DEATH VALLEY, CALIFORNIA
Dr. Dick Price was the director of research applications for a facility buried deep in a billion-dollar laboratory. The lab was located in a place Price personally felt was the most aptly named spot on earth: Death Valley. There was no way to get to his lab except by helicopter, and when the birds were out of the coop he and his staff felt like they’d been abandoned on the dark side of the moon.
Team members had to go through ten kinds of security screening including incredibly thorough background checks and psychological evaluations that felt like personality rape. The few who passed those tests then had to put their names to a stack of waivers and nondisclosure agreements, and one frightening document which, for all intents and purposes, signed away their constitutional rights.
Once someone arrived at Z-point, as it was familiarly known, the government owned them. Body and, as Price saw it, soul.
Everyone on the science team knew that the place was illegal as hell. Even the support staff—cooks, guards, cleaners, and janitors—suspected as much. A word to a journalist could bring the place down and likely have several members of Congress and the Department of Defense thrown into jail, but the wording of those documents would land the whistle-blower in an adjoining cell.
It was criminal but necessary. At least as far as Price and his masters at the DOD were concerned. The international agreements and bans on certain kinds of biological warfare were nice in their way, but Price didn’t believe for a moment that any of the signatory nations was truly abiding by those rules. It didn’t make a lot of sense to do so, not as he saw it. There were terrorist groups who knew how to grow viruses, and plenty of nations—North Korea, Iran, and China sprang to mind—that were definitely cultivating the next generation of weaponized pathogens. The CIA had proof, but politics and the subtle chess game of brinksmanship kept that inf
ormation below the surface. It was leverage in all kinds of discussions, and as long as the bad guys screwed around with their bugs and bombs, the State Department and the CIA had some dials they could turn. Blackmail was far more important and useful than public disclosure.
On the other hand, knowing that your enemy was designing microscopic monsters was in itself a tacit mandate to do the same. Maybe not for attack—not even Price thought that America was crazy enough to release the kind of bioweapon that teams like Z-point developed—but in order to build a good shield you have to be able to study the sword it needs to stop. That’s what the people at Z-point did. They made monsters in order to study them and—ideally—craft response protocols, sera, antitoxins, and other prophylactic measures.
For these reasons and others, Dick Price believed that he was prepared for the conversation he was about to have with the president of the United States. He’d had two similar conversations with a previous president during a bioweapon attack at the Liberty Bell Center in Philadelphia more than a dozen years ago and then when a group of domestic terrorists created weaponized and communicable versions of genetic diseases including Tay-Sachs and sickle cell. Those had been difficult conversations, especially the first one, since the sitting president of any given administration is never advised about the existence of Zabriske Point or similar stations until he needed to know. Plausible deniability was such a useful thing.
“We’re just about ready,” said his aide.
Price sat at his desk with a large laptop open and the encryption conference software up and running.
He adjusted his tie, sipped some water, took a calming breath, and nodded to the aide.
The screen display changed from a placeholder of the presidential seal to the face of the commander in chief. Two people sat on either side of the president—Scott Blair, the national security advisor, and a young and very intense-looking black woman Price knew by reputation only, Dr. Monica McReady, a rising superstar in the epidemiology world. A woman, he reminded himself, who had been mentioned several times as perhaps a better fit for the directorship of Z-point than he was.
Shit, he thought. That’s just swell.
He could feel sweat begin to form along his spine.
“Dr. Price?” said the president.
“Yes, Mr. President. Despite the circumstances it is a pleasure to meet you, even virtually.”
The president gave a tiny nod. There was a brief round of introductions, but it was done fast and without the usual courtesies.
“Have you been brought up to speed on the situation developing in western Pennsylvania?”
“I have, Mr. President.”
“Am I to understand that you are familiar with Lucifer 113?” There was both frost and anger in the president’s tone.
“Yes, sir. Very familiar.”
“In what way are you familiar?”
Price paused. “Well, Mr. President, as you know we—”
“No, Dr. Price, I don’t know. Until twenty minutes ago I had never heard your name or the name of your facility. While I am aware of the requirements of security and confidentiality, I am distressed to learn that we are continuing work on a bioweapon of such devastating potential that one of my predecessors felt compelled to use an executive order to terminate all work on it. Are you aware of that order, Dr. Price?”
Price said nothing, and against his will his eyes flicked toward the national security advisor.
“Mr. President, I…” began Price, but his words faltered.
The president shook his head. “When this matter is resolved,” he said coldly, “there will be a full investigation. Make no mistake. However I think it’s fair to say that heads will roll at a higher pay grade than yours.”
Blair looked at the fingers of his folded hands and Price saw something flicker on his face. Was it irritation? Was it cynical humor? Whatever it was flicked on and off his mouth in a microsecond and the president did not see it.
Price said, “I … um … I mean, thank you.”