac hadn’t moved, not because she expected Hunter to open the door for her, but rather because she was in shock, or awe, he couldn’t decide which. Maybe both.

“Who else lives here?” asked Mac as Hunter opened her door.

“Nobody, just me,” he replied calmly.

Mac stopped dead in her tracks and grabbed Hunter before he could open the trunk and grab her bags. “Hunter, this home is, well, incredible. I had no idea that…”

He turned and took her head in his hands. “Mac, there’s a lot you don’t know about me. I don’t want to distract you from your big day tomorrow, but I promise I’ll reveal all over burgers and beer in the backyard.”

She pouted slightly and he kissed her lips, erasing the pout and replacing it with a smile. Hunter led her inside and set her bags in the foyer. “Wow,” said Mac as she took in the interior. The home was nearly eighty years old and was the original residence of former Senator Thomas Connally from Texas. This is where the Connally family resided while the Senate was in session. When the Senator lost re-election in 1952, the home went on the market and was purchased by the Hunter family.

“I’ll tell you more after you get settled in and we have a couple of beers in us, deal?”

“Deal.” Hunter took her into the master suite, which consumed half of the upstairs. A set of double doors opened onto a balcony overlooking Lake Barcroft and the massive stone inlaid patio behind the home. A set of terraced gardens meandered down to a cedar-shingled boathouse, which contained a vintage pleasure boat.

Hunter set her bags on his bed and kissed her on the cheek. “Take your time and make yourself at home. I’ll go down and prep dinner plus I’ll put some beers on ice. Meet me out back. I’ll fire up the grill.”

“Sure,” replied Mac. Hunter smiled when his back was turned to her. She hadn’t spoken a dozen words since they arrived. Maybe he should have told her about his family sooner?

“Hunter, are you Batman?”

Hunter laughed so hard that he couldn’t speak for a moment. Mac had an incredible sense of humor and never ceased to put him in stitches. He wasn’t sure how to reply because the look on her face showed she’d asked the question in all seriousness.

“No, I don’t have a cave or a butler.”

*****

Ten minutes later, Mac walked through the rear doors leading onto the patio, wearing a pair of cotton terry shorts and a white tee shirt with a red biohazard symbol emblazoned on the back. The shirt read Warning: Patient Zero.

“Are you hungry, or do you want one of these first?” said Hunter as he pulled a beer out of a built-in cooler next to the grill. The ice immediately began to melt, dripping water back onto Hunter’s bare feet.

“Oh, yes. Please, a beer first, convo next, and then burgers, and another beer, and then you-know-what.”

Hunter delivered the beer and accepted a kiss as a gratuity. “Come on, we’ll walk down to the lake and I’ll tell you about my family.”

Mac wrapped her arm in his as they walked through the cool grass that wound its way through a series of flower gardens. Crape myrtle trees were beginning to bloom pink and white flowers, complementing the variety of roses and annuals that surrounded them.

“Hunter, I have to admit that I’m totally surprised at all of this,” said Mac as she waved her hand around. “Seriously, I thought you’d have a condo, with a flat-screen, and maybe an Xbox sitting on top of an overturned plastic milk crate. I mean, not that you couldn’t afford better, but you’re a bachelor that travels the world, blowing things up and stuff.”

Hunter chuckled as she spoke. They reached the large deck surrounding the boathouse and sat in a couple of Adirondack chairs overlooking the lake. An osprey sailed by, drawing a bead on a small bass that hopped out of the dark water.

“My father was J. Gordon Hunter, the founder and CEO of Hunter Laboratories based in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Its official name was the J. Gordon Hunter Laboratory, specializing in navigation systems for NASA and later for the military’s drone program. Dad started out as an aeronautics professor at MIT but developed a series of patents that intrigued the government. With some venture capital, he built Hunter Labs into a major player in the defense industry, even making it on the cover of Forbes magazine once.”

Mac studied Hunter as she finished her beer. She began to peel the label and asked, “Do your folks live in Cambridge?”

Hunter shook his head and looked down. “No, they were both killed in a terrorist attack while on a trip to Paris. I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”

“I’m so sorry, Hunter.” Mac set her beer down and took Hunter’s hand in hers.

He smiled and whispered, “Thank you. It’s still painful because it happened while I was at VMI. In fact, it was the summer after the Yankees came to your school. It made the news and Derek Jeter got wind of it. That’s when we became friends.”

“That’s horrible. I can see it has an effect on you still.”

“It does when I talk about it, which is not very often. I’ve never had anybody like you to confide in. Neither my buddies in The Unit, nor at Project Artemis, would understand what I’ve had to deal with, you know? It wasn’t just the loss of my parents, but also the business side of my parents’ estate.”

“Are you the owner of Hunter Laboratories?” asked Mac.

Hunter finished his beer and set the bottle on the deck next to Mac’s. He took a deep breath and looked across the lake, where he spotted another osprey sailing effortlessly just a few feet above the water.

“No, the stock shares are held in trust for me until I turn thirty-five. At thirty, I could’ve taken a seat on the board and assumed operational control, but I didn’t. Instead, I had the lawyers negotiate a sale to Raytheon a few years ago.”

Mac sat quietly for a moment. “You didn’t want to run it yourself?”

“Nah, I never had my dad’s drive or desire to deal with the business world. It’s complicated, ruthless, and brutal. I’m all of those three as well, but in a different arena. I never understood his kind of sharks.”

“So they sold it?” she asked.

“I know you wanna ask how much,” said Hunter jokingly.

“Okay, if you insist.” Mac said with a chuckle. “How much?”

“One-point-one billion,” replied Hunter with a straight face.

Mac sat dumbfounded, mindlessly watching the wildlife scurry to and fro across the lake. Then she burst out laughing. “You’re a billionaire! You’re so full of crap. Really? A billionaire! Wait, how old are you, anyway?”

“Thirty-three. I have to wait two years for the trust fund to vest.”

Mac furled her brow in a childish way. Then she started stomping her feet on the deck, first one, then the other, the vibration causing the bottles to tip over and roll around beneath them. “Still, my boyfriend is a billionaire! And he’s Batman. Batman the billionaire. I’m calling my mother. She’ll have me committed when I tell her this!”

Hunter smiled. This was why he wanted to make sure Mac loved him before she knew who he was.

Chapter 78

Day Twenty-Eight

House Committee on Energy and Commerce

Rayburn House Office Building

Washington, DC

Mac insisted on appearing in front of Congress without Hunter being in the room. She was already nervous and his presence would make it much worse. Despite his protestations, Mac held firm, but to pacify him, she would let one of his attorneys sit with her during the process. She said Hunter could wait in the courtyard and flirt with interns.

Mac’s letter from Congressman David Masterson, chairman of the House Committee on Energy and Commerce, instructed her to arrive prior to the 10:00 a.m. hearing, which was to take place in room 2123 of the Rayburn House Office Building.

Most Americans are familiar with the United States Capitol and its distinctive dome rising into the sky. But the majority of the business of the United States government is conducted in three House office buildings—Longworth, Rayburn, and Cannon. Rayburn was identified as Building 2, and Rayburn 2123 was the first room that appeared when Mac and the attorney entered off of South Capitol Street.

The building was named after former Speaker of the House Sam Rayburn. A Texan, Rayburn was the longest running Speaker of the House in American History, perhaps due to his preferring to work quietly in the background as opposed to seeking the public spotlight. There could be lessons to be learned from Speaker Rayburn’s approach.

Mac had already garnered a significant amount of attention on this day. She wore her service dress whites, as was customary in the summer, and with her height and beauty, she caught the eye of virtually everyone entering Rayburn that day.

After she cleared security, Mac made her final decision. She’d wrestled with donning the remainder of her attire. Should I drive the point home or toe the line? Go big, or go home, she decided.

Just before they entered room 2123, Mac and her attorney were approached by an intern for Ranking Member Jean Haskell, a member of the President’s party. The young woman introduced herself and spoke mainly to Mac’s attorney. A brief statement had been drafted for her to read at the onset of her testimony. A statement carefully prepared by Haskell’s office and Mac’s superiors at the CDC.

Mac read it and handed it back to the attorney, shaking her head in disgust. The statement they drafted sealed the deal. She reached into her briefcase and donned white gloves, an N95 particulate mask, and protective eyewear. Without saying another word, she held her head high and marched into the den of vipers.

The committee was minutes away from convening, but the pool photographers were already in place. As Mac entered the room, the photogs jumped from their kneeling position and crowded the rail that separated their nest from the table where Mac’s place card awaited her—LCDR Mackenzie Hagan, MD.

Except for the nonstop clicking of cameras, the room became quiet as Mac made her way to her seat. She sat down and looked directly into the C-SPAN camera that was a permanent fixture in the room.

Chairman Masterson appeared through a rear door with his staff in tow and immediately stared at Mac for a few seconds before a sly grin crossed his face. He was an astute politician.

The rest of the committee members filed in and took their seats. All eyes were on Mac. Although she didn’t pay attention to politics, Mac’s instincts told her which members of the committee belonged to the President’s party and which belonged to Chairman Masterson’s party. There was no doubt which sets of eyes were shooting darts and which ones offered encouragement. Mac’s decision to wear the mask and protective eyewear helped her identify the enemy.

Chairman Masterson made a brief statement in which he commented on the growing threat the nation faced from the spread of infectious diseases. “Our government has been slack in preparing for the next big pandemic or biological terrorism attack. By our failure to act, not only are we endangering our citizens, but also the economic stability of our nation.”

Masterson, a retired physician, had always been a proponent of the CDC, but he found himself on opposite ends of the political spectrum from the President on immigration matters. He continued with his opening statement.

“Protecting the United States from the next pandemic or killer flu, or from a bioterror attack, is something that Republicans and Democrats can easily agree on. This is a topic that should bring us all together. Yet the money hasn’t been there for research and investigation for agencies like the Centers for Disease Control. Even in the face of threats emerging in Central America, we cannot manage to approve the necessary appropriations to allow talented individuals like our witness to do her job.”

Masterson finished his opening remarks and then yielded the floor to the highest-ranking member of the minority party in Congress, Congresswoman Jean Haskell from Georgia. Mac could feel the anger directed at her from Congresswoman Haskell.

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I agree that we need some issues around here to work on together. There are plenty of subjects to fight about, and frankly, I came into today’s hearing excited about the prospect of this Congress getting back into the habit of doing the right thing.”

Congresswoman Haskell removed her glasses and stared at the desk in front of her for a few seconds before clasping her hands. “I most, however, strenuously object to this display of attire donned by the witness. This is the type of grandstanding and excess that violates the decorum this committee has insisted upon for years. Mr. Chairman, I ask that the witness be instructed to, um, to remove that garb so that we can properly conduct the business of this committee.”

The packed gallery began to mumble to their seated companions and several stretched to see Mac and how she was dressed. With Mac’s back to the gallery, most were probably unaware that she was wearing protective gloves, goggles, and a mask.

The chairman smacked his gavel against a sound block, demanding the room come to order. “Thank you, Ranking Member Haskell. Perhaps we should allow our witness to make her opening statement.”

Mac stood and was sworn in. She sat down and her attorney slid the proposed opening remarks in front of her. After she stated her name, position with the CDC, and a brief résumé, she said the words that had been formulated in her mind for days.

Chapter 79

Day Twenty-Eight

House Committee on Energy and Commerce

Rayburn House Office Building

Washington, DC

THUMP-THUMP, THUMP-THUMP, THUMP-THUMP.

Mac’s heartbeat was steady and her demeanor remarkably calm as she read the prepared statement by Congresswoman Haskell’s office. Twice during the brief introduction, she glanced in the congresswoman’s direction, who appeared to soften her hostility as she followed along on her own copy of Mac’s statement.

The prepared remarks hit all of the high points impressed upon her by Baggett and those enunciated on the campaign trail by the President. She stated our planet was at risk to a global pandemic due to the fact that humanity had pushed the biosphere to its limits, climate change had taken an irreversible toll, our cities were overcrowded, and we should be humane to those who desire to seek a better life in our country.

These were all political talking points. Of course, the final paragraph berated Congress for cutting the CDC’s budget and insisted that, with more funding, all would be right with the world.

Mac considered the entire dissertation. She wanted to talk about the outbreak in Guatemala, the growing number of cases in Europe, the terrorist connection, and the infected dead bodies in New Mexico, on U.S. soil!

“The chair recognizes the gentlemen from Arizona,” said Chairman Masterson.

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” said Congressman Ron Epperson, a congressman from Tucson. “Dr. Hagan, the CDC has been investigating an outbreak in Guatemala for weeks. Why has the American public not been notified of this?”

Mac leaned into the microphone. “Sir, until recently, the Guatemalan outbreak was isolated to the jungles of the northwestern part of the country at the Mexican border. The disease has spread now throughout Guatemala City and other populated areas.”

“Isn’t it a matter of time before we have cases on U.S. soil? Shouldn’t the CDC be warning the American people of the danger?”

He knows about the New Mexico cases under investigation. There haven’t been any official autopsy findings disseminated that I know of.

Mac was walking a fine line between telling the truth and pissing off Baggett, possibly Dr. Spielman, a scowling Congresswoman Haskell, and most certainly POTUS. “Sir, I have conducted an investigation recently in New Mexico. I viewed a number of dead bodies in the desert. There has not been a confirmed death from the same infectious disease that has stricken Guatemalans, as of yet.”

“You’re mincing words, Dr. Hagan. Do you or do you not hypothesize that the deceased victims in New Mexico are infected with the pneumonic plague bacterium.”

“Sir, that may be my hypothesis, but until the autopsies are performed and the specimens studied, it will be—”

“Isn’t it also true that several of the bodies are unidentified male Muslims and, therefore, their bodies cannot be autopsied under their Islamic religious beliefs?”

Was Dr. Okoli talking to the congressman’s staff or the media?

Mac didn’t respond to the congressman’s questioning and remained calm. The attorney leaned over to whisper to her, but she couldn’t hear him.

THUMP-THUMP, THUMP-THUMP, THUMP-THUMP.

Congressman Epperson continued. “I believe that this matter is being covered up and the American People have a right to know what’s at stake here. We have a porous southern border that leaks like a sieve. People are infected with this deadly disease in our backyard, and let me say it aloud for everyone to hear. The plague! We’re talking about the plague here. Not some namby-pamby flu bug. This is a killer. It’s killed before and now it’s killing again. And this administration refuses to take action to protect our citizens from a disease that has killed for centuries from invading U.S. soil.”

“That’s absolutely not true,” interrupted Congresswoman Haskell. “This President has a great love for this country and all of its citizens. One thing for certain, President Garcia is not a fearmonger.”

Here we go, thought Mac.

Chairman Masterson slammed down the gavel several times. “The gentlelady is out of order!”

“Yes, she is,” shouted Congressman Epperson. “She and her party are only interested in maintaining calm during the final few months of the election cycle while our country faces an apocalyptic pandemic that could wipe us off the face of the planet.”

“That’s freakin’ outrageous!” shouted back the gentlelady from Georgia. “You are engaging in hyperbole and rhetoric that is harmful to this nation for political gain. You know full well that your statements could rattle financial markets and, I might add, have a profound negative impact on attendance at the upcoming Summer Olympic Games in my home state.”

“Oh yes,” shouted back Congressman Epperson, leaning forward to face Congresswoman Haskell. “Let’s not hinder the President’s favorite accomplishment—stealing the Olympics from South Korea. How many millions of people are going to carry the plague into Atlanta next month, hmm?”

“Enough!” shouted Chairman Masterson, repeatedly slamming the gavel until there was complete silence in the chamber. “I want to hear from Dr. Hagan on this.”

Chapter 80

Day Twenty-Eight

House Committee on Energy and Commerce

Rayburn House Office Building

Washington, DC

“Dr. Hagan, as a former physician, I am familiar with the plague, but tell us what you know about this particular strain and its impact on the human body,” instructed Chairman Masterson.

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” started Mac. “Just like a spy entering enemy territory, the first thing that the plague does is go under cover. The bacterium contains an outer membrane that is made up of endotoxins like LPS, which elicit a strong immune response in all animals.

“LPS is a dead giveaway to your immune system, which would ordinarily fight the bacteria. However, the bacterium cleverly disguises itself by modifying the structure of this molecule so it no longer alerts the immune system. Incredibly, the plague can detect the temperature outside its membrane. When the temperature is near the temperature of animals, 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit, it recognizes that it’s inside a warm-blooded mammal.

“Then the bacterium races for your lymph nodes, that part of our immune system that is constantly searching for microbial intruders. During this journey, the bacterium encounters immune cells and jams what looks like a hypodermic needle into the cells, infecting them with several toxins. This damages the cells and prevents them from protecting the body.

“Over the next eight days after becoming infected, your body is constantly under attack from the bacterium. Your immune system picks up on the fact that something is terribly wrong. The lymph nodes may swell, as in the case of bubonic plague, the famed Black Death. But overall, your body kills itself.

“The presence of so many bacteria in the bloodstream causes your immune system to freak out, triggering a condition called septic shock. Your body’s blood vessels begin leaking, decreasing blood volume. This leads to abnormal clotting and multiple organ failure.

“But if that doesn’t kill you, the bacteria then migrates through the blood to your lungs, at which point you contract pneumonia. Game over.”

The room was silent except for a few members of the gallery clearing their throats and an occasional cough.

“How long does the process take from point of infection until death?” asked Chairman Masterson.

“Fourteen days on average. The patient is symptomatic at day eight, but potentially contagious by day four without showing symptoms.”

Someone in the gallery feigned a cough, drawing a laugh from his girlfriend seated next to him. Chairman Masterson shot the young man a disapproving look.

“What about treatment?”

Mac hesitated as the coughing continued, this time deeper in the throat, as if it contained fluids. She became distracted at the sound.

THUMP-THUMP, THUMP-THUMP, THUMP-THUMP.

“At this time, we’ve tried the normal antibiotic protocols on patients, but—”

A man coughed violently in the gallery.

“Hey, watch it!” shouted a woman.

The coughing continued, causing the woman to shriek.

“That’s blood. He’s coughing up blood!”

A stampede ensued. People began to scream and search for the exit from Rayburn 2123. The photographers stood and began snapping pictures of the mayhem. Chairman Masterson pounded the gavel and shouted instructions to the sergeant at arms to open the doors.

The coughing man attempted to reach the exit but was pushed down to the marble floor. He promptly vomited bloody sputum into the path of the visitors seeking the exit. Several slipped and fell, rolling through the discharge before regaining their balance with the assistance of others.

The panic was not limited to the gallery. All of the congressional members and their staffs hastily exited the chamber. The photographers climbed over the rows of desks and found their way to the rear exits as well.

Throughout it all, Mac sat silently, alone, her attorney having abandoned her at the table. The only sound she heard was the steady hum of the air handlers—blowing and circulating the air throughout the Rayburn Building. Yet she remained calm.

THUMP-THUMP, THUMP-THUMP, THUMP-THUMP.

It took ninety seconds for the entire room to be emptied, except for the impassible Mac, who continuously stared into the C-SPAN camera, with its blinking red light and telescoping lens looking back. The entire scene would be replayed on YouTube over a billion times, displacing Gangham Style as the most watched video in history.

Mac’s mind raced, visualizations of signs racing through her mind.

Welcome to Tokyo, population thirty-eight million.

Welcome to Mexico City, population twenty-one million.

Welcome to New York, population nineteen million.

Welcome to the Las Vegas Strip, forty million annual visitors.

Welcome to Disney World, eighteen million annual visitors.

Welcome to the Summer Olympics, ten million visitors.

Welcome to Small Town, U.S.A.

This moment marked the beginnings of the next global war.

Chapter 81

Day Twenty-Eight

Interstate 10 Westbound

Los Angeles, California

The rental car sped past the sign that read Welcome to Los Angeles, population 3,957,875.

“We are here, Hassan.”

Hassan nodded. “We are everywhere, my brothers.”

Thanks for reading!

The saga continues in…

THE INNOCENTS

Book two of the four-book Pandemic Series.

You can preorder the remainder of the series by visiting Amazon.com

Learn more about The Pandemic Series on www.BobbyAkart.com

SIGN UP to Bobby Akart’s mailing list to receive special offers, bonus content, and you’ll be the first to receive news about new releases in the Pandemic series, the Blackout series, the Boston Brahmin series and the Prepping for Tomorrow series—which includes twelve Amazon #1 Bestsellers in thirty-six different genres. Visit Bobby Akart’s website for informative blog entries on preparedness, writing, and his latest contribution to the American Preppers Network.

www.BobbyAkart.com

And before you go…

THANK YOU FOR READING PANDEMIC: BEGINNINGS!

If you enjoyed it, I’d be grateful if you’d take a moment to write a short review (just a few words are needed) and post it on Amazon. Amazon uses complicated algorithms to determine what books are recommended to readers. Sales are, of course, a factor, but so are the quantity of reviews my books get. By taking a few seconds to leave a review, you help me out, and also help new readers learn about my work.

READ ON FOR A BONUS EXCERPT from Bobby Akart’s #1 bestseller, 36 Hours, Book one in The Blackout Series. With over a thousand four and five star reviews, each of the six books in The Blackout Series achieved #1 best seller rankings in their respective genres, launching Bobby Akart to a #5 ranking on Amazon’s Science Fiction Author’s list.

Bonus excerpt from 36 Hours, The Blackout Series

WHAT WOULD YOU DO

if a voice was screaming in your head – GET READY . . .

for a catastrophic event of epic proportions . . .

with no idea where to start . . .

or how, or when?

This is a true story, it just hasn't happened yet.

Chapter 1

36 Hours

11:00 a.m., September 7, Wednesday

ALMA

Atacama, Chile

Dr. Andrea Stanford wheeled the vintage Toyota Land Cruiser up the winding dirt road to the summit of the mountain desert. The Atacama Desert is considered one of the driest places on Earth. Surrounded by two mountain ranges of the Andes and just south of the Chile-Bolivia border, it is made up of salt basins and lava flows that are over twenty million years old. Large volcanoes dominate the landscape, including Láscar, the most active in Chile.

Because of its otherworldly appearance and inhospitable climate, the Atacama Desert was useless except to movie producers filming exoplanet-like scenes, and NASA, who duplicated tests used by the Viking I and Viking II Mars landers to detect life. Oddly, during their practice runs, they were unable to detect life in the Atacama Desert soil.

However, Atacama’s uniqueness created the ideal conditions to search for life elsewhere—the universe. Its dryness, high altitude, nearly nonexistent cloud cover, and lack of light pollution or radio interference made the peak of the Atacama Desert one of the best places in the world to conduct astronomical observations.

At an altitude of over sixteen thousand feet, Atacama, Chile, was the home of the largest telescope on the planet—the Atacama Large Millimeter Array, or ALMA.

The gravel spun under her tires as she rounded the final bend to the summit. The rear end of the lightweight vehicle side slipped until Dr. Stanford corrected her course. She could feel the adrenaline pumping through her body and slowed to avoid crashing to the gulch below.

Despite being involved in the design and construction of ALMA during its developmental stage, she continued to be awestruck as the massive observatory complex came into view.

Sixty-six dish antennas measuring forty feet across dotted the arid landscape. A unique portable system was designed that consisted of enormous transporters resembling a sixteen-wheel moon rover. Resting on their chassis were the antennas—mobile and ready for orders. Three of the vehicles were in motion as they gently hauled around the massive antennas to form arrays dictated by the ALMA observatory scientists in the control room. The more compact the arrays, the better the scientists could observe large, dimmer objects. The widespread formation allowed the scientists to focus on the finer details of a particular celestial body.

Dr. Stanford exited her truck and was greeted by a gust of cool, dry wind to which she had become accustomed. Born and raised in Las Vegas, a breezy day, as described by the local television meteorologist, which typically consisted of sixty-mile-per-hour winds, would be at near-hurricane strength to a resident of Florida, sending them scurrying to the local Home Depot for plywood and batteries. It was a chilly thirty-four degrees as she started a workday that would change her life forever.

“Good morning, Dr. Stanford,” greeted her longtime assistant, Jose Cortez, one of the program managers on the Joint Alma Observatory—JAO—Team.

“Good morning, Jose,” she replied with a smile. “I see the gentle giants are on the move already,” she added, referring to the antenna transporters.

“Yes, ma’am, per your instructions. The systems astronomers have run the calculations, and we are in position as our target region comes into view.”

She handed Jose her briefcase and peeled off her jacket, draping it over his outstretched arm. “Coffee, my friend, and make it so black that Juan Valdez would be proud.” She laughed.

“You’ve got it, boss, and, by the way, NASA’s called already.”

“Of course they have.”

Dr. Stanford was born enjoying the wonders of the universe. As a child, she studied astronomy and invested the money she made babysitting into amateur telescopes. While many of the kids in her astronomy club focused on faraway galaxies, Dr. Stanford became fascinated with the celestial body most familiar to us all—the sun. By the time she turned twenty-one and graduated near the top of her class at UNLV, she had seen it rise and fall nearly seventy-five hundred times.

While studying astronomy at the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics in Cambridge, Massachusetts, she became convinced there was still a lot that science didn’t know about the star at the center of our solar system. Dr. Stanford believed the study of the sun was the one area of astronomy that had relevance to our daily life. Our sun gave us life, but it was also the most potentially dangerous threat to humanity.

The sun is as unpredictable as it is predictable. It remains in a relatively fixed position while its temperatures stay fairly constant. Yet, occasionally, it erupts with an intense, high-energy blast of radiation released into space. As sunspots form on the surface, stored energy in the magnetic fields above the sunspots is suddenly released. In a matter of moments, they heat up to many millions of degrees and produce a solar flare.

This fascinated Dr. Stanford, and she devoted her career to the study of other stars similar to our sun. Her career enabled her to define our sun’s activities better by learning, indirectly, from examples set by celestial bodies in other solar systems.

“Good morning, all,” she announced as she entered the sophisticated control room of ALMA. She received a variety of responses from the JAO Team, but they were subdued. Everyone was focused on their respective consoles, studying data and waiting for the guest of honor to make its appearance.

“Doc, our target should be rotating into view shortly,” said Deb Daniels, one of the senior astronomers who had remained on deck all night, waiting for this moment. “I’ll bring it up on the big screens.”

Four seventy-inch computer screens mounted on the wall of the control room came to life. Each monitor had a different view of the sun provided by their antennae and the GOES Satellite system monitored by NASA.

GOES was an acronym for Geostationary Operational Environmental Satellite system. The National Weather Service used the GOES system for its weather monitoring and forecasting operations. Scientific researchers, like the team at ALMA, used the data to study space weather, especially the sun’s activity.

A large monitor revealed a view of Earth that identified major storm systems around the globe, together with temperatures at the various layers of Earth’s atmosphere. Another display revealed data related to the magnetosphere, the region surrounding Earth created by Earth’s north and south poles. The magnetosphere buffers Earth from the devastating effects of solar wind. Without the magnetosphere, the surface of Earth would look like Mars.

The third monitor displayed a series of solar wind dials, measuring data like density, speed, magnitude, and direction. These conditions were critical to space weather prediction.

Finally, the monitor drawing the most attention of the scientists at ALMA that day provided the latest images from SOHO—the Solar and Heliospheric Observatory. These solar snapshots revealed activity on the sun’s surface such as coronal holes, low-density regions of the sun’s atmosphere that were the source of high-speed winds of solar particles that streamed off the sun into space. As a coronal hole released the sun’s magnetic fields, soaring up and away from the surface, they created the conditions necessary for a solar flare.

Dr. Stanford turned her attention to Jose, who had returned with her coffee. She took a sip and allowed the rush of steaming caffeine to hit her body. She doubted the jolt was needed, as excitement-fueled anxiety would be readily available.

“Thank you, Jose,” said Dr. Stanford, who then asked Daniels, “Deb, do we have a designation yet?”

“The next numbered active region will be 3222,” replied Daniels.

Dr. Stanford took another sip of coffee. She muttered under her breath, “Show yourself, AR3222.”

The room remained quiet as the sun slowly rotated on the screen. Twenty-four hours prior, a coronal hole developed and released a series of non-earth directed X-flares. Solar flares were rated as class B, C, N, or X, with X-class being the most powerful.

This active region released an X1.8-class solar flare as its final hurrah yesterday. The bright flash of light observed on the SOHO monitors was the largest of the year so far. But it didn’t approach the more massive X20 flares of April 2001 and August 1989. Twenty times the size of yesterday’s eruption, those flares caused massive power outages in the northern United States and Canada.

Yesterday, the coronal hole caught the attention of the JAO Team because it was expanding upon the sun’s surface as it rotated out of view. Dr. Stanford knew if the trend continued, today could be a potentially historic solar event.

In the same hemisphere of the sun as yesterday’s eruption, a sunspot region appeared on the disk that followed the same trajectory as the previous AR. The monitors began to reveal more. At first, two coronal holes appeared—clustered together. The sun continued to rotate.

“Whoa,” Jose leaned in and whispered into Dr. Stanford’s ear.

“My God,” she said aloud. Dr. Stanford watched in amazement as the largest coronal hole ever recorded rotated into view, followed by two smaller voids. The entire active region consumed the northern hemisphere of the sun.

AR3222 was now on full display.

Chapter 2

36 Hours

11:00 a.m., September 7

Dallas Cowboys—AT&T Stadium

Arlington, Texas

“Nice throw. Nice throw!” yelled Jerry Jones, owner of the Dallas Cowboys, as he applauded a throw by his rookie quarterback from Mississippi State which hit his all-pro receiver right in the numbers. Jones turned to his entourage and continued. “Did you see that kid hit Dez on the go route? He has to make that throw perfectly, hitting his target in stride. That’s NFL precision from a fourth-round pick!”

Colton Ryman smiled and nodded as if he knew what the owner of the most lucrative sports franchise in history was talking about. Colton enjoyed watching football, but he wasn’t into the nuances of the game, and clearly had no clue what a go route was.

Colton’s passion was music. It was in his blood. His ancestor, Captain Thomas Ryman, built the Union Gospel Tabernacle in Nashville in the late eighteen hundreds, but it wasn’t until his death in 1904 that the building became known as Ryman Auditorium.

In 1925, an insurance company installed a radio station in the auditorium that had been designed to replace the traditional revival tent used by his friend Reverend Sam Jones. WSM, which stood for We Shield Millions—the company’s motto—started a tradition of country music in Nashville beginning with the Grand Ole Opry and continuing with the concerts of the biggest stars of today. The rest was history.

Jones continued with the tour of AT&T Stadium, home of the Dallas Cowboys since 2008. “Last year, we enjoyed playing at Wembley Stadium in London, but it was a logistical nightmare for team operations. On a personal basis, and speaking for the Dallas Cowboys, we would very much like a team in London. It has cachet. It has an air about it of international competition. It would be good for the league.”

And good for your wallet, I suspect. Colton might not understand the finer points of football, but he understood the intricacies of the entertainment business. Jerry Jones was a master of entertainment, and the NFL was his playing field. Colton was honored to be in the game.

At thirty-nine, Colton had reached the top echelons of the entertainment and media business. Born in Austin, Texas, and with the Ryman blood flowing through his veins, he longed for a country music career. Music became his life, but he quickly learned that opportunities for guitar-pickin’ cowboys were slim and talent was abundant.

Colton discovered he had a genetic disposition toward business. When the Ryman family migrated from Chattanooga, Tennessee to the hill country of Central Texas along with Davy Crockett in 1835, they became known as traders and merchants. From Fort Worth to Austin, the Ryman name became synonymous with cattle and oil. He learned the art of business and negotiation from his daddy, who learned from his daddy before him.

The summer before he started college at SMU in Dallas, he hung out around the music venues of the Dallas metroplex. From the White Elephant Saloon and Billy Bob’s in Fort Worth to Adair’s in Dallas, Colton enjoyed the sights and sounds of country music.

The day he announced his decision to forego his education at SMU for the entertainment and media management curriculum at UCLA, his momma cried. She wasn’t ready to lose her only son to the real world yet. At SMU, she could have kept an eye on Colton and protected him. But his daddy was proud of his decision. Colton was a born negotiator and was pursuing his passion, just like the Rymans before him.

Jones took Colton’s client by the arm and led him onto the field as the practice session began to break up. Kenny Chesney had already signed as the lead performer for the upcoming Super Bowl hosted by Dallas, and the rest of the talent was being lined up. His client, Eric Church, was working his way up the Billboard charts as one of the top country artists in the nation. Securing a position in the Super Bowl halftime show would be a huge boost for his popularity and a monumental leap for Colton’s career.

As managing partner of United Talent’s Nashville office, he was already one of the most respected figures in the business. But after the most watched television program in history featured two decades of rap and rock performances, this was a rare opportunity for him to insert his country stock into the biggest spectacle in television entertainment—the Super Bowl.

“Whadya think, Colton?” asked Church. “You think we can pack this house?”

“Dang straight!” replied Colton.

“I think they wanna bring in Keith to do ‘Raise ’Em Up’ with me. How the heck am I gonna keep my feet on the ground for the next five months?”

“That’s my job, buddy,” replied Colton, trying to control his own emotional high. Who’s gonna keep my feet on the ground?

Church approached Colton and spoke quietly. “What kinda numbers we talkin’, Mr. Agent?”

“We’ll go over that in the morning, hoss,” replied Colton. “You’ve gotta gig tonight and I don’t need you distracted. I have another meeting with the NFL folks tomorrow before you and I can talk.”

Colton didn’t have the heart to tell Church that his paycheck from the NFL and CBS was a big fat ZERO. The Super Bowl Halftime Show was the biggest platform in the world to promote yourself as an artist. The performers did not get paid. The NFL covered the expenses and production costs, which could run upwards of twenty million dollars. The benefit to Church, and others like him, would come following the Super Bowl as he released his new album and kicked off his eighth concert tour. Ticket sales and music downloads would increase significantly, resulting in the well-earned payoff.

Jones stopped the procession and pointed toward the video board over their heads. “This is the world’s largest HD video display,” said Jones. The massive sixty-yard side display stretched across most of the field. He continued. “There are two hundred thousand tons of concert rigging up there. The capabilities of Cowboys stadium will make this the greatest, most talked about halftime show in history.”

“We’d be honored to be a part of it, Mr. Jones,” said Colton. Colton looked at the inner workings of the stadium. Wires and electronics traversed the structure. I’d hate to see their electric bill.

Chapter 3

36 Hours

11:11 a.m., September 7

Davidson Academy

Nashville, Tennessee

Alexis Ryman was settling into her sophomore year at Davidson Academy. As a freshman last year, she’d participated in most school activities available to her, but the lesson curriculum was a giant leap from middle school. Alex found herself studying for the first time and followed her interests from childhood, which included science, golf, and to a much lesser extent, cute boys.

She promised herself she’d never become a twit, which was Alex’s designation for teenage girls who gained the attention of boys by acting ditzy, silly, and foolish. Her love of golf taught her that practice made perfect, as the old saying went. The more these girls practiced being a twit, the better they would become at it.

Besides, she proudly inherited her mother’s good looks although Alex would never aspire to be a debutante like her mom. Alex was not shy, but she was not interested in fighting the wars that accompanied the world of high society. Her family didn’t live like that, and she had no interest in it.

Unlike most of her girlfriends, Alex had an aptitude for math and science. She was not a geek per se, although her tall, lanky frame did make her appear clumsy to some. One of her friends commented that she resembled Jamie Lee Curtis, who played Laurie Strode in the movie Halloween. Alex wasn’t sure if she was being insulted or not, so she watched the movie scene where Laurie strolled down the sidewalk in her flowered skirt, carrying her schoolbooks. Okay, maybe she did walk a little pigeon-toed.

As teenaged girls went, Alex was a model daughter and an honor high school student. Her grades were perfect, never a hint of trouble, and she shunned the advances of the boys who had a single purpose on their mind—sex. At fifteen, she was fully aware of the games they played, and she wouldn’t fall victim to their overtures. Dates were fine and curfews were met. If you didn’t like the rules, move along to someone else.

Mr. Stark, her astronomy teacher, began to write on the blackboard, causing the class to get ready for the lecture. Davidson Academy was one of the finest private schools in Nashville. Its admission requirements were stringent, and the academics were designed to prepare its students for college. High schools in the Metro Nashville system focused on conformity to rules and a set curriculum. Davidson fostered independent thinking. From her middle school days there through the present, she was taught to be an independent thinker. Students were encouraged to challenge conventional wisdom and learn how to think and not what to think.

As he finished, Stark set the chalk in the tray and pointed to the blackboard—Solar Sleuths. “For the first four weeks of this semester, we’ve covered the basics of astronomy and the physics of the universe,” said Stark. Then he channeled his sci-fi hero and continued, “Adventure, excitement, a Jedi craves not these things.”

The class laughed as one of the guys recognized the quote and chimed in, “But, Master Yoda, it is the lightsaber which excites me most!”

Stark continued to play along. “Young Jedis, you must unlearn what you have learned.”

“Yeah!” shouted one.

“Alright!” added another.

“Okay, calm down, y’all.” Stark moved to restore order. “I didn’t mean that literally. The universe is vast. We needed to get an overview under your belt before we start to talk about specifics. Today, young skulls full of mush, I will turn you into Jedi Solar Sleuths.”

This piqued Alex’s interest and she sat up in her seat. Stark wrote the word SUN on the board and circled it several times.

Alex was puzzled. Their homework assignment had nothing to do with the sun.

“It all begins here,” he started. “Without the sun, there is no life on earth. Without the sun’s heat and light, the earth would be a lifeless, enormous ice ball. The sun’s energy warms our seas, stirs our atmosphere, generates our weather patterns, and provides the photosynthesis to grow green plant life, which is vital to produce oxygen and food on our planet.”

Alex agreed. Naturally, it was fun to speculate on the topic of are we alone? One of the first books she read was Contact by Carl Sagan. She lay in bed at night, imagining herself as Ellie, and Jodie Foster, who played the character in the movie. Her imagination would wander to the massive power the sun held, and what would happen if it burned out. The risk of not using sunscreen was minor in comparison to the sun suddenly going dark.

Her mind drifted until Stark brought her back into the classroom with a question. “Alex, what causes an aurora?”

She sat up in her chair and replied, “An aurora is also called the northern lights. Sometimes the sun shoots out particles of energy that collide with our upper atmosphere. The result is a beautiful mix of colors near the earth’s poles.”

“Good start,” he said. “Auroras are produced when the earth’s magnetosphere is disturbed by the solar winds filled with highly charged electrons and protons.”

A hand shot up from the back of the room. “Mr. Stark, why don’t we see the aurora borealis where we live?”

“Good question,” he replied. “Who would like to take a stab at that one?”

No one immediately answered, so Alex raised her hand.

“Okay, Alex,” he said. “Obviously you’re ready to be a solar sleuth. Why don’t we see the aurora here?”

“For the aurora to extend this far south, the solar flare causing it would have to be very strong,” she replied. “It could happen, but I don’t think it’s occurred in recent history.”

“Very good, and you’re right,” praised Stark. “It hasn’t happened since we’ve been around, but it has happened before.” He turned to the blackboard and wrote 1859, then circled it.

“In 1859, the great geomagnetic storm, as they called it, hit the earth. There weren’t sophisticated instruments to record the magnitude of the solar flare that enveloped our northern hemisphere, but the auroras were so widespread and extraordinarily bright that they were seen as far south as Cuba and Hawaii.”

“So there is hope for us, right?” asked one of the students.

“Actually, let’s not hope for a repeat of the Carrington Event, as it’s now called,” replied Stark. “There were no electronics in 1859, but the telegraph operators certainly experienced the power of the sun. From coast to coast, telegraph wires exploded in sparks and the operators received electric shocks.”

Alex raised her hand after contemplating the enormity of what Stark just said. “What would happen if a solar flare like that hit our planet today?”

Stark placed his hands in his pockets and walked through the classroom with his head down. He paused to look through the classroom’s windows at the extraordinarily warm September day.

“If such a powerful burst were to hit the earth today, the energy could zap satellites, fry computer systems, and knock out our power grids. We would be welcomed back to the nineteenth century.”

Chapter 4

35 Hours

Noon, September 7

Ryman Residence

Belle Meade, Tennessee

“Mom, I’m comin’ to Siesta Key where it’s nice and cool,” said Madison Ryman as she wiped the sweat from her forehead. With the cordless phone propped against her shoulder, she turned on the television, and the graphic underneath the image of Meteorologist Davis Nolan at WKRN said it all—RECORD HEAT. She read the closed-captioning while her mother spoke into the phone. One hundred five degrees… ties a record set in 1954… no end in sight.

“Of course we will, Mom. I miss you too. Love you.” Madison exhaled and glanced into the backyard at the rippling, crystal clear water in the pool. No time today. She started separating the bags of supplies picked up from Party City. The informal get-together Friday night was intended to celebrate Colton’s Super Bowl success and would be attended by a couple of dozen friends, neighbors, and business associates. Bobby Bones, a longtime family friend and one of the top on-air talents at WSIX, would be there. He would provide a never-ending supply of humor.

Bones introduced Colton to Madison sixteen years ago during a music video shoot on Second Avenue. At the time, Madison was a graduate student at Lipscomb University, studying film and creative media. Before her dad passed away, he convinced her that being a debutante wouldn’t pay the bills. Once the cotillions were over, it was time to get serious about her future. Lipscomb University provided her an outstanding, faith-based local university that was well respected in her chosen field—digital entertainment.

She loved producing videos. At the age of sixteen, she produced an indie film titled Diary of a Deb, which gained her an Independent Spirit Award nomination. She was proud of her efforts and entered college with the goal of becoming a filmmaker.

During the music video shoot, she snuck away to have lunch with Colton, and they began dating. He was everything she sought in a man, besides his incredible good looks. He was caring and compassionate. He was always honest with her. Above all, he made her laugh.

They were married in a modest ceremony at First Baptist Church in downtown Nashville and immediately started a family. Colton’s career at United Talent was taking off, and she tried to continue her job as a creative director for Ruckus Films. For a while, Madison’s mother helped out with Alex, but after her mom moved to Siesta Key, Madison focused her life on the things that mattered most—Colton and Alex. She never regretted that decision.

Madison focused on raising their adorable daughter and providing the logistical support, as she liked to call it, for Colton’s social engagements. His position at United Talent required entertaining and social gatherings. At least once a month, Madison was organizing a get-together in their Belle Meade home.

Friday night, the center of attention would be on Colton rather than his more famous clients for a change. Her iPhone vibrated on the counter. It was a text from Colton.

C: Miss you!

She smiled as she responded.

M: Miss you more! Call after the concert tonight. Love!

That was all it took—a simple text to remind Madison of how much he missed her. She knew how busy Colton was, especially today, the biggest day of his career. Yet Colton was thinking of her.

The landscape service arrived and began their work. Despite the incredible heat, the primarily Hispanic crew got right to it, and the sounds of mowers could be heard immediately. It was just another day.

THANK YOU FOR READING THIS EXCERPT OF 36 Hours, book one of The Blackout Series. You may purchase 36 Hours on Amazon for $2.99 by clicking here.

Copyright Information

© 2017 Bobby Akart Inc. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of Bobby Akart Inc.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Dedications

Acknowledgements

About the Author, Bobby Akart

Author’s Introduction to the Pandemic Series

Epigraph

Prologue

PART ONE WEEK ONE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

PART TWO WEEK TWO

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

PART THREE WEEK THREE

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

PART FOUR WEEK FOUR

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Bonus excerpt from 36 Hours, The Blackout Series

Copyright Information

Table of Contents

Dedications

Acknowledgements

About the Author, Bobby Akart

Author’s Introduction to the Pandemic Series

Epigraph

Prologue

PART ONE WEEK ONE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

PART TWO WEEK TWO

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

PART THREE WEEK THREE

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

PART FOUR WEEK FOUR

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Bonus excerpt from 36 Hours, The Blackout Series

Copyright Information