The 6th Extinction (21 page)

The new picture revealed individual viruses attached to branching muscle bundles and nerves. A scale had been included to offer some measure of size.

“Looks like they’re less than
ten
nanometers,” Lisa commented. “That’s
half
the size of the smallest known virus.”

“Which is why I stepped in to help.” Lindahl elbowed Edmund out of the way. “To get a clearer picture, I collated the protein data from the team’s molecular biologist. From that data and using a program I patented, I worked up a three-dimensional representation of the virion’s capsid, its outer shell.”

Lisa studied the spherical modeling of the infectious particle. She was impressed at Lindahl’s skill, almost to the point of accepting his arrogance.

“That’s the outer face of our monster,” Edmund said. “Henry is already in the midst of doing a genetic analysis on what’s hidden
inside
that shell.”

Dr. Henry Jenkins was a geneticist from Harvard.

“But we can still extrapolate plenty from this capsid,” Lindahl said. “Enough to say this is an
artificial
construct. Beneath that protein coat, we found carbon graphene fibers—each only two atoms thick—woven in a hexagonal pattern.”

He brought up another image alongside the last one, showing that protein coat removed this time, leaving a tangled webbing behind.

It definitely looked artificial. Lisa pondered the significance of those man-made fibers. Graphene was a remarkably tough material, stronger than spider’s silk.

“It almost looks,” she said, “as if Hess was trying to engineer the equivalent of a Kevlar layer under that shell.”

Lindahl turned to her. “Exactly. Very insightful. This additional substructure could account for the virion’s stability, how it’s proven resistant to bleaches, acids, even fire.”

Yet, none of this answered the bigger question:
What’s that tough coat protecting?

Lindahl continued. “It seems Dr. Hess engineered a
perfect
shell, one that is small enough to penetrate any tissue. Animal, plant, fungus. Its unusual size and nature might explain why it’s so universally pathogenic.”

She nodded, remembering how the organism had sterilized the soil to a depth of two feet.

“But why did Hess create it?” Lisa asked. “What’s its purpose?”

“Are you familiar with eVLPs?” Lindahl asked.

She shook her head.

“We were discussing the subject just before you arrived,” Edmund explained. “It stands for empty virus-like particles. It’s a new field of experimental study, where you strip the DNA out of a virus until only its outer shell remains. There are advantages to this in regards to vaccine production.”

She understood.
Those empty particles would stimulate a strong antigenic or protective response without the risk of the vaccine agent making you sick
.

“But that’s the least of it,” Lindahl said. “Once you have an empty shell, you can build from there. Add organic or even inorganic compounds, like those graphene fibers.”

“And once you create that shell,” Edmund added, “you can fill it with whatever wonders or horrors you want. In other words, the perfect shell becomes the perfect delivery system.”

Lisa stared again at the face of that monster.

What
was
hidden inside there?

“And you think Dr. Hess accomplished something like that?” Lisa asked. “That he built this virion from scratch in his lab and put something inside it.”

Lindahl leaned back. “We already have the technology. Way back in 2002, a group of scientists at Stony Brook synthesized a live polio virus from nothing but chemicals and a known genetic blueprint.”

Edmund huffed. “The project was sponsored by the Pentagon.”

Lisa heard the not-so-veiled accusation in his voice. Dr. Hess’s work was funded by the military, too.

Lindahl ignored the implication. “And in 2005, a larger influenza virus was synthesized in another lab. In 2006, the same was accomplished with the Epstein-Barr virus, which has the same number of base pairs as smallpox. But that’s child’s play compared to today. We can now manufacture organisms a hundredfold larger and at a fraction of the cost.” He snorted dismissively. “You can even buy a DNA synthesizer on eBay.”

“So what exactly did Dr. Hess put in there?” Lisa asked.

Before anyone would hazard a guess, Lisa’s radio buzzed. From the reactions of the other two men, they heard it, too.

It was Painter. The urgent stress in his voice quickened her heart. “We just heard word from Yosemite,” he reported. “The suspected saboteur is dead.”

Dead . . .

Lisa closed her eyes, thinking of Josh. Amy Serpry had been their only lead, the only way to discover more details about Dr. Hess’s work.

“From the initial report,” Painter continued, “she likely died of the same disease we’re battling here. The National Guard, along with an outbreak response team, is en route to lock down the grounds around the Ahwahnee. We also possibly have new exposure victims. Ranger Beck and Gunnery Sergeant Drake. Along with the ranger’s dog.”

Oh, no . . .

Painter continued with additional instructions and safeguards. The CDC was to set up another quarantine area in the hangar, in time to accept the incoming victims.

Once he was done, Lisa switched to a private channel.

“How badly were they exposed?” she asked.

“Jenna and Drake never stepped inside the cabin, and according to Drake, it was raining with the wind at their backs, so they may be okay.”

“And the dog?”

“He went inside the cabin and snatched up a mouse that may have been sick.”

So the husky likely had mucosal contact with the virion.

She stared again at the monster on the screen.

Poor dog
.

14

April 29, 4:04
P
.
M
. GMT
Brunt Ice Shelf, Antarctica

As ice groaned and cracked beneath him, Gray gaped at the sight of the massive bulk of Halley Station passing overhead. Its giant skis scraped down the slanting surface of ice, beginning the slide toward a tumble into the frigid Weddell Sea.

On the far side of the station, that blasted fracture line still smoked and steamed from the fires of those buried munitions. The chunk of the ice holding the station continued to tilt away from the larger expanse of the Brunt Shelf.

Gray pushed to his feet and yanked the British pilot up. “Move it! Both of you!”

Kowalski gained his legs unsteadily, searching around. “Where?”

“Follow me!”

Gray took off, digging his boots into the snow-swept ice, climbing the ever-steepening slope as the station slid behind him. The surface was rough enough for adequate traction, but a few times, he slipped to a knee or a hand. Using the steel butt of his assault rifle as a crutch, he fought to move faster. They had only seconds to act. He shouldered his way into the fog of steam and smoke billowing down from the blast zone. Visibility dropped to an arm’s length.

He prayed his sense of direction held true.

Another few steps, he let out a breath of relief—but only a small one.

The shape of a Ski-Doo appeared ahead. The rumble of its engine grew louder as he stumbled toward it.

Thank God, Jason had the foresight to leave it warmed up.

Gray reached the three-man Ski-Doo and swung his leg over the seat—but before he could settle into place, Barstow waved him back.

“Who’s the expert here? I’ll drive. You and your buddy ride shotgun.”

Gray didn’t argue, trusting the arctic pilot had more experience than he did with these snow machines. As Kowalski climbed on behind him, Gray pointed over the nose of the Ski-Doo, toward the widening fracture ahead.

“We’ll have to—”

“Got it,” Barstow said and gunned the engine.

Snow and shredded ice shot from behind the rear treads, and the Ski-Doo leaped forward. Their only hope was to try to vault over that gorge and reach the solid ice on the far side. The odds were slim, especially with their vehicle overloaded, but to remain here was certain death.

Gray hunkered lower.

Kowalski swore loudly.

Then Barstow made an abrupt sharp turn, catching Gray by surprise, almost throwing him out of his seat. The back end of the Ski-Doo skidded into a fishtail until the nose was pointed away from the fracture zone. The engine roared louder, and Barstow sped the craft
down
the steep slope. They cleared the steamy fog and burst into the open. It now looked like they were chasing the slowly sliding station.

Gray yelled, “What’re you—?”

“Let a man drive!”

Barstow hunched over the handlebars, trying to eke out more speed. Gray had no choice but to follow his example.

But they weren’t alone out here.

The only warning was a flicker of navigation lights in the dark skies overhead. The enemy’s Twin Otter sped past—then the ice exploded ahead of them in a fiery blast of rocket fire.

“Bloody hell!” Barstow hollered. “Hold on to your arses, gents!”

The pilot swerved around the smoking crater and sped toward the only shelter. He made another fast turn, casting up a rooster tail of ice and snow—then skidded sideways under the sliding station, passing cleanly between two of the four giant hydraulic skis holding up that module.

Kowalski groaned. “Just tell me when it’s over!”

It wasn’t.

Barstow had lost momentum after his rash maneuver, but he now raced along the underside of Halley VI, expertly keeping them out of direct sight of the Twin Otter. With the station still careening down the slanted shelf, the Ski-Doo regained some of its speed.

By now Gray understood Barstow’s earlier maneuver, why he had done a 180, turning them about-face. There was no way the Ski-Doo—going
uphill
—could’ve gained enough speed to hurtle over that widening gorge, especially overloaded. But by going
downhill
, Barstow could gain momentum, transforming the Ski-Doo into a tread-driven rocket.

Only one problem with this plan . . .

They were running out of ice.

Ahead, the foremost module of this skidding centipede reached the cliff’s edge and fell, twisting free of the remainder of the station, and plunged toward the dark seas far below.

“Time to go, boys!”

Barstow angled away, flying between two of the towering skis and back out into the open. They fled slightly upslope now, racing away from the station as it fell—piece by piece—into the Weddell Sea.

Ahead, their small section of dislodged ice teetered at a steep angle away from the flat expanse of the larger Brunt Ice Shelf. Barstow raced up that tilting chunk of ice, aiming for where the piece broke away from the greater shelf, picking a spot where the gap was the smallest.

He opened full throttle.

But a certain stubborn hawk was not about to lose its prey. The Twin Otter burst out of the smoky steam ahead of them, swooping low, its propellers ripping through the fog. It turned and lifted up on one wingtip, exposing the cabin hatch on that side—along with an assailant holding an RPG launcher to his shoulder.

The enemy was taking no chances.

The next shot would be at nearly point-blank range.

Gray twisted in his seat, elbowing Kowalski back. He freed his rifle and brought it up one-handed, his arm outstretched. He pulled hard on the trigger, strafing in full automatic mode, dumping all thirty rounds in three seconds. He concentrated his first volley on that dark doorway. With a scream, the gunman tumbled out the open hatch. Gray unloaded the rest of his rifle into the lowermost prop as the plane swept past.

“Hold on!” Barstow yelled.

Kowalski knocked Gray low into the seat, piling on top of him.

The Ski-Doo reached the last of the ice—and went airborne.

It flew high off the upraised lip of fractured ice, corkscrewing in midflight. Gray had a clear view down into the gap for a harrowing breath. Then they plummeted and hit the far side crookedly, landing on the edge of one tread.