“Dr. Kane said that the medusa toxin doesn’t kill outright but paralyzes the prey and keeps it healthy and fresh.”
“An antiviral has to kill the pathogens without hurting the host. The medusa toxin went beyond that, actually protecting its host organism’s health . . . for a while, anyway. The process is called hormesis. In small doses, a toxin can trigger repair mechanisms in the body, maybe even retard aging. It works in the same way exercise does, by stressing the body so that it changes the metabolism for the better.”
“That which does not kill us makes us strong,” Austin said.
“That’s an accurate description,” Lee said.
“Could hormesis have anything to do with the New Bedford anomaly?”
“It could have everything to do with it. Administered in the proper amount, the medusa toxin could have improved subjects’ health and prolonged their lives.” Lee cocked her head. “Now let me ask you a question.”
“Be my guest.”
“You and Joe and the Trouts have obviously worked together in the past. Who are you?”
Austin answered Lee in a way that would satisfy her curiosity without revealing too much about his team’s inner workings.
“We’re all members of a special NUMA team that investigates ocean mysteries that are out of the normal range of possibility,” he said.
“This mystery certainly fits that category,” she said. “Thank you for being forthright.”
“And thanks for enlightening me about the lab’s research. Let’s talk about the new flu virus. How bad would it be if the epidemic goes beyond China’s borders?”
“Very bad. SARS hit around eight thousand people, and fewer than a thousand died. If this virus hits your country, it would kill a minimum of more than two hundred thousand people.”
“And the maximum?”
“Possibly in the millions. But even in the hundreds of thousands, the epidemic would overwhelm the health system of any country it hits. Many of the people who will die are health providers, widening the disaster even more. The total impact on the industrialized world would be nearly seven hundred thousand deaths and more than two million people hospitalized . . . minimum. Developing countries would fare much worse. The total cost could be as much as a trillion dollars.”
Austin had been working his jaw muscle as he listened to the grim statistics.
“You’ve just described a global catastrophe, Song.”
“To say the least. The medical community has worried about a mutant flu virus for years. Even without help, the virus can reinvent itself, changing its genetic makeup, hitting people who have no immunity against it.”
“Medicine has evolved far beyond what was available in past epidemics,” he said.
“So has transportation,” she said. “A carrier infected in the U.S. or China can spread the disease anywhere around the world in a matter of hours. Existing vaccines are useless, which is why it was so important to develop the medusa vaccine.”
“How does the new virus spread?”
“The old virus spread by contact. The mutant strain may spread that way, but, even more disturbing, it may spread through the water.”
“Are you saying that it could seep into the water table?”
“There is that possibility, yes.”
“Which means that the virus could be introduced into drinking water.”
“That would make its spread even more difficult to control. Everyone drinks water, while personal contact is a hit-or-miss thing. It is extremely contagious either way. It’s possible that the whole human race could become infected.”
Lee felt emotionally drained by the implications of her dry recitation and expected Austin to share her pessimism. But, to her surprise, he said, “Thank you for your analysis, Dr. Lee, but we can’t let that happen.”
“What do you mean to do?”
“Once we find the lab, we’ll make sure that the staff is safe. Then we’ll retrieve the research and allow vaccine production to move ahead. And then we’ll proceed to sink the Triad. How’s that sound to you, Joe?”
“Sounds like we’ll need some chow to keep us going. I’ll see what I can rustle up in the galley.”
Austin had summed up his strategy as casually as if he were talking about making a soccer play. Instead of panicking, Zavala was throwing breakfast together. Lee saw no sign of madness or misplaced humor in the face of either man, only calm determination and steely resolve.
For the first time since she had learned that Davy Jones’s Locker had vanished, she began to hope.
CHAPTER 33
THE TROUTS HAD TO WAIT UNTIL THE AFTERNOON FOR AN available NUMA executive jet, but New Bedford Regional Airport was only about an hour’s flight from Washington. With Gamay navigating, Paul drove their rented SUV past the stately old houses that bordered County Street and swung in to a horseshoe-shaped driveway. A sign in front of the butternut-and-mustard Greek Revival mansion identified the house as the CAPTAIN HORATIO DOBBS MUSEUM AND GARDENS.
The Trouts climbed to the porch, passing between tall Doric columns, and rang the bell. A middle-aged woman opened the door.
“Oh, dear,” she said, her smile vanishing. “I thought you were the electrician.”
Gamay said, “I’m afraid not. We’re from the National Underwater and Marine Agency. We called you earlier today from Washington.”
The smile returned.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Perlmutter’s friends. St. Julien is a lovely man. Come in. I’m Rachael Dobbs. Excuse me for being a bit flustered. The Dobbs Foundation rented a patio tent for a jazz concert tonight, and there’s a problem with the sound system.”
The Trouts stepped into a high-ceilinged vestibule and followed Rachael along a long hallway. The parquet floor had been buffed to a mirror finish. She stopped in front of side-by-side oil paintings. The bearded man in one portrait held a sextant in his big hands. Flinty gray eyes looked out over an eagle nose. The woman in the other portrait wore a dark velvet dress, with a simple lace collar encircling her graceful neck. Large hazel eyes looked out with a steady gaze. There was a slight smile on her thin lips, as if amused by a secret joke.
“These are my great-great-great-grandparents. Captain Horatio and Hepsa Dobbs,” Rachael said.
Hepsa and Rachael shared the same carrot-colored hair.
“The resemblance is striking,” Paul said.
“I’m pleased with Hepsa’s gift of her red hair, but I would have preferred less of a proboscis from the captain,” she said. “As you can see, he had plenty to go around.”
Rachael Dobbs gave the Trouts a tour of the mansion, introducing the family members in the portraits that covered every wall. The men wore wide-brimmed, Quaker-style hats, the women demure caps.
She pointed to a display case that held a battered top hat.
“That was the captain’s lucky chapeau. He wore it on every whaling expedition.”
They went out onto a broad deck overlooking a formal English garden bordered with rosebushes. She seated the Trouts at an umbrellaed table on the patio and brought out glasses of iced tea.
“Thank you for the tour,” Gamay said. “It’s a beautiful house.”
“The captain and his wife moved up here from Johnny Cake Hill. The whaling merchants wanted bigger homes and gardens that reflected their status in the community. Now, how may I help you? St. Julien said on the phone that you were interested in one of the captain’s logbooks.”
“We received a query from a virologist who asked us about an epidemic that struck the Pacific whaling fleet in 1848,” Gamay said. “We’re surveying logbooks from that time to see if we can find any mention of the event.”
Rachael raised an eyebrow.
“The 1848 voyage was the captain’s last whaling expedition,” she said. “He retired from the sea after that voyage.”