OPERATIONSTEALTH

  SEED

  GEORGE AMABILE

  © 2019, George Amabile

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, for any reason, by any means, without the permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by Doowah Design.

  Photo of author by Annette Willborn.

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Manitoba Arts Council for our publishing program.

  ISBN 978-1-77324-056-5 (epub)

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Operation stealth seed / George Amabile ; Doug Whiteway, editor.

  Names: Amabile, George, 1936- author. | Whiteway, Doug, 1951- editor.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190177888 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190177896 | ISBN 9781773240558 (softcover) | ISBN 9781773240565 (HTML)

  Classification: LCC PS8551.M32 O64 2019 | DDC C813/.54—dc23

  Signature Editions

  P.O. Box 206, RPO Corydon, Winnipeg, Manitoba, R3M 3S7

  www.signature-editions.com

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  76

  77

  78

  79

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1The Caribbean

  September 2011

  A hundred miles offshore, the U.S. cruiser Corregidor out of Pensacola rocked gently in a blaze of sun. Some sixty fathoms below the foam-flecked swells, Lieutenant-Commander Edward McLaren turned and cruised back along the drop-off shelf that was his point of reference. He bunched himself up and dove deeper. The battery-powered quartz headlamp opened a glowing cavern in which schools of brightly coloured fish hovered for a moment, then veered off into the shadows.

  He was no longer aware of the wet suit, or the breathing apparatus. It felt as though he had been swimming in this miraculous world from the dawn of time. Then something stirred deep in his memory. A word surfaced. Rapture. Then another, and another: The rapture of the deep. He struggled to convince himself that this onset of euphoria was a danger point beyond which he could not allow himself to drift. Resentfully, he checked the dials on his wristband.

  Three hundred and eighty-six feet, an hour and forty-two minutes. Working mechanically, driven by months of training and sheer will, he disengaged the mouthpiece, unzipped a shoulder pocket and brought the clear tube with its compartment of white powder up to his mouth. The plastic felt unpleasantly foreign, but he forced himself to bite hard, releasing a flood of fresh water and the bitter, slightly acidic taste of NS2-7.

  It was an awkward manoeuvre, but they had not been able to make the complex chemical work in a simple pill, a liquid or an injection. It had to be catalyzed by water. It also had to be ingested immediately. After a few minutes, if it did not combine with elements in the blood, it would break down.

  He forced the chewed tube from his lips and watched it unfold as it sank. Trash, he thought. Human litter. He replaced the mouthpiece, kicked and stroked briskly until he felt his head clear, then swam as hard as he could toward the surface, though all his training and previous experience told him how dangerous this was. He knew how it felt to have nitrogen gas bubbling up in your blood. That’s why they called it “the bends.” It doubled you over with excruciating pain and could put you down for good.

  Now, as he rose through brighter and brighter light, he felt his muscles tighten involuntarily, as though expecting the worst. But it didn’t happen. The damn stuff was working. With that little tube of water and magic dust, divers could operate all day at tremendous depths and come up fast in an emergency without risking serious injury. The military implications astounded him.

  As he exploded into the bright afternoon, he gave a pumped fist salute to Admiral Hawley and Commander Tritt who stood at parade rest in their dress whites while the short, stocky Dr. Kee from Sarbitt Chemical leaned out over the rail in his black suit, running stubby fingers through his brush cut and grinning wildly.

  The celebration didn’t last. By the time he had gotten out of his gear and down to sick bay for testing, he’d begun to feel queasy and his pulse accelerated, skipping beats and scaring the hell out of everyone. Lying on the examination table, hooked up to a series of sophisticated machines, he felt anxious and irritable. His bones ached, the muscles in his legs and feet developed severe cramps, and he was so weak he couldn’t lift himself to an upright position. Just before he passed out, he remembered being warned by the older men twelve years before: Never volunteer for a goddamn thing.

  In the wardroom, Admiral Hawley took off his cap and placed it carefully on the teak table beside the tumbler of Scotch, which he had poured but had not drunk. The skin on his face was taut and shiny, with hairline wrinkles that deepened around the pale blue eyes when he frowned. His close-cropped hair was still thick, but had gone very grey. He looked up at Commander Tritt who stood with his broad hands folded on the back of a chair, then back at Dr. Yueng T. Kee. He was not a happy man.

  “I thought you said you had it licked, Kee. What the hell went wrong?”

  Kee shifted his thick body and stared back at Hawley for several seconds before answering.

  “Let me remind you, Admiral, that McLaren came up from over 300 feet in thirty seconds with absolutely no free nitrogen in his bloodstream. I hope you understand what that means.”

  “Of course, I understand. But the man was sick as a dog, and he’s lapsed into a coma. What the fuck was that and how soon can you fix it?”

  “I can’t tell until I see the test results, but it looks like NS2-7 has a whole spectrum of nasty side effects. Unfortunately, I’m not sure it can be fixed.”

  2New York

  April 2012

  Dr. Yueng T. Kee sat in the comfortable leather chair in the sumptuously appointed office and realized that he was not at all comfortable. When Sarbitt Chemical was acquired by the agro-giant Lang & Baine, Kee was kept on as the CEO, but was required to report to one of the partners at L&B. Now, as he watched his new boss pore over the NS2-7 file, he tried to read his expression, but there was no way to tell whether his nitrogen suppressant for deep-sea divers would survive the afternoon. After a while, the man looked up and his voice was noncommittal.

  “Tell me how this all got started, and where you are now.”

  “A lab tech, Abe Sinden, was examining samples from one of the L&B manure slurries you were using to develop your new fertilizer, Accel 3.”

  “Yes, we were monitoring the nitrate levels.”

  “Which had been getting higher and higher. That’s why Sinden couldn’t believe what he saw under his microscope. A bacterium no one had ever catalogued. It shouldn’t have been there. No microbe could survive in such a lethal environment.”

  “But it had.”

  “Not only that, it was reproducing wildly. The severely hostile conditions had triggered a genetic adaptation, a polyvalent sequester which bonded with the whole range of nitrogen oxidation states and made them chemically inert.”

  “And it was your idea to see if this sequester could be used to suppress nitrogen in the blood of deep-sea divers and allow them to surface quickly without suffering the ravages of caisson disease?”

  “Yes. I pitched the idea to the Department of Defense and they provided substantial backing.”

  “But the tests on Lieutenant-Commander McLaren show severe, allergenic, immune system reactions which you haven’t been able to counteract.”

  Kee hesitated, tried to think of something he could say that would at least extend the conversation, but could think of nothing and just nodded, yes. Here it comes, he thought.

  Eighteen months of work down the drain, along with the Defense Department contract. But the L&B exec went on to ask about an update Kee had added to the report.

  “Tell me more about this reverse sequester.” Although the man’s tone remained neutral, his eyes showed intense interest as he listened to Kee explain:

  “Not much to tell. As the original sequester succeeded in neutralizing nearly all the nitrogen in the sl urry, the level got too low and the bacterium developed a molecule that would reactivate enough to build and maintain its colonies.”

  “You were able to produce large quantities of the original sequester, is that right?”

  “Yes, as you know, L&B started using it to clear the slurries of high density nitrates, as required by law in some countries, and it cut nearly eighty per cent from your cleanup costs.”

  “We will, of course, continue to use significant quantities for that purpose, but can you produce the reverse sequester just as easily?”

  “I can’t think of any reason why not.”

  “Good. Very good. I want you to triple production of NS2-7 and put together the best team of transgenic engineers you can find.”

  3Langley, Virginia

  A year later

  It took some time, but because of his contacts at the Department of Defense, Kee was able to arrange a meeting with Dr. Rydell, director of the African Desk at the CIA compound in Langley.

  Kee introduced the L&B exec who began the conversation with a question for which he already had the answer.

  “Is it true that your agency has an ongoing interest in President Kamoro Baku of Mawabi?”

  Claude Rydell was tall and slender, with thinning sandy hair. He drew a pipe from the pocket of his tweed jacket and filled it with an exotic-smelling tobacco from a pouch but didn’t light it.

  “Is that why you’ve come, to enquire after a Third World head of state?”

  It wasn’t a response the L&B exec expected, but he managed to maintain the slight smile that was his trademark, a smile that said, with an air of casual superiority, “I know something about you that you don’t know I know.”

  “Well, yes, but also to offer a proposal that might help jump-start your somewhat stalled career, Dr. Rydell.”

  It was true. Rydell had been passed over twice when he was next in line for the deputy director’s job. Then he’d been moved laterally, to the African Desk, and had not moved since. He studied the man who sat across from him for several seconds before he answered, noted the Savile Row suit, the two-hundred-dollar haircut, and the eyes, alert, but unforthcoming and hard to read.

  “Your information is correct. We are interested in President Baku.”

  “I’ve a fair idea why, but it would be helpful if you could elabo­rate.”

  “Certainly. First of all, we believe the elections in which he won a landslide victory were rigged in some way. His status as a democratically elected leader is therefore questionable.

  “Lately, he has begun to show dictatorial tendencies. He has nationalized the banks and all public utilities, as well as the country’s oil and gas producers. He continues to express sympathy and support for occupied Palestine, Hamas and Hezbollah. But our most urgent concern is Mawabi’s production of yellowcake uranium. A sale to Iran could greatly accelerate their nuclear weapons program and would provide Baku with much needed capital for the broad range of entitlements which have tripled Mawabi’s national debt.”

  “Thank you. I assume that you are considering a range of options that might neutralize this imminent threat to our national interest.”

  “Yes, but I’m afraid that information is classified, and your visitor’s clearance doesn’t reach that high.”

  “Understood. But what would you say if I told you our project for Mawabi could destabilize the regime by creating a national crisis? Baku and his corrupt cabinet would be held responsible. He would lose his populist support base and conditions would become strained enough to justify an immediate humanitarian intervention. Your man Loyuba, who is waiting in Chad, could easily be reinstalled to stabilize the country and support US interests there.”

  Rydell smiled. “I’d say you’ve been reading our mail, but I’d also have to remind you that your firm lost its bid to run the cash crop mandated by IMF and World Bank loans in Mawabi.”

  “The contract was awarded to Curtiss James of Great Britain, so I’m not sure what project you’re referring to.” The L&B exec slid the file folder he’d been holding across the desk. “The details are all here. If you like what you see, we can talk further.”

  “Very well. And how much will this little sideshow of yours cost American taxpayers?”

  “Nothing. Not a red cent. All we ask is that our project be shielded from investigation and/or prosecution under whatever national security protocols apply.”

  Rydell raised an eyebrow. “I’m not authorized to make those kinds of guarantees, but I will discuss this with the deputy director and our associates over at the National Security Agency, Homeland Security and the Department of Defense. If we think your proposal can deliver the results you’ve described, I expect we can work something out.”

  In the limo on the way to the airport, Kee seemed lost in thought and a little confused. His boss picked it up right away. He laughed. “Okay, Kee. Spit it out. What’s bugging you?”

  Kee shook his head. “I can’t even guess what that was all about.”

  “Ah, yes, well, it’s about making the world a better place, and making a whole lot of cash for L&B at the same time. Let me draw you a picture, uh, no, a sketch, of what’s going on in the world of bread and butter. There’s a drought, Kee, a drought that’s been getting more and more severe in most of the high-yield wheat-growing regions on the planet, Russia, Egypt, South America, China, our own great plains and central Canada, to name a few. And the commodity index price keeps rising. Mawabi is only a trial run. By this time next year, we’ll have control of the world wheat market.”

  “Okay, but I don’t see what that has to do with deposing Baku.”

  “Of course, you don’t, and I’m not going to tell you. L&B doesn’t discuss corporate strategy with its subsidiaries. We decide policy and you implement it.”

  4

  They stared at the squat building that occupied half a block where Merritt crossed Light Street in the Bronx. It was after six and the neighbourhood of warehouses, shipping depots, scrap-metal auto-wreck yards and trucking dispatch terminals was deserted.

  Detective Buzz Alteri was getting restless. “We sure about this, Nicola?”

  His partner and team leader, Lieutenant Nick Cortese, nodded. “All the intel checked out and this is the Bravos’ home base.”

  “Wish there was a way we could get in there, see what’s going on.”

  “Maybe we can. That fire escape leads to the roof. If we take off one of those vent covers we can worm in through the air ducts.”

  He opened the Motorola HT1000 and briefed the rest of the team.

  “Listen up, guys. Buzz and I are going in through the roof. I want you to cover all exits. When the Colombians leave, pick them up as soon as they hit the street. We’ll have to keep radio silence and won’t be able to give you a heads-up, so stay sharp.”

  The captain of the 49th Precinct, Liam “Wolf” Donovan, had his SWAT team on a roof across the street. Nick thought this was overkill. It was his case and he had set up the raid, but the 49th wasn’t his precinct and the guy outranked him, so he’d let it go. Now, as he put in the call on his two-way, it worried him.

  When Donovan answered, Cortese brought him up to speed. Then he added,

  “So here’s the deal, I need you to stand down, absolutely stand fucking down.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that, Corteeze. I got my orders, too, you know.”

  “Yeah, you can, and you will. It’s my collar and it’s my call, so just make sure everyone up there knows what’s up and tell them to lock their weapons.”

  Cortese shut down the Motorola and nodded to Alteri. They crouched low, ran across the intersection and climbed up the fire escape to the roof. Buzz took out the Swiss Army knife he’d carried everywhere since high school and undid the four screws that held the air vent cover in place. Carefully, silently, he lifted off the cap and set it down on the tarred rooftop. Then he climbed up and slipped into the opening. Nick was right behind him.

  After a few dozen yards, the light from the opened vent on the roof petered out and the duct ahead of them was dark. There was just room enough to crawl on all fours, but it was stifling, and coated with dust that rose in a fine cloud as they inched along, trying to breathe quietly, trying not to cough or sneeze. As they came to a place where one section was joined to another, the metal creaked and buckled and the seam opened. They stopped, kept very still.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30