6. Piedmont

AT 9:59 A.M. ON THE SAME MORNING, A K-4 JET helicopter lifted off the concrete of Vandenberg’s maximum-security hangar MSH-9 and headed east, toward Arizona.

The decision to lift off from an MSH was made by Major Manchek, who was concerned about the attention the suits might draw. Because inside the helicopter were three men, a pilot and two scientists, and all three wore clear plastic inflatable suits, making them look like obese men from Mars, or, as one of the hangar maintenance men put it, “like balloons from the Macy’s parade.”

As the helicopter climbed into the clear morning sky, the two passengers in the belly looked at each other. One was Jeremy Stone, the other Charles Burton. Both men had arrived at Vandenberg just a few hours before— Stone from Stanford and Burton from Baylor University in Houston.

Burton was fifty-four, a pathologist. He held a professorship at Baylor Medical School and served as a consultant to the NASA Manned Spaceflight Center in Houston. Earlier he had done research at the National Institutes in Bethesda. His field had been the effects of bacteria on human tissues.

It is one of the peculiarities of scientific development that such a vital field was virtually untouched when Burton came to it. Though men had known germs caused disease since Henle’s hypothesis of 1840, by the middle of the twentieth century there was still nothing known about why or how bacteria did their damage. The specific mechanisms were unknown.

Burton began, like so many others in his day, with Diplococcus pneumoniae, the agent causing pneumonia. There was great interest in pneumococcus before the advent of penicillin in the forties; after that, both interest and research money evaporated. Burton shifted to Staphylococcus aureus, a common skin pathogen responsible for “pimples” and “boils.” At the time he began his work, his fellow researchers laughed at him; staphylococcus, like pneumococcus, was highly sensitive to penicillin. They doubted Burton would ever get enough money to carry on his work.

For five years, they were right. The money was scarce, and Burton often had to go begging to foundations and philanthropists. Yet he persisted, patiently elucidating the coats of the cell wall that caused a reaction in host tissue and helping to discover the half-dozen toxins secreted by the bacteria to break down tissue, spread infection, and destroy red cells.

Suddenly, in the 1950’s, the first penicillin-resistant strains of staph appeared. The new strains were virulent, and produced bizarre deaths, often by brain abscess. Almost overnight Burton found his work had assumed major importance; dozens of labs around the country were changing over to study staph; it was a “hot field.” In a single year, Burton watched his grant appropriations jump from $6,000 a year to $300,000. Soon afterward, he was made a professor of pathology.

Looking back, Burton felt no great pride in his accomplishment; it was, he knew, a matter of luck, of being in the right place and doing the right work when the time came.

He wondered what would come of being here, in this helicopter, now.

Sitting across from him, Jeremy Stone tried to conceal his distaste for Burton’s appearance. Beneath the plastic suit Burton wore a dirty plaid sport shirt with a stain on the left breast pocket; his trousers were creased and frayed and even his hair, Stone felt, was unruly and untidy.

He stared out the window, forcing himself to think of other matters. “Fifty people,” he said, shaking his head. “Dead

within eight hours of the landing of Scoop VII. The question is one of spread.”

“Presumably airborne,” Burton said.

“Yes. Presumably.”

“Everyone seems to have died in the immediate vicinity of the town,” Burton said. “Are there reports of deaths farther out?

Stone shook his head. “I’m having the Army people look into it. They’re working with the highway patrol. So far, no deaths have turned up outside.”

“Wind?”

“A stroke of luck,” Stone said. “Last night the wind was fairly brisk, nine miles an hour to the south and steady. But around midnight, it died. Pretty unusual for this time of year, they tell me.”

“But fortunate for us.”

“Yes.” Stone nodded. “We’re fortunate in another way as well. There is no important area of habitation for a radius a of nearly one hundred and twelve miles. Outside that, of course, there is Las Vegas to the north, San Bernardino to the west, and Phoenix to the east. Not nice, if the bug gets to any of them.”

“But as long as the wind stays down, we have time.”

“Presumably,” Stone said.

For the next half hour, the two men discussed the vector problem with frequent reference to a sheaf of output maps drawn up during the night by Vandenberg’s computer division. The output maps were highly complex analyses of geographic problems; in this case, the maps were visualizations of the southwestern United States, weighted for wind direction and population.

[Graphic: About page 58. First map of mountain west of USA, showing examples of the staging of computerbase output mapping. Each shows coordinates around population centers and other important areas. A second map shows the weighting that accounts for wind and population factors and is consequently distorted in Southern CA, and Southern NV. A third map shows the computer projection of the effects of wind and population in a specific “scenario.” None of the maps is from the Wildfire Project. They are similar, but they represent output from a CBW scenario, not the actual Wildfire work. (Courtesy General Autonomics Corporation)]

Discussion then turned to the time course of death. Both men had heard the tape from the van; they agreed that everyone at Piedmont seemed to have died quite suddenly.

“Even if you slit a man’s throat with a razor,” Burton said, “you won’t get death that rapidly. Cutting both carotids and jugulars still allows ten to forty seconds before unconsciousness, and nearly a minute before death.”

“At Piedmont, it seems to have occurred in a second or two.”

Burton shrugged. “Trauma,” he suggested. “A blow to the head.”

“Yes. Or a nerve gas.”

“Certainly possible.”

“It’s that, or something very much like it,” Stone said. “If it was an enzymatic block of some kind— like arsenic or strychnine— we’d expect fifteen or thirty seconds, perhaps longer. But a block of nervous transmission, or a block of the neuro-muscular junction, or cortical poisoning— that could be very swift. It could be instantaneous.”

“If it is a fast-acting gas,” Burton said, “it must have high diffusibility across the lungs—”

“Or the skin,” Stone said. “Mucous membranes, anything. Any porous surface.”

Burton touched the plastic of his suit. “If this gas is so highly diffusible…”

Stone gave a slight smile. “We’ll find out, soon enough.”

***

Over the intercom, the helicopter pilot said, “Piedmont approaching, gentlemen. Please advise.”

Stone said, “Circle once and give us a look at it.”

The helicopter banked steeply. The two men looked out and saw the town below them. The buzzards had landed during the night, and were thickly clustered around the bodies.

“I was afraid of that,” Stone said.

“They may represent a vector for infectious spread,” Burton said. “Eat the meat of infected people, and carry the organisms away with them.”

Stone nodded, staring out the window.

“What do we do?”

“Gas them,” Stone said. He flicked on the intercom to the pilot. “Have you got the canisters?”

“Yes sir.”

“Circle again; and blanket the town.”

“Yes sir.”

The helicopter tilted, and swung back. Soon the two men could not see the ground for the clouds of pale-blue gas.

“What is it?”

“Chlorazine,” Stone said. “Highly effective, in low concentrations, on aviary metabolism. Birds have a high metabolic rate. They are creatures that consist of little more than feathers and muscle; their heartbeats are usually about one-twenty, and many species eat more than their own weight every day.”

“The gas is an uncoupler?”

“Yes. It’ll hit them hard.”

The helicopter banked away, then hovered. The gas slowly cleared in the gentle wind, moving off to the south. Soon they could see the ground again. Hundreds of birds lay there; a few flapped their wings spastically, but most were already dead.

Stone frowned as he watched. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew he had forgotten something, or ignored something. Some fact, some vital clue, that the birds provided and he must not overlook.

Over the intercom, the pilot said, “Your orders, sir?”

“Go to the center of the main street,” Stone said, “and drop the rope ladder. You are to remain twenty feet above ground. Do not put down. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir.”

“When we have climbed down, you are to lift off to an altitude of five hundred feet.”

“Yes sir.”

“Return when we signal you.”

“Yes sir.”

“And should anything happen to us—”

“I proceed directly to Wildfire,” the pilot said, his voice dry.

“Correct.”

The pilot knew what that meant. He was being paid according to the highest Air Force pay scales: he was drawing regular pay plus hazardous-duty pay, plus non-wartime special-services pay, plus mission-over-hostile-territory pay, plus bonus air-time pay. He would receive more than a thousand dollars for this day’s work, and his family would receive an additional ten thousand dollars from the short-term life insurance should he not return.

There was a reason for the money: if anything happened to Burton and Stone on the ground, the pilot was ordered to fly directly to the Wildfire installation and hover thirty feet above ground until such time as the Wildfire group had determined the correct way to incinerate him, and his airplane, in midair.

He was being paid to take a risk. He had volunteered for the job. And he knew that high above, circling at twenty thousand feet, was an Air Force jet with air-to-air missiles. It was the job of the jet to shoot down the helicopter should the pilot suffer a last-minute loss of nerve and fail to go directly to Wildfire.

“Don’t slip up,” the pilot said. “Sir.”

The helicopter maneuvered over the main street of the town and hung in midair. There was a rattling sound: the rope ladder being released. Stone stood and pulled on his helmet. He snapped shut the sealer and inflated his clear suit, puffing it up around him. A small bottle of oxygen on his back would provide enough air for two hours of exploration.

He waited until Burton had sealed his suit, and then Stone opened the hatch and stared down at the ground. The helicopter was raising a heavy cloud of dust.

Stone clicked on his radio. “All set?”

“All set.”

Stone began to climb down the ladder. Burton waited a moment, then followed. He could see nothing in the swirling dust, but finally felt his shoes touch the ground. He released the ladder and looked over. He could barely make out Stone’s suit, a dim outline in a gloomy, dusky world.

The ladder pulled away as the helicopter lifted into the sky. The dust cleared. They could see.

“Let’s go,” Stone said.

Moving clumsily in their suits, they walked down the main street of Piedmont.