“Flotation tank?”
“They used to be called sensory deprivation chambers. Basically a giant coffin filled with water and Epsom salt. Seal yourself up in one and you bob around like a cork, weightless, in total silence and total darkness. You receive virtually no sensory input while inside.” Connelly grimaced. “One can only imagine what she was doing with it. Performing bizarre rituals? Locking people in for days at a time as a means of torture?” he shuddered. “This girl is our worst nightmare: brilliant and totally unpredictable. No conscience; no remorse.”
The room fell silent. Both men were alone with their thoughts. Desh knew that any problem Connelly had that he couldn’t solve with his vast resources and was important enough for him to summon Desh had to be very, very ugly. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know what it was. Maybe he should just leave now. What did it matter, anyway? Stop one villain and another would always spring up to take his place. But he couldn’t bring himself to walk away, at least not until his curiosity was satisfied.
Desh took a deep breath and locked his eyes on Connelly. “So let’s cut to the chase, Colonel. What are we really talking about here, biological warfare?”
Connelly frowned. “That’s right. And she’s the best around—maybe ever.” Connelly’s demeanor, already fairly grim due to the nature of the events he had been reporting, took a sharp turn for the worse.
“With her skills and experience engineering viruses,” said Desh, “I’m sure she could make them more deadly and contagious. But to what end? You can’t contain them. They could easily boomerang back on the terrorists. I know these groups aren’t very selective in who they kill, but their leaders, at least, aren’t in any hurry to meet the seventy-two virgins awaiting them in heaven.”
“My bioweapons experts tell me someone with her skill can get around the containment issue by designing in molecular triggers. The DNA not only has to be inserted, it has to be read and turned into gene products,” explained Connelly. “There are promoter regions on the DNA that control under what circumstances this happens. Triggers. Someone as talented as Kira Miller can engineer these to her specifications. Like a Trojan Horse virus that infects your computer. It lies dormant until whatever predetermined time the asshole who invented it has specified. Then it emerges and demolishes your files.”
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.”