got sick when we exposed them, but none died. When we brought in the third group, monkeys started getting sick before we vaccinated or exposed any of them. One of the previous monkeys must have had a subclinical infection. All the fresh monkeys got sick and eight of them died. Then Franz and I got sick. The vaccinated monkeys are all still alive.
If evil can be personified in a submicroscopic particle, Ebola is it. It is primitive and constantly mutating. I saw it become dormant to await a fresh group of monkeys, and then jump from Macaques to humans before the illness was recognized. Mosby spent $2 million to secretly acquire viable virus, purified RNA, and a vaccine. He knows exactly what he has.
CHAPTER TEN
The Albatross
Raybon Clive dove nude into the Indian Ocean and savored the cool water on a warm day. He let the dive take him deep, then kicked to return to the surface with a surge of power using his specially adapted flipper prosthesis and a dive flipper on his good leg. He broke the surface like a swordfish and splashed on his side. He’d been a competitive swimmer in college and mentioned that to the VA therapist during his rehab. They’d made him a special flipper attachment for his prosthetic leg. Now he turned on the speed, freestyle, and swam the length of the Albatross, turned and swam back with the backstroke, then butterfly, then breast stroke.
Watching from the cargo door, Davann held their “shark gun,” a bolt action .30-caliber rifle with a 7-power scope loaded with hollow-point, 180-grain bullets. Their AR-15 assault rifle would throw out lead faster, but it was high velocity and only .223-caliber. The shark gun’s bullet would explode on impact, blowing a volleyball sized hole in the fin of shark. That would teach even the largest great white a lesson.
Raybon swam in leisurely circles admiring the Albatross, now owned by the United States of America for the second time.
“A toast! To the United States Air Force,” he’d proposed two nights before at the Yacht Club, standing and holding up one of the three shots of bourbon he’d ordered. They’d been drinking beer throughout the early evening as Boyd explained his mission and what their part would be. Boyd had been honest about the danger. Raybon didn’t care, and he knew Davann didn’t care, and he knew Davann wouldn’t let an Air Force toast stand without toasting the Marine Corps, and then Raybon was going to toast the Army, then the Navy and then the Coast Guard. He was eager to be a part of the action again, but first he was going to negotiate the terms.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fort Belvoir, Virginia
“Let’s just go right to the data,” General Ferguson said, impatient as ever. Joe Smith set up his laptop on the conference table and hooked it into the flat screen TV in a crowded office conference room of the US Strategic Command’s Center for Combating Weapons of Mass Destruction at Fort Belvoir in suburban Virginia, less than 20 miles from the Pentagon. A handful of other officers found seats. Boyd and Joe had driven down from Fort Detrick, Maryland, where they had debriefed with USAMRIID and spent their first weekend back from Diego Garcia, rested and apparently free from any contagion.
“They were here,” Boyd said, pointing as a map of the Indian Ocean came up on the screen. He described the buildings and the island.
“How long do you think they were there on the island?” Ferguson asked.
“Four months.”
“Based on what data do you make that assumption?”
“The amount of shit in the privy, sir,” Boyd responded with a straight face.
A wave of suppressed laughter crossed the room. Ferguson smiled faintly, and then cut it off. “Colonel Smith, what do you have?”
“There were two men on the island, and seven monkeys, all dead.” With that, Joe opened the first picture of the charred skull with Joe’s
If evil can be personified in a submicroscopic particle, Ebola is it. It is primitive and constantly mutating. I saw it become dormant to await a fresh group of monkeys, and then jump from Macaques to humans before the illness was recognized. Mosby spent $2 million to secretly acquire viable virus, purified RNA, and a vaccine. He knows exactly what he has.
CHAPTER TEN
The Albatross
Raybon Clive dove nude into the Indian Ocean and savored the cool water on a warm day. He let the dive take him deep, then kicked to return to the surface with a surge of power using his specially adapted flipper prosthesis and a dive flipper on his good leg. He broke the surface like a swordfish and splashed on his side. He’d been a competitive swimmer in college and mentioned that to the VA therapist during his rehab. They’d made him a special flipper attachment for his prosthetic leg. Now he turned on the speed, freestyle, and swam the length of the Albatross, turned and swam back with the backstroke, then butterfly, then breast stroke.
Watching from the cargo door, Davann held their “shark gun,” a bolt action .30-caliber rifle with a 7-power scope loaded with hollow-point, 180-grain bullets. Their AR-15 assault rifle would throw out lead faster, but it was high velocity and only .223-caliber. The shark gun’s bullet would explode on impact, blowing a volleyball sized hole in the fin of shark. That would teach even the largest great white a lesson.
Raybon swam in leisurely circles admiring the Albatross, now owned by the United States of America for the second time.
“A toast! To the United States Air Force,” he’d proposed two nights before at the Yacht Club, standing and holding up one of the three shots of bourbon he’d ordered. They’d been drinking beer throughout the early evening as Boyd explained his mission and what their part would be. Boyd had been honest about the danger. Raybon didn’t care, and he knew Davann didn’t care, and he knew Davann wouldn’t let an Air Force toast stand without toasting the Marine Corps, and then Raybon was going to toast the Army, then the Navy and then the Coast Guard. He was eager to be a part of the action again, but first he was going to negotiate the terms.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fort Belvoir, Virginia
“Let’s just go right to the data,” General Ferguson said, impatient as ever. Joe Smith set up his laptop on the conference table and hooked it into the flat screen TV in a crowded office conference room of the US Strategic Command’s Center for Combating Weapons of Mass Destruction at Fort Belvoir in suburban Virginia, less than 20 miles from the Pentagon. A handful of other officers found seats. Boyd and Joe had driven down from Fort Detrick, Maryland, where they had debriefed with USAMRIID and spent their first weekend back from Diego Garcia, rested and apparently free from any contagion.
“They were here,” Boyd said, pointing as a map of the Indian Ocean came up on the screen. He described the buildings and the island.
“How long do you think they were there on the island?” Ferguson asked.
“Four months.”
“Based on what data do you make that assumption?”
“The amount of shit in the privy, sir,” Boyd responded with a straight face.
A wave of suppressed laughter crossed the room. Ferguson smiled faintly, and then cut it off. “Colonel Smith, what do you have?”
“There were two men on the island, and seven monkeys, all dead.” With that, Joe opened the first picture of the charred skull with Joe’s
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