Chapter 1 - Los Angeles, California

A crisp snap punctuated the sound of Simon’s driver ripping the air in its long arc. With one hand in a lazy salute against his visor, he watched the ball propelled over a grove of trees jutting in front of the fairway. The distant splash was a late confirmation of what Simon had already predicted with growing angst as the center of the small lake beyond the trees waited patiently for impact.

His caddie looked reverently toward the lake with stoic, silent eyes, as Simon slowly replaced his driver in his bag. More than a caddie, Winston doubled as Simon’s personal trainer and general-purpose sounding board. It was a second career, after Winston’s second postdoctoral stint in medieval history had failed to land him a tenure-track appointment. He had caddied during college for a local pro shop, but only recently discovered how lucrative the Los Angeles market was for upscale gurus catering to the rich and eccentric.

Not that Simon was particularly eccentric. He had the composure one might expect from the director of Los Angeles’ Emergency Operations Organization. His cast-iron expression of thoughtful patience, however, belied his compulsive competitive streak. In Simon’s case, Winston’s function was not to keep his client focused, but rather to buffer the stomach acid that came from internalizing the worst nightmares of a city that had its share of them.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to retire that driver. It seems to yaw a bit more than your others.” Winston’s advice was acknowledged with a curt nod.

A shrill bleeping from Simon’s belt triggered a reflex that brought a miniature phone to his ear. “Simon.”

Simon listened patiently for about 15 seconds, and commanded, “I want you to check every ER on the contact list and find out what the scope of this is. Tell Monica to park herself in the press suite and block any reports until I get there. And call Jack in please…. We’ll need to brief senior staff in 30 minutes. Understood?” He snapped the phone back to his belt and began walking briskly toward the cart.

“Thank you, Winston. I’m afraid we’ll have to resume another time.”

“It’s a good thing perfect Saturdays aren’t hard to come by here,” Winston consoled.

“I’m trying to keep it that way.” Simon stretched back with his eyes closed as his caddie rocketed him to the clubhouse.

Appraising the situation, Winston tactfully asked, “Shall I phone Susan?”

“Please, tell her it might take a while.” Simon was distracted but polite.

Winston raised an eyebrow and sped his client to his BMW, stopping on a dime as Simon leapt out and slipped behind the steering wheel. Seventeen minutes later, Simon switched off his siren as he veered into the underground parking of his newly renovated emergency operations headquarters.

As he strode out of his car to the staircase, jumping two steps in a bound, the secured door at the top crashed open and a uniformed guard stood aside as Simon Westenfeld emerged into the Operations Room.

He was greeted by Janet Holbrook, a former attorney who was one of his chief deputies and on this particular Saturday morning the ranking authority at the office. She accomplished her greeting with a worried smile and began her report instantly.

“The report came from public health about a half hour ago. Apparently, it was four patients, all young, no obvious connection, admitted at Harborside Medical four days ago.” She paused for a breath. “Symptoms included fever, chills, and a generalized rash. No cause was identified, until two of them died two days ago and the physicians taking care of the other two caught wind of it. They brought in the infectious disease chief from UCLA and she thought of smallpox—sort of an afterthought, I think. Apparently, she had one of the research pathologists from the main campus run some tests and found genetic markers for smallpox virus. The pathologist called public health this morning after he showed up to read out the tests.” She looked at Simon for guidance.

“Scope?”

“We called the 30 hospitals on our outbreak screening protocol, and just talked to the E.R. docs. Of those, seven could remember seeing unusual cases involving fever and a rash similar to the Harborside cases in the last week. None could remember names or dates without checking records.”

“So we’ll estimate we’re dealing with as many as a hundred index cases, possibly a couple hundred tops.” Simon’s remark was a statement, not a question. “What does Monica have to say?”

“Not a word from the press. It seems this pathologist and public health are the only ones who know.”

“That doc knows to keep his mouth shut?”

“Sam at public health already talked to him about it. He said the doc was a little peeved, but got the idea.”

“How sure is that pathologist of the results? Does he know what he’s telling us?”

“No B.S. about limited sensitivity or false positives. He told Sam there was no other way the smallpox genetic sequence could end up in his laboratory. Period.” The adrenaline was beginning to wear off as Janet’s face showed signs of emotional fatigue.

“So you’re telling me I am about to make a phone call reporting with 100% certainty a terrorist attack involving hundreds of victims in the middle of Los Angeles that happened weeks ago, and for which we have no clue about the location or perpetrators?”

“So how was your golf game?” Janet smiled awkwardly.

“Arguably more disastrous than our situation here.” Simon turned his back to Janet and began walking toward the Situation Room.

He flipped on the lights and began powering up the server that fed each of the terminals around the oblong table in the soundproof room. The headquarters had been the pride of Simon’s tenure as director, with the Situation Room undoubtedly its crown jewel. The entire building had been constructed to unprecedented standards of earthquake and fire-resistance. Publicizing how the New York emergency management department had been crippled in the 2001 terrorist attack—the office had been located in the World Trade Center—Simon had begun arbitrating for new digs as soon as he was appointed director. The political climate was perfect for securing new funding for a state-of-the-art communications facility.

Simon walked out to the Operations Room, and spent the next ten minutes conferring with senior staff, making quick assignments to retrieve protocols from files and review established procedures in their areas of expertise. Throughout this period, Janet tried frantically to brief each of the division heads as they entered the Situation Room. When they had all arrived, Simon ushered himself into the room and sealed the door.

He walked to his position at the table and began restating the facts. “What we have is a doctor from UCLA claiming that four patients admitted last Tuesday to Harborside Medical are infected with smallpox, two of which have since died. Jack, give me your thoughts.”

“First of all, let me say that Dr. Pendleton knows what the hell he’s talking about. He’s spent 10 years in emerging viruses at Bethesda, and has enough hot lab experience to know how to isolate a virus without contamination. The genetic sequences he would have tested for are published sequences from the smallpox genome. Here’s my first issue. Smallpox is extinct. It’s easier to recreate it from scratch than to get at existing samples. They’re more tightly guarded than the President. Of course, some people think there are samples in the Ukraine that haven’t been accounted for….”

Jack continued his musings, knowing full well that as the only physician in the emergency operations organization, he had the stage for as long as he liked. “No, the only answer that makes sense is home-brewed smallpox.”

Simon wrinkled his forehead. “Made it from scratch? How?”

“The entire sequence for the smallpox virus was published years ago, and any twisted mind with a library card can get at it. With the sequence in hand, you just have to manufacture little bits of the virus at a time, and then string them all together in the right order. You could probably order most of the pieces from a mail-order catalog. Some guys did it back in 2002 with poliovirus just to prove it could be done. Now smallpox is much tougher than polio, and would take a good brain, but it’s doable.”

“So we’re dealing with a smallpox supply made from scratch.” Simon summarized.

“That’s right.”

“Remind me, Jack. What’s incubation for smallpox?”

“Twelve days—let’s see—exposure could have been anywhere from 16 to 18 days ago.”

“Who could do it?”

Jack paused for a moment. “Anyone, really. State-sponsored, some crackpot, a rogue terrorist group.”

“What percentage of our population has been vaccinated.”

“Vaccinations never really took hold. I’d say less than 10% of the medical workforce, less than 1% of the population.”

“Monica, anything else out of the ordinary? What’s going on in the world?”

His poorly phrased question was understood as intended. Monica was the media relations specialist, whose responsibility it was to follow the international as well as local media outlets like a yard dog, and control them when emergency powers were deemed necessary. They had worked out a compromise with local television news bureaus that enabled her to request a half-hour hold on any story that might compromise public safety until the governor could issue a formal restraining order under newly granted emergency powers.

Monica was biting on the back of her pen. “Not a word. I can’t understand it. You might expect some lunatic to claim responsibility or for us to get vague warnings from the feds or something. But I can’t think of a time it’s been more quiet here.”

He looked to Janet. Aside from filling in shifts as operations director, she managed logistical problems for complicated situations.

She responded to his glance. “I haven’t put together a full plan, but it seems we have a lot of work to do before we really know the scope of the problem. We’ve got to get a link shared by these four patients, and work on getting some more names from other hospitals. Without that, we’re only Chicken Little—the sky is falling. The attack was weeks ago. I don’t know what we’re going to accomplish blowing the whistle before we know what we’re dealing with.”

Simon’s face showed resolve. “Here’s what we do. I want Janet to coordinate the discovery phase. Jack, get a quarantine on those two patients—quietly. Monica, if anyone breathes a word of this, squash it and I’ll go to the governor. By tomorrow morning, I want to have a story I can tell Washington. Any questions?”

There was a knock at the door. Simon glanced at the closed circuit television on his terminal, and frowned at what he saw.

“Pete!” Simon looked angrily at his security chief. “Who are those two outside our door?!”

“Pete, what’s going on?”

“It seems, sir, that these individuals are with the FBI.”

Pete scrambled to his feet as he walked to the entrance of the Situation Room. He opened the door and stepped outside. A moment later, he reemerged with a man and a woman. She was in her early-30’s, holding a soft drink in her hand and wearing a low-cut azure blouse and navy skirt.. Her hair was cropped short, around sunken cheeks and European featues. Her lack of make-up emphasized her attractive, elegant face. Her colleague was older, dressed in an ash business suit with jet black hair and dark eyes. His olive complexion and hint of curl to his hair hinted at Mediterranean ancestry. His weighty bearing seemed more that of a CEO than an officer.

The young woman spoke up. “It seems, Mr. Westenfeld, that you have a problem.”

“Who are you?”

“Eva Vanorden, and this is Alan Thorpe,” the woman replied. “But that’s not important right now. What is important is that you’re in way over your head, and you’re waiting until tomorrow to make your call.”

Simon was growing visibly flustered. “How have you been listening?!”

Vanorden tapped her right ear. “The bureau isn’t without its supply of gadgets…”

“I need to know what you are doing here and who sent you.” Simon’s patience was exhausted.

“Why don’t you let me,” the older man stepped in front of his associate. He continued, addressing Simon. “We are, you might say, consultants. I’m very sorry to have inconvenienced all of you, but this has been a high-level drill also taking place in four other cities across the country today. There is no smallpox, but I compliment you on an outstanding performance. Your speed was exemplary. My associate and I have been quite impressed.” He ended with a half-smile as he saw the same silent expression on everyone at the table.

Janet spoke first, confused. “But I talked to Sam…All those other cases in different emergency rooms…”

Thorpe acknowledged her with a nod. “Any idea how many people in Los Angeles have rashes? As to your other question, Sam Jenkins was very gracious to assist us. That’s what I mean about response time, though. We drove straight here from public health, and you folks were all over it. In our simulations, the best we predicted was 12 hours before emergency ops would have a coordinated plan.” His complimentary tone wasn’t particularly helpful in melting the icy stares of his audience.

Vanorden spoke up again. “There’s still an important issue, here. With the evidence you had, you should have called in report immediately. There’s more at stake here than just Los Angeles. You don’t have the intelligence data to run your own investigation on something this big.” Her partner motioned with one hand to back down.

“I’m going to find out who’s in charge of this hoax.” Simon narrowed his eyes at the two intruders.

“You know, I think it’s time we split,” Vanorden whispered as she turned to face the door.

In response, her colleague gave a slight nod and concluded, “Thanks, folks. Again, my apologies.”

Making her exit, the younger partner took a sip from her soft drink and walked out the door without looking back.

Simon sank into his chair, the words "Sonofabitch" echoing the sentiment in the room.