CHAPTER 1

US Army Base Fort Detrick, Maryland, 1957

The loudspeakers were past their prime and certainly never intended for blasting rock ’n’ roll. They gave off some static, but Elvis Presley’s seductive voice filled the entire laboratory and most likely all seven floors of the building. The use of military equipment for these purposes wouldn’t have been tolerated during regular hours. But late at night, when higher-ups and other old fogeys from the med school weren’t around, such diversions were standard practice—especially since Dr. Philip Neville had joined the staff. The talented English chemist loved the fifties rhythms, which just begged for hip shaking and pelvis thrusting. And he never missed a chance to show off his dance moves.

At any rate, “Jailhouse Rock” enlivened the monotonous atmosphere of the research center and didn’t really bother the few people present at this late hour.

Professor Jane Woodridge tolerated the rule-bending, as long as it didn’t interfere with their work. The biochemist even succumbed to the music on occasion, tapping her foot to the beat when no one was looking. Away from the watchful eyes of colleagues, she could slough off some of the professional veneer and relax a bit.

For the moment, she was allowing herself to be amused by Neville, who was rocking to Elvis while leafing through the reports on experiments conducted by that day’s team.

What we’re dealing with here is serious enough, she said to herself. We shouldn’t let it get the better of us.

Neville seemed to read her mind. He picked up a jar of pencils—his improvised microphone—held it to his mouth, and began belting out the lyrics.

The magic moment was over. The Elvis impersonation had gone far enough. Sure, Neville had the moves, but his resemblance to the King stopped there.

Jane glared at her colleague. Under the heat of her stare, Neville lowered his voice and then settled for mouthing the words without making any noise at all.

“Phil, could you please bring me the registration receipt for the new pathogens?”

Neville sauntered toward the tall metal filing cabinets, opened a drawer, and set about searching through the suspended folders.

“Sorry, I can’t find it. It must be in the general’s office.”

Jane got up with a heavy sigh. She walked over to Neville and gave the contents of the drawer a weary look. She pulled out a manila folder and waved it under his nose with a condescending smile.

“If you’re more interested in dancing than scientific research, send your résumé to Hollywood,” she said, returning to her desk. “Who knows, maybe some producer out there is looking for the next Donald O’Connor.”

The music ended.

“I’ll think about it,” her colleague replied as he dropped into his chair. “Life is short, and I don’t see myself rotting away here. How can you stand working in this stronghold four nights a week, especially with a kid at home?”

“That’s none of your business,” Jane responded. The familiarity offended her. “I love my son, if you must know. I do the best I can to balance my career and family life. Luckily, my husband is remarkable, extraordinary even.”

“He must be, seeing that he puts up with sleeping alone half the week.”

“You’re being rude, and I don’t appreciate it. Like it or not, I care deeply about my job.”

Neville raised an eyebrow. “Ah yes, we’re working for the glory of Uncle Sam. Concocting antidotes for our soldiers and citizens in the event of biological warfare—quite a noble task.”

“Do I sense a hint of sarcasm?”

“That’s not my style. Hey, if the soviets are capable of using that kind of weapon, what makes you think we wouldn’t do the same?”

“Democracy, communism. The differences seem obvious to me,” Jane answered, her lips pursed.

“Of course, the nation of liberty and justice for all would never dirty its hands with methods so vile and contradictory to the Geneva Protocol, which we haven’t ratified, may I remind you.”

The young man leaned back in his chair, visibly satisfied with the correctness of his viewpoint. But Jane refused to let him have the upper hand.

“What are you trying to tell me? That we’re not developing treatments, but weapons instead? That’s absurd! Leave the politics to the professionals, and concentrate on your dancing or, better yet, on your work.”

“Tell me, Jane, don’t you wonder why access to certain sections of the two lower levels are off-limits to us?”

The woman gave herself a few seconds to reflect, adjusting the bun at the nape of her neck. She reinserted two pins in her blond hair and then spoke solemnly.

“We’re studying the reactions of test subjects injected with agents and creating the proper countermeasures. I don’t see how access to storage units with viral strains concerns us.”

“The company line, as usual. I’m convinced there’s a hidden agenda.”

“Then go complain to the authorities. I’m not stopping you. While you’re concocting your dark theories, I’ll be in the lab,” she said as she glanced at the clock on the wall. “Time for the daily log. The office is all yours.”

“Say hi to the guinea pigs for me.”

Jane left the room and headed toward the elevators. She waved to the two military police officers patrolling the hallway. They always looked so creepy, more the punch-in-your-face sort than the type inclined to give a respectful salute. The elevator doors slid open, and she scurried inside.

Neville’s skeptical nature was borderline eccentric. But he was right about life being too short. And working at the US Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases had been weighing on her since her son Sean’s birth. Her husband supported her career and did his part at home. She felt privileged. Most other women were stuck being housewives, not because they had chosen the life, but because it was expected, and there were few alternatives. Jane hoped that she could serve as a role model for other women who yearned for more independence and opportunity. But she missed her son, and she could not wait for the workweek to end so that she could go home and enjoy those three days with her boy and her man.

As the elevator sank into the depths of the building, she pondered what to do about Neville. If he continued to carelessly speculate about their work, she would have to notify her superiors, because the base wasn’t just conducting research; it was involved in the production of biological weapons. For now, Neville’s security clearance denied him access to such sensitive information. In light of his comments, she would recommend that he be denied that access permanently and be put under heightened surveillance.

The elevator finally stopped, and the doors opened onto a long room whose walls were lined with cages. A musky smell saturated the air, and shrill screams rose from the pens, where monkeys were jumping wildly against the sides of their cages. Practically every night, she would come down to the lower levels to check on the primates and see if any were dying.

The shrieking from the cages intensified as she walked toward them.

“Don’t worry, my sweethearts. I’m not coming for you this time, but for your friend,” she said as she continued past the animals.

At the end of the room, there was a reinforced metal door equipped with a large handle. Jane opened a small hatch in the wall to reveal a lock. She inserted the key that she jealously guarded in her pocket.

With a loud mechanical click, the door opened. Behind it was a large room with sad green walls. Two carts holding the instruments Jane used in her experiments were waiting beside a small bed.

A man in his twenties—the reason for her visit tonight—lay there, covered in a blue sheet. He moaned faintly. The sedatives were wearing off. From the pocket of her lab coat, Jane pulled out a small notebook and a pencil. She examined the patient’s face.

Pus trickled from blisters around his discolored lips. Along the sides of his inflamed nostrils were clusters of ready-to-burst boils. The exposed part of his chest was similarly disfigured.

Jane was pleased to note the normal progression of symptoms and scribbled her observations in her notebook.

“Hang in there a little longer,” she said. “Two or three days from now, we’ll initiate treatment.”

The only response was an agonized groan.

After injecting the young man with more sedative, Jane headed back. She had what she needed. She wished her monkey sweethearts a pleasant night and found her way to the exit. Just two more hours with Professor Neville, and then her shift would be over.

Jane stepped into the elevator, eager to wrap things up. But when she arrived at her floor, the doors refused to budge. Jane cursed the incompetence of the maintenance crew. Breakdowns occurred often, too often for her liking. She was about to pick up the elevator’s black telephone to tell off the orderly, when the base loudspeakers started blasting an ear-splitting siren.

Jane pressed her hands over her ears to muffle the excruciating noise. Then the wailing stopped. It was replaced by a man’s voice, which Jane identified as that of the duty officer.

“Attention, all personnel. Due to a security breach in sector four, we ask that you calmly make your way toward the emergency exits.”

Jane’s eyes widened with surprise. She felt her heartbeat speed up and her scalp tingle with sweat. “This is no time to panic,” she said to herself. “Think fast.”

She took a deep breath and held it. Jane frantically pushed the button for one floor up, where her designated exit was located. The elevator didn’t move, but the doors finally opened.

Then she saw the guards sprawled on the floor. Their dogs were lying all around them, vomiting and shaking. The virus was already spreading throughout the facility. The alert had been broadcast too late. There was not a moment to lose.

You breathe, you die, she told herself as she rushed toward an open door on her right. She entered the stairwell and heaved herself up the steps two at a time. An object was rolling toward her. A jar of pencils. She stepped over Phil Neville, who lay dying on the steps. He stretched out a hand in her direction but was unable to grab her ankle. Jane thought of her husband, her son, her flaming lungs and repeated over and over, “You breathe, you die.”

She found the corridor. A little more effort and she’d be out of this hellhole. Jane grabbed the metal door handle and pushed. It didn’t open. She thrust with both hands, using all the strength she had. Nothing happened. She couldn’t hold out for more than a few seconds. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she pounded and kicked.

Those bastards had locked the exits shut! As soon as the sector had lost its airtight seal, the virus had spread, and then it was lockdown. Now the brick-and-steel building was one big tomb.

Jane Woodridge leaned against the door and slid to the floor. She closed her eyes, visualized Sean’s sweet chubby face, and filled her lungs a final time.