Vapor (26 page)

President Walters tilted his chair backward and glanced at one of the five ornate clocks mounted on the wall. It was 11:37 a.m. His eyes moved to his wristwatch. 11:37 a.m., as well.

He glanced at the stack of file folders on his desk. They were crooked. Leaning forward, he rearranged them. Then he straightened his in-out box. And then he repositioned his water glass so it sat in the exact middle of the underlying coaster. Satisfied, he leaned back and rechecked the time.

11:37 a.m.

He grumbled to himself. He wasn’t used to waiting on others. What had happened to Hooper anyway? One minute they were talking on the phone. The next minute, all communications had ceased.

Glancing at his desk, he saw the notations he’d made about Pagan. The island was fourteen hours ahead of Washington, D.C. That meant it was 1:37 a.m. on the island. In other words, the HyperMax was, almost certainly, on the ground.

So, what the hell had happened to Hooper?

He smoothed the wrinkles out of his shirt and patted down his pants. He knew he was fidgeting, but he couldn’t help himself. He was President Wade Walters, damn it. He kept people waiting, not the other way around.

But as the minutes ticked by, the president began to realize he wasn’t going to be hearing from Hooper anytime soon. And the thought unnerved him. Deep down, he hoped nothing was wrong. It wasn’t just that he liked Hooper, although that was certainly the case.

No, the real problem was Senator’s Gar impromptu press conference.

A few hours earlier, Senator Gar had announced a press conference for 1:00 p.m. Speculation among Washington’s elite was that the man was preparing to announce his presidential candidacy. And perhaps that was the case. But the president knew that wouldn’t be the only announcement. He was nearly positive the senator would blow the lid off the gigantic theft.

The president still hadn’t made up his mind. Should he come clean and lose everything? Or should he swallow his pride, support the senator, and salvage what little remained of his reputation?

The first option sorely tempted him. He could even call an emergency press conference and beat the senator to the punch. He could reveal the truth about Eco-Trek, about how the Separative had redirected money in order to shield the world from climate change. The public outcry would be immense. People would condemn him. But at least he could justify the Separative’s actions.

But what if Samuels’ suspicions were right? What if Simona’s model was a fake? What if she’d kept the money for herself? Even worse, what if Eco-Trek really was causing all the destructive weather phenomena? If that were the case, the smart move would be to accept the senator’s demands. To quietly clean up the mess and pray no one else ever found out about it.

Before he made his decision, he needed answers. And only one man could give them to him.

“Come on, Ed.” President Walters whispered softly to himself. “You can do this. You
have
to do this.”

As I stared at the reliquary, my initial excitement began to wane. Its lid, covered with relief carvings of a dragon, blazing fireballs, smoke-filled skies, and countless dead things, had been removed. So, I could see the stone box was empty.

I shifted my gaze to the dragon statue. It wasn’t a masterful work, the kind that would be desired by museums around the world. Instead, it was roughly carved out of poor quality material. In fact, I wasn’t even sure it was a dragon.

I came all this way … for that?

“It’s creepy.” Beverly made a face. “No wonder someone boxed it up.”

I didn’t disagree with her. But although it lacked aesthetic beauty, it was still an artifact. And I was determined to save it. Hell, if possible, I’d save the artifacts from the strange museum as well.

Twisting my neck, I studied the transportable hydraulic lift. It appeared easy to operate. We just needed to roll it outside the lab and into one of the connecting tubes. Then we could head for Pagan Bay.

I recalled the Pagan Bay hatch. It was large enough to fit the reliquary as well as its lid. The statue would be an even easier fit. We just needed a way to lift the artifacts to the surface. After storing them on a boat, we could find a way to disrupt Simona’s model and thus, its drones. Then we’d head for Saipan.

But what about Simona?

Would anyone believe us once we reached Saipan? Would anyone even care? And what if something happened to us on the way? What if we never reached our destination?

I walked to a large pair of doors built into the far right end of the partition. They slid open with a swish and I entered a room with Beverly and Graham in tow. Blue cleanroom suits, complete with hoods and face protectors, hung from hooks. Boxes of cotton gloves, rubber gloves, plastic booties, rubber booties, and masking tape sat on a small shelving unit.

I closed the doors. Ignoring the protective gear, I opened a wide door to my left and the three of us stepped into an air shower.

Graham closed the door. Immediately, air shot out from a dozen nozzles, causing our clothes to flap wildly. Then a buzzer rang. The door in front of us cracked open.

I strode into the cleanroom, skirted around the tables, and headed straight for the reliquary. It was as large as I remembered. Staring into it, I saw streaks of black where the statue had scraped the stone.

“What’s wrong?” Beverly asked.

I glanced at her.

“I thought you’d be a little more excited.” She waved at the reliquary. “We went through a lot to find this thing.”

“I know.” I hesitated. “What do you know about my dad?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Just what you’ve told me. He was some kind of developer, right?”

“That’s right. But not an ordinary one. In the months before he died, he bought and tore down over a dozen historic structures in Manhattan. He destroyed decades, even centuries of history in the process.”

She gave me a confused look.

Graham exhaled. “You know?”

“I found out a few weeks ago.” I glanced at him. “How come you never told me?”

“Why would I?”

“Because it’s a big deal.”

“Your dad was a good man.”

“A good man doesn’t destroy history just for the hell of it.”

“He had his reasons.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“I don’t know.” His response was quick. Maybe too quick, although I didn’t really care. “But I knew him. And he didn’t have a bad bone in his body.”

“Wait.” Beverly’s confusion melted away. “Is that why you’ve been so crazy about the reliquary? Are you trying to make up for what your dad did?”

“Maybe. Hell, I don’t know.” I exhaled. “Look, history matters to me. Always has, always will. I’ve dedicated my life to finding it, saving it. But when I found out what dad had done, something changed. I can’t explain it. I … I guess I just had to do more.”

Her face twisted in thought.

Eager to change the subject, I glanced at the reliquary. “We can worry about this later. For now, let’s see if we can figure out why Simona wanted this thing.”

Beverly picked up a clipboard. “This looks like historical information about the reliquary,” she said. “According to local legend, it contained the remains of a dragon that plagued Jerusalem during the fourteen century. It says here it caused much death and destruction, like the one slain by Saint George.”

Fourteenth century, huh?

Obviously, it wasn’t a real dragon. Still, I was pleased to hear the artifact came with a bit of history.

Beverly continued to read. “You know, I don’t think Simona was after the dragon statue. She was after something else.”

“What’s that?” Graham asked.

“Air.” She read a few notes. “Apparently, Lila used to work for Simona. Simona had tasked her, along with several other archaeologists, with finding samples of extremely ancient air from the fourteenth century. So, they researched old documents to look for evidence of boxes, reliquaries, and other sealable items.”

I recalled the skeletons we’d seen in the nook. “Like coffins?”

She nodded. “I’m not sure why Lila turned on Simona. But it looks like the reliquary was exactly what Simona wanted. After bringing it here, she submitted it to extensive testing via ultrasound and other techniques. There were no leaks, no soft spots.”

Jolts of electricity raced through me. The oldest sample of atmospheric air ever taken only dated back a few decades. That made the reliquary’s ancient air truly extraordinary. If Simona’s team had extracted it correctly, it could be used as a benchmark to compare with modern air. It could provide fresh insight into how the rise of industrialization had impacted air quality and the ozone layer.

My heart burned deep inside my chest. The reliquary had been an ancient time capsule, a glimpse into the air quality of the long-forgotten past. It could shed valuable light on the fourteenth century. Everything about it seemed positive.

So, why had Lila been scared of Simona taking it?

Graham looked up from a machine. “Didn’t Carrie say Simona’s compound was called CN-46?”

I nodded.

“According to this, her scientists have been developing something called Miasma.”

I recalled the basement and production facilities. The twin reservoirs rising high into the air. The swirling substance.

“So, they changed their aerosols,” Beverly said slowly. “But why?”

“CN-46 was supposed to block sunlight,” I said, deep in thought. “But what if Simona has something else in mind? What if she has another reason for wanting to put aerosols into the atmosphere?”

Graham arched an eyebrow.

A chill ran through me. At last, I understood the truth. I didn’t know how it worked. But I knew what Simona was trying to do.

“It’s the air.” I glanced at the reliquary. “Something was inside that air sample. Something that’s been preserved since the fourteenth century. Something that Simona has replicated and is now feeding to her drones.”

“What?” Beverly asked.

I walked to one of the tables. Picking up a notebook labeled
Project Miasma
, I began to leaf through it. My brain raced as I scanned the pages. “We have to stop her. We have to—”

The air rushed, so softly I barely heard it. Spinning to a window, I saw the three guards, now outfitted with body armor, rush into the cavern. They quickly surrounded the laboratory. Then a stylish, middle-aged woman strode into view. I’d never seen her before. Yet, I knew her name.

Simona Wolcott.

Beverly and Graham raised their guns.

The guards raised their guns as well.

Shots rang out on both sides.

I ducked my head. Graham and Beverly followed suit.

I waited a few seconds before standing up again. Looking outside, I saw the guards. They gave us confused looks.

I glanced at the oval windows. They were still intact.

Bulletproof glass.

“We have to destroy this place,” I whispered. “This lab, the production facility, the reservoirs … everything.”

“Why?” Graham’s mouth twitched. “What the hell was in that old air anyway?”

“The secret to the most infamous plague in history.” Simona stopped short of the laboratory. Her voice sounded slightly muffled behind the partition. “The Black Death.”

“The Black Death?” Beverly gaped at Simona. “Are you insane?”

“I was hired to save the world.” Simona smiled sweetly. “And that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

Graham arched an eyebrow. “Not one for humility, are you?”

“I prefer honesty.”

“So, the whole geoengineering thing is just a scam?” Beverly asked.

“You know about that?” Simona looked thoughtful. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. As to your question, I wouldn’t call it a scam. Rather it was a means to an end. A way to get resources and unobstructed access to the sky.”

I glanced at Beverly. “You’re right. She is insane.”

Simona regarded me carefully. “I’ve done a little research on you, Mr. Reed. We’re very much alike, you and I.”

“Don’t insult me.”

“Do you know how we’re alike? We’ve both dedicated our lives to paying for the sins of our fathers.”

My gaze hardened.

“At first, your arrival here confused me. Why would some salvage jockey travel halfway around the world to retrieve a stolen artifact? It didn’t make sense. That is, until I read about your dad, about all the history he destroyed when you were a kid.”

My lips tightened.

“My dad was a developer too. A real greedy one who ripped up a bunch of forests just to get his hands on the timber. I hated him for it. But initially, my focus was limited. I just wanted to do some good, to make up for his destruction. It seemed simple enough. I’d build the world’s most sophisticated computer model and use it to engineer the climate. That way, I could undo his damage.” She sighed. “But over time, I realized it wasn’t enough. My dad wasn’t the source of the problem but rather, a tiny offshoot of it. So, geoengineering, even if it worked, would never address the real issue.”

“And what issue is that?”

“Industrialization, of course.”

I frowned.

“Geoengineering might slow climate change, but it won’t stop businesses and so-called progress from hurting the environment. Just like you might save some artifacts, but you won’t stop people from destroying the past. You see, it’s not enough to paper over historical sins. The sin itself—industrialization in both our cases—has to be removed.”

I couldn’t help but marvel at her easy manner. “And you think killing people will do that?”

“Most environmentalists—including the ones who helped me build this place—are brilliant, but shortsighted. Rather than make the tough choices, they want to use climate engineering as a way to buy humanity a little time. Time to turn the wheels of government, to bring about lasting change. Unfortunately, that’s just a pipe dream.” She looked into my eyes. “The only way to save this planet is by weeding out the very thing that’s hurting it. That is, industrialization. Consider my version of the Black Death a sort of high-tech cleansing, a major disruption that will bring modern society to its knees.”

“You really think a disease—?”

“Who said anything about a disease?” she said, interrupting me.

“But you said—”

“I said the Black Death.”

I frowned.

“From 1347 to 1350, the Black Death ravaged Europe, reducing its population by somewhere between thirty and sixty percent.” Simona adopted a mask of solemnity. “It’s considered one of the most lethal pandemics in history.”

My mind raced. If the Black Death wasn’t a disease, then what was it? And what did it have to do with the ancient air she’d secured from the reliquary?

“The Black Death was caused by bubonic plague,” Graham said. “Everyone knows that. It’s considered the third great outbreak, following the Plague of Athens and the Justinian Plague.”

She smiled. “That’s what the experts say. But they’re wrong.”

Slowly, the guards spread across the room. I shifted my gaze, trying to keep them all in view.

In the process, I snuck a glance at the far northeastern tube. I saw two shadows—Benigno and Carrie—near a wall. I couldn’t imagine how Benigno felt. He’d lost his wife and son. Now, the woman most responsible for their deaths was within striking distance.

Unfortunately, he was unarmed. If he tried to attack Simona, he’d go down in a hail of gunfire. His best bet was to stay in the shadows.

Easier said than done.

“Let me back up a second.” Simona took a breath. “The conventional wisdom, of course, is that the Black Death was caused by bubonic plague, spread by rats and fleas. It’s assumed that infected rodents in Central Asia, or perhaps Africa, brought the disease to the Black Sea region and the Central Mediterranean via trade routes. By late 1347, the plague had arrived in Europe, striking at a severely weakened population.”

Beverly arched an eyebrow. “Weakened population?”

“That’s where the conventional theory begins to show holes. The dirty little secret is that a weakened population is the only way the plague theory makes even the remotest bit of sense. You see, the Black Death killed people at an extraordinary rate, far higher than that of a typical bubonic plague outbreak.”

Sweat poured down my fingertips. “So, that’s your argument? The Black Death was too efficient to be bubonic plague?”

Her smile widened. I could see she was enjoying the opportunity to share knowledge, to debate. “It’s a good argument,” she retorted. “In the 1900s, a confirmed bubonic plague outbreak spread through India and China. The kill rate was just three percent.”

Graham shook his head. “That’s five hundred and fifty years later. By then, doctors would’ve known how to treat it, how to isolate it.”

“Actually, doctors of the time observed bubonic plague didn’t spread very easily. Relatives visited patients without getting sick. Few nurses or doctors contracted the disease.”

“That doesn’t prove anything.” He crossed his arms. “Maybe the population had somehow gained immunity by that time.”

“Maybe. But here’s the odd thing. Those same doctors still wrote that the bubonic plague was highly contagious.” She paused to let the implications sink in. “In other words, they observed a disease that didn’t spread very easily, yet still told others it was extremely contagious.”

“Why would they do that?” Beverly asked.

“I believe the so-called truth about bubonic plague, namely that it was highly contagious, had been beaten into their heads during medical school. It was so engrained in them that they couldn’t see the real truth.”

Simona had snagged my curiosity. I knew our lives were in danger. And yet, I couldn’t stop trying to figure out the mystery of the Black Death.

“So, the population was weakened somehow,” I said slowly. “That’s the only explanation.”

“It
was
weakened,” she replied. “But the Black Death still wasn’t caused by bubonic plague. Consider the transfer mechanism. Supposedly, great masses of infected rodents spread north across Europe. As they died, their fleas—now infected—searched for new hosts, eventually deciding on people. However, the disease spread far too fast to be carried by rats and fleas alone. Plus, there are no written documents from that time describing the vast legions of dead rats which would’ve been required to carry the plague.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Graham retorted. “Maybe dead rats in the streets were commonplace back then. Or maybe they died indoors.”

“Perhaps. But the conventional theory has other problems. First, the Black Death killed over half of Iceland’s population. But rats didn’t actually reach Iceland until the nineteenth century. Second, it moved in almost magical ways. For example, it leapt over Constantinople on its way across the Mediterranean. Third, it continued to kill people during the winter months in northern Europe. However, the plague requires relatively warm temperatures to survive.”

“Maybe there were no rats,” Beverly said. “Isn’t there a pneumonic form of the disease?”

“Yes, but the symptoms don’t match the famous descriptions of Black Death victims. The reason bubonic plague was suspected in the first place was because some of the victims displayed buboes, or swellings around the armpits and groin. That’s common in the conventional form of the plague. But they don’t occur in the pneumonic form.”

I searched my brain for an answer to the mystery. But I came up empty. “I give up. What caused the Black Death?”

She lifted her chin to the ceiling. “‘There have been masses of dead fish, animals, and other things along the sea shore and in many places covered in dust,’” she said in a haunting tone. “‘And all these things seem to have come from the great corruption of the air and earth.’”

I recalled the death and arid land I’d seen in Jerusalem and on Pagan. An uncomfortable feeling spread through me.

Simona lowered her gaze. Her tone normalized. “That’s a description provided by a contemporary of the Black Death. And it’s not an isolated one. Documents of the time speak of earthquakes, tidal waves, rains of fire, foul odors, strange colors in the sky, mists, even dragons.” Her gaze shot to the dragon statue before returning to me. “Most historians lack the imagination to understand these accounts. They chalk them up to colorful imagery or the ravings of religious fanatics. But they’re actually something else. They’re accurate accounts of what was happening at the time, as people tried to put into words the startling things they saw all around them.”

“You’re talking about metaphors,” I said.

She nodded. “Metaphors for a corrupted atmosphere, to be specific. You see, the ancients didn’t know about germs. Instead, they believed in something called the miasma theory. To put it simply, they thought rotting corpses and other dead things decomposed into poisonous, foul-smelling vapors. Those vapors supposedly spread epidemics among populations. And in the case of the Black Death, they were right.”

I recalled the notebook. Its title blazed its way into my brain.

Project Miasma.

“Air pollution might not be the healthiest thing in the world,” Graham said. “But it doesn’t just kill everything it touches.”

“This was no ordinary air pollution. The miasma that killed half of Europe’s population originated from the sky.” She smiled. “In other words, the Black Death was really death by comet.”