The Aedes Plague
By John West
()
About this ebook
The Morgan’s escape the illness with a few others, just in the nick of time when the huge ship docks in Cozumel, Mexico. A crazed Syrian madman takes the ship hostage. It all quickly becomes a matter of life and death, as the U.S. Marshal must devise a clever plan to save the remaining officers and passengers before he destroys the ship. Even if it kills him, and he’s running out of time.
Fabulous story, action-packed and thrilling from start to finish.
Interwoven with unique characters, suspense, tension, a unique plot and many surprise twists until the very end - the book is almost impossible to put down.
Deeply engaging and entertaining…you may not ever want to take a vacation cruise ever again!
John West
We've all had those nights where drunken sex with a witch in a blood pentagram under a full moon on the roof of your favourite Johannesburg nightclub summons a hard-drinking demon who changes the fate of the human race forever. Right? No? Just me, then?
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The Aedes Plague - John West
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.
Oh well, without stupid people in the world, he wouldn’t have a job, and there would be nobody to laugh at.
Morgan reckoned next time he saw Chester Tashunka – if he was still alive – he’d have to thank him for making his job secure.
++++
Chester Tashunka watched through a window, as the large U.S. Marshal roared away on his motorcycle. He then picked up his cell phone and proceeded to call one of his buddies on the Sioux reservation to check on his mother.
While he was talking to his friend about his mother’s health situation, Tashunka’s wife was swamped on the internet friending
all her relatives on Facebook, using her new identity.
Upstairs on the third floor of the condominium, his two children were busy texting their friends on their new I-Phones, as fast as their thumbs could move.
CHAPTER 3
GRAPEVINE, TEXAS
MORGAN TURNED THE BIG rumbling Harley Davidson Electra Glide touring machine into the driveway of his spacious one story brick home, on a cul de sac in the affluent upper-middle class subdivision of Grapevine, Texas. He stopped the cycle next to his five-year old Ford F-150 pickup truck, punched in the access code to the two-car garage and parked his cycle inside.
The beautiful brick house was just minutes from the Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport; within walking distance to several STEM-designated schools and the large Baylor Scott & White Medical Center complex – where his wife Suzanne – a pediatrician, worked.
The city of Grapevine was situated in a northern suburb of Dallas – a charming oasis of peacefulness, as compared to the sprawling Dallas/Fort Worth Metropolis in north Texas, or simply DFW,
as Texans called it, with its population of seven and a half million people.
To everyone else in the U.S., Dallas was known for its downtown Sixth Floor Museum at Dealey Plaza, which commemorated the site of President John F. Kennedy’s assassination. The huge Dallas/Fort Worth Metropolis was also known for the hit TV show Dallas: The saga of the fictitious massive oil empire of the Ewing family and its eldest son J.R.
, who was the relentless conniving CEO of Ewing Oil.
Matt Morgan and his wife Suzanne had carefully chosen their quiet suburb to avoid the aggravated assaults, murders, robberies, rapes and car thefts of the big city. Truth be told, Grapevine was basically a fairy tale land populated by elves and hobbits – whose only transgressions were occasional intoxication, parking and speeding violations – when compared to the downtown crime-ridden areas of Dallas and Fort Worth.
Over the past two years in Grapevine, there had been only 7 car thefts, 13 assaults, 10 burglaries and 3 robberies recorded.
While Matt and Suzanne Morgan could both be considered by others as Type-A
overachievers, they had both worked exceptionally hard early on in their lives for their success. Neither of them had inherited a mountain made of cash, or achieved their goals by trampling on the skulls of others.
And, it wasn’t by accident that they lived in a beautiful house in a safe neighborhood. Grapevine was voted one of America’s Best Places to Live
in several national magazines, due to its plethora of antique stores, restaurants, bars, theaters, a park, and many specialty shops. It was even home to several local wineries and tasting rooms.
Morgan had earnestly started his higher education at a local community college in Austin, but soon decided he needed to try another approach after he failed every class during his first semester.
At the advice of his wise and disappointed father, he agreed he wasn’t ready to go to college, so he went into the U.S. Army, to get the structure and discipline he needed.
Four years in the Army as an MP, including two tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan was all it took to give him the structure and discipline he needed. As a side benefit, he also had the ability to pay for college on his own.
It turned out to be one of the best decisions he’d ever made: He finished his bachelor’s degree in criminal justice at the University of Texas in Austin in three years. Then he was hired as a full-time police officer by the Dallas Police Department (DPD), in their Violent Crime Task Force (VCTF).
He met Suzanne by whimsical accident during his second year at the DPD, when she was a third-year medical student at the University of Texas Southwestern Medical School in Dallas. The med school was one of four top medical schools in the University of Texas System.
Her vehicle was stranded alongside a downtown freeway around midnight and she was attempting to change a flat tire. Unbeknownst to her, Morgan had observed four dangerous MS-13, aka Mara Salvatrucha
gang members, slowly approaching her car from a wooded area, on her blindside. Working undercover in civilian clothes, he had quickly assessed the imminent danger and pulled his pickup truck behind her vehicle and slammed on his brakes.
He quickly jumped out, displayed his badge and offered his assistance.
His only request was that she stay in her vehicle and lock her doors, so he could change her flat tire and kick anybody’s ass if they approached the vehicle.
It might get a little violent,
he cautioned her, so stay in your car, no matter what.
Be careful, a flat tire simply isn’t worth getting hurt,
she reasoned.
"Well, they’re the ones who are gonna get hurt real bad, not me," drawled the tall dark handsome U.S. Marshal.
After he had changed her tire, he proceeded to disarm all four of the gang members with her lug wrench, then pounded them to a pulp with several blows from his hammer-like large fists, breaking several of their arms, legs and jaws in the process. He decided to leave them laying on the grass unconscious.
Noticing the beautiful blonde young lady wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, the handsome six-foot-two-inch tall undercover police officer who had saved her life – calmly asked her out on a date.
That’s all it took in Morgan’s mind: Beating up four useless violent punks who probably never worked a day in their life, in exchange for a good-looking gal…well, that was well worth the effort and a good tradeoff.
It turned out to be a match made in heaven, despite Suzanne’s insistence on calling an ambulance for the four thugs.
++++
Morgan’s real desire at the time was to become a Texas Ranger and wear the prescribed uniform of white shirt and tie, khaki or tan trousers, light-colored western hat, a ranger
belt, and cowboy boots. The only obstacle preventing him from achieving that goal was the applicant had to have an outstanding record of at least eight years’ experience with a bona fide law enforcement agency.
He didn’t want to wait around another six years – so he applied to the United States Marshals Service (USMS), a federal law enforcement agency within the U.S. Department of Justice, to become a U.S. Marshal.
A U.S. Marshal’s position only required a bachelor degree and three years’ experience at a local or state police department, however, typically fewer than five percent of qualified applicants were hired.
But he had made the cut and was hired on by the USMS; by then, Suzanne was in her final year of medical school and was thoroughly infatuated with her handsome U.S. Marshal boyfriend,
who had saved her life.
U.S. Marshal Matt Morgan was 6’2" tall, with muscular arms and broad shoulders, a slim waist and symmetrical body, dark hair and deeply set brown eyes. He had a youthful appearance but possessed a strong chin and his angular face showed a defined jawline. No matter how often he shaved, he always seemed to have a light stubble beard growth.
His muscular athletic legs that were slightly bow-legged, made him look like the consummate U.S Marshal from Texas – lean, mean, rugged and loaded with authoritative confidence.
++++
As he entered the house from the garage, his black and tan German Shepard named Angus loped up to greet him, whined affectionately, and nuzzled up against his leg.
Okay, Angus, let me change into my running clothes and we can go for a run!
Morgan laughed, tossing his keys onto the kitchen counter.
He proceeded down the hallway to the bedroom, with Angus following closely behind.
He changed into his favorite T-shirt, running shorts and shoes, then strapped on his light-weight fanny pack which contained his Kel-Tec .380 ACP pistol and two spare magazines.
Angus watched, while sitting on his haunches, in silent patient anticipation.
Looking at his wristwatch, Morgan said to the big wolf-like animal, Let’s go boy! We have just enough time to make five miles and get back before Suzanne gets home!
Morgan exited the house through the front door, snapped Angus’s leash on and they started jogging down the street and through the suburb of Grapevine at a steady pace.
Since joining the USMS, he faithfully tried to run two to three days a week, for three to five miles every time, to keep in shape. On alternating days, he even practiced grueling fartlek and threshold workouts on dirt paths.
Once a week, he and Suzanne practiced competitive kickboxing together – friendly sparring to score points against each other – with an emphasis on delivery, speed and technique.
Most of the time Morgan’s wife could be brutal and he was glad they both wore protective boxing gloves, groin-guards, shin-pads, kick-boots, and headgear.
Life was good for the Morgan’s: yuppie camping trips, golf and tennis simply wasn’t their shtick, and never even registered on their activity scale. They each had their professions, a happy marriage, money and they were madly in love.
As Morgan and his dog Angus jogged through Grapevine, his mind automatically focused on how much he liked his work: He worked in plainclothes every day because of the nature of the job, versus wearing a uniform. If he worked warrants, he simply wore jeans or BDU’s and a polo shirt.
When he worked witness protection with dirt bags like Chester Tashunka, his standard daily uniform was just a ratty CrossFit T-shirt or sleeveless sweat shirt, worn-out faded jeans, and a do-rag on his head, and black steel-toed leather combat boots.
He tried to shave every other day or so. Occasionally, he had to appear in court, so he reluctantly had to wear his one-and-only suit.
Other than that, the only suits he saw were the J.C. Penney and Sears suits worn by FBI agents, and when he attended funerals and weddings.
Yes, life was really looking good these days he thought to himself, as he and Angus bounded up their driveway, out of breath and sweating profusely, after running five miles in a little less than sixty minutes.
Little could Morgan guess how his stable and predictable life was about to dramatically change, as his wife pulled into the driveway behind them, in her Toyota Prius.
CHAPTER 4
HI THERE, HON! WHAT’S new with you – you, didn’t have to kill anybody today, did you?
Suzanne Morgan teased cheerfully, stepping out of her car, looking at the two most favorite males in her life.
Yes, I killed two drug dealers today,
he replied dolefully, as he looked down. The Marshal’s Service is transferring me to their foreign field office in Columbia to work fugitive investigations and apprehensions.
What!
she exclaimed loudly, as her eyes grew large and both hands went to her face in shock.
"Nah, I’m just kidding," her husband grinned and gave her a quick kiss on her lips.
You can be a real jerk you know that?
his wife responded, smacking him playfully on the side of his head.
Morgan loved his tall, tremendously attractive wife dearly: She was always cheerful, had an angelic smile and long blonde hair, large inviting oval cerulean-green killer eyes, high cheek bones, narrow nose, high eye brows and luscious lips.
Her lithe athletic form, tallness, and long arms and shapely long legs made her especially attractive – he referred to it as athletic sexuality.
She was the perfect symbol of innocence and beauty. The only drawback Morgan reckoned was her damn spontaneity – she loved to surprise him all the time with outlandish things, without warning.
Morgan hated surprises in his routine life. Maybe he figured, that’s why she loved to surprise him so much: To shake up ordinary predictable behavior a bit.
She was smart too. Whereas, Morgan’s time was consumed with relocating, transporting and protecting career hood rats with questionable IQ’s, her typical day was monopolized saving children’s lives. With a BS in Microbiology and four years of medical school behind her - she was just completing her required three-year general pediatrics clinical residency, at the local Baylor Scott & White Medical Center hospital.
Her profession often required working irregular hours and the ability to handle stressful medical situations, while working closely with partnering physicians, nurses, and other medical support staff.
Her biggest asset was her comforting bedside manner and her skill at building a friendly rapport with children and their parents.
When Morgan once asked her how she could put in the long hours and still be so cheerful, her reply was simply: Being a pediatrician is so cool; if you’re going to go into this type of work, you have to enjoy people and serving others; if you love the life, if you love the environment and you love children – then it’s not really work at all.
"Well, how many more days until you complete your residency, Doctor?" Morgan asked curiously, as they walked into their house through the front door.
He knew she wanted to start her own practice in the medical center upon completion of her residency.
Only one more week, then I’m done – finally!
she exclaimed excitedly. Then, I want to start my own private practice…I want to spend every day treating children for strep throat, pink eye, colds and chicken pox. I want to help children stay healthy by administering immunizations – heck, I might even volunteer a few weeks of my time every year to serve on a medical volunteer program abroad.
Really? That’s kind of a surprise – I guess we can work something like that in,
commented Morgan, fascinated as usual, by her enthusiasm.
He followed her into their bedroom to continue their discussion.
Yes! There are still plenty of underserved families in need of medical help all over the world for nearly all types of service – from vaccine provisioning to basic health checkups,
she replied.
She continued, The way healthcare really works in a lot of countries is that they have adequate health care for most of their populations, but the access doesn’t always extend to their marginalized groups or under-served populations.
Kind of like in the inner cities of the U.S.,
mused Morgan, as he plunked down onto an upholstered tufted brown leather bench at the bottom of their king-sized bed.
He leaned back against the bed and watched her plop off her clunky closed-toe shoes and undress out of her white lab jacket, pencil skirt, and white silk long-sleeve shirt.
She fastidiously hung her work clothes in a separate area of her closet, out of concern for germs.
Do you think I’m getting a little fat?
she queried, tossing her pager down onto a dresser, as she swiveled her body seductively, side-to-side, in white bra and panties, while looking at herself in a full-length mirror.
"Ahh…I definitely do not think so," Morgan answered, crossing his arms.
His eyes became focused like a 20-megawatt laser beam, on her derriere.
I have two more little surprises for you, dear…one of which we need to discuss together,
she said as she turned to him, unsnapping her bra and dropping her panties to the carpet.
Oh, what’s that,
Morgan answered nervously, raising one eyebrow and grinning.
"I’d like us to start a family and I scheduled a seven-day cruise out of Galveston, the day after I finish my residency next week. What do you think?" she beamed, with a gorgeous smile that would have stopped a moving locomotive.
Morgan stared at her in shock. Are you serious?
he stuttered. I guess I never thought about starting a family – the cruise is definitely okay – but shouldn’t we be concerned a little about mosquitoes and getting the Zika virus,
he added offhandedly, for lack of anything else to say.
"I’m serious about us starting a family, Suzanne answered, pursing her lips.
Call me old fashioned, but I take love, family and feelings very seriously; as far as mosquitoes are concerned, that’s what repellant with DEET is made for. And besides, we’ll only be off the cruise ship in Jamaica, Grand Cayman and Cozumel during the daytime."
"You are indeed an extremely surprising and special person – I’m getting some serious lust on here the more I think about your suggestion – you’re a one-in-a-million kind of girl," Morgan kidded, in his best Rhett Butler imitation.
"No, dear…I’m a once-in-a-lifetime kind of woman," she cooed in a husky sexy voice, imitating Scarlett O’Hara.
She walked naked towards their large shower, looking back over her shoulder. Well, you ready to practice starting a family in the shower, big boy?
she teased, motioning with her index finger.
Oh yeah, I was born for this,
he declared as he quickly threw his clothes onto the floor, and stomped over to the shower. You’re talking to a man who wasn’t born just average…I’m an exceptional country boy and proud of it,
he bragged.
I can see that,
she murmured, staring down at his excitement.
"Angus, you stay and watch to see how this is done by the master," Morgan joked.
"Well, stop talking and get in here, stud muffin," she giggled.
++++
Later in the evening, after dinner, Morgan announced to his wife that he was walking over to visit their next-door neighbor, retired Fort Worth police detective Ralph Baumgartner.
Why are you going to see Ralph – is everything okay?
Suzanne questioned, with a concerned look on her face.
I want to ask Ralph if he’ll take care of Angus while we’re gone on our cruise, and watch the house,
Morgan replied nonchalantly.
Oh, well, in that case, don’t be too long – it’s getting late,
she cautioned.
I won’t be,
he assured her."
Morgan walked across the lawn and rang Baumgartner’s doorbell.
Ralph heard his doorbell ring.
He grabbed his 9mm handgun, placed it in his rear waist-band, turned on his outdoor lights, then looked cautiously through the peep hole of his front door and opened it.
What’s up, Matt my friend?
the bald-headed stocky man, sporting a beer-belly, wheezed gruffly.
He removed a lit cigar from his mouth and blew a perfect smoke ring.
You mind watching our house and taking care of Angus for a week, while Suzanne and I go on a cruise?
Morgan asked him politely.
Hey, not at all, buddy – maybe I’ll teach that big mutt of yours some real police moves – like how to bite a guy’s nuts off,
he snorted.
He already knows how to do that,
Morgan whispered seriously, "The command in German is ‘Beißen die Hoden‘ – be careful though, he really goes ape shit if you sic him on someone!"
Man…that’s amazing – I’m truly impressed; anytime, my friend, I’ll be happy to watch your mutt – just let me know when you’re leaving,
Ralph grunted.
Thanks Ralph – I’ll owe you one,
Morgan said, and left.
Ralph looked all around, then quietly closed and locked his door.
Walking back to his house, Morgan knew he could trust Ralph. None of the other neighbors knew or suspected what Morgan’s real occupation was, and he wanted to keep it that way.
He purposely refrained telling Suzanne that his work protecting witnesses could put his family’s life in danger.
There had even been a threat against her once: He had been told by the FBI that there was a convicted criminal who had his and Suzanne’s name in his address book.
Apparently, there may have been plans to kidnap his wife, as a means to learn where a particular witness was living.
Morgan promptly told the FBI agent that he would kill anybody who came near his beautiful wife.
CHAPTER 5
GALVESTON, TEXAS
IT WAS A TYPICAL hot partly cloudy morning in mid-August along the coast of the Gulf of Mexico in Galveston, Texas. Despite a constant prevailing southeasterly 15 mph wind blowing in from the Caribbean Sea and the southern coast of Mexico – it was already stifling hot early in the morning. The ambient temperature was only 94 degrees Fahrenheit, but the true feels like
temperature caused by the combined effects of air temperature, 85 percent humidity and wind speed – felt more like 104 degrees.
Even worse, it was doubtful the predicted thunderstorm later in the day by weather forecasters would cool things down.
Even though the climate in the coastal city was classified as subtropical
, there seemed to be no real difference between tropical and subtropical to the people who lived there during the summer months.
The months of August and September were long, hot, humid, and unbearable without air conditioning. If a person wasn’t dodging millions of giant mosquitoes, then they’d surely be dodging torrential rainstorms, floods, hurricanes and enduring electrical brownouts which could last for minutes or hours.
Dr. Walter Thompson, an overweight middle-aged research scientist, with thinning brown hair pulled back into a pony-tail, was late for work as usual. His clothes were already drenched with sweat because the air conditioner in his ten-year old Volvo with over 234,000 miles showing on the speedometer, was broken.
Even the artificial diamond ear stud in his right earlobe was giving him discomfort this morning.
It felt like his ear was getting infected.
Thompson hated commuting to work in the port city of Galveston.
He detested the sprawling metropolis of Houston fifty miles north where he lived, even more. With a population of 2.4 million people, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to discover that the entire metropolitan area was overpopulated.
Worse, the 600-square mile metropolis was hotter than hell ten months out of the year, the traffic was out of control and there was no scenery.
He guessed if one were a poverty-stricken illegal alien or homeless person who enjoyed looking at tons of ugly-ass billboard signs, cows, endless miles of flat land, rice fields and concrete overpasses…you’d probably see it as the land of opportunity.
Like thousands of others, he found the humid climate of the gulf coast impossible to deal with during summer because it was just too hot to tolerate and the humidity was constantly excessive.
The mosquitoes were simply God-awful.
To make matters worse, as soon as he had stepped out of his house this the morning to get into his car, he’d been served with official divorce papers from his wife, by a grim-faced smirking Constable.
A month earlier, it seems his wife had fallen in love with a local real estate developer half Thompson’s age, in better physical and financial shape all-around, and most likely had more sexual stamina than he possessed.
She had promptly moved out and informed him – to be fair and generous - she only wanted half of everything they owned, including his retirement pension.
All Thompson seemed to notice at 8:00 AM looking out through the window of his hot vehicle, were hundreds of car dealerships, a plethora of Walmart’s and convenience stores, and endless stop-and-go traffic jams caused by fender-bender accidents on the freeways.
Dr. Walter Thompson felt miserable.
Making matters worse, traffic ground to another standstill and all he could hear were brakes squealing loudly and impatient horns blowing all around him.
His mind focused on his work: Fortunately, he still had his job, which was secure as far as he knew, and this gave him a sense of comfort.
He wouldn’t starve. He’d probably have to downsize to a small apartment, he figured – but it would be worth it to rid himself of the crazy bitch.
Dr. Thompson worked at the prestigious National Emerging Infectious Diseases Laboratory (NEIDL) in Galveston, which was part of a national network of secure facilities that studied emerging and reemerging infectious diseases.
His official job description innocuously stated simply: To develop diagnostic tests, treatments, and vaccines to promote public health.
The truth was: He conducted genetically modified DNA research on deadly viruses, like the mosquito-borne Zika, Yellow Fever, West Nile and Dengue Fever viruses, as well as Smallpox and Anthrax bacteria. Far worse, were the terrifying viral hemorrhagic fevers, or VHF viruses: Ebola, Marburg and Lassa Fever viruses.
Although most people believed bioweapons research for offensive purposes was illegal in the U.S., they did not know the development and testing of biological weapons for defensive purposes was still permitted and even encouraged.
American scientists like Dr. Thompson continued to conduct ongoing research on biological agents to address the threat of biological weapons, including efforts to develop even deadlier strains of viruses to test against current vaccines.
++++
The vehicle behind Thompson blew its horn.
Without thinking further, Dr. Walter Thompson’s reflexes reacted to the noise and he spontaneously stomped on the gas pedal and slammed into the rear bumper of the car in front of him: a brand new white Jaguar F-Type with temporary license plates.
KABOOM! the sound reverberated.
The impact of his old tank-like Volvo accelerating and striking the new Jaguar, crumpled the Jag’s rear bumper and deployed its airbags.
Thompson squinted his eyes and glared menacingly into his rear-view mirror at the driver behind him – who only smiled with contrition, raised both hands apologetically and shrugged his shoulders.
Disgusted, Dr. Thompson exited his car and slowly walked up to inquire if the driver of the Jaguar was okay. The wreck hadn’t appeared to hurt his Volvo at all, just a little scratch and dent that could probably be pulled out.
Gee, I’m sorry, it’s my fault – are you okay?
Thompson inquired meekly, as he looked through the Jaguar’s driver’s door window.
A very pissed-off gray-haired elderly lady glared back at him, as she angrily slapped the large white airbag away from her face with both hands.
"Damn right it’s your fault you Cretan…no, I am not okay! the woman screamed loudly.
My neck and back hurt, my nose feels broken and I need an ambulance. You’re definitely going to hear from my lawyer."
I’ll call 9-1-1, right away ma’am,
Thompson politely replied, shuffling back to his own vehicle.
Sonofabitch, Thompson thought to himself, how much worse can this day get.
CHAPTER 6
THE MAIN CAMPUS OF the sprawling National Emerging Infectious Diseases Laboratory in Galveston included a billion-dollar hospital, medical and nursing schools, three institutes for advanced study, as well as a medical library, and numerous other research facilities. It was all part of an even larger network of hospitals and clinics that offered a conglomerate of full range primary and specialized medical care.