The Aedes Plague

Epidemiologist

PROLOGUE

THE UNITED STATES FACES a modern-day threat that goes way beyond the threat of natural mutating viruses and bacteria…it is the potential accidental release of deadly and unstoppable biological agents from laboratories into the public realm. The unintentional release of a microbiological agent, such as smallpox, Ebola, Marburg, or even anthrax – due to a failure in a laboratory containment system – is far more likely than terrorists intentionally releasing a biological weapon in the U.S.

We are now seeing – with new revelations unearthed nearly every month – the threat of accidental releases of dangerous pathogens and biotoxins from laboratories across the world, which pose an extremely severe danger to humans and animals, including livestock, plants and agricultural products.

Not all labs, of course, are like those in the science fiction movies like Contagion and Outbreak, that handle biosafety level-4 mega-pathogens such as Ebola and smallpox. But there are plenty of other dangerous organisms studied in U.S. labs that could easily kill millions of unsuspecting people if an accidental release were to occur.

Currently, there are more than 450 research centers in the U.S. alone operating in over 1,500 labs capable of conducting research on deadly biological agents such as Ebola, Marburg and anthrax – just to name a few – and there are an astounding 12,000 individuals authorized to work with these lethal pathogens.

The danger posed by potentially pandemic-causing viruses accidentally escaping from laboratories – previously considered an unlikely scenario – has now become a frightening reality.

Unknown to the public, researchers already manipulate dangerous pathogens to create or increase communicability – the purpose of which is to develop tools to monitor the natural emergence of pandemic strains. The risk of laboratory escape of these high-consequence pathogens far outweighs any potential advance to science or humanity. The tragic consequences of an accidental release could be called self-fulfilling prophecies.

And it’s all done within miles of where most people in the U.S. live, drive to work every day and shop for groceries. Startlingly, in most accidental releases of pathogens from laboratories, the first infection, or index case, usually happens in a person not working directly with the pathogen in a lab.

The reasons cited for escaped pathogens all have nearly the same common themes: unrecognized technical flaws in standard biocontainment procedures, improperly reduced biosecurity levels, poor training of personnel and slack oversight of laboratory procedures are usually always the primary causes.

Oversight of biological research labs by U.S. authorities is fragmented, often secretive and largely self-policing – amazingly, this is what constitutes our front line of biosafety.

Complicating matters, classification of risk group and biosafety levels in laboratories are defined much differently worldwide. The laboratory biosafety levels in the US are based on the Center for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) classifications which group biological research into categories 1 through 4.

These categories are based on the increasing level of risk that microbial pathogens can present to humans and animals. However, we are now faced with a proliferation race for BSL-3 and 4 labs – having these facilities is the hallmark of national sophistication and distinction in the scientific world. But the reality is this: The spread of these BSL-3 and 4 labs increases the risk of the world’s most dangerous microbes entering our environment.

There are currently at least 13 operational or acknowledged highest level BSL-4 facilities within the U.S alone. The consequences could be devastating if an accident were to occur with lab-created strains of deadly viruses that are purposely engineered to be easier to spread than what’s found in nature.

Experiments continue every day, involving drug-resistant tuberculosis, exotic strains of deadly bird influenza, the SARS and MERS viruses, plague, anthrax, botulism, ricin and the Ebola and Marburg hemorrhagic fever viruses, just to name of few of the deadly pathogens. In fact, experiments have been done with strains of many viruses which have been made purposely to be more dangerous and transmissible, just to understand how they might mutate naturally in our environment.

What’s more, it is impossible to obtain a full accounting of lab accidents or lab-acquired infections in the U.S. because there is no universal, mandatory requirement for reporting them and no centralized system in place to analyze trends to assess emerging biosafety risks and disseminate lessons learned on a regular basis.

Vials of bioterror bacteria have gone missing. Lab mice infected with deadly viruses have escaped, and wild rodents have been found making nests with research waste in U.S. laboratories. Hundreds of lab mistakes, safety violations and near-miss incidents have occurred in biological laboratories coast to coast in recent years, putting scientists, their colleagues and sometimes even the public at very high risk.

In 2011, scientists announced experiments had been conducted that made lethal strains of bird flu transmissible between ferrets – lab-animals used as proxies to simulate human transmission. Smallpox, which was eradicated in the world, was supposed to be held in only two places on Earth: at a secure facility at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta and a virology institute in Novosibirsk, Siberia; however, six decades-old vials of the smallpox virus were mysteriously discovered in 2014 at a U.S. National Institutes of Health laboratory in Bethesda, Md.

The most famous case of a released laboratory pathogen is the re-emergent H1N1 Influenza-A virus, which was first observed in China in May of 1977 and in Russia shortly thereafter. The virus circulating in those two countries was known to have escaped from a lab attempting to prepare an attenuated H1N1 vaccine in response to the U.S. swine flu pandemic alert.

In 2007, foot-and-mouth disease (FMD) – a severe, highly contagious viral disease of cattle, sheep, goats and swine – appeared in Britain, two and one-half miles from a BSL-4 laboratory. The disease spread rapidly to many surrounding cattle farms. Investigators traced the source of infection to construction vehicles which had carried mud-contaminated with FMD on their tires from a defective wastewater line at the BSL-4 lab, which had been conducting vaccine research.

Although lab-created outbreaks that spread to people or animals in the surrounding community are rare, they have happened. The viruses or bacteria were spread simply by hitching a ride on a scientist’s clothing.

All of these accidental occurrences raise concerns that ancient and novel viruses could be deliberately misused, or their accidental release could lead to a modern-day deadly pandemic of a virulent new pathogen that could kill millions, if not billions of people.

Looking at the problem pragmatically, the question for everyone to ask themselves is not if such escapes will result in a major outbreak of a deadly unstoppable pathogen, but rather when it will occur, what it will be, and how such an escape may be contained.

If indeed it could be contained at all.

You probably thought like most people when you started reading this, that only radical Islamic groups, terrorists and nuclear proliferation represented the biggest existential threats to America.

But our own scientific research laboratories could be our worst enemy.

CHAPTER 1

LEWISVILLE LAKE, TEXAS

THE DAY WAS PARTIALLY sunny, a little cloudy and overcast and hot, as Deputy U.S. Marshal Matt Morgan throttled down on his rumbling Harley Davidson Electra Glide beast of a motorcycle, and smoothly exited off the I-35E freeway. He accelerated onto Lake Park Road traveling east.

He eased comfortably into the fast outside lane for three more miles enjoying the ride, gliding past traffic, never taking the motorcycle out of fifth gear – the large 103 cubic inch V-twin engine throbbed with a deep guttural growl.

He downshifted effortlessly at a large intersection and deftly turned the motorcycle left onto Forest Park Drive – after traveling another hundred yards, he made a sharp 90-degree turn into Clearview Court.

He stopped his motorcycle in the driveway, and parked directly in front of a three-story white stucco vacation-style condominium, overlooking Lewisville Lake.

Morgan stayed astride his motorcycle and casually reached in and placed his right hand on the butt of his .45 caliber Glock 21 pistol in his shoulder holster – covered by his big black leather jacket.

He visually assessed the security of the condominium’s three floors through his dark sunglasses – first, the single closed garage door at the first level – then he methodically scanned the two upper floors and their exterior decks. Finally, he glanced around casually at the neighboring condominiums to the left and right.

The only person he saw was an elderly lady wearing a wide-brimmed colorful summer sun hat, that only retired people always seemed to wear. She was busy watering her flowers with a hose and ignored him completely. To the right side of the garage, he spied a solid set of concrete entry steps, which led up to a small landing, then a doorway that led into the main second story of the house.

His motorcycle continued to idle, emitting the famous throbbing POTATO-POTATO-POTATO sound of the Harley-Davidson two-cylinder horizontally opposed engine.

Satisfied everything was secure and safe, he removed his helmet, flicked off the ignition switch, pocketed his key, then dismounted the monstrous bike.

He left his helmet on the seat of the motorcycle.

He could hear loud rap music coming from the top floor of house.

The muscular, powerfully built, six-foot-two-inch U.S. Marshal trotted up the flight of steps, two-at-a-time, until he came to the concrete landing on the first floor.

He rang the doorbell.

No answer.

He pounded his big fist on the metal door several times and shouted.

It opened a few cautious inches and a nervous Hispanic sounding voice called out tentatively, "Who is it? Que pasa hombre?"

++++

Morgan was there to perform his required three-month status check on Chester Tashunka – nicknamed "The Weasel." Tashunka was a Sioux Indian and previous loan collector for a dangerous organized Southern California motorcycle gang known as the Mongols. The Mongols were one of the most formidable and violent motorcycle gangs which were a scourge to the federal government since the 1960’s.

They ran drugs across the Canadian and Mexican border and were the most violent of the motorcycle clubs: They were not just a bunch of doctors and dentists and lawyers riding Harleys on weekends – they were bad to the bone.

When Tashunka fell out of favor with the Mongol president, he fled, but not before embezzling money from all the members. He also took comprehensive records detailing the gang’s illegal activities.

Nearly all the club’s money was generated through the manufacture and distribution of methamphetamine, racketeering, and contract killings. Tashunka later entered the Witness Protection Program and provided the records to the FBI. His testimony led to the conviction of eleven key members of the Mongol gang. Tashunka and his family were protected in the U.S. Federal Witness Protection Program, also known as the Witness Security Program, or WITSEC. The witness protection program was administered by the U.S. Department of Justice and operated by the U.S. Marshals Service. It was designed to protect threatened witnesses like Tashunka – before, during, and after trials.

That’s how Morgan ended up with the dirt bag.

Witness protection was essential to the prosecution of high profile important federal cases. Without it, many witnesses would never come forward, or would be killed if they did. With the protection provided by the program, witnesses could testify and then disappear when the trial was over, and the criminals they testified against were almost always convicted.

Witnesses like Tashunka were always required to take a polygraph test. One of the many problems Morgan noticed about Chester Tashunka, was he proved to be a very accomplished habitual and pathological liar. The fact was, he had testified in court and that was the most important thing.

Morgan just couldn’t believe anything Tashunka said.

++++

It’s me you God Damn idiot – open the door! replied Morgan, shaking his head in disgust.

Well, how do I know it’s you? answered the pony-tailed Chester Tashunka, as he opened the door while holding a small wooden youth baseball bat. "You could be one of the Mongol asesinos sent here to cut my head off!"

The skinny five-foot eight-inch tattooed man with greasy black hair and meth-ruined teeth, puffed out his chest indignantly.

"You know it has to be me because I always visit you once every three months and I call in advance, as part of our Witness Protection security procedures – I’ve been doing it for the last nine months – you fool!" Morgan reminded him, as he pushed him aside and walked into the living room.

The house smelled of stale beer, marijuana and body odor – it was disgusting.

Morgan saw Tashunka’s wife sitting trance-like in pigtails in front of the TV, watching a gameshow, while drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette.

Morgan glanced around the room and saw empty beer bottles, crumpled fast food bags and used TV dinner containers strewn everywhere.

As he plunked his muscled bulk down on a couch, Morgan mused, You need to get a larger full-sized metal baseball bat for protection…all you’re going to do with that little toy wooden bat of yours is piss off your assailant.

"What’s an assailant…like an attacker, or killer, or something? Why don’t you just give me a gun so I can protect myself? Tashunka pleaded, holding his hands out. We hate it here, it sucks!"

Yeah, his heavy-set wife mumbled, without taking her eyes away from the TV show, this place really blows, big time.

You know the rules, the U.S. Marshal reminded them both. "What’s wrong with you Tashunka…you a new kind of stupid or something? This is not like the television show Sons of Anarchy – the government isn’t going to take care of your lazy ass forever – you’re going to have to get a fulltime job in the next three months."

I did get a job! Tashunka whined.

You only got a part time job three days a week selling bait over at the local fishing barge – that doesn’t pay for your family’s food, Morgan fired back. You voluntarily agreed to enter the Witness Protection Program; the feds have been paying for this luxurious three-story condo within walking distance to Lake Lewisville’s Marina, and you haven’t contributed a damn dime.

Morgan waved a huge arm, You got cathedral ceilings, a master suite on the third floor and you can relax in front of your fireplace when it’s cold out and sit your lazy ass on your balcony and pick your nose where it’s warm…I can’t even afford these niceties.

What am I supposed to do? This place is full of only white people! All they want us dark-skinned Latino or Indian guys to do is step-and-fetch type manual labor jobs. I ain’t gonna be nobody’s lackey, Tashunka protested, indignantly folding his arms across his skinny chest and sneering at the big U.S. Marshal.

There’s plenty of jobs out there if you just get off your lazy ass and apply, Morgan lectured.

Like what, for instance? Tashunka challenged.

There’s tons of car and boat dealerships, food distribution warehouses and meat packing companies around here. There’s even the local landfill and Lewisville Lake Park campgrounds, Morgan said.

"Why don’t I arrange a fulltime job at one of these places for you? Morgan proposed.

Let me think it over, he replied evasively, his dark eyes shifting from side-to-side and blinking.

Well don’t think too long, after twelve months, the $5,000 a month cost-of-living money we’re paying you is going to stop. By that time, you’re expected to land a fulltime job and become fully self-supporting, Morgan drawled with a smirk. "And don’t even think about running up a bunch of unsecured debt, then claiming you spotted some Mongol members and fearing retribution – just so you can move to a new city with a new name and flee the creditors – it doesn’t work that way."

But, what the hell am I supposed to do if I can’t find a fulltime job? Tashunka pleaded.

The Marshals Service will assist you with finding employment – however, if you fail to take this seriously, then I’m gonna terminate your monthly subsistence payments in three more months, Morgan informed him.

What am I supposed to do after that! Tashunka grumbled.

At that point, it’s not my problem, answered Morgan. I guess you can enroll in public assistance if you want. Hell, tell your wife to get a job – all she does is sit around on her ass and watch the TV, Morgan motioned with a sweep of his arm.

Look…you leave my wife out of this! I’ll get a fulltime job, but I need a couple of things taken care of first, Tashunka demanded.

Like what? Morgan inquired cautiously.

I need the government to change my children’s grades, so the school can see how smart they really are; also, my wife needs breast implants, a facelift and some dental work, he stated, mainly because of her poor self-esteem, he added brazenly.

And what else do you need – perhaps a one-inch penile implant for yourself so your dick can be increased to its full size? Morgan laughed. What’s next after we do all that for you…you want us to deliver live lobsters from Maine and three-inch steaks from Nebraska, to you too? he added contemptuously.

Alright then, I’ll just settle for a new pickup truck or motorcycle like you got, Tashunka huffed, crossing his arms again.

Morgan busted out laughing, You just don’t get it, do you Tashunka!

CHAPTER 2

LOOK CHESTER, MORGAN EXCLAIMED, let’s get things straight: we got your entire family new names, social security numbers, driver’s licenses, and birth certificates. Entering the Witness Protection Program is not like winning the Goddamn lottery. There is no forgiveness of loans or other obligations in the deal. We’ve erased your old identities and placed you in a new city where you’re expected to blend in and nobody will recognize you."

But I told you guys I always wanted to go to Hawaii, and we had family in Arizona and Nevada. We don’t know anybody here in Texas, Tashunka complained.

"Stop trying to be the leading edge of stupid – we gave you a new life – take advantage of this opportunity for God’s sake. I told you several times already: We are NOT going to relocate you to any of the three places you mentioned!" yelled Morgan, getting thoroughly exasperated.

Why not? replied Tashunka.

Because when you tell me you want to go to Hawaii, or you have relatives in those two states, then I know you’ve also probably told all your Mongol motorcycle gang friends that same information.

Ohhh, Tashunka retorted sheepishly, now I get it.

Yeah, you damn genius – that’s why we moved you to Lewisville, Texas – nobody knows you here or can recognize you, Morgan continued. Believe me, when you’re at the supermarket and bump into a gang member who’s hunting you down, you’ll be very happy you’re wearing a disguise and have a different identity. We’ll do everything we can to protect you, but we also have to take vacations and stuff, so be vigilant and keep your eyes open for people trying to kill you.

You really think the Mongols could find me here? Tashunka speculated, with a skeptical tone in his voice.

You should always be prepared for the moment when someone recognizes you and suddenly calls out your real name, Morgan warned. If it happens, just politely act like they made a mistake, quickly be on your way and report the incident to us. Remember this Einstein: From now, figure you’ll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life wondering if your time is up.

I guess I never really thought about it that way, admitted Tashunka.

Well, ‘bro’, it’s too late now to turn back, Morgan chuckled. The truth is, there’s a bull’s-eye on your back, and committing to this new life is the best shot you have at staying alive. You’ll never be able to completely remove that bull’s-eye, but you can certainly disguise it well…am I finally getting through to you, dude?

Oh yeah, I get it…say, who’s this Einstein pecker head? he muttered, running his dirty hands through his greasy long hair.

Never mind, I doubt you’ve ever heard of him on the reservation, Morgan laughed.

Morgan warned Here are some more words to the wise, my man: You need to forget past hobbies. I know you like motorcycle riding, for example, but your Mongol buddies will be scouring every back alley and highway in the country trying to track you down. If they find you, they’ll cut off your arms and legs first, then slice your head off for good measure. If you like outdoor camping, there will be eyes on every campground from here to Los Angeles trying to locate you.

What are we supposed to do – be hermits and live in cave? We ain’t gonna do that, griped Tashunka.

Oh, cry me a creek! You need to start new lives you fool – suck it up! Morgan barked back. Remember what I told you: Stay off every kind social media, especially Facebook and Twitter – because they’ll be able to track you down. You may think there’s no danger in sending a quick smiley-face text to an old friend, until a few hours later when there’s a frowny-faced knife in your stomach or severing your jugular vein!

But…! Tashunka began to protest.

But nothing, hombre! Morgan countered, attempting to reason with him. I know it takes time to adjust to your new life and location; you have to deal with leaving your entire family and your wife had to leave her family; your children are probably never going to see their grandparents again. You can’t communicate ever, and never make any attempt to see them again. Remember Tashunka, if you ever go back, you’re going to get yourself murdered.

"You mean ‘never,’ as in my whole life?" he whimpered.

"I mean exactly that: Never, Morgan emphasized, with a head nod. The most important thing I want you to remember is that you must not ever contact your Mongol gang member buddies or family members. Above all, never, ever, return to Los Angeles for any reason – you got that?" he snapped.

Yeah…but…, Tashunka stammered.

"But what! Morgan yelled, raising his hands in frustration, Am I not making myself clear? No witness who has followed these rules has ever been killed. There’s always going to be a Mongol biker gang member out to get revenge against you who wants to be a hero of some sort and kill your dumb ass."

I heard my mother is very sick and probably going to die – I’ll need at least to go to her funeral if she does, he divulged nervously.

Well, sorry, but I’m advising against it, Morgan reiterated. Like I’ve been telling you – don’t contact anyone from your past life – especially not your mother! I don’t even want you making the big mistake of booking an appointment with your favorite dentist for a cleaning under your new name.

Why? asked Tashunka, look at my teeth man, I got to get them fixed.

"Use your head, Tashunka and think! His new hygienist may end up having a goatee, tattoos, and a bandanna…and Bang, you’re dead; or you might have a knife embedded in your left eye socket," shouted Morgan, throwing up his hands in frustration.

Is that it? I got things to do and places to go, Tashunka mumbled dismissively, looking bored.

Yeah, that’s it for now – I want you to start today looking for a fulltime job, Morgan ordered. If you need training or employment assistance we’ll help you out, but you got to show up for work if we do that. I can even arrange for counseling and advice by psychologists, psychiatrists or social workers, if need be. But no plastic surgery for your wife – forget about that shit – it ain’t going to happen. He chuckled, Once you do get a job, I’ll make sure you have random drug and alcohol testing."

Alright, alright, then…don’t lecture me anymore, Tashunka objected, standing up and picking his nose and scratching his stomach.

Morgan rose from the couch, his tall muscular frame towering over Tashunka.

He added with a lop-sided grin, Our specialists can assist you in eliminating any distinguishing traits and bad habits you have, like picking your nose and that weird eye-blinking thing that makes you look stupid. It’s probably a good time for you start practicing a new walk too, instead of that weird foot-shuffle thing you do. You also should get a haircut – it’s not a witness protection thing – just a helpful observation on my part so you can get a real job – so you don’t look like a drug-crazed serial killer in job interviews, he pointed out.

Go screw yourself – I ain’t changing who I am for nobody – least of all for some federal dickhead like you…don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, mumbled Tashunka, as he walked over and sat down next to his comatose-looking wife.

Remember, Tashunka, the big U.S. Marshal warned, looking back over his shoulder, the Witness Protection Program is completely voluntary and you’re always free to return back to Los Angeles to your old identity at any time. But if you do that, you might have to consider a sex-change so nobody will recognize you!

Yeah, yeah, yeah – I ain’t no perverted faggot, countered Tashunka, flicking the lawman the finger behind his back.

I saw that! warned Morgan, with an air of professional gravity, Good way to get your hand broken.

Tashunka blanched, wondering how the lawman could possibly have seen him shoot the bird.

Morgan exited out through the door, slowly looking around, with his hand on his weapon.

He did a quick head surveillance of the street and neighboring houses looking for anomalies or suspicious parked cars or people.

Seeing nothing that would alarm him, he trotted down the concrete steps and over to his motorcycle.

The elderly lady wearing a wide-brimmed colorful summer sun hat was still watering her flowers with a hose.

She stared intently in his direction.

Morgan looked over to her, nodded his head and said, Howdy, ma’am – nice day.

That family that lives there in that condominium are a bunch of assholes, you know that? I sure hope you aren’t related to them, she said, then turned and resumed watering her plants.

Why do you say that ma’am? the lawman asked curiously.

Because they’re foul-mouthed, dirty, yell and fight constantly and smoke dope! she said, placing both hands on her hips.

I’ll have to have a talk with them about that, it’s not very neighborly, grinned Morgan, as he donned his motorcycle helmet.

Morgan fired up the monstrous Harley Davidson, turned the front wheel around and drove out of Clearview Court. From there, he entered onto Forest Park Drive and accelerated in a loud roar.

As he rumbled south on the flat I-35E highway, shifting and weaving in and out of traffic towards his home fifteen miles away in Grapevine, Morgan doubted whether Chester Tashunka would live another year.

The guy was just plain stupid and just wouldn’t listen – a bad combination.

He would probably be found someday, kidnapped and murdered, and his body beaten to a pulp. Morgan guessed his body might even be shot 50 times for target practice and what was left of him would be dumped in a deep ravine someplace.