The 6th Extinction (9 page)

She sighed and glanced toward the small window next to her seat. “It still seems amazing that something like this could’ve happened. Especially with no one knowing what was going on at the deepest levels of that base.”

“You’d be surprised at how common that is. Since 9/11, there’s been a huge spike in biodefense spending, resulting in a slew of new Level 4 labs popping up across the country. Corporate-funded, government-backed, university-run. These labs are dealing with the worst of the worst, agents that have no vaccine or cure.”

“Like Ebola, Marburg, Lassa fever.”

“Exactly, but also bugs that are being engineered—weaponized—all in the name of preparing for the inevitable, to be a jump ahead of the enemy.”

“What sort of oversight is there?”

“Very little, mostly independent and piecemeal. Right now there are some fifteen thousand scientists authorized to work with deadly pathogens, but there are
zero
federal agencies charged with assessing the risks of all of these labs, let alone even keeping track of their number. As a consequence, there’ve been countless reports of mishandling of contagious pathogens, of vials gone missing, of poor records. So when it comes to an accident like this one, it was not a matter of
if
but of
when
it would happen.”

He stared out the window, toward the south, toward that pall of toxic smoke. He had already been informed about the countermeasures released by the base: an engineered blend of a paralytic agent and a nerve gas, all to thwart what might have escaped, to kill any living vector that might transmit it or allow it to spread.

“The genie’s out of the bottle,” he mumbled, referring not only to events here but also to the rapid escalation of bioengineering projects going on across the country.

He turned back to Lisa. “And it’s not only these sanctioned facilities we must worry about. In garages, attics, and local community centers, homegrown genetics labs are sprouting up everywhere. For a small price, you can learn to do your own genetic experiments, even patent your creations.”

“How very entrepreneurial. It sounds like the cyberpunks of the past have become the biopunks of today.”

“Only now they’re hacking into genetic code instead of computer codes. And again with little to no oversight. At the moment, the government depends on self-policing of these grassroots labs.”

“The sudden escalation in the number of labs doesn’t surprise me.”

“Why’s that?” he asked.

“The cost of lab equipment and materials has been plummeting for years. What once cost tens of thousands of dollars can be done for pennies now. Along with that, there’s been a corresponding increase in speed. Right now, the pace of our ability to read and write DNA increases tenfold every year.”

He calculated the implication in his head. That meant in ten short years, genetic engineering could be ten
billion
times faster.

Lisa continued. “Things are moving along at breakneck speeds. Already a lab has managed to create the first synthetically built cell. And just last year biologists engineered an artificial chromosome, building a functional, living yeast from scratch, with gaps in its DNA where they plan to insert special additions in the near future.”

“Designer yeast. Great.”

Lisa shrugged. “And there are darker implications about that genie getting out of the bottle. It’s not just accidental releases we need to worry about. I was reading about this Kickstarter program—where for forty dollars, a group of enterprising young biopunks will send you a hundred seeds for a type of weed that incorporates a glowing gene.”

“Glow-in-the-dark weeds? Why?”

“Mischief mostly. They want their funders to spread the seeds into the wild. They already have five thousand backers, which means over five hundred thousand synthetic seeds could be cast across the United States in the near future.”

Painter knew such actions were merely the tip of a dangerous iceberg. General Metcalf—the head of DARPA and his boss—had expressed that one of homeland security’s greatest fears was how vulnerable U.S. labs were to foreign agents. A terrorist organization could easily insert a graduate student or postdoctoral fellow into one of these bioweapon facilities, either to obtain a deadly pathogen or to get the necessary training to run their own labs.

Painter studied the fog-shrouded mountains in the distance.

Had something like that happened here? Had it been an act of terrorism?

To answer that very question—along with surveying the site firsthand—General Metcalf had ordered Painter to fly out to this remote Marine base. The Mountain Warfare Training Center had become the official staging ground for overseeing this disaster. He was to coordinate with the colonel who ran the center, where assets were already being gathered.

Painter could have left Lisa behind, but her knowledge and keen insight had already proved invaluable. Plus she had insisted on coming, her eyes aglow with the challenge. He reached his hand over to hers, their fingers entwining as if they were bound together forever. How could he refuse his future bride anything?

Such indulgence was part of the reason they had a third companion for this flight. Josh Cummings—Lisa’s younger brother—sat up in the cockpit, carrying on an animated conversation with the flight crew. Josh was presently pointing to the airstrip below. It was the main airfield for the Marine base, a site the young man had visited often in the past, and the other reason he was along on this ride.

Like his sister, Josh was lean and blond-haired. He could easily be mistaken for a typical California surfer, but Josh’s passion was less about sea and sun than it was about heights and sheer cliffs of rock. He was a renowned mountaineer, summiting a majority of the world’s tallest peaks in his twenty-five years, garnering accolades for his skill and building a small business from several of his patents on equipment design.

As a result, he had developed a working relationship with this base as a civilian consultant. He even wore the red knit cap of a Mountain Warfare Instructor, known simply as Red Hats. Few civilians ever earned the right to wear that cap, to teach soldiers the ins and outs of working a mountain. It was a testament to Josh’s skill.

But other than that cap, few would mistake Josh for a U.S. Marine. He wore his hair to his shoulders and had a casual disregard for authority. Even his garb was anything but military. Under a sheepskin jacket—something Josh had won from a Sherpa after a night of poker inside a tent on a slope of K2 during a snowstorm—he wore a gray expedition-weight thermal shirt with his company’s logo. It was a silhouette of a set of mountains with the centermost one the tallest. It looked distinctly like a fist giving you the finger.

Definitely not military approved.

For most of the year, Josh lived out of his backpack, but he had been in town for the wedding and had insisted on accompanying his sister to the base. Painter had agreed without reservations. Josh knew most of the personnel up here and could vouch for Painter, hopefully helping to smooth any ruffled feathers from Sigma’s trespassing into their territory. Plus from Josh’s training exercises in the past, he had intimate knowledge of the local terrain, which could prove useful.

Josh demonstrated that now, calling out loudly to be heard over the engines. “Land at the north end of the airfield. You’ll cough up less sand. That’s where the Marines do most of their V/STOL training.”

Lisa glanced at Painter with a quizzical arch of an eyebrow.

“Vertical takeoff and landing,” he translated. If the armed forces loved anything more than their guns, it was their acronyms.

Still, Painter couldn’t dismiss a bit of excitement as their aircraft readied itself to land. They were flying aboard an MV-22 Osprey, courtesy of the Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center at Twentynine Palms, , outside of Los Angeles. The unusual vehicle was known as a tiltrotor, named for its ability to transform from a traditional prop-engine plane into a helicopter-like craft by rotating the engine nacelles at the ends of each wingtip.

Twisting in his seat, Painter watched the propellers slowly swing from vertical to horizontal. The plane’s forward speed rapidly slowed until it was expertly hovering over the airfield; then the massive craft lowered toward the ground. Moments later, their wheels touched down.

Lisa let out a breath she must have been holding with a loud sigh. “That was amazing.”

Painter noted another two Ospreys parked farther away, with crews working around them, suggesting they’d just arrived, a part of the mobilization happening here. A bevy of other Marine helicopters dotted the field.

“Looks like everyone took up your invitation,” Lisa said.

Before leaving the coast, Painter had laid down a rough sketch of the order of operations for this mission: search and rescue, evacuation, site quarantine, investigation, and finally cleanup. The first three duties were already under way, allowing Painter’s team to proceed directly with their investigation.

He knew where he wanted to start. The first responders—a U.S. Marine search-and-rescue team—had saved the life of a witness, a local park ranger who had happened to be on-site when the base exploded. Painter had heard about the firefight atop a neighboring hill, which raised a substantial mystery:
Who were those hostiles and what did they have to do with what had transpired at the base?

Only one person potentially had those answers.

And from what Painter had heard en route—she wasn’t talking.

10:19
P
.
M
.

Jenna didn’t bother to check the doorknob. She knew she was locked inside. She paced the length of the space. Judging from the chalkboard in front and the rows of seats, she figured it was a small classroom. Out the third-story window, she spotted a dark ski lift in the distance, along with a row of stables. Directly below her, an ambulance slowly sidled away from the entrance to the building.

The departing EMS team had already seen to her injuries: wrapping her arm, suturing the small laceration across her collarbone, then finally injecting her with antibiotics. They offered to shoot her up with pain relievers, but she opted to simply pop some ibuprofen.

Have to keep my head clear
.

But her growing anger wasn’t helping.

Nikko, sprawled on the floor, watched her, his gaze tracking her as she stalked from one side of the classroom to the other. A bowl of water and an empty food dish rested beside him. A tray holding a cellophane-wrapped ham sandwich and a carton of milk sat on one of the desks. She ignored it, still far from having an appetite.

She checked her watch.

How long are they going to keep me here?

The Marine who had rescued her—Gunnery Sergeant Samuel Drake—had told her she would be debriefed by someone from Washington. Yet it had been over an hour since she had arrived here.

So where the hell is this guy?

The base commander had stopped to check in on her, asking her some questions, but she had stonewalled him. She would tell her story once, but only after getting some answers first.

A scuff and rattle drew her attention back to the door.

Finally . . .

She withdrew a few steps and crossed her arms, ready for a fight. The door opened, but it was not the man she had been expecting. Gunnery Sergeant Drake entered. He looked refreshed, his dark brown hair wet and combed back. He wore a loose pair of khaki trousers and a matching T-shirt that clung tightly across his chest, exposing muscular arms.

While she wanted to be perturbed at the intrusion, she found her arms uncrossing, doing her best to look casual. She was sure she failed miserably.

He smiled at her, which didn’t help matters.

“Just bringing a gift from a friend,” he said, his voice a deep bass that felt warmer than before, no longer curt and hardened by the weight of command. “Thought maybe you’d be willing to share.”

He lifted an arm to reveal a large brown paper sack, slightly damp along the bottom edge.

“What is it?” She took a step closer, then a familiar aroma struck her.

It can’t be
.

“Baby back ribs from Bodie Mike’s Barbecue,” he confirmed. “Also coleslaw and fries.”

“How . . . ?” she asked, stammering in confusion.

He grinned wider, showing perfect teeth. “We’ve got people flying back and forth between here and Mono Lake, coordinating the evacuation. It seems a friend of yours decided to send back a care package from Lee Vining before the town was evacuated. He thought you might be hungry after all of the excitement.”

Only one person knew she was here.

She smiled for the first time in what seemed like ages. “Bill, I could kiss you.”

Drake’s dark eyes twinkled with amusement. “If you want, I’m sure I could relay that back to him?”

“How about I just split the fries with you instead?” She moved to one of the desks.

“What about the ribs?”

“Nope. They’re all mine.”

He shifted a desk closer and swung a leg over the chair to sit next to her. As he ripped open the bag, she quickly found her appetite again. She was halfway through the slab of the ribs, with Nikko firmly at her knee, a hopeful expression fixed on his face, when the door opened again.

A contingent of strangers entered. It had to be the party from D.C. After waiting for so long, she now wished they’d leave and come back later.

She wiped her fingers.

Drake stood quickly and stiffly as the base commander entered with the others. “Colonel Bozeman.”

“At ease, Drake.” The commander looked to be in his early sixties, with silver hair to match the eagle resting above rows of colorful ribbons on his khaki shirt. His eyes settled on the half-finished meal. “Didn’t mean to interrupt, Ms. Beck, but this is Director Painter Crowe, an adjunct with DARPA. He has some questions before we get you back to your fellow rangers.”

The man’s two companions were introduced. They were clearly related, likely brother and sister, maybe even twins, but she concentrated on the man in front. The newcomer had black hair, with a single lock gone snowy white and tucked behind an ear. His complexion was clearly of Native American heritage, but his sharp blue eyes hinted at some European blood in there, too. She wanted to snap at him, but something in his manner defused her. Maybe it was the shadow of a welcoming smile or the intelligent glint to those eyes. This was clearly no meddling bureaucrat or condescending intelligence agent.