Microbe

Praise for MICROBE NJ Sunday Star Ledger ... "Well-constructed and a fine read,... with admirable gusto." Delaware Weekly ... "Exciting and moving. Twists and shocks that keep the reader wired right up till the end. Booklist ... "This is pretty great stuff... Clem has a knack for spinning a suspenseful yarn." BookPage ... " The best astrobiological thriller since The Andromeda Strain." Philadelphia Book Review ... "Cliff hangers, thrilling cat-and-mouse maneuvers, romance, science, murder, and action. GO!" Orlando Sentinel ... "[A] frantic-paced, pulse-pounding thriller that rivals the best works of Crichton or Cook. The action-packed adventure takes readers on an exciting adventure that feels perilously real. Microbe is one reading experience that the audience will never forget." Mid Atlantic Book Review ... "It's brilliant. These characters have depth... The plot is twisty, turny, slippery, and surprising. As for the ending... WOW." Microbe Bill Clem Vision Books Published by Vision Books The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. VISION BOOKS P.O. Box 9034 New York NY 10020 Copyright © 2007 by Bill Clem All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. ISBN 13: 978-0-9795808-1-9 ISBN 10: 0-9795808-1-1 www.billclem.com

ACKNOWLEGEMENTS Special thanks to Nate Zimmerman for his assistance in gathering information about Ft. Miles, and for my tour of the main bunker; Jon Hertzog for his editorial assistance; Gary Wilkerson for his unwavering support of my work; and as always, my wife and children for just being there.

Book One Out of The Sky I always thought the most significant thing that we ever found on the whole goddamn Moon was that little bacteria who came back and lived and nobody ever said shit about it.-Pete Conrad On April 20, 1967, the unmanned lunar lander Surveyor 3 landed near Oceanus Procellarum on the surface of the moon. One of the things aboard was a television camera. Two-and-a-half years later, on November 20, 1969, Apollo 12 astronauts Pete Conrad and Alan L. Bean recovered the camera. When NASA scientists examined it back on Earth they were surprised to find specimens of Streptococcus mitis that were still alive. Because of the precautions the astronauts had taken, NASA could be sure that the germs were inside the camera when it was retrieved, so they must have been there before the Surveyor 3 was launched. These bacteria had survived for 31 months in the vacuum of the moon's atmosphere. Perhaps NASA shouldn't have been surprised, because there are other bacteria that thrive under near-vacuum pressure on the earth today. Anyway, we now know that the vacuum of space is not a fatal problem for bacteria. Prologue Ft. Miles, Delaware January 23, 1941 10:05 P.M. The olive-drab Army jeep bounced over the dunes and stopped abruptly at a point eighty feet above Cape Henlopen. Colonel Billy Riordan grabbed his binoculars and jumped out. "What the hell was that?" he asked his driver.

"I don't know, sir. A meteor, maybe?" "Meteor, my ass." Riordan rubbed the fog from his field glasses and peered through the lenses. He could see the ocean over the top of the dunes and the constantly waving sea grass. The moon's reflection on the Atlantic showed the waters calm, the tide gently breaking at the shoreline. His breath came in excited bursts as he scanned the landscape around the ocean. What was that? Something had hit the water at astonishing speed. The radar would already have picked up the disturbance and alerted the Naval Tracking Station. Riordan felt a distant chill. He realized, to his dismay, that he had experienced an unfamiliar emotion. Fear. Ft. Miles was a strategic target for the German Navy. It was rumored that Hitler had developed missiles capable of reaching the coast. Had that been what he saw? Riordan wiped the lenses and swept the surface of the ocean again. It was vast and black with no sign of any disturbance. Perhaps he'd seen some sort of lightening phenomenon? He swung back around to the shoreline, then beyond that to the sand dunes, trackless and empty, past those, more dunes. The only movement came from the grell grass and sage scrub that swayed in the breeze coming off the ocean. Riordan shivered as he pulled the collar up on his parka. It was the coldest month of the year, and it was late. He climbed back into the jeep. The motor was idling softly; it was the only sound he could hear. "Get me back to headquarters, ASAP," he told the driver Book Two The Doctors Chapter 1 Continental Oil Platform- Off the coast of Delaware February 21, 2003 3:45 A.M.

Tom Grogan stepped out from the reinforced doors of his cabin and gazed out at the angry waters of the Atlantic. It always looked the same to him. A black and white haze of churning water that seemed to stretch to infinity. Never mind that the gigantic oil platform, which consisted of a 37,000 ton topside integrated facility mounted on a 600,000 ton gravity base structure, had storage tanks for 1.3 million barrels of crude oil and towered five hundred feet above the surface: the ocean's vastness made the rig seem as small as an erector set. But the reports showed an abundance of oil in the region and Continental was the first oil company to drill the new site. Grogan fully intended to profit from the first strike. He had his whole future invested in Continental stock. "What happened, Hendricks?" Grogan asked the rig's drilling foreman. "I don't know. Must have hit something," Larry Hendricks said. "Where you at?" "Bout fourteen hundred. It was cake after we busted through the plate. Might be an old shipwreck? This area is loaded with them." Grogan, a huge Irishman with a ruddy complexion, laughed. "Yeah, maybe we'll all get rich, then we can get off this shit-hole." He zipped up his parka and put on some ski gloves. "Let's get this thing up and see what it looks like, he said. "Top is flying in tomorrow, and I don't want everyone sitting around with their thumb up their ass." Top was the name Grogan had given to Continental's CEO. "It's gonna take a while," Hendricks said. "She's frozen up, big time." Grogan put a hand on Hendricks shoulder. "Do the best you can. And speaking of frozen, I just got a Telex from Frederick. There is a huge Nor'easter heading our way in the next few days. We need to get buttoned up." "Great," was all Hendricks could manage. Chapter 2 Off the Delaware coast

February 21, 2003 6:00 A.M. Charlie Parsons pulled the Keena Dale to a stop seventy five feet above the man-made reef just off the coast of Lewes, that morning, just as he'd done for the past forty years. The ocean temperature had stayed in the high thirties all winter so he had kept his boat in the water and continued to book fishing parties to make ends meet. Parsons, a grizzled, third-generation waterman, gazed out into the distance at the gigantic tower of the newly placed Continental Oil platform. The massive rig looked like something from a Jules Verne novel that had landed in the middle of the ocean. The platform was an unwelcome sight to he and his fellow recreational fishing boat owners, who protested to the Delaware State Legislature to no avail. He tried to ignore the obtrusive hunk of metal and gazed back down the length of his boat. The fifty-foot party boat held sixty passengers, all rigged and ready for a morning of angling trout, flounder and bluefish. Parson's fishfinder located a large school and he dropped anchor and signaled for everyone to cast out. As the boat's first mate wandered around the boat helping the novice anglers get their hooks baited, someone who'd snagged something when their lure hit the water, yelled from the starboard end. "Hey! Look at this. What is this crap?" Parsons heard the commotion and clambered down from the captain's chair and went to the angry man, whose hands now held a good-size flounder. Parsons took a closer look at the fish and felt suddenly sick to his stomach. "I've never seen anything like that before," the man said to him. Parsons nodded. "Neither have I. And I've been fishing these waters twenty-five years." Parsons stared at the man's catch. The fish appeared to be half eaten on one side, yet it was still very much alive. And it was covered with a green phosphorescent gunk that seemed to be bubbling away at the fish's skin. "You better throw that thing overboard," Parsons said. The man took one last look at the unfortunate fish and shook his head before tossing it over the side. Parsons gazed back at the huge oil platform, the sun just now glinting off of it. He shook his head in disgust and went back to the pilot's cabin.

* * * *Five miles away just south of Parson's position, The Avon Lady was just pulling in her first net of fish for the day. The commercial fishing boat with its crew of ten fished for trout and whatever else they pulled up in the net this time of year. The first crewman to notice it, Dave Reilly, scratched his coarse beard and cocked his head as the younger members of the crew hauled the net across the starboard side of the vessel. As they prepared to dump the catch into the fish hold, he stopped them. "Hold it! Don't you see it," he said, still dumfounded at what he saw. The fish, numbering in the thousands-were all dead! Chapter 3 Continental Oil platform February 21, 2003 7:00 A.M. When Larry Hendricks finally got the drill bit up, Tom Grogan examined it carefully. He took several samples from the tip and placed them in three stainless steel vials. It was routine to take samples of any unknown substance they encountered while drilling. This was the strangest shit he'd ever seen, though. It almost looked... alive. "Well, Hendricks, you definitely hit something. I don't know what this green shit is." "Looks like some toxic crap," one of the workers said. Hendricks looked up at him. "I've seen this once before," the worker said. "On a rig off Costa Rica. It turned out to be some Luminol by-product that United Carbon had dumped off in fifty-gallon drums. They got fined six-million. It took them years to clean it up." The wind picked up and a sudden gust blasted through the deck. "Grab that drill pole," Grogan yelled. Hendricks lunged for the pole and slipped, falling onto the side of the shaft as he did.

"Great," he said, "just what I need. Slime all over me." Grogan handed him a cloth. "Here, get that shit off you. Maybe United Carbon has been around here. I don't need you glowing in the dark." "Maybe I'll go take a shower." "Do that," Grogan said. * * * *Hendricks wiped the green jelly-like fluid off his shirt and tossed the cloth in the trash. As he struck out across the familiar platform-that gigantic metal sculpture that was home six months a year-he kept thinking of his wife and kids. Three more weeks and he would be back in Milwaukee. As he walked, he found himself staring out at the familiar, shimmering ocean, the white caps and distant boats. The sun was just rising, and the light from the platform illuminated the water several hundred feet out. As he stopped and leaned on the railing, he noticed a huge floating mass off to his right. It drifted with the tide and it seemed to be getting closer. He stood staring at the mass, as it got nearer. Finally, he could see it clearly. Hendricks felt a wave of terror come over him. Shooting pains engulfed his heart, like piercing knives into his wide chest. He grabbed the rail for support. Now he heard them. Slapping against the base of the platform. A wave of nausea swept over him. "Oh God," he whispered. Below him, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of dead fish, floated in the water. All covered in green slime. Just like the slime on him. Chapter 4 February 24, 2003 8:00 A.M.

Scottsdale, Arizona Sitting at his desk, in his small, comfortably cramped office, Justin Flannigan was about to get up and head for the local hospital for morning rounds. The door opened after a light tap, and an old friend stepped inside. He was dressed in a Herringbone jacket, blue Oxford, and khaki slacks. He looked like a Harvard law professor or a mathematician. Justin knew he was neither; he was John Singleton of the Center for Disease Control, Atlanta. One of the most important medical professionals in the world, and an old colleague of his. "Hello, Justin." he said, "Good to see you. Sorry I didn't call." "Good to see you, too, sir, "Justin said. He smiled and rose from his seat. "You've come a long way for a social call. What's the matter?" "Who said anything was the matter? Can't I come see an old friend?" Justin nodded. "I see. You look tan, by the way. Africa, again. Another Ebola outbreak? How about some coffee?" "Coffee'd be great, black as always." "As always." Justin fixed him coffee, then got a Coke for himself. "I'm honored. I think," Justin said and handed him his coffee. "Now-let's get to the real reason for your visit." Justin tilted his Coke toward Singleton. Justin had a rather complicated history with the CDC. Most recently, though, he was a private practice Internist with privileges at the local hospital. Most of his patients were retired people with the usual chronic health ailments of age. Diabetes, heart trouble, cancer. None of it was happy work, but it beat where he had been. Singleton sipped his coffee and gave Justin a rueful smile. "Do you believe in UFO's, Justin?" he asked as he sat back in the overstuffed armchair. Justin frowned. He found the question odd, almost bizarre. "I guess so... I don't know.

Why?" "Do you believe in government conspiracies?" He went on. Justin parked his chin in his hand. This was getting weirder by the minute. "Yes, I think so." Singleton then asked. "Do you still have your CDC permit?" Justin opened his desk drawer and took out a small wallet and flipped it open. He didn't feel obliged to tell Singleton he'd wanted to flush it down the toilet on more than one occasion. "Good, I'm hiring you back," Singleton said and gulped down the rest of his coffee. "Can you leave for Delaware, tonight? There's something there I think you should see, Justin." Chapter 5 February 24, 6:00 P.M. Lewes, Delaware John Singleton slipped unnoticed through the exit doors of Atlantic Medical Center. Since returning from his visit with Justin Flannigan, it was a circus. Reporters everywhere, scribbling frantically; news crews, scrambling for sound bites-"is it an epidemic?" Singleton speculated, would undoubtedly be the theme-for the evening news. Religious types holding signs predicting the End of Days. Then there was the President to deal with. Singleton knew he'd be heading back to Washington in a matter of days for a full accounting of the situation. The generals in their full dress uniforms would be painting the gloomiest picture possible for the President in hopes of being able to use some military force of some kind against this as of yet, unseen enemy. Singleton arrived back at his rented cottage a few minutes later, where he withdrew his laptop from its carrying case and set it up on the kitchen table. He could just as easily have picked up the telephone but he hadn't carried his address book with him, so he didn't have Oleg Jarvov's private number. He did however, have Jarvov's e-mail address in his laptop organizer.

His message was short and to the point: Dear Oleg: Just an update to report that we are progressing according to schedule and fully anticipate delivery by, or perhaps even before the date previously agreed upon. Feel free to call me at any time. Singleton He read it twice. Nothing incriminating or of any value to a hacker, he thought. He clicked the "send" icon and waited for conformation, a sense of satisfaction settling over him for his business acumen. He had long ago learned not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Now he just needed Riordan, and what now dangled in front of him like a brass ring, waiting for him to grab it. Chapter 6 February 24, 2003 4:00 P.M. Scottsdale, Arizona With rising uncertainty, Justin Flannigan pulled on some shorts and a T-shirt, slipped into his walking sandals and began to pack. He had seen the disturbing pictures of the fish kills in USA Today, and then on all the TV networks. What had he gotten himself into? The hospital had been gracious in allowing him a week's leave, and his friend and fellow internist, Dr. Sid Calloway had agreed to cover his patients while he was gone. Despite this, it was little comfort to Justin who really had no desire to go to Delaware, of all places and pursue some, what? What, was right. Singleton had offered little or no explanation when Justin had pressed him on the specifics. The only thing he would say was, "You'll be briefed when you get there." He knew better than to argue with Singleton, who despite his outward appearance was solid as a rock when he made up his mind about something. And he obviously wasn't going to let Justin know anymore than he wanted. Justin only agreed out of curiosity. The sheer bizarreness of Singleton's questions was what prompted him to go. Government conspiracies. UFOs. Who Knew? Justin tossed some cold weather clothes into his suitcase and closed it up. He had a 6:00 P.M. flight to Philadelphia International. From there he would rent a car and drive the two hours to Lewes, Delaware. He could still hear the voice of the administrator when he'd asked for leave earlier that day: Dela-where? It was true, Delaware was not the most well known state, but if what Singleton had indicated had even a small measure of truth to it, Delaware was about to become the

most recognized state in the nation. Chapter 7 Atlantic Medical Center February 25, 9:00 A.M. Justin watched in horror as the oil workers burst upon the hospital emergency room. He'd barely had time to introduce himself as patient after patient arrived by chopper from the offshore platform where they worked. All in severe respiratory distress, with bizarre symptoms unlike any seen before. As he stood inside Atlantic, the scene was more chaotic than he'd expected. He wanted to turn and leave. Maybe he should catch the first plane back to Phoenix and stay there. Singleton be damned. Inside the recently built hospital, the sensory overload of high-tech equipment mingled with the sound of agony and fear. The trauma rooms were overrun with the worst cases, and patients were stretched out on gurneys in the linoleum halls anywhere there was space. Emergency-room doctors barked out orders to the nurses and ancillary personnel. Despite their best effort, people were dying all around them. It was futile and ominous. What was this? A big, strapping oil worker in a hospital gown waited to be taken to a room. Justin smiled at him, and the man managed to blink his eyes behind the oxygen mask covering his face. On another gurney, a young boy was having a chest tube put in. He was crying out in agony as the nurses tried to hold him still while the doctor worked on him. They'd stationed police at every door and their radios squawked with communications about more victims on their way. They held back desperate family members who pleaded with them to see their loved ones. They had turned every space available into a waiting room of grieving family members. There were four hundred oil workers on the Continental platform, and it seemed like they were all here although only fifty had come down with the mysterious illness. Each face was emblazoned with agony. How long until the rest of them get sick? The doctor in charge was a young epidemiologist named Maurice Waldon. He was tall and lanky, and looked like Ichabod Crane. The similarities ended there; he had nerves of steel in the face of this Hell on earth.

Waldon spoke about a similar outbreak in Peru that had occurred years earlier, but this, they both agreed, was much worse-and different. The CDC had sent Justin on an information quest. Now suddenly he was their field doctor. It was annoying, maybe even a little alarming. It really didn't matter. Because at last, Justin was beginning to understand why Singleton had requested him. "You realize what we have here?" Justin asked as he rushed from gurney to gurney doing quick assessments and making notes on each chart. "Yes, I do," Waldon said, but didn't say any more for a moment. "It's like a dissaseminated blood dyscarisis. Only it starts with respiratory involvement. The lungs bleed and ulcerate extremely quickly. So far it has affected only the oil workers. It doesn't seem to be airborne." "Didn't they find ulcerated gills in the fish they autopsied?" Waldon nodded. The Department of Fish and Wildlife had cleaned up thousands of fish shortly before the oil workers had started getting sick. When they examined them, they were found to be decimated inside with bleeding gills, ulcers, and worse. There were parallels, Justin knew, that could be drawn between the fish illness and the human potential for a similar illness. But this sudden, mysterious epidemic had a much higher mortality rate than anything seen before in fish or humans. "All these workers came in contact with the green liquid they found?" Justin asked. Waldon heaved a sigh. "Most. It's hard to get an accurate history from any of them. The nurses on the platform said many were already unconscious when they found them. Some of the World Health people think someone dumped nuclear material that the oil crew hit while they were drilling. That's what happened in Peru in 1986." "But radiation sickness doesn't cause bacterial symptoms like these," Justin said. His point was clear enough. They conceded they might not be able to analyze certain bacterial or viral agents. It was possible that they might not be able to make the slightest progress in solving the mystery. Waldon glanced around then pulled Justin aside. "Dr. Flannigan, I don't know what the hell is going on. But I can tell you this. The dissemination of these patients' organs is complete--and unprecedented in any medical journal I've ever read. It's as if the bacteria

is--" "Eating them alive?" Justin asked. "No... drinking them." Chapter 8 Continental Oil Platform February 25, 2003 1:00 P.M. The Mid-Atlantic Shelf is the largest underwater shelf in the Northern hemisphere stretching some 6000 square miles. Located at 66 latitude and 46 longitude, the gigantic geologic formation boasts some of the richest oil reserves in the world. The Continental Oil Platform sat almost dead center of the shelf, and now approaching the massive structure by Coast Guard helicopter; Justin Flannigan understood why Continental had placed it where they had. Anything that could support such a massive structure had to be on geologically sound formation. Far below, the ocean frothed around the pillars of the substructure where it ran thousands of feet to the sea floor itself. He and John Singleton sat in the belly of the chopper, dressed in inflatable germ-proof suits that made them look like dirigibles with limbs. Singleton bent down and gazed out at the ocean. Masses of dead fish bobbed in the white-caps. "New Jersey is reporting the same thing. It's filtering into the bay." The pilot leaned back in his seat. "We've spread a containment net around a four hundred mile radius from the platform." As long as the weather stays calm we'll be all right," Singleton said. "Presumably," Justin said. For the next few minutes they discussed the vector scenario, while the pilot circled the platform. Singleton leaned toward contact contamination, while Justin favored some sort of ingestion scenario. The discussion then turned to the manner of death. They both agreed on one thing, death had been very rapid.

The pilot looked over his shoulder. "Going down, guys." The helicopter banked steeply Justin looked over at Singleton. "It's huge." Singleton nodded. "A city in its own right." The two men looked out and Justin felt a surge of terror pass through him. He strained his neck to see, and he noticed Singleton's face had lost its color. Below on the deck of the oil platform, dozens of bloated bodies littered the steelcorrugated floor in frozen surprise. The only movement was the flocks of seagulls that pecked at the rotting corpses. * * * *Less than ten miles away, Dr. Maurice Waldon sat in a small medical office with a phone clutched to his ear and waited to talk to the President. With a hot cup of stale coffee in his hand, he tapped his fingers impatiently. He had successfully reached a White House operator and explained who he was and that this was an emergency. The operator seemed sympathetic and was now supposedly patching Waldon through to the President. Waldon gathered his thoughts and continued to wait. An hour earlier, he had examined the director of the Public Works Department for the Town of Lewes, and had him admitted to the hospital for respiratory distress. The man had showed up at the medical center and explained to Waldon how he had gone to check the filters on the town's water system and found them to be clogged with green slime. The man went on to explain that the slime had "risen up" in a mist and clung to his skin, at which point he ran the two blocks to the hospital, arriving, already having trouble breathing. Further inquiry by Waldon revealed that the town's outlet pipe dumps directly into the ocean and whatever was in the filters had made it way there by way of the outlet pipe. Most horrifying of all, Waldon knew, the entire water supply for the town was now contaminated with an unknown pathogen that killed rapidly. Unable to reach Singleton or Justin Flannigan, he had decided a call to the White House in hopes convincing the

President to evacuate the entire area. He could only hope he wasn't too late. He didn't even want to think about the consequences if he was. Chapter 9 White House Oval Office February 25, 4:00 P.M. President William Towers preferred to be called simply, "Bill" by his subordinates, and this morning, Bill Towers was facing a crisis unlike anything he'd dealt with in his three years as Commander in Chief. Towers was a mammoth human being. Six-foot-six, three hundred ten pounds, and solid as a rock. The man's quiet temperament and personality, combined with his gigantic stature had earned him the nickname "White Shaq." Today his patience, usually unrivaled in the White House, was increasingly wearing thin. When John Singleton arrived in the President's office, Tower was on the intercom, yelling. The sight of Tower always daunted Singleton. To hear him uncharacteristically yelling, added even more angst to Singleton's already turmoil-filled morning. Tower clicked off the intercom and waved Singleton over. "Dr. Singleton, have a seat." "Thank you, sir." Singleton sat. "So, where we at with this?" Tower asked. Singleton shifted in his seat. Tower always got right to the point. Now what? Singleton cleared his throat and looked away before fielding the question. He hadn't realized the President didn't know. "Sir, what we know so far is that the virus has a one hundred percent mortality rate, but so far it's just the people who have actually had contact with the substance. The communicability rate so far seems to be zero. However, we expect that to change as the virus goes through a metamorphosis." The President looked at Singleton with an incredulous expression, his mouth half agape. Singleton read the look. The presence of an American-registered biological nightmare on the Eastern Seaboard would not go unnoticed. Fortunately for Tower, it seemed it was totally isolated to this one small town in Delaware. But for how long?

"You saying this thing changes to a communicable disease. And, you said, virus. Are you sure it's a virus?" "We're treating it like one for now. It's the safest assumption we can make at this point." "So the only thing we can do is wait and see?" "At this point, yes. I know how that sounds, but this is something we've not dealt with before. You know about the local water supply. We've shut it down and are providing bottled water. At some point we'll have to start evacuations, but we don't want to start a panic yet. Dr. Waldon has been briefed about keeping it under wraps for now. Fortunately, it's off-season, so when we do start evacuating it will be a lot easier." Tower furrowed his brow. "All those egg heads at the CDC and the best you can do is wait and see?" "I'm sorry, sir, I'm afraid so." "What about this, Riordan?" "Sir, Colonel Riordan would like nothing better than to finish what they started in 1941." "Which was what, exactly?" "Sir, Riordan wants to expose what the Army did under President Truman. This is his chance to prove it. He's been running around for years telling people about some space virus that the Army buried in the ocean. Most people just wrote him off as a kook. His story has about as much credibility as Hanger 11. At least in the publics' mind. But if he gets involved here, we're going to have a nightmare on our hands. He knows all the logistical aspects of what happened. If he's allowed to expose the fact that our government dumped something potentially toxic to the whole population, well, I don't need to tell you, sir." "You're right-you don't." "I'm sorry, sir, I--" "It's all right, I'm just a little perplexed. Why Riordan wants to do this." "Understandably so. He's old now, and he knows he only has a limited time left. He wants to clear his conscience. He was, after all, the one responsible for it."

"So what do you suggest we do about him?' "He's the only one who knows the location of the original bunker. Ground Zero, if you will. If we can give him some leeway, he may take us to it in his zeal to expose it." "This is a little out of your league isn't it, Mr. Singleton?" "Yes, sir, but once we locate it, we'll have a team in there with biologically safe space suits to contain it until we decide what to do. It's going to be a horrible experience any way we do it, sir." "How do you know so much about this Riordan fellow, Singleton?" "I was his student before he went to Army Pathology." Tower raised his brow. "Speaking of pathology. Have we had any autopsy reports on any of the dead yet?" Singleton shook his head. "I've sent for the best autopsy man in the states. I expect him there sometime tomorrow. But we know the deaths so far were all clearly in close contact with the virul agent." "All right, Singleton, I'll go with your theory about Riordan for now. Meantime, you need to get back to Delaware and do some damage control. Hell, he might have already leaked to the press for all we know. CIA will be sending someone to assist you. Don't worry; you won't know he's there. Also, I understand you have another doctor in the field. A doctor..." Tower reached across his desk and grabbed his notes. "A doctor, Flannigan. He reliable?" "Very. He's our field agent right now, and a damn fine one. He'll be working with the autopsy team." "Okay, Singleton. We need to wrap this thing up fast. Dead fish, I can live with. Dead people, that's a different ballgame all together." Singleton felt a distant chill. He's has no idea. Chapter 10 Atlantic Medical Center, Lewes Delaware

February 25, 2003 4:00 P.M. Justin Flannigan studied the history and physical of Larry Hendricks as he made his way to the Intensive Care Unit. Three days earlier, Hendricks was rushed to the emergency room in severe respiratory distress after coming in contact with the mysterious green substance on the Continental oil rig. Hendricks was the first patient exposed to it. Twenty-four hours later, he was in the oil rig's sickbay with flu-like symptoms. Now, he was in the ICU fighting for his life. Justin felt sick to his stomach as he passed through the decontamination tent set up on the fourth floor. He felt like an intruder in someone's worst nightmare. Justin stepped into the ICU among the usual afternoon chaos. He found Hendricks's chart and looked over it. It didn't reveal much more to him than he already knew. He glanced over the summary: Name: Hendricks, Larry G. Sex: M Age: 36 Brief Presentation: Respiratory distress/ headache, generalized malaise Flu-like symptoms, high fever, bleeding. The working diagnosis was infectious processprobably respiratory. They'd taken cultures and started antibiotics. One curiosity: all the cultures were negative. And so was every single laboratory test. And yet the patient continued to deteriorate. One other thing jumped out at Justin. The patient had calcium and potassium levels off the map. Waldon was right. Widely disseseminated catastrophic disease. Justin put the chart down. He was clutching it so hard, it left marks on his hands. Justin paused outside Larry Hendricks's room. A large sign emblazoned with bold black letters read: COMPLETE ISOLATION-ALL VISITORS REPORT TO NURSES' STATION. He donned a surgical mask and cap and put on a sterile gown. In slow motion, Justin pushed the door open and tiptoed into the room. Hendricks's bed rested inside a humidified isolation chamber, a flexible plastic bubble with germproof access portals. A thick fog of humidity was gathered around his body. A nurse came in and helped Justin ease himself into the entrance portal, then zipped up the polyethylene behind him.

Justin bent over and looked at Hendricks. He wheeled around and yanked open the plastic partition, then tore off his mask and cap as he gasped for breath. The nurse's jaw dropped open. "Dr. Flanni-" "He's dead... but... his face... it's gone!" Chapter 11 Newbury, Vermont February 26, 2003 7:00 A.M. Billy Riordan stared at the Boston Globe that sat on the breakfast table before him. He looked at it again, and then put his face in his hands. The headline was about a mysterious outbreak of illness aboard an oil platform off the mid Atlantic. Could it be possible? Or maybe it was just a coincidence? Suddenly, he had the sense that the room had tilted sharply under him. The walls felt like they were closing in. Stop it. Just stop it, Riordan commanded himself. His blood ran cold at the thought of it. He knew it might be possible someday. But he'd hoped he'd be long dead. He had lived too long. He knew he was being paranoid. But who wouldn't be under the circumstances? He pushed his breakfast away and turned the newspaper over. No need to see anymore. Riordan went to the back of the small cabin and took out an old leather suitcase and began to pack some clothes. They'd be coming for him soon. Chapter 12 Atlantic Medical Center February 26, 2003 12:00 P.M.

Justin Flannigan met Dr. Jon Chang at the Atlantic Med Center morgue that afternoon. Chang was a second generation Chinese-American whose skill at postmortem dissection was the best available. The CDC had flown him in from Los Angeles. He had agreed to let Justin help with the autopsy. Chang was a slight man with classic Oriental features and a strong chin. His accent had no hint of Chinese. It was pure California. "Ready to rock and roll, Dr. Flannigan?" Justin nodded behind his mask as they approached the corpse. They both wore germproof suits over the normal sterile garb. Chang began with a neat Rokkitansky incision-a Y-shaped slash that began at each clavicle, merged at the sternum, and carried down to the pubis. After retracting the skin, he carved through the sternal cartilage with an electric bone saw. Its thin shriek echoed off the cavernous walls of the morgue. Chang sliced through the abdomen, baring coiled loops of whitish-yellow bowel. "What the-" Justin recoiled in disgust. Chang grabbed his arm. "Steady, Dr. Flannigan, you okay?" "I think so. What is that?" "Good question. It's definitely not part of his anatomy. Smells like cyanide, too." Chang stepped back to the body. Deftly, he made quick incisions in ligaments and connective tissue before extending the incision toward the pubic area. Suddenly, he stopped; surprised as a clear green phosphorescent bladder came into view. "This guy looks like he drank a quart of radium." It dumfounded Justin. There was no mention of any phosphorescence in the chart. Surly it would have shown up on the CAT scan. "I don't get it," Justin said. "Join the club. Give me a hand, will you?" Chang asked. Within minutes, he had basically shucked the patient's innards. The corpse shell was now a hollow. The wet pile of organs glistened in the overhead lamps. The structures had a slight glow to them, and the hint of a harsh chemical hung in the air.

"Have you ever seen this material before?" Justin asked. Chang paused and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "I wished I had... but, no, this is something else." "Something else other than what?" "It's probably nothing. Just a case I read about in path school. Something during World War Two. Someone at the Army Institute of Pathology had reported a strange glowing substance they'd come across on several postmortems. I believe the bodies were Navy divers." "Did they find out what it was?" "No, they classified the rest of the report." Chang finished the organ dissection and took some samples for microscopic analysis. Justin turned back toward the corpse shell. Then something really strange happened. Chapter 13 Coast Guard Station # 6 Lewes, Delaware February 26, 2003 1:30 P.M. The Sea-Otter submersible mini-sub was poised just starboard of the U.S Bright Star. The newest Coast Guard cutter had just lowered the seamobile, which bobbed like a cork in the water. Officer 1st class Ron Rudman sat behind the controls of the Otter and waited while his assistant climbed into the cockpit of the underwater vehicle. Ten minutes later, the two-man crew dove to a depth of four hundred feet. The sub's four halogen lights illuminated the dusky surface of the bottom, whose contours had been shaped by millions of tears of tectonic shifting. Most people weren't aware of it, but a huge fault line ran straight through the Baltimore Canyon and out to the northern tip of New Jersey. Only a trip in a submarine could reveal the telltale signs, so most Delawareans just went about their daily routine, and never knew they lived on a potentially volatile geologic formation.

Rudman, tracked back and forth for two hours and his eyes were starting to glaze from staring at the monotonous grey seascape. His co-pilot, more studied in his scanning, suddenly leaned forward. "There! He jabbed the air with his forefinger. Rudman slowed the vehicle to a crawl and squinted at the vague shape just beyond the range of the lights. Rudman maneuvered the sub in for a closer look. The object in front of them was a massive round rock about fifty feet in diameter. "Jesus Christ," Rudman said. There was a huge fracture just left of center; obviously the spot where Continental's drill bit had broke through. Green slime oozed from its interior. "What the hell is that shit?" Rudman asked. "That's the stuff that killed all those fish." Rudman moved in for a closer look, but the green ooze seemed to get thicker and was now obstructing their view. "I better get a sample of this crap." Moments later, Rudman, using the robotic arm and a steel canister, scraped the container along the bottom and took a large sample of ocean floor along with the green slime. "That should do it," he said. The two men took a final look at the mysterious rock and Rudman put the craft in a Uturn. That's when his co-pilot noticed the tiny leak by the windshield. "Oh shit. We've got to get this thing up, now." As they began to surface, the leak grew to a sprinkler, jetting through the small windshield and covering the two men with ocean water. By the time they popped to the surface, Rudman and his co-pilot were soaked from the waist up. * * *

*Two hours later, aboard the U.S. Bright Star, Commander Jim Ellis grumbled out loud. "What the hell is going on around here?" Two more of his men had come down with high fever, and a third was coughing constantly. The sick bay had filled faster than the nurses could keep up. Ellis looked out his office window at the shroud of dark clouds blanketing the Eastern Seaboard. The snow was bearing down on the coast, and if predictions were right, his station would be forced to shut down in twenty-four hours. He'd have to get these men to a hospital soon. He reached for his phone when one of the nurses rushed in. "Sir, you need to come to sick-bay, now! It's those two men you sent down in the Sea Otter." "What abo-" The nurse's face was ashen "Oh my God, sir... you've got to see it for yourself." Chapter 14 Atlantic Medical Center February 27, 2003 9:00 A.M. John Chang rushed into the pathology lab. He was due to give a briefing to the press at ten o'clock, and he'd forgotten his notes. Finally, he found his briefcase, and was on his way out the door when he saw a specimen that they had sent from the emergency department that morning. "What is that thing?" he asked the technician. He handed the tech the jar. "There's nothing in here, Dr. Chang." "Look again. The little green thing floating on top. Is it in formalin?" "No," the tech said, "the ER ran out, it's in saline." "Where'd it come from?" Chang asked.

The tech sat the jar down. "From a lung, according to the pathology slip." "Did they culture it?" "I don't think so." Chang was already late, but the specimen had aroused his curiosity. Besides, it might give him more to tell the press. God knows what they'd think if he told them what he really thought. After what he and Dr. Flannigan had seen, yesterday, anything seemed possible. He assembled several Petri dishes of various jellied media and streaked the green sphere across their surface. In twenty-four hours, he would have a preliminary indication of the presence or absence of microbial growth. He slipped on some gloves, and picked up the specimen with sterile forceps. He looked at it closely. "You sure this isn't a contaminant?" he asked the tech. "It looks like it fell off someone's shoe." "The tech feigned a smile. "The slip says it might be fungal pneumonia." "No, too green. Almost polished, you know? But soft. It could be some kind of fungus, like actinomyces. Weird." "You want my microscope?" the tech asked. "I'll use the one in the office." Chang unlocked the door and went to the desk he'd borrowed since he'd been there. He switched on the lamp to the microscope and placed the object on a glass slide. He eased it under the low-power lens and looked through the binocular eyepiece. Then his vision froze. Incredible. Through the lenses, he saw a complex network of interconnecting wires. Like electrical connections, reminiscent of microcircuits in a solid-state computer chip. He narrowed his eyes, peering intently. Something bothered him, and creases lined his forehead. He moved the slide back and forth, observing it from all angles. He worked his jaw a little. For several minutes, he scanned with the microscope.

When he finally looked up, the color had drained from his face. He couldn't believe it. This object is alive! Chapter 15 Lewes, Delaware February 27, 2003 6:00 P.M. John Singleton knew that what he was doing was unethical and dangerous. He couldn't help that. Not at this point. He'd had lengthy conversations with General Arnold Zumwalt and Dr. Ron Hasley. Then he'd gone to the National Security Agency. Finally, he'd gone to Atlantic Medical Center and wandered through the halls, which were overflowing with sick and dying patients. During his walk among the sick afflicted men and women, he made up his mind. He saw and felt the connection between the recent outbreak... and 1941. He rubbed his hands across his thinning hair. The glass of Covassier wasn't helping at all. Perhaps it was because it was so damned cold in Delaware right now. He looked out the window at the frozen shoreline. Dying oil workers, the damned Army, he mused. My God, how can this be? All across the water, thin strings of green algae blended with the high, subtly warring ocean waves. All day the story of a possible Army connection had been building. How had the rumor started? Who was the leak? Late on Sunday evening, he sat down and wrote out a terse statement from his rented beach house above Cape Henlopen. In response to the interest in the origin of the recent flu outbreak, there will be a press conference on Monday. The conference will be held at Atlantic Medical Center, in Lewes, Delaware. Myself, as well as Dr. Justin Flannigan, a CDC epidemiologist, will be on hand to answer questions. John Singleton Director, Center for Disease Control He sat back, read it over twice, and reconsidered going public. That was a joke. It was too late to worry about going public. The thing had already done that for him. People were dying. More would die. This was pure damage control to hide the truth. Although a

voice deep inside him said it was the right thing to do. Was it his voice, or someone else's? Chapter 16 Washington, D.C. February 27, 2003 At 9:45 P.M. forty-year-old Washington Post reporter Bob Caldwell was home in his third-floor walk-up apartment in Georgetown. He booted up his laptop, and while his live-in girlfriend shook the pasta through a colander, he checked his e-mail. His instincts told him the story was about to break tonight. The minute he saw the "ATTENTION!" message from his source in Atlanta, Caldwell forgot everything else: the smell of the marinara; the DVD Pamela had rented; their planned night together. He grabbed the cell phone and in a minute connected to a private line in Delaware. He had a confirmation in Atlanta; now he needed one from John Singleton's contact. That would be Justin Flannigan. Flannigan was bright and articulate, and not condescending. "Doctor Flannigan, can you confirm the story being circulated at the CDC? Anything at all? Someone else to speak with? Singleton says you have the best handle on things. People deserve to know. Is it another SARS outbreak?" Caldwell leaned back in his chair and nearly tipped it over. He sensed this was it. "All right, Dr. Flannigan, I understand your situation, but I promise you we'll do a fair job reporting this. I'll have our news editor call you shortly." Ten minutes later, he was barreling through the doors of the Washington Post Building on Connecticut Avenue He slid behind his desk in the newsroom and brought up his address book on his office manager program. He scrolled through half a dozen pages till he found Lee Hazel, his stringer in Delaware. Hazel was asleep and his voice sounded ragged when he answered the phone. "I know, I'm sorry it has to be tonight," Caldwell said. I need you at Atlantic Medical Center. It's urgent. Sorry to foul up your night."

Then, Caldwell dashed into Ralph O'Hara's office. He closed the door behind him and sat down. When he was finished telling O'Hara what he knew and what had been confirmed, O'Hara punched his hotline to the managing editor. When he hung up a minute later, he turned to Caldwell. "He says run with it. Hell it came from the CDC. The fact that Singleton called a press conference just helps the story." Finally, at 1:15 A.M. the huge presses were screaming. Several hundred thousand copies would reach homes in the metropolitan area alone, by breakfast. Caldwell left the news building at just past two. The ink was barely dry on the paper he held under his arm. Now, he needed to get home and make some plans. Everyone needed to... or better had. He slid behind the wheel of his Volvo and held the paper up. Under his byline, the headline made him shudder. CDC CLOSELY WATCHING POSSIBLE PANDEMIC IN DELAWARE Caldwell turned the ignition key and saw a quick flash in front of him. Then, the Volvo exploded into a million pieces. Chapter 17 Atlantic Medical Center February 28, 2003 8:00 A.M. A mild electricity filled the air when Justin Flannigan entered the Emergency Department lobby on Monday morning. It was beginning to snow, and Justin wondered how long before the predicted blizzard hit, adding another irritant to this already disastrous scenario. Michael Bell, the administrator, was huddled in a heated debate with several people in green scrubs. Justin could hear them talking as he squeezed past.

"I'm telling you," one of them said, "this could be the next pandemic." Bell turned around. "Dr. Flannigan, just who I wanted to see. The press is ready. We're meeting in the conference room." Justin brushed the snow off his jacket and listened to another conversation nearby... "Three more bodies off that oil platform. All dead. Just like the rest." "Have they done the posts yet?" "No, we're waiting for the families to arrive to give permission. We're flying them in." "We don't need permission if it's a public safety issue." "Let's not be hasty. We don't want to cause a panic. After all, whatever it is, so far, it's confined to that oil platform..." Justin felt his heart banging against his chest wall. That's what you think An ER nurse who came sprinting out of the double doors jerked him from my thoughts. She looked in the direction of the two doctors who were talking. "Dr. Rhodes, we need you in here. It's the nurse who admitted those oil workers. She's on her way here in an ambulance. Severe respiratory distress. Her husband says she started coughing up... well, he called it, glo-jell. Like the stuff in those Glo-Stix, the kind kids play with." He looked at his colleague and Justin saw the color vanish from both their faces. "Okay, I'll be right there," he said. Bell turned to Justin. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. "Dr. Singleton is waiting in the conference room. I think we better hold that press conference now." "Lead the way," Justin said The room was filled with news reporters; some of them, heavy weights in the news business, behind them were a blinding gallery of lights. Justin had seen the satellite dishes on top of the vans outside. Reporters and cameramen jostled for better position.

Tall and imposing in his Harvard attire, Singleton finally stepped up to the microphones. The press conference had begun. The world needed to know something. Chapter 18 Atlantic Medical Center Conference Room February 28, 2003 8:15 A.M. "Dr. Flannigan, we'll turn the floor over to you." Justin was barely to the podium when the first question came flying at him. "Are you the spokesman for the medical community?" "There is no one spokesman. We're all working in concert--" "But it seems this is precisely what the public is saying, Dr. Flannigan. No one seems to be in charge." "That's not quite true. Every department in the hospital is working with local and federal authorities toward a solution." "Have you found one so far?" "Unfortunately, not. But this is the kind of situation where there can be surprising developments at any time." "Like the death of Ian Caldwell last night?" Justin's mind went numb with the question. Holy shit! "I'm afraid I wasn't aware of that." "That's incredulous to me," the reporter said, "there's an epidemic going on and you're not staying abreast of the news?" Justin decided to play the dumb card. "What does his death have to do with this... and I might add, it's not been called an epidemic by any standard."

"Well why then did the doctors here at this very facility call it some sort of infectious process. In fact, some of your previous comments are typical of the stalling by the CDC and other federal authorities." Justin felt his face flush. This guy was going for the jugular. "No one is stalling, Mr.-" "Tucker." "No one is stalling, Mr. Tucker. At the time I made those statements, it looked like we may have some evidence to that effect. Unfortunately, we didn't." Tucker persisted. "Doesn't the word unfortunate mean it's much worse?" "No, it just means we haven't isolated any one thing yet." Justin turned toward the other press members and leaned forward. "Let's give someone else a chance for questions here." A young blond woman stood up in the corner. "What about the number of cases, epidemic or not?" Singleton finally put his pipe down and stood up beside Justin. The room seemed to take on a new air of respect. Justin backed up a step and gave him the podium. "The most recent figures we have," Singleton said, "are several days old. As of Friday, there were fourteen confirmed deaths. All from the oil rig." "And what about the nurse, just hospitalized?" "She was in contact with the oil workers before we knew what we were dealing with. She failed to use proper isolation procedures." "Are you saying it was her fault?" "I wish I could say it wasn't, but it looks that way." "That sounds to me like you're trying to draw attention away from the real problem. There has been speculation about placing all of lower Delaware on quarantine, or imposing some form of martial law to stop the spread of this thing." "That's nonsense. Those are the types of rumors that have been the most irresponsible. In fact, the opposite is true. The cases are slowing down."

"We're almost out of time," Michael Bell said, as he leaned across the podium. We have time for one more question. Okay, you there." he pointed to a gray haired reporter in the back of the room. The reporter looked at a clipboard he was holding, then at Singleton. "In the past few days, there have been unconfirmed reports that this whole problem is somehow linked to the old Army base here in Lewes. Do you have any comment on that?" There was a sudden twitch in Singleton's cheek, a nervous tick unnoticed by most. The first droplets of perspiration moistened his hairline. "I'm afraid I haven't heard anything about it." Bell stood up. "This concludes the press conference, thank you all for coming." Singleton's hand trembled as he fumbled with the tiny microphone clipped to his tie. Finally, he turned to Justin. "I'm sorry about the ambush, Justin. I didn't know about Caldwell, either." Justin left the conference room and headed straight for his car. He was still shaken. They were nowhere near ready to say what they had on their hands. Isolated cases, or fullblown epidemic-or worse. The only thing Justin Flannigan knew for certain--was that who ever killed Ian Caldwell--had a lot more to hide than just a newspaper story. Chapter 19 Lewes, Delaware February 28, 2003 3:00 P.M. For Justin, the afternoon seemed to creep by incredibly slow. At two-thirty, Chang called and asked to meet him at a local pub. Justin was happy to oblige, the stress of everything was running him into the ground. He met Chang at a small bar on Second Street called the Rose and Crown. He was at the bar nursing a Samuel Adams when Justin walked up. He held the bottle up. "That's right, I don't like Sake. And I don't like tea."

Justin smiled. "I don't either." Chang was affable as always. "I hope you don't mind meeting here, but I think someone at Atlantic is leaking information." "That would explain a lot." Chang frowned. "What do you mean?" "Just some things that were mentioned at the press conference this morning." Chang leaned in close. "Yea well listen to this. I got the report back on that green shit we pulled out of Hendriks. I sent it to a friend of mine at UCLA. And he-" "Wait a minute, you sent that across the country, without knowing what-" "Don't worry," Chang said. "It was sealed tighter than a nuclear warhead." "Oh that's comforting." "Anyway, Dr. Alexopolous, you know him?" "The Astrobiologist?" "Yes, same guy. Anyway, he thought it might be some sort of fungus-but he couldn't say what kind. A fungus that glowed fluorescent green and pulsated when attacked, then bled red and purple, was unfamiliar to him." Justin's beer came and he took a long gulp. "So what did he think it was?" "Best he could figure, it was some kind of spore. He's gonna run some more tests on it" "What kind of spore acts like that?" Justin asked. "A spore from somewhere else." Justin eyed him askance. "Come on, you don't really believe all this outer space bullshit going around do you?" "Look Justin, I did some more checking on that World War Two case I told you about. The Navy divers."

"Yea, and." "According to local newspapers at the time, a sphere shaped object was seen hurtling across the sky in January 1941-" "Maybe it was a shooting star?" Justin said. "But that wasn't all. It crashed into the Atlantic at a tremendous speed. There were several eyewitnesses." "And where was this supposed sighting?" "Ft Miles. The old Army base, just a mile from here." Justin felt a chill go straight through him." "Are you sure about this?" Chang nodded. "Yes, as time went by, it was more or less forgotten-until the Army abruptly closed the base down in 1944. Some locals started salvaging around the base and turned up some unusual pieces of metal. When they turned on their metal detectors, it gave off strange signals." "But we're not dealing with metal here," Justin said, "this is a living bacteria, or virus." "Let me finish. Not long after their excursion on the base, the two salvage hunters turned up missing. The local sheriff sent a search party after them. They found them a week later, but apparently the Army stepped in and silenced the whole thing." "I still don't see how that relates to these cases." Chang chugged the rest of his Sam Adams and leaned against the bar. "According to the Army report, the bodies they found were covered with green fluorescent slime." "Of course here were all kinds of theories," Chang said. "The first was the most obviousan organism from another planet or galaxy, which had the protection to survive the extremes of temperature and vacuum that exist in space." Justin nodded.

"There's no doubt that organisms could survive." "Sure. Extremeophiles. Here on earth they've been known to survive at 70 degrees Celseus." "The secret is in their ability to grow a protective coating. A spore-like covering. With that they can go into indefinite suspended animation. No need for food, oxygen or anything else." "What about the other theories?" "All evoloutionary mumbo jumbo nobody bought. But the spore theory. That was the accepted explanation." "And the metal fragments." "Some type of meteor." "But how did-" "How did I find all this out? That was easy. My father told me." Chapter 20 Lewes Beach February 28, 2003 7: 00.P.M. Justin stood in the silence of his cottage rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He watched the evening news and saw more about Ian Caldwell's death, but also about another murder halfway across the country. A former Army Colonel. It sent a chill up his spine. What was happening? He noticed he was shaking as he watched Dan Rather report the news. Justin was agitated after his talk with Chang. His objectivity was weakening already. He didn't believe in invasions from outer space, and Chang was sensible enough to know it could all be coincidence. One fact remained though, Ft. Miles had a history of secrecy surrounding it and it was public record that they had carried out underwater experiments just off the coast. The same coast where Continental Oil has their rig parked and where fifty men died from a mysterious illness. Justin couldn't rule out anything. He was a scientist, after all, even if he was once removed. He was sent to do a job, and he tried to

do it as if it were any other. Just past seven-thirty, Justin checked in with Singleton. He told him he was making progress but there was nothing earth shattering to report so far. He'd promised Chang he would keep their bar conversation quiet for now. At least until they had time to look into in further. He was about to hang up, when Singleton dropped a bombshell on him. He was sending another investigator from the CDC. "I'm sending Dr. Melanie Prescott," Singleton told him. "You remember her?" Yes, he knew Melanie Prescott. Justin had a late dinner that night around nine, but his mind kept wandering and he ended up throwing most of the food out. Chang had gotten under his skin with his spaceman theories, but he made sense. Now Melanie Prescott was coming. Jesus, give me a break. Around ten o'clock, Justin took a walk down on the beach. He had to give Singleton credit; he had rented him a beautiful cottage. As he listened to the waves, his mind went into overdrive and he envisioned green creatures walking up the beach to greet him. Stop it dammit. Justin heard a noise in the dunes behind him, but when he turned around there was nothing. Least nothing he could see. The beach was beautiful at night, and fairly well lit. Beyond the dune grass, Justin saw the silhouette of Ft. Miles and the tall dune that was its main landmark. He thought about what Chang had told him. Tomorrow, he would go there and check it out for himself. He thought he could handle any danger he might find here. Maybe? Chapter 21 Lewes Beach February 28, 2003 11:00 P.M. The night air was cold and brittle and the moon was as bright as headlights on the

interstate. Justin had hoped that the roar of the waves would sooth him, but instead it called up old memories that caught him off guard. He had been trying to think of something other than the oil workers and this mysterious illness. And like moths are attracted to light, so were his thoughts drawn straight to Melanie Prescott. God damn you Singleton. Why are you doing this? He hadn't thought about Melanie for at least a year, but now that he did, it all came raging back. Justin had been a new CDC investigator for only two years, and he felt he'd made a good choice. He traveled a lot, studied exotic diseases, a made a good living, albeit a dangerous one. Still, he was happy. But then something completely unexpected happened. He met Dr. Melanie Prescott, originally from Burlington, Vermont. And Justin fell in love. He first saw her when she came to Atlanta to interview for CDC investigator. She was wearing high-button silk blouse under a bright red business suit. Justin was just new himself, and was working in the exotic disease division. Melanie was pretty; not-quite Julia Roberts-pretty, but close enough to make the comparison. All of the workers in the lab thought so, too. She had the most intense sapphire-blue eyes and thick black curls. The days when she put those curls up, she was irresistible. Down on the beach near the rented cottage, he took a seat on a log of driftwood and stared out to sea. Images flowed through his mind, filling in spaces he'd forgotten existed. Justin remembered how she made him feel when he was around her. Like a schoolboy with his first crush. He'd never experienced anything like it before. Then he went to South America for two weeks, and realized he missed her terribly. One night during his second week, he called her in the middle of the night. "What's wrong?" she asked in a sleepy voice. "Nothing, except I can't stand being away from you." "You can't imagine how much I wanted to hear that, but..."

"But what, Melanie?" Justin asked. The what, turned out to be every guy's worst nightmare. She was engaged. Justin stayed in South America for an extended tour. Six months to be exact. It gave his broken heart a reprieve, but when he returned, so did the pain. Then, one afternoon, she was waiting next to his car outside the CDC. "We need to talk, Justin," she said in the quietest voice. "I'm sorry, I never meant for it to go as far as it did. I should have told you" "That would have been nice. It would have spared me this hole in my chest." She looked at him with those blue eyes and he felt himself floating away. "Justin, I love you... it's just-" "Let me make it easy, Melanie. I don't want to see you again. I've resigned from the CDC, effective immediately." Justin got in his car and drove that night, all night. He spent the next week in Key West in a drunken stupor. When he was finished feeling sorry for himself, he headed to Scottsdale and thought he'd left Melanie Prescott far behind. Now, on a cold, windy deserted beach in Delaware, Justin Flannigan knew he wanted to see Melanie again. He longed to tell her about all the nights he missed holding her. As he stared out at the vast ocean, he could make out a faint green glow coming off the water in the distance. The thoughts of Melanie really began to overwhelm him. He wanted her to know how he really felt. Justin wanted to tell her while he still had a chance. While anyone still had a chance for anything. Chapter 22 Cottage on Lewes Beach

March 1, 2003 9:00 A.M. There was a visitor sitting in an armchair on the porch the next morning. Justin had no idea who he was or why he was there. He was an ordinary-looking man with thinning gray hair and a solid appearance that seemed to have been shaken by the cold weather. Another reporter? "I told you folks everything I know at the press conference yesterday," Justin said, resting his coffee cup on the porch railing. "I'm not giving any exclusives." The man cleared his throat and sat slightly forward. "I assure you, I'm no reporter, if that is the implication." Now he had Justin's attention, and curiosity. "Well then, would you like to explain your visit, perhaps?" "I apologize for the intrusion, but you'll understand in a minute. My name is Riordan. Colonel Billy Riordan." Justin studied him. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?" He stood up, and when he did, Justin could see he was considerably taller than he first appeared. And considerably older. He handed Justin a worn leather wallet already opened. Justin stared a long moment at the identification card, feeling his pulse skyrocket. COLONEL BILLY RIORDAN U.S. ARMED FORCES--1940 COMMANDER 33rd PRD FT. MILES, DELAWARE Justin handed him the wallet and Riordan slipped it back into his pocket. Then he locked eyes with Justin and said, "If you're wondering what PRD means. It stands for Pathological Research Division. We're responsible for this thing that's going to kill everyone." Chapter 23 Somewhere above the Chesapeake March 1, 2003 11:00 A.M.

Melanie Prescott, PhD, recognized the Chesapeake Bay from her window seat aboard flight 231 from Atlanta. As the plane made its final approach into BWI airport, the young epidemiologist had mixed feelings about the trip. She was eager to help solve the mystery of the bizarre death's of the oil workers, but she was dreading the thought of seeing Justin Flannigan again. The heavy thump of the landing gear jarred Melanie from her thoughts, and she gathered her notes and closed her laptop. For the first time in two years, she felt those vaguely familiar butterflies again. She hadn't heard from Justin since he'd abruptly left the CDC that September. Melanie looked out the window at the gray sky. She wasn't sure what scared her more. A looming pandemic--or seeing Justin again. * * * *Justin Flannigan stood atop the eighty-foot-tall dune at Ft. Miles, drinking in the saltair as he looked down at the Atlantic Ocean. The ocean was calm today and if there was a storm on the way, he thought, this must be the calm before it. The cold blew through his thin jacket and he pulled it around his neck and shoved his hands into his pockets. The involuntary shudder that passed through his wiry body had nothing to do with the weather. Although he wasn't yet inured to the cold after living in Arizona for two years, as a scientist, Justin knew his reaction was emotional not physiological. Ft. Miles had a forbidding aspect he couldn't easily shrug off. The sun glistened off the water and cast a reflection toward the most prominent feature on the base. A series of huge concrete bunkers that faced the ocean and stood as protection for Ft. Miles during WWII. At one time they had housed the big guns that were capable of destroying enemy ships a mile away. Now, they sat dormant, except for the occasional tourist who came to climb to the top of them and stare out at the Atlantic. Justin wondered about the old man who'd shown up on his doorstep with an ancient I.D. badge and the story that he had something to do with this rapidly accelerating illness that plagued this town. What happened here so many years ago? Justin felt a pulse of anxiety, then his thoughts were cut short by the jingle of his cell phone. He answered. "Justin, Melanie has arrived. She needs you to pick her up at the airport," Singleton said. Shit. "Okay, thanks." Justin hung up.

Chapter 24 White House, Wash. D.C. March 1, 2003 1:00 P.M. The President finally agreed, but insisted he retain control over the decision to use a thermonuclear device should it come to that. He had been pacing almost constantly for the previous ten minutes, driving his staff close to distraction. "Sir, it's totally confined to the oil platform at this time. Although, we have one other case. A nurse who treated the first oil workers. Apparently she didn't use isolation precautions." "Stupid bitch," the Secretary of Defense said. "Please, gentleman, have some compassion here, for Christsakes." "Sir, there is already a plan in place for such a disaster. It's called Directive 221. It clearly states that should an unknown exogenous organism threaten a large population area, with great domestic consequences, a thermonuclear weapon will be used to prevent further spread of the organism." There was an uneasy shifting in the room. "Yes, I'm aware of the Directive. It doesn't mean I have to use it. I think we're jumping the gun here. We don't know that much about this so-called organism, right now. We need to let the CDC do their job. The last thing we need to do is cause a panic by mandatory mass evacuations." The Secretary of Defense frowned. "I'm just saying-" The President held up his hand. "I understand. For now we stand down on this. Period. We go detonating any nuclear weapon, no matter how small, it's going to have serious repercussions internationally." His audience nodded in silent assent. The door opened and an attaché walked in and handed the Secretary of Defense an envelope. The secretary read it and looked at the President.

"Sir, I'm afraid this is going to have repercussions any way we play it. Colonel Riordan has just turned up in Lewes, Delaware." The President sank down in his chair. "My God." Chapter 25 Atlantic Medical Center March 1, 2003 3:00 P.M. Justin Flannigan was acutely aware of Melanie Prescott's closeness as they walked into the confines of the autopsy room. He was also aware of how natural it felt to be around her. But they weren't a couple anymore, and this was business. Melanie was Singleton's point person and she was very serious and good at her job. Justin couldn't tell if she believed in the things he had told her, but on an intellectual level, she kept an open mind. Before they arrived Justin gave her a brief history of Colonel Riordan and that there was much more to tell-much more. Chang greeted them and led them to the table he was working at. Kathy Fitzgerald, the nurse who'd first admitted the initial oil worker cases, lay on the gurney. Her organs were already out and on the scale. "Lots of pulmonary necrosis," Chang said, "looks just like the others." "Melanie Prescott stepped up to the body. "What's this green material?" "Answer that and you've solved the riddle," Justin said. "It's the same stuff that killed all the fish in the area of the oil platform?" "Yes," Justin said. Melanie jumped back against Justin and gasp. He looked at Chang and he too took a step back. "There it goes again," Chang said. "That's the same thing that happened to the other post we did." Justin stood transfixed as the organs on the scale began to glow a deeper green and

seemed to undergo a transformation. Then, they completely dissolved. All that was left was a puddle of puke-colored liquid that had the odor of cyanide. Melanie looked at Chang. "You don't seem surprised." "I think you two better come with me," he said. "I have something to show you that might be of value here." Chang threw his gloves down and took off the surgical gown. Melanie and Justin did the same. He led them to a small office in the back of the morgue. "Nice of them to lend me such a nice office isn't it?" He opened the drawer of the metal desk and took out a folder. He opened it and showed Justin a photo. It was a Chinese man who looked around thirty. He wore an Army uniform and he stood in the desert in front of a huge hanger-like facility. "That was my father," Chang said. "That's nice," Melanie said, "but I didn't come all the way from Atlanta to hear ab-" "Ms. Prescott, believe me, this is not for nostalgic reasons." Justin shot her a look of disapproval. She seemed to be more cynical than he remembered. "I'm sorry, "she said, "go on." "My father was an Army pathologist, assigned to Ft. Clarkson, Nevada. In case you don't know where that is. It's where they allegedly took the aliens that crashed in nineteen forty-seven. I know you've heard about that." She nodded. "And I assume you've heard of Pan-Spermia?" Melanie looked at Justin. "Pan Spermia. Isn't that just a theory from some paranoid astronomers?" he asked. "Far from it." Chang countered. "As I told Dr. Flannigan a couple days ago, it has been known for decades that biological material, including disease-causing organisms can thrive in space. They can attach to meteors, which in turn eventually hit earth, bringing whatever is on it along. In fact there are even some theories that blame flu epidemics on

astrobiological viruses." "Theory, being the key word," Melanie said. "It's certainly possible," Justin said. "The conditions out there could be similar to what they were in the early days of the earth. The meteors could act as incubators and bring the microbes to earth. When they come in contact with water, they flourish. Maybe we've been looking for extraterrestrials the wrong way for all these years. Perhaps the most intelligent life form on a distant planet is no bigger than a bacterium." "Believe what you like," Chang said, "but, my father told me before he died, he was involved in some autopsies on a group of soldiers back in nineteen forty-one. Each one of them had been exposed to some unknown agent that he described as a green phosphorescent material." Melanie sat up in her chair. "So are you-" "Those soldiers came from Ft. Miles, Delaware," Chang said. "I have their death certificates right here in the folder. My father carried the secret with him to his grave. The Army buried something at Ft. Miles. And now it's come back to haunt them." Justin wanted to blurt out; that by tonight, he would know just what it was that they had buried. But he had promised Riordan. Three more hours and he'd know the horrible truth. He wasn't sure he wanted to. Chapter 26 Lewes Beach March 2, 2003 11:00 A.M. The rented cottage was about a mile east of the hospital. Melanie Prescott and Justin Flannigan went directly to it, almost as though they owned it. Justin kept getting the feeling that none of this was in their control, and it frightened him in ways he'd never experienced. That morning, USA Today had carried stories of the dead oil workers, and fear of a plague along the eastern seaboard. It reminded him of a novel he'd read years before called Pandemic. Only that virus was quickly identified.

They weren't that lucky. Although, they hoped Riordan had the answers he'd promised. As they pulled into the gravel driveway, clouds snuffed out the sunshine, casting the tiny, whitewashed cottage into gloom. There was nothing welcoming about it. Not even the smell of the ocean and appearance of a few seagulls could calm Justin's angst. They were here to solve a great mystery. But he also knew they were involved in something that jeopardized their lives in more that one way. "He's kind of a strange old bird," Justin told Melanie, about Riordan. "But he says he can get rid of this thing." "Whatever that means," Melanie said. Her cynicism was wearing thin on Justin. The rusted, iron gate swung open under Melanie's hand and it creaked against its hinges. At that exact moment, the green painted door of the cottage swung open as well. Colonel Billy Riordan, tall and grizzled, grey hair blowing in the breeze, stood there before them. "I'm Colonel Riordan," he announced to Melanie. "Who are you?" "Melanie Prescott, PhD, since we're exchanging credentials, Colonel. I'm from the CDC." Riordan grinned. "Feisty, too, aren't you?" "I beg you-" "Never mind, we got work to do. Let's get inside. Never know who's watching." Riordan eyed them distrustfully despite the fact Justin had spent the better part of the morning talking to him. He looked as forbidding as the dark clouds that hung over them. Justin soon forgot it as they sat down inside. Riordan already had a map and some papers spread out across the dining room table. Justin stared at him and he looked up. "What? What'd you expect? You want to find this thing or not?" "I'm sorry," Justin said, "it's just I feel like we're on some sort of scavenger hunt. I'm use to the laboratory." Riordan stood up and frowned. "Scavenger hunt? Boy, you have no idea. I've been waiting fifty years for this. And if we live to tell about it, it will make everything you

think you know, obsolete." Book Two Riordan Chapter 27 March 3rd 2003, 10:00 A.M. Lewes, Delaware Inside an unmarked sedan outside of Atlantic Medical Center, John Singleton removed his glasses and gazed at Ron Jefferson. "Agent Jefferson, the President called me about a half hour ago. In direct reference to you." Jefferson shifted in his seat behind the steering wheel. "Is there a problem?" "Not with you. On the contrary, the President assured me I could count on you to carry out whatever was necessary to bring this to an end as soon as possible." Jefferson exhaled silently. "No debate there." Jefferson's unease sharpened. "What exactly do you need me to do?" "Damn good question." Now Jefferson was lost. When the President tapped him for this job, he thought it was purely in a protective capacity for Singleton. Now he wasn't so sure. Singleton turned in his seat. "I take you've been briefed on Colonial Riordan?" "Yes somewhat. I understand he's trying to make trouble." Singleton's eyes bulged. "Trouble! It's more than trouble. It's a matter of national security." "He's just one old man from what-"

"Don't underestimate that old man. He's shrewd. And smart. And we need him. Up to a point." Jefferson frowned. "Up to a point. Then what?" "We'll deal with that later. Right now we need to locate him and keep him under constant surveillance." "My oath is to provide Intel support to you and the administration until this is resolved. If you want an old man assassinated, you'll have to do that yourself." "Not to sound pampas, Jefferson, but the White House has assigned you to me to assist with this operation. I'm not a field agent; I'm a scientist. Now if you want to argue with Bill Tower, you go right ahead. I'm sure there are other agents he can assign if this is too much for you. The White House is getting nervous. We don't know the nature of what we're dealing with. So unless you decline to involve yourself, you will do what needs to be done." "Decline?" Jefferson shook his head. "I obviously can't refuse the President." "Obviously. Now, let's find Riordan, before he finds us." Chapter 28 Lewes Beach March 4th, 2003 9:00 A.M. "Colonel Riordan why don't you start at the beginning," Melanie Prescott said as they sat down next to the table. "You mean how we came across this thing?" he asked. "Yes, exactly," Justin said. Riordan looked at them and his eyes welled up. "I've been waiting a long time to tell this story. Just give me a minute." He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small vial. "Nitroglycerin. Heart isn't what it used to be." "Take your time," Justin said.

Riordan walked over to the window and looked out at the ocean. He seemed to go into a trance. "It was almost midnight when I saw it shoot across the sky. I was at the high dune, just up the beach there. My driver pulled over and I got out to have a better look. By that time, it had already hit the water. I scanned the area with my field glasses, but it was pitch black on the ocean and it was colder than hell. Figured whatever it was, that was the last I'd see of it. It wasn't any shooting star, though." Riordan stopped for a moment and looked at them. Justin nodded. There was plenty more to tell, Justin knew, but first Riordan had to get past this first part. Melanie and Justin were quiet, letting him get used to the idea of sharing this secret he'd kept hidden for five decades. He swallowed hard then turned back to the window, the old memories making his hands shake. "The next morning, we contacted the Navy sub-tracking station. A lot of people don't know it, but they shared Fort Miles with the Army during the war. Anyway, they sent down a team of divers, who found a big metallic ball. Least that's what they thought it was. By the time the Navy hauled it up and turned it over to us, none of us believed it was metal at all. By then, we didn't know what it was." Justin stopped him at this point to ask about the forensic examination of the ball and how it was conducted. It was, after all, 1941. "We were more sophisticated than you might think," Riordan said. "The first thing we did was to take it down into Bunker Five Nineteen. That was the biggest concrete underground structure we had. It was well hidden and protected. And that's... that's when everything turned to shit." "So what happened next? After you started poking at it." "We all had on our masks, there were six of us standing around the thing. I don't think any of us had an idea what we were looking at. Space rock was the general consensus, I guess. Until... until it started glowing green and kind of sputtering stuff out." "Like the green at the oil rig?" Justin asked. "Same," he said. "Chuck Coblentz was the first to examine it. They called Chuck, 'The Microbe Hunter.' He spent more time chasing germs than most GI's did chasing whores. You could tell he was excited. It was finally something he hadn't seen. He got some tools and went to work on it and in a few minutes he scraped a good-size piece of it off and

stuck it in a dish. He poked and prodded at it for a few minutes, then all of a sudden looked up at us." Riordan stopped again and swallowed a cup of cold coffee from the table. "Are you all right?" Justin asked. "Fine," Riordan said, and continued. "So Chuck stood there as if a great pain had seized him. Hell, we all thought he'd got so excited he was having a coronary. Then he was on the ground screaming that his head felt like it was going to explode. That green stuff was on his hands. And he kept screaming, 'my head, my head... it's going to explode.'..." "Then, by God--it did." Chapter 29 White House March 4th, 2003 The East Gate of the White House was silent that Wednesday afternoon. Outside, John Singleton checked his watch. It was 10:00 A.M., and still no one had met him yet. Tourists milled about, trying to catch a glimpse of someone important. Something to tell their grandchildren. "John Singleton?" A Secret Serviceman called out behind him. Singleton wheeled around, his heart in his throat. "The President can see you now." He unlocked the main gate and let him enter. The guard nodded. "Sorry about the wait." A second agent at the back door of the White House met him. Singleton felt like a mass of ticks and nerves. He had accepted the mission he'd been given with great optimism at the start. Now he felt more alone than ever. And he was alone. It was a grievous error for this news to be released. But he was following orders. No one had expected Riordan to enter the picture. Now that he had, there were no more secrets. Only sacrifices to be made. He wished none of it had ever been made public.

Progress Report-that is what they wanted today. He was escorted to a small viewing room off the East Wing. The President along with eight other cabinet members sat at a long table. A Marine Corporal came in and inserted a videotape into a player. He braced himself, and slumped lower and lower into the screening-room chair. He forced himself to watch... the news. All of it was horrific. The unreleased footage, all of it shot within the past twenty-four hours, portrayed mass killings of marine life off the Delaware Coast. No longer just fish. Crabs, lobsters, giant turtles, sharks, and huge rays were washing up on the beaches from Wilmington to Ocean City, Maryland. That was the least of it. Early Friday morning, the coast guard had answered a distress call at an oil tanker. When their chopper flew over, what they saw turned their blood to ice. There was no sign of life. Everyone on the ship was dead. Two hundred men and women, their bloated bodies scattered on every level of the deck. Singleton felt his lunch about to come up. He breathed deep and sunk his fingernails into his chair seat. This was worse than anything he'd ever seen. The problem was-he didn't want to kill this organism-he wanted to contain it. Chapter 30 Lewes Beach March 4th, 2003, 10:30 A.M. Melanie and Justin looked at each other and Riordan caught it and glared at them. "I know you're thinking I'm just an old fool, making this stuff up. Soon, you'll believe me." "His head actually exploded?" Justin asked. "That's right. But that's mild compared to what followed." "I can't wait to hear it," Melanie said. The cynical look was back on her face. That's when Riordan laid into her. "Listen, lady, you asked me to tell you the story and

I'm telling it. It might not be what you want to hear, but by God it's the truth. I lost good men because of this horror. And that's what it is. Just because you got a fancy degree don't mean you've seen everything. Don't forget, I may be old, but I'm educated, too. Just pay attention, you might learn something." Melanie stood there, her jaw agape, looking at Justin now as if he was supposed to bail her out. Justin was glad Riordan had put her in her place. Her attitude was grating on his nerves, too. "I'm sorry," she finally said, "I'll try to keep an open mind. It's just bizarre." Riordan grinned. "Well, there's one thing we agree on." After he laid out the details of their experiments, Riordan got sidetracked for a while talking about the men in his unit. It was amazing he could still remember all the details of each and every one of them. He had to pause a few times and regain his composure, but he was holding up remarkably well for an eighty-year-old man. By seven o'clock he'd told them most of the story. It was unbelievable, and parts of it were hard to imagine. Justin put a hand on Riordan's shoulder and asked him if he wanted to stop. He looked tired. "I think I'll quit for now," he said. "I'll tell you the rest later. I haven't got to the best part yet." Chapter 31 Lewes Beach March 5th 2003 9:00 A.M. Melanie and Justin had an early breakfast of Belgian waffles and coffee. That planted a rock in Justin's stomach that took an hour to go away. At some point Riordan had joined them. He was dressed in thermal underwear and thick socks, looking reluctant to be there. Justin was having his own feelings about that. Not him, that is, but being there. Things had gotten much worse over the last twenty-four hours. Singleton called, frantic and informed Melanie and him that they would be going to the oil rig to inspect the bodies that littered the mammoth tower. The media had released limited pictures and the public had begun to panic. Voluntary evacuations were in place and already this morning, the sound of honking horns and revving engines

echoed across the beach road to their cottage. Riordan sat his coffee down. "It's starting already. We need to get moving." Justin looked at Melanie. "That's the thing, Colonel. Melanie and I have to go out to an oil tanker. There's been a terrible accident." Riordan's eyes hardened. "That's no accident. And if you go out there, you'll be next." "But we have orders," Justin countered. "Orders from who." "From our boss at the CDC." Riordan got up and left the room. Justin heard the shuffling of papers, then he came back in. He tossed a worn out manila folder on the table in front of him. CENTER FOR DISEASE CONTROL CLASSIFIED-TOP SECRET Justin opened the folder and read. What he saw defied belief. "Still want to go to that oil tanker?" Riordan asked. * * * *Justin felt lightheaded after he read the contents of the folder. The heavy fog that had settled around him lifted now. The stark reality that came into focus left him feeling disgusted. Pangs of betrayal sat like granite in his gut. Singleton, the man he'd admired for years, was no more than a traitor. Sitting close to him now, Justin was surprised to feel Melanie's hand gently slip into his. Her touch had a natural tenderness to it and their fingers intertwined so easily it felt as though they never been apart. All he wanted right now was to hold her like he used to and forget about this nightmare he'd been lured into. Never, he realized. It was not to be. Chapter 32

Maryland Department of Public Safety March 5th, 2003, 10:00 The storm loomed large on the overhead monitor as Dr. Joe Kublick studied the screen. In his mid fifties with a full mane of silver hair, and carrying an excess forty pounds on his five-ten frame, Kublick's craggy face had been chiseled into a perpetual wince. Kublick, Maryland's Public Safety Director, and twenty other Emergency Response Team members, were gathered in the building they affectionately called, "The Shack." The Shack was EMR's brain center, where fifty computers relayed weather reports, arranged data, kept track of phone system security during public emergencies, and was the pulse for 911 during any disaster in the Mid Atlantic region. A great blizzard was crawling across the Ohio Valley, and threatening to be the worst in decades. And this had all the earmarks of a potential disaster. Cold air from the north, mixed with cold air and rain from the coast, had created a huge low-pressure system that was about to descend on Delaware and Maryland like a polar ice cap come loose. Kublick pivoted in front of the huge monitor and moved back toward the other end of the room, his voice low and controlled as it echoed off the walnut paneling. He looked at his assistant. "It's already all but paralyzed the Northeast. O'Hare and Logan are shut down. I think we better get the National Guard on standby." Kublick anticipated the beginning of their part in six hours, according to the latest information chattering from the computers. Six hours was not a lot of time to prepare. As he studied the computer models, each scenario seemed worse then the previous one. The storm would hit the coast of Delaware particularly hard. As Kublick contemplated his next move, the fax machine behind him began ratcheting off an incoming message. Wheeling around in his chair, he yanked the paper off the machine and read. What the hell? Kublick normally didn't get facsimiles from the Department of Defense. At first he thought it was a joke. Then he looked at the emblem emblazoned in the upper right hand corner. It was no joke.

But if what this message said was true, the storm didn't really even matter. It paled in comparison. Chapter 33 March 5th, 2003 10:00 A.M. Forty miles away, a black Cobra gunship chopper tore across the black-gum treetops of southern Delaware. Inside, John Singleton felt numb. He was now a reluctant player in a deadly game to deceive the public. The stakes were unbelievably high. If he failed, millions would die. If he succeeded, a few less million would die. He'd been charged with a mission he'd had the grandiosity to accept. Agent of the Government, he thought. Damn them! He looked out the window as the chopper dropped down over the Delaware Bay. With wild weather already whipping the northeast and a powerful blizzard threatening the mid- Atlantic, he wondered how much worse it could get. And now he was alone. He was definitely in deep shit! The people of the eastern United States were doomed. Below he could see the desolation on the beaches where carcasses of all forms had washed ashore. He could feel death everywhere he looked. The Washington Post under his door that morning had caused his despair to overflow. On the front page, where it surely didn't belong was a story about the closing of the old Army base in Lewes in 1947. It was a grievous error for this news to be released. It was typical, though; everything here was a potential powder keg. There were no secrets. The Army was a government entity---so it was news. The government had a history of cover-ups. So they had a story. Only this time, it was unlike any story they'd ever dealt with-or ever would. Bracing himself, Singleton readied for the chopper to touch down. He could feel the winds buffeting the Cobra; they'd already been reported at over forty knots in places. Another irritant to add to the list. He exhaled silently and readied himself to meet Justin and Melanie. Singleton had not been trained in the art of deception, especially when it came to people he cared about. But when he weighed the odds, sadly it seemed, this time he had no choice. Either way

people were going to die. He had to harden his resolve. That was just the way it was. Chapter 34 March 6th 2003 Jon Chang's quarters The phone must have been ringing for some time before Jon Chang finally rolled over to pick up the receiver. The caller instantly apologized for waking him from such a deep sleep. As Chang struggled to sit up, he learned the call had come through from UCLA at Berkley, California, and the operator wanted permission to patch it through. Chang agreed immediately. While he waited for the phone to ring, he slipped on his pants and glanced at the alarm clock. It was 4:00 A.M.; that meant it was midnight in California. There was little doubt in his mind this call had something to do with the sample he'd sent Alexopopolous. The phone jangled again. "Dr. Chang, here." The voice on the other end was anything but calm. "Dr. Chang, this is Dr. Dan Simmons. I'm an assistant to the state epidemiologist. I'm terribly sorry to call you at such an early hour, but it's about that sample you sent Dr. Alexopopolous for analysis." Chang pulled the phone closer to his ear. "Yes, what about it?" "I trust you've isolated any more samples of it." "Well, I'm not at liberty to say, but it's more complicated than just a sample." "I beg your pard-" "Look, I can't discuss this-" "Dr. Chang! Alexopopolous is dead. So are two of his lab assistants. Now somebody needs to explain what's going on." "I wish I could. Call the CDC." Chang hung up.

Chapter 35 Lewes Beach March 6th, 2003, noon "How do you plan to find it?" Justin asked. "A little help from an ole friend." They got into Riordan's Jeep and headed west, out of town. "Where are we going? Melanie asked. "Be patient," Riordan said. A little while later they arrived at a ramshackle trailer with two rusted Cadillacs sitting out front. Chickens huddled next to the porch trying to stay warm. There was a whole line of trailers like this. Justin was surprised that there was a place like this in a town as expensive as Lewes. "Where are we?" he asked. Riordan turned the Jeep off. "I guess you could call this, the other side of the tracks." "But why-" "Just hold on a minute and you'll see." Melanie and Justin followed Riordan up to the door. A thin, black woman dressed in a cotton dress and two or three sweaters answered the door and let us in. A wood stove was going full blast and a pot of pinto beans was simmering on top. In the next room, an old black man sat in a wheelchair. Both his legs were gone below the knee and his lower pant legs had been folded and pinned up. Justin stepped closer and could see a grayish film covered his eyes. Insulin needles sat nearby on a small stand. Justin's experience as a physician told him the man was in the advanced stages of diabetes. Despite this, the man's voice was surprisingly robust. "Billy Riordan, as I live and die. I can't believe you're still alive." Riordan grinned. "Either can I."

Riordan looked over at Melanie and Justin. "Ladies and gentleman, this is Calvin Harrison. The best heavy equipment operator, 33rd Engineering Company ever had." They sat and talked for a while and soon they learned that Calvin Harrison had been there when Riordan was at Ft. Miles. His was the unit assigned to cover Bunker 19 after the Army buried the sarcophagus at sea. Calvin was the lone backhoe operator who had done the work. He was also the only one left who knew how to find the bunker. "When you called me, I thought I was dreamin. After all this time," Calvin said to Riordan. "Calvin, do you still know how to find bunker nineteen?" Riordan asked. Calvin folded his hands in his lap. "Well, as you can see, with no eyes and no legs, and my sugar the way it is, I'm in no shape to go anywhere. But I been doin some studying since you called, and I think I can lead you right to it. I just can't go with you. You better do it soon, though, I hear we got some snow comin." "Don't worry, I can't do it soon enough." Chapter 36 Army Institute of Pathology, Wash. D.C. March 6th, 2003, 2:00 P.M. Ann Reed of the Army Pathology Institute looked up from the corner of her office to see an aide motioning to her. She quickly ended her conversation with another epidemiologist and crossed the room. "What is it?" "There's a phone call I think you'll want to take. Dr. Jon Chang." Reed nodded. "This is Dr. Reed, "she said, picking up the phone. "Dr. Reed. I think you know who I am. I'll make this short. I need access to the sealed files from Ft. Miles defunct Pathology Unit." "I was hoping someone would call. We need to meet, Dr. Chang. I have some

information that could be a matter of national security." "Where do you have the records?" "In an Army biological containment facility. They're safe there." "Can you come to Delaware?' "I can be there tonight." "Okay. I'll be at the Hampton Inn on Route 1. You call me when you get into town." Reed hesitated, then pulled the receiver close to her mouth. "Dr. Chang. Be careful. I'm not sure you know what or who you're dealing with here." "You'd be surprised, Dr. Reed." Chapter 37 Lewes Beach March 6th, 2003, 2:30 P.M. Since reading the files Riordan shown him, Justin had elected to avoid the cottage, and instead went to a beach house Riordan had secured earlier. He now realized he was a reluctant pawn in a game of cat-and-mouse that could have only one ending. Driving back along the portion of the road that hugged the ocean, Justin suddenly noticed how quiet everything seemed outside. There was no activity at all. An arrow indicated an emergency detour route, that Justin didn't remember seeing yesterday. Everyone is gone. He'd heard the sound of the exiting traffic earlier, but now, seeing Lewes deserted like this put everything in a whole new perspective. One he didn't like. No one spoke as they made their way along the bayside road, though, Justin could guess they were all thinking the same thing. Justin still couldn't believe what he'd read. Singleton was selling this... this... whatever the hell it was, to the highest bidder. Singleton had been at the CDC for two decades before Justin arrived there. During that time he had been named to one post after another, until finally he'd been named director. How could he betray his country like that?

But someone had tipped Riordan off years before about Singleton. Singleton was just waiting for the right opportunity. He had known about the Pathology Unit at Ft. Miles from his former instructor-Billy Riordan. Riordan made the mistake of confiding in Singleton, now it had come back to haunt him. When the oil rig hit that sarcophagus on the floor of the Atlantic, it gave Singleton the chance he needed, and more importantly, he knew, Riordan would come. Laden with years of guilt, Billy Riordan was Singleton's ace in the hole. But Singleton hadn't counted on Riordan getting this far. He'd tried to have him killed as soon as he'd surfaced. Fortunately for Riordan, the wrong Colonel Riordan was assassinated. Realizing his mistake, now Singleton would be after the right Billy Riordan. Justin needed not only to protect Riordan, but also now to stay alive himself. He realized someone else in the administration had to be working with Singleton. He couldn't be in this alone. It was far too reaching. And although Justin doubted the President had anything to do with it, Singleton had probably convinced him that Colonel Riordan was the bad guy in all of this. Which meant that there were a whole lot of people looking for them. Maybe it was his imagination, but when they pulled into the gravel drive, Justin could have sworn someone was watching them from across the street. Just then, Justin Flannigan remembered something Singleton had told him. Chapter 38 Washington D.C. March 6, 2003 4:00 P.M. The United States Army Institute of Pathology lay amid high trees, its grounds encircled by an electrical fence. It was a place commuters drove past everyday and never noticed. Inside the elevator, Dr. Ann Reed stabbed the button marked BASEMENT, reached into a pocket of her rumpled lab coat and drew out a plastic badge marked with a series of vertical bars. When the elevator wheezed open to a fluorescent-lighted area filled with steel shelving and cardboard cartons, she stepped out and pressed the badge to a small rectangle on a control panel next to the elevator. A green light flashed and a set of doors opened in front of her. Reed stepped through and into another featureless white-walled hall where she walked to her right and came to another door. Red letters were emblazoned across the top: RESTRICTED AREA. Reaching for the badge again, she slipped it into a slot to her right. A faint hum and the door slid open. Once inside, Reed gazed around at the rows of grey metal filing cabinets, scanning her memory for the one she wanted. After she located it, she hurried to it and yanked open

the top drawer. Inside were dozens of classified documents, some of which the President himself wasn't aware. She flipped through them until her eyes fell on the one she wanted. Ft. Miles Pathology Report- Operation Greenfire. Reed extracted the folder and flipped through it. Unbelievable! After an eclipse in the late forties, Project Greenfire had regained priority in recent years. Before that, research had concentrated on the viruses and some bacterial agents. But when intelligence reports began to indicate renewed Soviet interest in plague research, Project Greenfire sprang back to life. No one expected, however, that an accidental discovery by an oil-drilling rig would bring it back to haunt the Army and place the whole world in jeopardy. She stared at the document, not wanting to think about the implications of this thing. But it wasn't going to go away. If she was right-and Chang had confirmed as much-this plague was about to fall into deadly hands. But maybe Chang could get the information in the right hands before it was too late. All it would take was one reader outside these walls. Then pandemonium would set in. But someone else would have to do it. The traitor was within her own organization. She was done. She slipped the file inside her coat, ready to leave. A knock came at the door and she jumped, turned. She looked at the clock: five. "Who is it?" "Maintenance." "Maintenance?" "What I said. I've got some stuff to move." Reed sighed. "Don't you have a pass?' "Yea, but you forgot to reset the code when you went in. The red light is on. How'd you think I new someone was in there?' Shit! In shock, Reed realized she had forgotten to reset the entrance code after she used her pass. Now she may have to explain her presence there to someone should maintenance say something or report her for not following protocol.

She walked over and unlocked the door and opened it. With the speed of cobra strike, Reed felt a powerful grip around her neck. She tried to scream but there was no air coming into her lungs. The folder slipped from her hands and she could feel herself being choked to death. After two minutes, her face colored blue with death, Reed slid from her assassin's grip and slumped to the floor. Chapter 39 House on Lewes Beach March 6th, 2003 4:30 P.M. Justin stood staring at Riordan. One moment he couldn't help be impressed with the old man's presence of mind and strength, the next Riordan had him wondering just how stable he really was. "So now what? Justin asked. "Now we get ready to get to the bunker. Don't kid yourself. They'll be here soon." Justin nodded. "How can you be so sure?" Melanie asked. "The whole town is deserted." Riordan had stepped forward. His face was just inches from hers now. "You can stay here if you want," he said. She shook her head. "I am not challenging you, Colonel Riordan. I am simply following a logical chain of analysis. Considering someone wanted to kill you to keep you from revealing it was a government cover-up, I'm inclined to entertain all kinds of wild scenarios here. What makes you certain this pathogen is the same one you dealt at Ft. Miles?" "Specifically?" Riordan's voice stiffened. "There's no other pathogen, assuming it is a pathogen in the first place, that kills in as many different ways as this. Just look at your latest victims. Respiratory failure, aneurysms, flesh necrosis, and that's the least of it. You tell me what other contaigon mutates that fast. Come on, now, Ms. Prescott. Think real hard."

"I see your point." "The point, Riordan said, "is that my information is genuine. And you could give a sample of this crap to any biologist on earth and they would run tests and tell you two things: one, it contains chemicals dissimilar to any we have on earth; and two, it is lethal to any carbon based life form." Justin leaned forward, studying Melanie's face. She seemed momentarily transfixed. "Well, I don't need any tests to convince me," he said. "I've seen what it can do." * * * *At that moment, inside the White House, a security officer was dialing John Singleton. Singleton answered on the first ring. "Yes?" "Dr. Singleton," the officer said, "I have that information you requested earlier. The call that Dr. Chang took early this morning. We have the trace." "Tell me." "Secret Service ops says the signal originated from California. Specifically from Cal Tech's astrophysics department." "What!" "They double checked it, sir. They're certain of the location." "Oh for Christ's sake!" Singleton slammed down the receiver without another word. Chapter 40 Lewes Beach March 6th, 2003 5 P.M. High above Lewes, Delaware, in an Army Cobra chopper, John Singleton motioned for the pilot to land. They sat down just beside the bay in an abandoned parking lot. Cutting the engines, the rotors slowed down and came to a stop and Jefferson stepped out. Singleton followed. He gazed around and toward the cottage he had rented for Justin

Flannigan. After searching the cottage, he came back through the gate. "They're gone," Singleton said. The sun was still low in the sky and the air was cold and cheerless. From where they stood Singleton could look up and down the street at the gray, weathered cottages; but what he noticed first was the silence. Except for a gentle wind that swept through the empty houses, it was deathly silent. Marine carcasses lay strewn everywhere on the beach, frozen in attitudes of surprise. And people. A young boy's body, stiff with rigor mortis lay next to a bicycle. A few feet away, the bloated corpse of an older woman was face down in the sand still clutching her purse. But there was no sound. Even the tide seemed to have stopped moving. Silence. The two men looked at each other. They were painfully aware of what they needed to do. A catastrophe was in the making, and they had to find the man who could help avert it. But they had no clue where he'd gone, and where he'd taken Singleton's field agents, Flannigan and Prescott. They did know two things of fact: First, Riordan was here, he had made contact with Singleton himself, unknowingly. And second, he was the only one left alive that knew where to find the means to contain the microbe. And if there was a third thing, it was that whatever it was, it could kill with astonishing rapidity. For a time, Singleton just stood in the street, while the pilot looked around for signs of life. But the town had been evacuated. Even the hospital had been moved to a location farther up the coast. Not that it would do any good, Singleton knew. The thing had no logistical plan. It just was there, everywhere now. And growing by the hour. "Let's go," Singleton said. "We have about twenty-four hours before it starts to mutate again." "Then what?" Jefferson asked. Singleton shook his head. "You don't want to know." Chapter 41

Jon Chang's quarter's March 7th, 2003 4:00 P.M. Twenty-four hours had passed and Jon Chang was growing increasingly concerned about Ann Reed. He had gone to the agreed upon meeting place and went to the front desk, only to be told that no Ann Reed had checked in. He then asked if anyone had checked in during the evening, and still the answer was no. In fact, he was told, with a growing pandemic looming, most people were checking out, not only of the hotel, but also out of town. To add to his concern, he'd also not been able to reach Justin Flannigan with whom he also had a meeting. Chang felt a growing anxiety that was well justified in his mind. His initial discovery and the events of the last twenty-four hours had rekindled his suspicion that the Army was hiding a terrible secret. Chang sat down and stared blankly at the clock radio that was playing. Sighing, he closed his eyes and felt the exhaustion roll over him in waves. When he'd come here, he was excited to be involved in solving the mystery of the unknown pathogen. At the moment, however, he felt like he'd had enough pathology for a lifetime--his unsettling phone call at four a.m., the unknown whereabouts of Ann Reed and Justin Flannigan, and to make matters worse, he felt a cold coming on... A newscaster on the radio was saying something about a car bomb and possible biological terrorism. I've got to get out of this town, Chang thought for the first time since arriving in Lewes. Chapter 42 Secure House on Lewes Beach March 7th, 2003 6:00 P.M. Inside the safe house, Justin felt like a mountaineer about to climb Mount Everest as he packed the gear Riordan had laid out. Justin gazed at Riordan. "Where'd you get all this stuff?" "Hardware store. Most of it, anyway. Some of it I grabbed from an Army Surplus store I

passed on the way here." Justin looked over the equipment: ropes, a small butane torch, gas masks, hammers, wrenches, and something Justin didn't recognize, some sort of small meter. "What's this?" Justin asked, picking up the antiquated looking device. "Riordan frowned. "Well, that... that's something I came up with years ago. It's a magnetic field sensor. This thing, it seems to give off an energy field of some sort when it reaches a certain stage. I just brought it just in case... it's changed." "Changed?" "Yes, changed. I told you, it changes. Often." Melanie Prescott finally spoke. "Are you saying we are coming face to face with some kind of space monster?" "Maybe if I finish my story I started the other day, it will all be clearer," Riordan said. Justin nodded. "Good idea," Beads of sweat began to form on Riordan, despite the fact it was thirty degrees. He was shaking as if a phantom had appeared before him. "You okay?" Justin asked. "Just give me a minute. My mind is in overdrive." "I'll get the kerosene heater going before we all freeze. I need to look at the map Calvin gave us, too." In a minute the small house began to warm and Riordan sat down on an old wicker chair. "We tried to dismantle it after Charlie died. We couldn't get inside of it. Finally someone, I don't remember exactly who, brought in an acetylene torch. I wish he hadn't." Justin sat next to Riordan on the floor. The old man was soaked with sweat. "Take you time, Colonel." He started his dialogue again. "As soon as we opened it, the room filled with an awful

odor. Like cyanide." "I smelled that same odor in the autopsy room with Chang," Justin said. "That oil worker, too." Riordan nodded. "The two men standing next to the thing, died instantly. I guess they inhaled a lethal dose. Everyone else seemed fine. For a time. Anyway, we put a protective cover over it and left it in the bunker. Next day, all the men were in sick bay with fever and a cough, and getting worse by the minute." Riordan continued for a good hour, explaining how the Army Pathology Institute examined the sphere and came to the same conclusion as everyone else. Nobody really knew what it was. Except it was lethal to the human species. "And the strange thing is, it doesn't just kill in one way. It seems to have an unlimited number of ways to kill. Not like your typical bacteria or virus that has a standard MO. We worked for a year trying to find a way to destroy it. We were close, but in our effort to kill it, we made it stronger. That's when we decided to just bury it. Cause we were certain of one thing. It wasn't from this world." "Justin looked at Riordan for a long minute. "Are you saying this thing is a plague from outer space?" "Something like that. We covered the sphere in concrete and dropped it into the ocean. We knew we could get away with that." Justin Flannigan had been struggling with his own disquieting ruminations about the unknown pathogen, but now with Riordan's latest revelations, he was feeling an added unease over the issue. He had scoffed over the idea of space bacteria when Chang had mentioned it. Suddenly, though, it seemed more credible. "What about the bunker, wasn't that contaminated?" Justin asked. "The workers started getting sick, so we quarantined them in there. And then-" Melanie Prescott suddenly looked ill. "Oh God, no." "We had no other choice," Riordan said. "If that thing got off the base it could have killed the entire population."

"So you... sealed them inside the bunker?" Justin asked. Riordan hung his head and nodded. "Yes, twenty of them. God forgive us..." "It's okay, Colonel, you really didn't have a choice," Justin said. Melanie's face had turned ashen and she was rocking back and forth. "Let me continue with a little more history," Riordan said. "President Truman's people wanted to weaponize it. They called it Project Greenfire. But we wouldn't hear of it. Truman appointed a committee to look into it. So we pretended to be containing it. The thing of it is, Dr. Flannigan, they were close to finding a way to kill it. At least they thought they were. The last radio contact we had with them in the bunker, they had found a way. " "Well, how did Singleton get involved? He was just a kid back then." "Oh yes, he got involved much later. By the sixties, all this was buried and forgotten, except by me, of course. Keeping the secret was considered of such consequence by the Army that a security apparatus was set up. Anyone who became too inquisitive or knowledgeable was eliminated. But between all that, we heard the Russians got wind of it and were pursuing the same line of research. Finally after agreeing it was too dangerous everyone decided to end the research and get back to making thermonuclear bombs. Much less dangerous." "That still doesn't explain Singleton's role." "He was a student of mine when I taught at the Army Pathology Department. I made the mistake of sharing the secret with him. He became so enamored with the idea; he pressed me constantly for the location of Ground Zero. Eventually, he threatened to go to Kennedy at the height of the Cold War to try to get him to start research back up. That's when I went into hiding. And been there ever since." Justin stood up. "Then there's only one thing to do. We have to find those records. See what they were doing. Destroy this thing once and for all." "Our job here is to diagnose this virus," Melanie said, "and find a way to eradicate it before it-" Riordan laughed. "Diagnose? You can't diagnose it. Cause it's unlike anything humankind has ever seen. Don't you get it? I'm your only hope. Period. That's why I'm

here. I knew it was just a matter of time. And so did your man, Singleton. It will continue to mutate until it becomes airborne. Then everyone is doomed. We gotta go in that bunker. Like it or not." "We can't do that," Melanie said. "It's too dangerous. What if it gets out?" "Melanie," Justin said. "It is out." Chapter 43 Jon Chang's quarters March 8th, 2003 10:00 A.M. Jon Chang awoke that morning feeling sick. Really sick. A fit of morning coughing was soon followed by a multitude of body aches. He threw down two Tylenol, then two more, followed by a decongestant and some cough syrup. Chang had stayed behind with a skeleton crew of twenty-five when Atlantic Medical Center was ordered to transfer all their patients to outlying hospitals and keep only essential emergency personnel in Lewes. On his way to the hospital, his chest was racked with spasms, so bad, that he felt as though he'd been put into some sort of medieval torture device. He stopped in the coffee shop and slumped into a booth in the corner, not wanting any company. Soon though, the head of Hospital Security joined him. "Man you look like shit, doc. Sorry, but are you okay." "If I look half as bad as I feel, it's worse than shit." "Maybe I shouldn't sit so close," the guard said. I mean with this thing going around." Chang frowned. "Relax, it's just a cold. I'm not used to this weather. I'm from California, remember?" The Security guard left and took up his post at the front door. Chang dragged his hand across his skull. His head felt like it was coming off. He couldn't remember a worse headache. As his hand reached the side of his neck, his eyes widened with concern. Jesus! His neck was studded with lumps.

He explored the swollen glands along the angle of his jaw and behind his neck. They were the size of quarters. Fucking virus. Sliding out from the booth, he decided to go home and go back to bed. But first he wanted to get a message to Justin Flannigan. He'd tried to reach him earlier on his cell, but couldn't get service. On his way out, he stopped at the security guard. "Could you do me a favor?" he asked. The guard nodded. "Sure." "If you see Dr. Flannigan, tell him to call me right away. Here," he said handing him a napkin with his number. Trudging toward the exit, he bumped into one of the lab techs. "Knocking off early, aren't we?" she asked him. "I never started. Got this rotten cold." "You need anything, you don't look-" "Yea, I know, I look like shit... and yea, you can draw my blood for me before I go. See what bug I got. Maybe I can prescribe myself some antibiotics." Chang sat in a chair and felt wobbly. The tech took out a lavender stopper tube for a CBC and put a tourniquet on Chang. A second later the bright blood filled the tube. She gave it a quick look, then slipped it in her lab coat. "I'll run it myself in a few minutes and give you a call." Twenty minutes later, walking up to the hotel where the CDC had housed him, Chang felt as though each step was an exercise in futility. His legs were leaden and his chest pain was becoming unbearable. When he finally got inside, he collapsed on the sofa. Sweat poured from him and his breathing had suddenly become labored. A minute later, a green florescent projectile of froth shot from Chang's mouth. He struggled to cry out, but he couldn't. In the last vestige of his awareness, his heart pounded, and his mind shrieked. And then his world went black in a sickening vortex of mortal fear. * * *

*The technician took the tube she had taken from Jon Chang and slipped into a room off the main lab that held the autoanalyzer. She uncapped the tube and ran a sample of Chang's blood through the machine. In seconds the results were processed and she yanked the paper out and gazed at the results. The white cell count was astronomical! Could it be something other than a virus? Cautiously, the technician made a smear of blood on a glass slide. When it was dry she stained it and rinsed it clean. Placing the slide under the microscope, she adjusted the eyepiece and peered in. She jerked her head up and her heart was pounding. Thousands of tiny florescent organisms were racing through his bloodstream. And growing by the second. * * * *Two hours later, after frantic phone calls trying to reach John Chang, unsuccessfully, she emerged from the basement lab and trudged up the stairs to the main lobby. Reaching the main foyer, she heard a shuffling of feet behind her and she wheeled around. The security guard staggered toward her, his eyes bulging, skin bubbling like something from a George Romero film, then tottered a few more steps before collapsing face first in front of her. Terrified, the tech bolted for the administrative office down the hall. Halfway there, she stopped dead in her tracks. The hall was littered with bodies, all with the same sloughing flesh and green slime oozing from every orifice. She called out, then ran down the adjacent hall. But it was the same at each turn. Everyone was dead! Chapter 44 The White House March 8th, 2003 4:00 P.M. The President went rigid watching the footage on TV. He stared at the screen without batting an eyelash. For some unexplained reason, the President had insisted that the Director of Army Pathology, Dr. Henry Snow be present to see the newscast.

A deathlike hush fell over the Oval office. No one stirred, or even breathed. They were all thunderstruck. "Jesus Christ," snarled the President as he rose from the couch and went back to his desk. His eyes stared around the room at the expressionless faces. "Don't everybody talk at once. Usually you guys can't shut up." "Mr. President, if I may," the Chief of Staff, Charles Gott, finally said. "Sure, Charlie, go ahead." "Mr. President, we never anticipated this situation. It is unprecedented, and I don't think anyone really knows what's the best course of action to take. But based on these latest reports, I think we should tackle the scientific end of it first. The politics can wait." The President pulled off his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose. "Have we heard from Singleton yet?" "Yes, he's just gotten back to Delaware. Ground zero is totally deserted." "Are there any more dead?" "Yes. A few hundred around Lewes." "And Riordan?" "Presumably, still there with Flannigan and Prescott." "All right, now. I've invited Dr. Snow here to explain this in more concrete terms, so we can all understand what it is this thing does and how it evolved." For the next fifteen minutes Snow methodically explained the background on a topsecret project, involving an unknown astrobiological substance that had been discovered off the coast of Delaware in 1941 after a meteor landed. Experiments with the substance had proved lethal to several scientists and engineers working with it, as well as a small group of fisherman who'd come in contact with it while their boat was moored near Ft. Miles. Acting under President Truman, the Army had decided to weaponize the substance but found it too unstable and unpredictable to work with. A specially designed sarcophagus had been constructed to contain the meteor after which time it had been sunk into the

Atlantic Ocean to a depth of one thousand feet. Enough the Army felt at the time, to preclude any chance of it being discovered. The remaining personnel who had been working on it had to be quarantined in the bunker where they'd worked pending an antidote. Eventually, the twenty-four men in the bunker died from the substance, at which time it was also sealed. No further traces of the substance were found after extensive testing, so the Army considered the matter closed. "Until the oil rig had to go hit it," Gott said. "Well, we've known about the story for years," Snow said. "We just didn't think we'd have to deal with it." "You mean you could have retrieved the thing and you didn't?" Gott asked. "We really didn't have the technology until the recent advent of the mini sub. But like everything else, it wasn't a priority." "Well it sure as hell is now," the President said. Snow nodded. "Yes it is. If we're not too late. "We're not too late, Dr. Snow. As soon as that area is clear, we're going to nuke that whole damn place." "I'm not sure that's the best solution. That organism, or... whatever you want to call it, is from somewhere else. Radiation may feed it. You're assuming it's going to react the way the human species does. Suppose it doesn't?" Gott stood up. "Then we're fucked." The President leaned back and locked his hands behind his neck. Could they stop the thing? How long would it take, and more importantly, how long should he wait before implementing Directive-23. The fate of millions of people rested on his shoulders. The President had his nuts in a vise and knew it. Unfortunately, someone else's fingers were on the handle. Chapter 45 Ft. Miles, Delaware March 9th, 2003 9:00 A.M.

They were standing at the threshold of a vast, dim chasm. At least that was Justin's first impression. The air was far colder here, and the musty smell more pronounced. Every sound echoed dully in the vast space. As his eyes adjusted to the low light, he realized he was on a narrow accessway. As they walked, his feet clattered against the metal drainage grids that were set every twenty feet or so. "Is this the place?" Justin asked. "No, it's an old bunker," Riordan said. "But not five-nineteen. We'll be safe here, though." The minute Riordan had heard the staccato sounds of the helicopter blades; he'd grabbed his belongings and convinced Melanie and Justin to follow him. After a short drive up the beach, he had led them to an old Army fortification bunker on the grounds of the former Fort Miles site. "This must be the bunkers I saw the other day up here," Justin said. "No. What you saw was left there for the public's amusement. Ft. Miles is five thousand acres. And most of the main operations were in the back two-thirds of the base, hidden underground. We're close, but we have to go through a series of tunnels, bunker to bunker. Like I said, we'll be safe here for the time being." "Don't you think you're being a little paranoid?" Melanie asked. Riordan bore down on her. "Look missy, that Army helicopter didn't just show up for no reason. They know I've made contact with you. That makes you subject to the same fate as me." Justin gazed over at Riordan. "But you said they need you." "They do, to a point. When they find out what they want, they'll kill me. And you, too." "But that would make Singleton involved," Melanie said. "He is. Maybe not because he wants to, but the fact still remains." "Would our own government really kill us?" Justin asked. Riordan exhaled silently. "For the next twenty-four hours, this is a game of cat-andmouse. And, unfortunately, we're the mice."

Chapter 46 Ft. Miles Delaware March 9th 2003 10:00 A.M. John Singleton's primary mode of transportation had become the Army helicopter he'd been in and out of fifty times in the last three days. He was tired of it and in fact he didn't even like flying in them. However, given the circumstances of the mass evacuation of the local area, and the traffic nightmare it had created: stalled cars, cars with dead bodies inside whose occupants had not made it to the hospital in time, and a general cluster-fuck from Lewes all the way to the Bay Bridge, the chopper had proven to be a God send. He could search for Riordan from the air, which was the only feasible way to do it since a thick forest of white pine and oak covered much of Ft. Miles. The pilot sat down next to a grove of pine trees and cut the engines off, then gave the all clear signal to Singleton and Jefferson. Singleton stepped down and gazed over at Jefferson. "We can set up a listening post right here," Singleton said. "He doesn't know he's being tracked." Chapter 47 Ft. Miles, Delaware March 9th, 2003 11:00 A.M. Something was still bothering Justin Flannigan as he sat in the bunker with Riordan and Melanie. When Singleton had first contacted him, he'd asked if he believed in UFO's and government conspiracies. How did he know? He acted as if the whole thing were made up by the media, while the whole time he knew the truth. Justin felt like a terrific fool. But Singleton hadn't counted on Riordan. Apparently the Army Colonial who was assassinated in California earlier in the week was the wrong guy. The real target was Riordan, but he'd been hiding for years in New England. The assassins had tracked a Colonial Riordan all right, but being overzealous as most government thugs are, they'd failed to confirm his identity. The Billy Riordan sitting next to Justin had what they wanted. And as old and crusty as he was, Justin

believed in him. It was hard not to. He might be the only thing to keep them alive. "Tell me, Colonial," Justin said. "If those bodies and all the data we need are buried beneath two tons of sand, how are we going to get to them?" "I been thinkin on that. Remember I said this base is inundated with tunnels. Miles of them. Well, bunker five-nineteen, that's where the thing is... lies in the center of all of them. They supposedly sealed all of them when we buried the bunker. But I know that one was left unsealed, just in case." "How do we get to it?" "We're in it. At least the upper end of it. We just have to go through another section. It won't be easy. It's probably half-collapsed by now. But it's the only way to get in. Unless of course you've got a bulldozer to uncover it." Riordan grinned. "Well what are we doing sitting here freezing?" Melanie chimed in. Riordan jerked a green duffle bag he'd brought with him to the front of them. He patted it with his hand. "First we gotta get these on," he said, opening the bag and taking out three gas masks. "Hard to tell what's in the air down here. The closer we get to five-nineteen the more dangerous it is. That thing may not be airborne out here yet, but the mutation of it in the bunker will kill you in seconds." They put the masks on and stood up. Riordan handed each of them a small headset that fit over the masks. A musty smell permeated the inside of it and Justin was sure the masks hadn't seen any use in years. Riordan gave the thumbs up signal and led them to a steel door. A huge rusted pin held it closed and Riordan took a hammer from his bag and knocked the pin loose. Justin stepped up and gave him a hand and together they struggled against the rusted hulk until they forced it open. It gave way with a loud with a metallic scrape against the concrete floor. Riordan bent over and caught his breath, then gave Justin the okay sign and they started down a long dark tunnel. God only knew where this thing would lead.

Chapter 48 Ft. Miles March 9th, 2003 3:45 P.M. Microbes or not, Justin thought, the evidence is piling up. As Justin walked, he was deeply troubled by Riordan's latest revelation about the unknown pathogen. His hypothesis though staggeringly simple, had got Justin thinking in new ways about the substance. If it could mutate that fast... what other possibilities does that present. Justin glanced over. For an instant in the pale beam of the flashlight, he saw a softness in Melanie's eyes, through the plastic mask. It reminded him of their better days together. Shaking off the memories, he keyed his headset. "I was just thinking-" "Let me guess. Meteorites." "What else?" "Well, don't get too carried away yet, Justin. This never before seen space-germ, could be nothing more than a garden variety terrestrial virus." Justin turned off his headset. She's as cynical as ever. Chapter 49 Whiteman Air Force Base, Missouri March 9th, 2003 4:00 P. Inside one of two specially equipped B-2 Stealth bombers, a pilot went through a last minute checklist. It was a first for the full bird Colonial, a Gulf veteran with hundreds of hours flying the Air force's première bomber. Despite all of this, he'd never carried nuclear weapons on his plane before. And even if he had, he doubted his target would have been domestic. He was aware of Directive 23; he just never imagined it would be carried out. Especially with him in the cockpit. Book Three

Discovery Chapter 50 Ft. Miles, Delaware March 9th, 2003 5:00 P.M. Singleton chewed a bite of his cold sandwich, staring at the phone beside him. The small table was overcrowded with the most sophisticated surveillance equipment ever utilized by the NSA and CIA, but it was the phone connected directly to the White House that had Singleton's undivided attention. Roger Jefferson, the special-ops officer assigned to work with Singleton sat on a footstool, his attention directed on a global positioning grid he held in his hand. "I think I've located the bunker," Jefferson said. The thick veins in his neck bulged as he looked at Singleton. Singleton nodded, rising from the folding chair located in the middle of the abandoned shack where they'd set up a makeshift headquarters at the edge of the woods. It was the best place to see anyone coming in or out of the area. "What are the odds of them getting to it first?" Singleton asked. "Doesn't matter. They can't get out without us knowing it." "Not necessarily," Singleton said, facing the back of the agent, whose eyes were once again focused on the GPO grid-screen. "Riordan knows this place like the back of his hand. He helped design it. It was all very secretive. And he knew most of the secrets." Jefferson sighed, shaking his head slowly. I guess it's all moot now anyway. When are you calling the President?" "As soon as we find Riordan." Jefferson worked his jaw a little. "He's predictable." Singleton nodded, but said nothing. He began to pace in front of the table. "Let's go before it gets any later," he said. "That storm is moving in quickly."

The storm, he knew, was the least of their worries. Chapter 51 Ft. Miles, Delaware March 9th, 2003 6:00 P.M. When the storm finally exploded, unleashing its full force on the Mid-Atlantic, the bunker tunnel howled as if it were alive. Melanie Prescott followed Justin Flannigan and Colonial Riordan as they made their way down the length of the first passage. She wished she were getting the hell out of here tonight, but that was not to be. She would have to wait on Singleton to find them. The tracking device she wore was supposed to make that easy, but under all this concrete, it might be more difficult. Prescott's thoughts turned yet again to Justin. He seemed suspicious of her. Relax, Prescott told herself. Everything is under control. She breathed deeply under the military-style gas mask, reminding herself that everyone involved in Project Greenfire had the interest of their nation at heart. Justin would be surprised to know she'd been recruited by Singleton years before to study the effects of astrobiological bacteria. Ever since the Mars-Rocks hit the earth in ninety-four during a meteor shower, she'd been involved in the study of such objects for the CDC. Most people weren't even aware that the CDC had such a division, but Project Greenfire had been on the records for sixty years. Even the lead scientists, including Riordan didn't know it existed. In 1947, fueled by the military's denial that something had hit the ocean, reporters launched their own investigations, and the covert status of Project Greenfire came into serious jeopardy. Just as it seemed the truth was about to be revealed, something wonderful happened. People started getting sick. The public drew an unexpected conclusion. They decided the unknown pathogen was something the GI's had brought back from Europe after WWII, much like the 1918 flu epidemic. Although baffled by this new hypothesis, the army was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. They grabbed the flu story and ran with it; the world's suspicion that flu was coming from Europe was much less a threat to national security than the Russians getting wind of Project Greenfire. To fuel the flu story, the intelligence community shrouded the meteor incident in secrecy and began orchestrating "security leaks"-quiet murmurings of another flu pandemic

about to sweep the globe. It's 1918 all over again! The world bought the story and to this day, every time there's a small flu outbreak, the CDC revs up the spin machine. And although its origins were officially filed away and forgotten, when the oil drill had hit the sarcophagus containing the material, it had effectively made the project top priority. Not only was it of great scientific importance, it was a political nightmare should it get out that the Army covered up a potential threat to the entire planet. But everything has changed now! Prescott thought. In a few hours, the world would know the truth. Just the way she and Singleton wanted them to. Chapter 52 White House Situation Room, Washington, D.C March 10th, 2003 10: 00 A.M. The security message from NSA had been slipped under Jim Lang's nose with shocking effect, but Lang-his bifocals resting on the top of his head-leaned back in the overstuffed leather chair and nodded with a practiced air of condescension at the Situation Room staffer who had brought it. Lang slapped his glasses down on his nose the minute the staffer exited the room. His mind began racing through all the possibilities and complications of the proposed directive. The last communication with the field agents had indicated that everyone at Ground Zero was either dead or presumed dead if they had not evacuated. The Army had gone door to door in the small town and found no sign of life. Singleton had reported the same. That meant the virus had gone through its first mutation and there was less than twenty-four hours to find Riordan. If not, it would leave them little choice but to act on Directive 23. Yet, according to Singleton two satellite telephone calls were made from Lewes, within the last hour. The calls had been terminated in mid conversation. Singleton had told Lang he felt certain Riordan was still in the area and about to lead them to the biological

nightmare they'd tried to hide for so long. Lang exhaled sharply. Everything was at stake. The Army had lied to the public for decades. Now they were about to be exposed. At the same time, this thing posed a very real threat to civilization and their carefully hatched plan to harness it. Lang got to his feet. Finding Riordan would be easy. Convincing the President to unleash the Air Force with lethal intent against a civilian target would be another matter altogether. * * * *The President of the United States leaned on the communications console with folded arms and tried to focus on the fact that the unknown contagion supposedly undergoing a lethal mutation in the tiny state of Delaware was in fact now threatening the entire eastern seaboard. A rapidly decelerating string of events was lashing out across the Delmarva Peninsula, including a looming blizzard, and a collection of high-ranking Generals was milling about the situation room to fill him in on the latest. "Mr. President," General Tillman began, "there's a B-2 leaving Whiteman in one hour. They need to arm the weapon if we're going to use it. They're waiting for a go-ahead from you." The President raised his hand to stop Tillman. "You mean to tell me they have to arm this bomb already. I thought we had twenty-four hours?" "We do sir, but-" "Did you ever consider, General, that maybe Singleton may find Colonial Riordan in time. Or did that not occur to you?" "Sir, you know the details from earlier. The chances of finding him in time are slim. Riordan may be old but he's very shrewd." "Maybe shrewd enough to stop it himself. After all, he almost did once. And if everyone had listened to him at the time, we wouldn't be having this conversation now. Right?" Tillman looked startled. "I... I'm sorry sir, I can tell them to stand down for the moment." "You do that, General."

Tillman pursed his lips and looked the President in the eye. "Very well sir, but remember, we're dealing with a Level Four pathogen here that kills rapidly. If we gamble on Riordan, it could be a world pandemic of historic proportions... or worse." The President studied Tillman's face for several seconds. "What, precisely, are you suggesting, then, General Tillman. Tillman looked down at his shoes briefly, then at a fellow General who'd stood quiet across the table. "Sir, if Singleton fails to find Riordan in the next twelve hours, I think we should consider an even wider approach. This thing could be spreading as we speak." The President stepped away from the console, his mouth open. "You mean use a larger nuke?" Tillman nodded, then began shaking his head. "Not just one, Mr. President. Given the very real biological threat this poses, and the fact that it is not from our planet, we may actually have to use several." Chapter 53 Ft. Miles, Delaware March 10th, 2003 10:30 A.M. Inside the concrete bunker-tunnel, Justin Flannigan had just awoke and felt as if he were moving through a dream sequence. No one would have believed that in the middle of World War II, that the planet had been bombarded by something more deadly than any mortal blow a rival military power could deliver. Justin let his mind wander silently. As he pondered the likely source of the "invaders", he was reminded of the recent announcement by NASA that a team of scientists had found evidence for primitive fossil life on Mars. The article went on to mention a sequence of unusual events at the Norman Lockyer Observatory, Sydmouth, in 1941, where the Observatory's water supply was contaminated by a very high concentration of bacteria, inconsistent with any known strain. The invading organisms disappeared in the ensuing winter, only to reappear during the summer of 1942 indicative of a spore-forming microorganism. In an attempt to explain the appearance of the organism, all the available data regarding meteor storm activity and planetary configurations were studied. The article went on to say that with one doubtful exception, the presence of the bacterium in the water supply coincided

closely in date with a major meteor shower at each instance of contamination. Although highly speculative, Justin could presume this was what had occurred at Ft. Miles in 1941 only on a much larger scale and with a single large meteor. Yet the Army chose to hide it within the concrete walls where they now crept. Riordan stopped suddenly and his light cast a beam toward a rectangle on the wall. "That's it," he said, the tinney voice coming through the headset. "That's the opening." "How do we access it?" Justin asked. Riordan walked over to it and widened the beam of his flashlight. He pulled a knife from his pocket and began to scrape at the edge of the metal opening. "We're going to have to use some plastic explosive to loosen it," he said. "Won't that risk spreading anything that might be in there? Melanie asked. "No. It's far enough away from ground zero. Besides, I'm only going to use a little." Riordan pulled a small box from his pack and took out some plastic explosive. Justin held the light while he pressed the sticky plastic into the grooves of the opening. After jamming a fuse into the center of it, Melanie and Justin retreated back twenty feet while Riordan lit the fuse. He clambered across the tunnel and ducked down beside them. A second later, the explosive blew with a deafening blast. Small as it was, Justin's ears were ringing as if someone had blasted him from a cannon. When Riordan shined his light up, Justin could see the metal plate covering the opening was now loose, hanging off to one side by a rusty hinge four or five inches wide. Riordan looked over at Justin. "Bingo. The Army made this place secure, but they forgot about one thing. Salt water seeps in here and corrodes everything. Especially metal. That's why I knew we could get in. Otherwise you'd have to have acetylene torch to cut through." Riordan never failed to amaze Justin with his resourcefulness. He seemed to have the answer to everything so far. Justin hoped that would carry over to what they were about to face in Bunker 519. Although he had no idea what that would be.

Chapter 54 Ft. Miles, Delaware March 10th 2003 1:00 P.M. Singleton stared out at the horizon and raked his hand across his skull. He had just received word that everyone had been evacuated as ordered. He now had twenty- three hours to find Riordan before detonation would take place. They really were going to fucking do it. Directive 23 would make most of the eastern shore uninhabitable for years. But would it kill the thing? So it had come down to this. It was in effect, cutting off one's nose to spite their face. But the over-zealous generals had apparently convinced the President it was the only course of action if he failed to find Riordan. The whole idea of space bacteria seemed almost ludicrous to Singleton now. It was ironic that his whole team so set on recovering the material and trying to redesign it had ignored the evidence of their own experience-that the bacteria mutate rapidly and radically-and the evidence was a matter of military record. The reasons were still unclear, but space-affected bacteria behave in unknown and unpredictable ways. And yet no one at the CDC or Army Pathology paid any attention to this fact, until it was too late. Chapter 55 Ft. Miles, Delaware March 10th, 2003 4:00 P.M. Justin felt like he was moving through a nightmare as they entered Bunker 519. Riordan paused in front of him and turned on the spotlight he carried. The long corridor in front of them suddenly came to life. Justin could see giant spider webs with bugs hanging in them. A couple of rats ran by Melanie's feet and Justin saw her eyes bulge through he mask. He could hear the wind howling above him like a giant turbine on a jumbo jet. He imagined snow blowing up in drifts outside by now. They moved past several cubicles to a series of long corridors.

Justin keyed my hand held mike. "How much further?" he asked Riordan. "Just ahead," he replied. When they entered the crypt-like structure, Justin knew they were in the main bay of Bunker 519. The stench of decay long forgotten, asserted itself, even with the contamination masks on. To his surprise, they proceeded down another dark, narrow shaft of concrete about fifty-feet-long that led to another set of rusted steel doors. "This is it," Justin heard through his head set. Riordan gave the door a hard kick and it flew open and one of the hinges dropped off. Justin stepped behind Riordan and through the doors. Justin Flannigan was an epidemiologist, and a very experienced one. He'd camped in the jungles of Equatorial Africa, pulled six-foot parasitic worms from children's feet, and had seen men and women bleed profusely from every orifice the human body possesses. But nothing could have prepared him for the scene before them! No overused comparison from a sci-fi or horror novel could even come close to describing it. It was viscerally terrifying. The nearest he could think of was that they had accidentally gone under a cemetery. Everything was still there. The cables now cobwebbed and oxidized, still snaked in all directions across the dirty concrete floor. Phones sat on several desks next to counters of laboratory glassware that had sat dormant for more than sixty years. And the men were still there! Sixteen men, their bodies reduced to skeletons sat around the tables and counters in various positions. Their uniforms were remarkably intact and had somehow held their bones together so they appeared to be in conversation. Justin felt a chill go through him, and his hair went static. Melanie came up beside him and took his arm. "My God, Justin. Look at this," he heard through his headset. Then Riordan's voice. "These were my friends." Several vials marked: Toxin, sat on the table next to a rack of dusty test tubes.

"Those are the original vials of the substance," Riordan said. Justin noticed they gave off the same irradiant-green glow as the other material they'd seen. It meant what ever was in those vials was still very much alive. A second later, Riordan sat down on one of the small metal chairs next to the table. Soon, he found what he was looking for. A small logbook covered in dust. He brushed it off, then opened it. Justin walked over and stood next to him and looked down. A chemical formula was jotted down on the first page. Underneath it in bold letters read: ANTIDOTE FOR UNKNOWN BACTERIAL AGENT. It took Justin an instant to realize what had just happened. They'd found the cure. Chapter 56 Ft. Miles, Delaware March 10th, 2003 4:30 P.M. Singleton felt the beeper vibrate on his belt and he yanked it off and he gazed down at it. The message was from Melaine Prescott. They'd found it! He wheeled around and shook Roger Jefferson's shoulder. "Wake up, they found it." Jefferson came full awake and stood up. "Are you sure?" "She wouldn't page me otherwise. And I've got the location right here," Singleton said, pointing to the coordinates on the small GPX pager screen. * * * *Jefferson gazed down at the small device and smiled. Technology. Ain't it grand? He turned to Singleton and saw the look of surprise take him over. "What are you doi-" Jefferson shot Singleton twice in the head and watched him crumple to the floor. Couldn't let you do it. You could've killed everyone with your insane plans.

Jefferson took the GPX pager and clambered over Singleton's body. He knew he'd have to hurry; there was less than three hours to find Riordan and Flannigan and warn them about Melanie Prescott. Chapter 57 Bunker 519 March 10th, 2003 5:00 P.M. Justin sat on the small, metal chair next to Riordan and gazed down at the notebook. The first entry was a narrative written by Colonel John Burton, an epidemiologist, and someone Riordan had mentioned as his lead scientist. What Justin read sent a chill through him. The organism attacks through the lungs and then enters the bloodstream where it localizes in the arterial walls and veins, particularly, those of the brain. Once damaged, massive breakdown of cell walls occur, followed by profuse bleeding at a fantastic rate. It also seems they multiply in the lymphatic system, so that millions of the organisms overwhelm every system. Riordan flipped a few more pages, where some equations had been scribbled in, then stopped suddenly. Justin wiped the fog from the glass panel of his mask and gazed back at the book: The temperature dropped considerably today afterour generator quit, and something amazing happened. The alien substance took on an unusual color, then completely evaporated. It can be deduced by this stroke of luck that COLD kills it!!! EXPOSURE TO TEMPERATURES BELOW THIRTY FIVE DEGREES COMPLETLY AND THROUGHLY DESTROYS IT!! Riordan tossed the book on the table and pulled off his mask. "No need for this anymore. If we'd only waited another two days back then, we would have known." Justin took off his mask, and dropped it to the concrete. "I hope he was right, Colonial Riordan." Riordan narrowed his eyes at Justin. "Ole Charlie was right all along. I can't believe a

friggin ice cube can kill this shit." "How could it survive in space if the cold here can kill it? "That ball it traveled here on. The environment inside it must have protected it. But outside, the thing is defenseless against the cold. Still it lives long enough to infect you if you get near it." Justin turned around behind him, then looked back at Riordan. He stood gazing intently at him. Justin knew they were both thinking the same thing. Where the hell was Melanie Prescott? And where were the three vials? Chapter 58 White House, Wash. D.C. March 10th, 5:30 P.M. On the lower level of the east Wing of the White House, one of three switchboard operators was in a full sprint toward the Briefing Room with a cordless phone in her hand. She'd tried to patch the call through to the Oval Office, but the President was already in a meeting with The Joint Chiefs of Staff. She was met at the Briefing Room by a knot of staff members who stepped aside as she pushed her way through to the President who stood in the middle of the room. Clutching the phone she shoved her way through. "Excuse me... coming through. Call for the President A senior staff member blocked her way, but President Tower noticed and stepped between them. "Sir, I have an emergency phone call from Roger Jefferson. He's calling from a radiophone. He needs to talk to you right away." Tower looked down at the operator. "Thank you, I'll take it from here." The operator looked askance at the staff member and pushed her way out of the room. The President moved over to a corner of the room and started talking to Roger Jefferson. After listening for a minute, he heaved a sigh. "Are you telling me Singleton was

involved in some sort of plan to contain this shit and sell it to the highest bidder?" "Yes sir, I'm afraid so." "Why didn't you tell me about this sooner?" "I had to be sure, sir. Singleton is dead now. He's no longer a threat." "Yea, if he's dead I guess he isn't. Where's that leave us with Riordan?" "We've located him, sir. I have troops moving in there now to assist him any way we can. What about the nukes, sir?" "They're on stand down for now, but if we have to act, I'll get you out of there." "Sir there is one other thing." "I'm listening." "The Prescott woman. The doctor. She was mixed up in this with Singleton. What should I do with her?" "Whatever you need to. She's a threat to national security until this thing is contained." "I understand, sir." The President hung up the phone and wondered who else in this whole mess couldn't be trusted. He still couldn't believe it. Singleton had had his own agenda. Chapter 59 Bunker 519 March 10th, 2003 5:35 P.M. Melanie Prescott ripped the protective mask from her face and flung it down the corridor in front of her. Unable to get a cell phone signal in the concrete bunker, she trudged ahead through the dark using the small light from her phone to guide her through the maze of tunnels. Singleton would be waiting for her, she knew, so all she needed to do was to find her way back to the entrance and wait for him. In the dim, shifting light, Melanie Prescott felt as if she were enduring some sort of hallucinogenic drug trip. The

ponderous tunnel rose on all sides like a deepening canyon. With her heart pounding, she pulled her cell phone closer and tried Singleton's number again. This time his voice mail answered. Afraid to leave a message, she slapped the phone closed and illuminated its tiny light and moved forward. Disquieting images swirled through her mind-Justin, the vials of whatever, and the implications when the public found out about Project Greenfire. Prescott could have cared less about Project Greenfire. It in fact, was just a cover for her real work. Twenty years earlier, Melanie had been a Russian exchange student assigned to study biological agents for a Soviet bio-warfare research center. Soon after, the KGB recruited her to infiltrate the CDC. For decades Russia had been searching for ways of killing great numbers of humans at one time without atomic weaponry. Viral and bacterial agents were the perfect medium. Their own Army could be inoculated, but the agents would be devastating to the enemy. When the Soviets got wind of this astrobiological agent back in the early fifties, it was such a closely guarded secret that getting an agent inside was impossible. After the Army Pathological Institute turned it over to the CDC in the eighties, it was just a matter of finding a young biologist to infiltrate their agency. Melanie Prescott was the perfect agent. The only regret she had over the whole thing was that she had loved Justin Flannigan, but she couldn't let her personal feelings get in the way of her country's future. So she'd just used the excuse that she was engaged. Justin was left brokenhearted. Too bad. Her thoughts interrupted by a new sound, Prescott stopped suddenly and listened. Between the fits of howling wind, she heard something? Faint at first but getting closer. A helicopter! Singleton was coming for her. He'd received her position on the tracking device and now was on his way. That's why she'd been unable to reach him. The chopper's radio frequency interfered with his phone's receiver. But every time she'd tried to reach him, his tracking device could pinpoint her location to within twenty feet. She picked up her pace, pushing away years of spider webs and debris on all sides of her. In her fear, Prescott had completely forgotten about the set of flares tucked safely inside her parka. Reaching down, she fumbled for them and finally yanked one out. Using a small lighter attached to her zipper, she lit it. Suddenly, the tunnel illuminated, and Prescott realized to her horror that she had walked right into a dead end. And she also realized she no longer heard the staccato sounds of the helicopter blades. Cursing to herself, she turned around to go back in the opposite direction.

That's when she heard his voice. "You can stop right there," Roger Jefferson said. Chapter 60 Bunker 519 March 10th, 2003 6:00 P.M. Sitting in the bunker, Riordan knew time was running out. It was clear to him that Melanie Prescott was involved in this scheme by Singleton to harness this killer and do God knows what with it. He had suspected the girl from the beginning, but had said nothing, because the truth was, up until now, he didn't even trust Justin. He turned to the young doctor. "She won't get away with it. Whoever she is, the truth will be told." Justin looked down at the floor. "I'm sorry, I didn't have any idea." "I know you didn't. But I don't care about that right now. I just want to get out of here. I need to get in touch with Washington. Obviously Singleton has been lying to them all along." Justin narrowed his eyes. "We need to end this thing now." Chapter 61 Bunker 519 March 10th, 2003 6:15 P.M. "Who the hell are you?" Melanie Prescott asked. Jefferson walked forward. "Better question is who are you? Oh, wait a minute; you're... Eva Yaksonovik. Sorry, I know all about you. CIA and all. But to answer your question more straight-forward. I'm your escort." "Where's Dr. Singleton?" Prescott asked. "He's dead. And so are you if you don't move. Now let's go."

"Don't order me around. I don't work for you. I'm here on authority of the CDC." "Yea, and I'm here on order of the President." "The President?" "That's right. We know all about your little scheme." "I don't know what you're talking about." "Cut the crap, Prescott, or Yaksonovik." Jefferson grabbed Melanie Prescott by the arm and pushed her ahead. He swept the beam of the flashlight around the tunnel. Nothing of note except dust, spider webs, and a multitude of mud dabber nests that were abandoned for winter. Satisfied, he grabbed Prescott by the arm and shoved her ahead of him keeping his gun trained on her with one hand and maneuvering the flashlight with the other. "You're totally wrong about this," Melanie Prescott protested. "I don't think so." "Well we'll fucking see won't we?" Jefferson gazed down the length of the tunnel then turned to Prescott as they approached an intersection. "Which way back to Riordan?" "Why should I tell you?" Jefferson snatched Prescott by the throat and lifted her off the concrete floor. "Because if you don't I'm going to snap your neck like a chicken." Prescott gagged then nodded. Jefferson lowered her back to the floor and she pointed to the right, still coughing and gasping for air. Jefferson grinned. "Thank you." He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet and moved down the tunnel. Despite the fact that Jefferson was an experienced agent, the absolute blackness of the tunnel prickled the nape of his neck. Even with the flashlight, it seemed they were marching into the mouth of some prehistoric beast. The thought was cut short by the

sound of voices ahead. Roger Jefferson's jaw went slack when he saw Justin Flannigan and Billy Riordan standing at the bunker entrance. Not at actually seeing them, but at what he saw illuminated behind them in the open room. Jesus Christ, he thought. It's a tomb. Chapter 62 Bunker 519 March 10th, 7:00 P.M. "You two, okay?" Riordan nodded. "So far. Who are you, exactly? And please, no bullshit. I've had enough for another lifetime." "Roger Jefferson, CIA. I'm here by order of President Tower. And this bitch here is none other than, Eva Yaksonovik, AKA. Melanie Prescott, Russian national. Been working as an agent since the eighties. Sorry, Dr. Flannigan. I understand you and her were an item, once." Justin just shook his head. "Once." Riordan put his hand up. "Okay enough of the history lesson, I need to talk to somebody in Washington who isn't trying to kill me." Jefferson pulled out his radiophone and started to hand it to Riordan, then hesitated. "There is one thing, Colonial. We need to get away from here as soon as possible. Not knowing how this would turn out, there is a B-2 with a very angry bomb on board, maybe two. They're going to fry this whole fucking Cape if you haven't come up with a solution." Riordan searched Jefferson's face for any indication that the statement was some sort of subterfuge.

"How long?" Riordan asked. "Less than a hour." "That's all we need," Riordan said. "Get the President on the phone." Chapter 63 White House, Wash. D.C. March 10th, 2003 8:00 P.M. This is becoming unmanageable. Tom DeLeo realized the three agents trying to update him were cutting each other off at every other word. "Time out!" he held up his hand in a stop gesture and silenced them in mid sentence. "If we don't do this in an organized way, it going to get messed up. He gazed at the three agents in front of him, holding fresh printouts from their respective facsimile machines. "Dan, you go first." "Weather report from Fredrick. It's getting worse." "It figures. Okay, Rachel. What the latest from the CDC?" "They're decoding that formula Riordan called back." "Rick. How bout you?" "The Army Sat Com man is trying to reach Heat Wave. So far it's just static." "How much longer till they reach Delaware?" "Forty-five minutes, tops." "Dammit! Okay, everyone stand by." Tom Deleo dashed across the hall to the situation room and stopped in front of the

President. He looked him squarley in the eye. "Sir, I don't think we can stop the plane. There's no communication, which means we must consider a nuclear detonation is going to take place. Even though it's only tactical, the fallout is going to be catastrophic. The words struck President Tower like a body blow. Up to that minute he had felt it unlikely they were going to detonate a nuclear weapon. Remote But in an instant his confidence had vanished. "Tom. Can't we scramble some F-14's to-" "Sorry to cut you off, sir, but the short answer is no. Heat Wave can't answer any transmission from other aircraft while on a DEF COM run." "Well that's just stupid. Plain stupid." Deleo shook his head slowly. "Executive order, sir." Chapter 64 Above Delaware Coast March 10th, 2003 8:00 P.M. Silent and without warning, the lethal silhouette of a B-2 Stealth Bomber bore down on the Delaware coast like a giant wasp. Its design prevented the commercial air towers from picking up its signal as it shot through the air above the open sea. Then executing the strange orders they'd been given, the pilot turned the huge jet and stayed in a circular pattern. The entire mission proceeded under complete radio silence. The pilot sat back and listened to the drone of the gigantic Rolls Royce turbines, and tried not to think of what his orders were. He'd dwelled on it enough in the past twenty-four hours. Maybe God would forgive him. Chapter 65 CDC, Atlanta, Georgia March 10th, 2003 8:15 P.M.

The lab technician flew out of the Bio-Hazzard room and sprinted to her supervisor's office. "I've got it," she said. "The first stage of necrosis occurs as soon as cold below thirty- five degrees hits it. Just like Riordan said. Unless it's inside." The supervisor yanked the phone off its cradle and dialed a special number. When someone picked up on the other end, they already knew who was calling. "I'm ringing the President now." * * * *One thousand miles up the coast; Melanie Prescott exited Bunker 519, flanked by Billy Riordan, Justin Flannigan and Roger Jefferson. Jefferson saw a flurry of movement, and suddenly Melanie Prescott was running toward a cairn behind them. Jefferson started to raise his gun, but hesitated when he saw her stumble, then slam against a large rock. A puff of green smoke went up around her. And then the three of them heard it. Screams, ungodly screams, then a gurgling sound. "Oh my God," Justin said. "She had the vials." He realized that in their haste to get away from the bunker and alert the President, they had forgotten, Melanie had taken three of the vials that contained the original pathogen. Jefferson raised his gun and started over. Riordan shook his head. "Don't worry, it's harmless now. In this cold it's only good for a minute, just long enough to reduce you to..." Jefferson stood over Melanie Prescott and gazed down at her. Next to where she had fallen, lay a broken vial. It had only splashed her face and hands, the rest of her protected by the heavy parka. But that was enough. Now where her face had been, there were no features. There was a small patch of skin below the brown hairline; and there was the suggestion of a nose and mouth, and a sort of red jelly against her skull bone. Her right hand was reduced to a skeletal remnant. Jefferson looked away. "Let's get the hell out of here. Chopper's down below." Chapter 66 Whiteman Air Force Base

March 10th, 2003 8:20 P.M. Inside the command post, a young Air Force staff sergeant looked puzzled as he took the call from the White House. "We need to set up a feed of several different radio frequencies back to us here to relay to the mission B-2. " "Ah, what kind of relay. I'm not sure I understand. He's on radio blackout right now." "We need you get very creative very quick and get us a line to that pilot. You got that soldier?" "I think I can find a way, but why-" "Because the President of the United States wants to talk to him, ASAP." "Absolutely, sir," "How much time do you need?" The staff sergeant look around to his C.O., a captain who had just walked in and was now was listening intently to the conversation. The sergeant gestured for the captain to wait, then turned his attention back to the phone. "We'll need about five minutes, sir." "That's about all we have, Sergeant." * * * *The B-2 Stealth bomber pilot flipped on the night vision telemetry unit and gazed through the lens. The green hue showed the ocean waves breaking gently at the shoreline along the coast. His next move was something he'd prepared himself for for the past ten years, but what he had prepared for, and what his current mission was, were two different things, yet, they would yield the same outcome. He flipped the ARM switch on and heard the whirring of the bomb-bays open. * * * *The staff sergeant in the command post gazed over at his C.O. "The White House wants to break mission protocol."

"What! You had the White House on the phone and didn't inform me?" "Sir, they said it was Code 333." "How much time?" "Five minutes. One minute ago." "You know what to do, Sergeant." * * * *The pilot heard the click in his headset indicating his ordinance was ready to be deployed. But in the same instant he heard another sound. A chirping in his left ear, signaling him that someone was attempting to break radio silence. Unbeknownst to most, the B-2 bomber had a failsafe. It was actually a mistake built into the aircraft's communication system. It allowed the command post to get an urgent message to a pilot, even in the face of radio blackout on bombing runs. By using the communications keyboard, it let the mission commander send a Morse code message, which was then decoded by pilot's cockpit computer and self-authenticating. It had never been done on an actual bombing mission, and the pilot at first thought it was something else. However, glancing down at his onboard computer screen, he could see the message as plain as day. .......ABORT MISSION! .........EXECUTIVE ORDER! Chapter 67 Delaware Coast One Week Later An armada of ships was stretched out from the Delaware Bay to Cape Henlopen along the edge of the Continental shelf off the Atlantic Coast of the United States. Over the last week, the fleet of Coast Guard cutters and naval warships had moved into position from Norfolk south and from the North Atlantic to establish a defensive perimeter encircling the concrete sarcophagus that was to be floated to the surface by the submarine the U.S.S Kilgore.

The orange Coast Guard chopper had been in the air since early morning, following a course that took it over the oblong armada. The helicopter was east of Cape Henlopen when the pilot looked out the window and said. "Looks like a giant lime-aid out there." Justin Flannigan lowered his sunglasses and smiled. "Let's hope it as benign as limeaid." The ocean was white capped to the west far from where the sarcophagus was being raised. To the east, beyond the picket line, the water was thick with green froth and looked like a giant washing machine had released a load of green suds. Justin knew that the sarcophagus was getting closer to the surface. As the green foam bubbled up, it turned a purplish red and then completely dissolved into a harmless white paste. "Just like Riordan said," Justin remarked to the pilot. "The cold is killing it off." "That old man was smart," the pilot said. Justin nodded. "More than you'll ever know." Epilogue Two days later, a scientist at the Army Institute of Pathology sent the following memo to President Tower. "Life manages very well without oxygen, evolving into flourishing communities of anaerobes. Acidity... presents no problem, as sulphur bacteria and their co-habitants illustrate, nor does a considerable degree of alkalinity bother alkophiles.... Water purity is a trivial matter: saturated salt brines support abundant bacterial life. And pressure is quite irrelevant, with bacteria growing happily in a near vacuum or at the huge hydrostatic pressure of deep ocean trenches. Temperature, too, presents little problem: boiling hot springs support bacterial life, and bacteria have been found growing at 112 C in superheated geothermal water under hydrostatic pressure; conversely, other types of bacteria thrive at well below zero, provided the water is salty enough not to freeze. And even if they do get frozen, many bacteria revive when their habitat thaws." PROLOGUE Norman Klein was dying from cancer. It had started in his liver and now spread to his

pancreas. Neither radiation nor chemotherapy had been able to halt its progress. He had a week to live. And he knew it. In his private room, Klein looked at his reflection in the bedside mirror. Bone gaunt, hair thinned to nothing, and his jaundiced eyes were dull with hopeless resignation. All morning, he'd stared out the window at the manicured hospital grounds, wishing he could have just a little longer. When the door opened, Klein didn't recognize the doctor, although he'd seen so many, they all looked the same by now. He wore a white lab coat and had a stethoscope draped around his neck. The doctor pulled up a chair close to the bed. He looked tired and overworked, but had an affable smile that put Klein at ease. Klein looked up. Even with the man's smile, Klein was still cynical. The Grim Reaper? "I'm Dr. Hench," he said. "I'd like to talk to you about your future." Klein's hollow eyes flashed with anger. "Are you some kind of comedian? Future? Doesn't the word terminal on my chart there mean anything to you?" Without answering, Hench opened the folder containing Klein's biographical information. "I've seen the chart," Klein said. "It says I'm forty-two, married and have two kids. Twelve and thirteen. And it says my case is hopeless. I'm a cancer farm. Is there anything else you want to know? I'm sorry I'm so cynical, but there's been at least ten other doctors in here in the last twenty four hours. Why can't I just die in peace?" Hench put the folder on the bedside table. "I'll come right to the point, Mr. Klein. You and I both know how sick you are. It's an undisputable fact. But what would you say if I offered you a chance for a complete cure and restored to your youthful state?" Klein gazed back at Hench. "It sounds like you've been working too hard, doc. I'm already as good as dead." "That depends on how you define dead. Before you say anything else, let me explain." Hench paused and took a deep breath. "I'm part of an organization that believes in the technology of the future. We believe if we can preserve you now, tomorrow's science

will allow us to cure you and even restore your youth." Klein leaned forward. "It sounds like a bunch of medical jargon to me." "I understand your skepticism, but I assure you, it's quite possible. We've already had remarkable success." "Well tell me this. Why me? There are thousands of people with terminal cancer." Hench smiled. "Two reasons. First, we only accept patients whose death is immediately imminent. Second, the expense involved is beyond most people's capability. You are wealthy. Your wealth can benefit you now." Klein nodded. "And benefit you. How much are we talking about here?" "They will turn over your estate to the organization. Then they will provide a generous trust for your wife and children. When they resuscitate and restore you to health, whatever is left, they return to you. They'd no longer have to maintain you. At that point, they would terminate the contract." "And just how am I... maintained?" "Cryogenic suspension in liquid nitrogen." "Frozen, right?" Hench leaned back. "Not in the normal sense. We like to think of it as medical time travel. When technology breaks the boundaries of disease and death, then we resuscitate you. It might be ten years. It might be a hundred. One thing is certain though. It is your only chance to survive." "So I'd just go to sleep, and when I wake up it might be two thousand and fifty, and I wouldn't even know how long I'd been asleep?" Hench nodded. "Exactly." Klein scrawled his signature on the contract with Hench's pen. "When will my wife hear?" He felt a wave of heartache from the past. "As soon as we transfer you to the facility." Hench patted Klein on the shoulder and walked out.

A few minutes later, a nurse came in and gave Klein an injection. When she left the room, his mind began to drift and he thought about his children, their accomplishments, their dreams: college, weddings, grandchildren. Now it was possible he could be there. He stared at the dark rectangle of his ceiling. He stopped thinking about everyone else then. He began to think only of himself. He didn't have to die. He might live. He just might. Soon, someone came with a gurney and took him away. CHAPTER ONE JOSH LOGAN TAPPED OUT A BEAT on his steering wheel as he drove his silver Land Rover up Interstate 100. The red boulders of the Phoenix foothills rose stark against a crisp March sky, but the peaceful setting did little to calm his excitement. He couldn't believe it, when after a half-hour telephone interview, the man himself had offered Josh the job. Lawrence Bowman's voice sounded just as Josh remembered. Cold, formal. Arrogant. The best neurosurgeon in the country, however, he could afford to be. As the director of the Ford Medical Institute in Scottsdale, he wielded a powerful position. And anybody lucky enough to be chosen to work with him would find himself at the forefront of medicine. They had recently featured Ford in the New England Journal of Medicine, for their pioneering work in cyrosurgery, and its use in dissecting brain tumors. Bowman and his colleagues found, when they applied a sub-zero solution to the tumor's perimeter, just prior to removal, bleeding became nonexistent. The resulting "cold spot" as they called it, prevented any cancerous cells from migrating from the site. It would save countless patients from more radical surgeries that left many with gross motor deficits or stroke. Ford would be a great opportunity for Josh to practice his considerable skills in neurosurgery, away from small town America. His acceptance by Bowman was a blessing in another way as well. He needed to leave the small resort town where he practiced for the last three years. With no immediate family left, there was little to keep him. Josh's wife had died two years earlier, a devastating loss whose emotional scars still raked at his heart. To make the blow doubly painful, she was three months pregnant at the time. Josh's only solace was knowing the

death, with ironic compassion, had liberated his wife from a deep despair over a crippling illness. Josh's cell phone rang, pulling him from his depressing reverie. The incoming message surprised him: REPORT TO THE MEDICAL INSTITUTE ON ARRIVAL. That's odd? Josh had planned on meeting Bowman at the Hilton in Scottsdale for an impromptu meeting and lunch. Now suddenly, they were telling him to go direct to Ford. He knew Bowman was busy like most facility directors. Still, he had at least expected to have a couple days to get settled. Then again, it did not surprise him, knowing what he did about the man. With rising uncertainty, Josh drove to the Scottsdale exit, turned onto the private access road, and rolled to a stop at Ford's entryway. While the security guard waved him through, Josh gazed out at the mammoth structure in the distance. The building's facade, held a bastion of one-way glass, designed to reflect the stifling heat of the Arizona sun. Two minutes later, Josh parked and crossed the manicured grounds to the main entrance, where a carved sandstone sign announced: FORD MEDICAL INSTITUTE An armed security guard flanked the revolving door and nodded as Josh passed by him. He felt an odd sensation as he pushed through the doors... that he had entered the realm of the future. Massive plaques and excellence awards from every hospital organization one could name lined the walls. They had celebrated towering achievements within this building. Josh felt the problems of the outside world fading behind him. Where, life and death decisions weighed like led, and the minds of a few decided the outcomes. As Josh approached the receptionist, he wondered what problem caused him to be summoned here already. "Good morning," the receptionist said as Josh approached the desk. She smiled with brilliant white teeth.

Josh returned the smile as the girl held out a clipboard for him to sign. "If you don't mind," she said. Josh took the clipboard and filled in his name and reason for the visit. He handed it back to her a minute later. The receptionist's eyes lit up. "Dr. Logan, we've been expecting you. I have strict instructions to deliver you to Dr. Bowman, personally." Josh smiled. "I didn't know I was so important." As they made their way through the bustling wave of corridors within, the scope of their operation amazed Josh. They employed over two hundred doctors and twice as many ancillary personnel. In total secrecy, The Ford Institute built and maintained an astonishing array of cuttingedge medical technologies: a new laser neurosurgery lab; video transmission surgery; a nano technology lab; even a virtual reality surgery center, known as Surgery Wizard, where doctors could feel what it was like to actually open a body without ever stepping foot in the operating room. Ford not only helped save lives, but also provided an endless stream of medical data, stored and ready to use at the touch of a computer key, by any medical facility in the world. Josh would now be working with the best and brightest in his field. Best of all, he would be working side by side with his idol, Lawrence Bowman. Josh had proved himself a competent brain surgeon at the small hospital he had worked at in Maryland. And when he read an opening was available at Ford, he wrote a ten-page letter to Bowman, outlining why he was the best man for the job. Although it would require long hours, the position represented an honor badge for Josh, who had lingered in the shadows behind older but less competent neurosurgeons at his previous hospital. He had no intention of becoming beholden to a bunch of old bureaucrats who weren't on the cutting-edge of medicine. The receptionist stopped beside a huge mahogany door. "Okay, right in there. He's waiting on you. Good luck." CHAPTER TWO

AT 10:15 A.M. THEY RUSHED Jim Davis into the emergency room at Ford Medical Institute. Already in ventricular fibrillation, an ominous heart rhythm that could mean certain death, time was running out. Reflexively, like a well-practiced drill team, the cardiac unit sprang into action with their most aggressive protocol. Thirty minutes later, with all treatment options exhausted, and Davis with no discernable heartbeat, Dr. Charles Hench walked over to his patient and gazed down. "That's it," he said. "Call them in." * * * *Sarah Davis sat stoned faced in the ER waiting area, her thoughts lost in the day's terrifying events. She and Jim had come to Scottsdale, from Maryland, on his doctor's advice. Jim had sold a thriving construction business and Arizona offered the perfect place to retire, and leave the stress that fueled his heart disease behind. His health improved significantly under Dr. Hench's care, and Sarah felt certain the worst was behind them. But today, after returning from a short walk, Jim complained of pain in his jaw. Sarah thought perhaps a tooth was bothering him. But suddenly and with terrifying swiftness, Jim became drenched in a sweat and turned blue. In what seemed like an instant, his eyes bulged in their sockets and he collapsed at her feet. As he lay gasping for breath, she yanked the phone from the wall and called 911. The mortal fear of death descended on her while she waited for the ambulance. Now, as she sat and prayed, hoping he'd be all right, a curious thought occurred to her. Why... Dr. Hench emerged from the ER, a calm veneer on his face. Hench was silver-haired and pudgy, with the face of a peccary, but confident as usual. Sarah raced from her seat and met him just beyond the doors. "Doctor Hench, how is he?" Hench pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Sarah, we did all we coul-" Sarah Davis felt like it had been her heart, which had just stopped. "No... no, please tell

me he's okay." She buried her head in Hench's shoulder. "We did everything we could. His heart was just too damaged." Hench hesitated and heaved a sigh. "There's more Sarah. We need to talk." Hench gently took Sarah's arm and led her to a small private area away from the main waiting room. "I don't understand," she said, tears streaming down her face. "He seemed fine after his appointment with you this morning." Hench shook his head. "I know. No one is more surprised than I am, but as I said, there's more." Sarah's face took a more curious expression. "This morning, when Jim came in," Hench started, "we had a long talk. About your future. More precise... your distant future." Sarah's eyes hardened. "Doctor Hench, I don't want to seem ungrateful here for your efforts, but you tell me my husband is dead, and in the next breath, talk about my future? Is this your idea of a joke? He was my future." "On the contrary, it's no joke at all." Hench's eyes flashed. "Did Jim ever talk to you about cryogenic freezing?" Sarah felt the directness of his gaze. "Heavens no. I don't even know what it means." Hench sat forward and lowered his voice. "It means, after his death, clinical death, that is... when his heart stops, they inject a special fluid into him to preserve the body. Indefinitely. He gets transferred to a facility where he's kept frozen in liquid nitrogen until we find a cure for his heart disease." Sarah Davis sat in stunned silence for a moment, then looked up. "Doctor. Jim Davis was a devout Catholic. He would never in a million years, subject himself to such a thing as that." "I know this comes as a surprise, Sarah, but I have all the documents to go ahead, signed by Jim. He wanted this. He wanted to see you again, someday. Here." Hench reached into his breast pocket. "I brought the papers he left with me. He wanted to tell you tonight." Sarah Davis stared in disbelief at the documents. Emblazoned across the top of the obscure contract in bold blue letters was: AURORA LIFE EXTENSION

FOUNDATION. She skimmed over it, then her eyes fell to the lower right-hand corner. It was unmistakable. Jim's signature. Still, she couldn't believe he wanted this. "No, this is all wrong," she said. "My husband is not being frozen like some popsicle. How could you even think such a thing?" Hench stood up. "I had nothing to do with the decision. I'm only carrying out his own wishes." Sarah vaulted from her seat and bore down on Hench. "I want to see my husband, now!" Hench's expression hardened. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid it's not possible. Jim's body has been placed in ice. He's already on his way to Aurora." * * * *Five miles away from Ford Institute, a white van rocketed down Route 101, heading away from Scottsdale. In the rear compartment, Jim Davis' corpse lay wrapped in plastic. It wasn't on ice. And it wasn't going to Aurora Life Extension. CHAPTER THREE A HALF HOUR LATER, two men sat in silence inside the white van. Outside, a sandstorm buffeted the vehicle, threatening to tip it over. Neither of them took notice: they were both fearless. The van was stark white, parked in a shallow ravine, out of sight. They traveled light: just a couple of shovels, a cell phone each, and a cache of small arms and ammunitionjust in case. The one in charge was Diago. A human bull dozier with a pockmarked face. Diago looked at his watch. "Rain stopped. Let's go." It was time. Again. The two stepped outside into the pounding wind. An isolated thunderstorm that seemed

to be nowhere but right over them, ended as quickly as it started. Diago scanned the horizon and went to the rear doors. His partner had already retrieved the shovels and handed Diago one. Diago extended a powerful arm and jerked the body from the van's floor. He slid it out and let it drop to the sand. Instinctively, his partner was already digging the six-foot deep hole. When he finished, they tossed the body in and covered it with gasoline. Diago fished a cigarette from his shirt and lit it. After a couple puffs he tossed it in the hole. Soon, the body was burned beyond recognition and they covered it with sand. Diago looked at his partner and smiled. "Another one bites the dust." The man nodded. This was a drill they knew well. After all, they'd done it dozens of times.