Connelly took a deep breath and then continued. “We think she’s engineering the common cold virus to insert specific Ebola virus genes into human chromosomes like a retrovirus does,” he said gravely. “As with any cold, it would spread quickly. But now, in addition to a runny nose, those infected would get a bonus: the genes responsible for the massive hemorrhagic fever associated with Ebola. This is almost always fatal. Victims suffer from fever, vomiting, diarrhea, and uncontrollable bleeding, both internally and externally—from the corners of their eyes, their nose—everywhere.”
Desh’s stomach tightened. Ebola was the deadliest virus known. He shouldn’t have been surprised that something as promising as gene therapy and molecular biology could be bastardized to kill rather than cure. Humanity seemed to have a singular ability to find destructive uses for any constructive technology. Invent the computer, and you could be certain someone would invent computer viruses and other ways to attack it. Invent the Internet, an unimaginable treasure trove of information, and you could bet it would be used as a recruiting tool for hate mongers and instantly turned into a venue for child pornographers, sexual predators, and scam artists. Humanity never failed to find a way to become its own worst enemy.
“I still don’t see how the terrorists can be certain of avoiding the Ebola genes themselves,” said Desh.
“They can’t be. But there’s more to the story. This is where the molecular trigger comes in. Remember, the genes don’t only have to be inserted, they have to be activated.”
“So what activates them?”
“We believe she’s trying to engineer them to be triggered by a chemical. One specific to a certain food. Ingest this chemical and the inserted Ebola genetic material begins to be expressed by victims’ cells. And once the genes have been triggered, there’s no stopping them. People’s own cells are transformed into ticking time bombs. A few days to a few weeks later, boom!—you’re dead.” Connelly raised his eyebrows. “Any guesses as to what food sets it off?”
Desh looked blank.
“Pork.”
Desh’s eyes widened. Of course it would be pork. What else? Only those at the pinnacle of the Jihadist pyramid would know of the plot, but since ingestion of pork was forbidden in the Muslim religion, their followers would be safe. And Desh knew how these people thought. In their eyes, any Muslim around the world who ignored this prohibition and did eat pork deserved to die anyway.
“Our organic chemists tell me there are several complex molecules that are swine-specific. We believe the Ebola genes are set to be triggered by one of them. But even though the genes are triggered, the viral parts aren’t present, so it isn’t infectious like the natural Ebola. That’s what keeps the terrorists safe. As long as they don’t eat pork, they have nothing to worry about.”
Desh’s lip curled up in disgust. It was a masterful plan from the terrorist’s perspective. And as utterly horrific as their strategy was, it was not without its boldness or creativity. Ironically, in addition to devout Muslims, religious Jews would also be spared. This would be the only fly in the ointment of an otherwise ideal plan from the terrorists’ perspective. The fact that their most hated enemy would remain untouched would sit like open sores in their stomachs.
“Can she really pull it off?” he asked
“This is as difficult a genetic engineering project as there is, but if anyone in the world can do it, Kira Miller can. She’s that good.”
“And the expected casualties?”
“Depends on how efficiently her designed virus can insert the genes, and how efficiently the pork-specific organic chemicals can trigger them. Worst case, hundreds of millions around the world. Best case, given the high quality of medicine in the West, maybe a few hundred thousand.”
The color drained from Desh’s face. This attack had the potential to be more costly in human lives than a nuclear bomb set off in a population center. And the very nature of the attack would unleash a raging wildfire of irrationality and panic that could have an incalculable effect on civilization. “And this would be only the beginning,” he whispered to Connelly.
“That’s right,” said Connelly. “People would fear they had other Trojan Horses buried in their genetic material, primed to go off with one wrong bite. No one would know what foods to trust. Rumors would race around the world. Fear would be at a fever pitch. Economies would collapse. The most ordered societies would degenerate into chaos and devastation almost overnight.”
Desh knew this plan could set civilization back hundreds of years—which is exactly what the Jihadists wanted. No wonder Kira Miller was so wealthy. If she could convince Al-Qaeda she could execute on this plan, she could name her price. Death and devastation on a vast scale wouldn’t trouble a soulless psychopath like her in the least.
“At some point, we may be forced to issue a warning not to eat pork,” said Connelly. “But this wouldn’t buy us all that much. The warning itself would incite some of the panic we’re trying to avoid. Many wouldn’t get the message and still others would ignore it, believing it to be a government conspiracy. And we believe the Jihadists have a contingency version ready to go, with a different trigger. So sounding the alarm would just push them into plan B. The terrorist leaders would still know which foods to avoid, although since they’d only risk sharing this secret with a select few, they’d lose far more of their followers under this scenario.”
Desh shook his head in disgust. If it came to that, the need to sacrifice scores of their followers for the cause would not give them the slightest pause.
Desh placed the photographs back inside the folder and reinserted it into the accordion file. Before arriving at Fort Bragg he had already felt dead inside. Being on the grounds, a reminder of a past he so desperately wanted to forget, had made things worse. And now this. He felt ill. He needed to conclude this meeting and get some air. “So tell me,” he said pointedly. “Why am I here?”
Connelly sighed deeply. “Kira Miller has been off the grid since her brother’s murder—for about a year now. She’s vanished. Like magic. We have reason to believe she was in San Diego last November, but she could be anywhere now. Only Bin Laden and a few others have been the subject of bigger manhunts, and we’ve basically gotten nowhere. There are those who think she must be dead, but we can’t make that assumption, obviously.”
“I ask again,” said Desh. “Why am I here? Plan B? Send in a solitary man when entire armies fail?”
“Believe me, we didn’t wait until now to try the Lone Ranger approach. We’ve been sending in individual agents for several months. The best and brightest. They’ve gotten nowhere.”
“So what am I, then,” remarked Desh. “Plan E? What do you expect I can do that your first choices couldn’t?”
“First of all, you would have been my first choice had you remained in the military. You know that, David. You know my opinion of your abilities. I didn’t think I could get authorization to recruit a civilian, so I never recommended you.”
Desh looked confused. “Then how am I here?”
“Someone up the food chain realized your value and asked me to recruit you. I was thrilled that they did. Not only are you unequaled as a soldier, you found more top-level terrorists on the lamb than anyone when you were in the service. No one is as creative and tenacious on the hunt as you are. Kira Miller has a knack for gene therapy. You have a knack for finding those who are off the grid.”