Chapter 1

From the higher elevation of the Tibetan plateau, the mighty Yangtze River meandered through a maze of curves into valleys below, and then flowed east to meet the China Sea a few miles north of Shanghai. Its waters were a choppy dark brown, heavily laden with silt, wastes, and all manner of unknown substances. Hidden undercurrents prodded the river's momentum as it rushed toward the sea. If a person was adventuresome and had a flat-bottomed vessel and an experienced guide who knew every shallow and sharp bend, the river could be navigated all the way from Chongquing to the Pacific, past Wahun, the capital city of Huber Province, an industrial complex of nearly six million people located half way between Chongquing and Shanghai.

To the south, the land held rich deposits of iron ore. Large factories jettisoned black smoke that turned day into night. Ever-present, wind-blown clouds carried invisible radioactive beta particles north to isolated farming villages perched on terraced slopes up the mountains.

Over many years, the radioactive particles became part of the food chain, absorbed into the skins of dark red potatoes that grew beneath the parched earth. The particles seeped into the water that children drank, in which newborns were bathed, and from which adults made their strong, black tea. They floated as invisible sparks of radioactive energy upon the surface of stagnant ponds that formed in low areas where the rains accumulated. When the waters receded and the land dried, radioactive residue remained in darkened cracks and crevices.

The stylus of the EKG machine squeaked, the thermo-tip following a pathway of irregular heartbeats across a strip of paper. The doctor--in his early thirties and wearing a crisp, white jacket with a Chinese government logo prominently displayed in front--snapped off his surgical gloves with disgust, grunted a few words that could be understood in any language, and threw the gloves into a plastic container labeled 'Biologicals'. He flipped the EKG switch to the off position, and with a snap of the wrist replaced the gloves with a new pair. Bending to adjust an adhesive contact that had loosened from the patient's thigh, he restarted the EKG and shook his head as he watched the up and down movement of the stylus. The weakened heart had barely enough electrical energy to contract, the rhythm erratic, with multiple irregular beats dotting the pathway of the paper strip.

He frowned with disgust and frustration, not an uncommon gesture for a doctor who had met his intellectual match. Recently promoted to assistant professorship at Wahun's Medical School, he specialized in infectious diseases, a most prestigious position for someone of his young age. Every other Wednesday he made medical rounds at Number 2 Hospital, ten miles south of the medical school. There, he consulted on difficult-to-diagnose cases.

He considered himself fortunate, because Wahun Medical School had recently purchased a state-of-the-art electron microscope that he looked forward to using on problem cases. A powerful instrument, it was capable of bringing into focus tiny infectious agents that, until recently, were only presumed to exist.

He often stayed at his laboratory late into the night, absorbed in an isolated world of microbiology: peering at tissue biopsies, focusing on smears from areas of infection, and analyzing bone marrow aspirates. This night he studied an unusual rod-shaped microorganism. They flourished in clumps, attaching themselves to young, immature blood cells, and most worrisome of all, they destroyed blood platelets, altering the normal clotting of the blood.

After a while, he leaned back from the microscope to relieve the strain on his back, wiped his glasses clean with a soft cloth, and thought of his wife and young son. He worried about his wife's cough that had persisted for nearly a month, and his son was not well. Five year-old Yang was plagued with diarrhea that had not improved despite traditional medical treatment.

A doctor at Number 2 Hospital studied the frail woman. Her long, dull gray hair and deeply wrinkled face spoke of the hard life this farmer's wife had lived. Blood oozed from every orifice, even through the pores of her skin. Her seizures had become more frequent, her arms and legs shook violently. The skin lesion on the patient's lower abdomen--an ulcer similar to that seen in leprosy--had not responded to standard antibiotic salve and now oozed a putrid, yellowish discharge that, on microscopic examination, contained clusters of bizarre, rod-shaped bacilli.

The doctor had tried everything, but he had limited experience in these matters. This was a case that needed something more than acupuncture.

He adjusted the flow of the intravenous solution of Ringer's Lactate, but the patient needed blood, not a clear colorless solution without substance. This patient needed life-saving red blood cells, but none could be had at any price in this remote Chinese province. He shook his head. Four identical cases in the last month had exhausted the hospital's blood supply.

The woman had lived a worthwhile life, with a husband and two healthy sons who had married well, but their farmland lay dry and parched from the extended drought. Even the forest on the lower slopes, once lush with thick green vegetation and leaves as broad as a hand, were now an ashen gray. The wild animals that once hid deep within the umbrella of lush foliage, now ventured into the villages for food and drink, leaving their droppings behind.

Times were hard, and the old woman's two sons could not help their elderly father when the time approached for their mother to leave this earth. With sadness and apprehension they made arrangements beforehand, and the money the sons received would give their children a chance to live a little longer, to survive until the rains returned, and maybe seeds would germinate with the vigor of past years.

When she died several days later. Her body was securely wrapped in a cloth soaked with strong solution and taken to the lower level of a nearby building, ready to be preserved, where others like her lay. Through small incisions made in her neck, a special solution flowed, under pressure, into her internal organs so they would be preserved for the journey ahead. Her skin was hydrated with a special preservative, making the tissues of the face and neck plump. After the procedure, her sons would not have recognized her.

In the cool of evening, an unmarked van arrived to transport the bodies. The vehicle traveled south several kilometers on Chongren Lu Street to an isolated wharf on the Hanshui River where a flat-bottomed boat was anchored, awaiting its monthly quota of cadavers.

From there, the small vessel traveled westward, past the Wuhan's Yellow Crane Pavilion Tower that overlooked the waterway from the top of Snake Hill, to where the waters joined the Yangzte River.

Anchored in deep water of the harbor, a cargo vessel flying a Liberian flag listed slightly. Black diesel smoke belched from the stacks; the steel plating of its hull had turned rusty red. The crew waited patiently for the flat-bottomed boat to arrive with its special cargo. Waves slapped against the hull, rocking the vessel from side to side as the tide grew stronger. A faint light from the captain's deck cast its pattern onto the outside cargo area. Below deck, in a special container, several bodies wrapped in plastic lay suspended in a strong fluid.

The boat came alongside, and muscled workers transferred the special cargo of cadavers to the container. The long journey across the ocean would be interrupted with stops in Indonesia, the Philippines, Africa, and on to the United States.

The journey across the Pacific, passing through the Malacca Straits that separated Malaysia from Indonesia, and then sailing south to the Indian Ocean, usually took the freighter, Miranda, about eight days. That, however, involved many 'ifs'. If the waters remained calm, if waves didn't peak over six feet, and if squalls, known as Sumatras, didn't develop with their usual suddenness.

The vessel cut through the relatively calm sea, each wave raising the bow ever so slightly. With the cargo bay only half full, the draft wasn't especially deep, and when an occasional high wave did strike the hull, a sharp thump resonated within the bulkhead. Firmly secured below deck was the usual assortment of cargo: electronics gadgets from the Far East; large farm tractors with over-sized tires, their frames painted bright green with yellow trim and linked together by heavy chains; automobiles from South Korea; over fifty thousand gallons of fuel oil ... and secured amid ship, a metal container, no larger than a good-sized closet.

Inside the metal container, the fluid that held the bodies afloat was strong and normally of sufficient concentration to neutralize most bacilli that might contaminate any blood remaining in body cavities. Inevitably, some always escaped through small skin imperfections. But the solution was ineffective against this new breed of organism, which found its way into the solution. There, it floated on the pond of preservative as an invisible film. With each heavy wave that struck the ship's hull, a crack at the container's edge expanded, until a few drops of yellow fluid found their way onto the floor.

On deck, the sun had reached its zenith, the rays filtering below into the cargo bay. An isolated high wave washed onto the deck, sending fingers of salty water that found their way into the shadowy depths below.

Above, in the wheelhouse, the Captain barked orders and gestured angrily. Two men, lean and muscular with dark, weather-beaten complexions and full beards, responded immediately and hurried below to check the cargo.

With flashlights in hand, they tugged sharply at holding-straps made of sheet metal and yanked at ropes twisted into bulky knots. Everything was tight and secure, as it should be, except...

"Over here," seaman Petropoulis shouted to the other. "Check this out."

They watched as droplets of yellowish fluid leaked from a thin crack in the metal container down the side to a small puddle on the floor. He lightly touched the liquid with his fingertip and brought it to his nose for a quick sniff. A seaman of his experience should be able to tell with ease its source, for leaks were quite commonplace in a large, ocean-going vessel like the Miranda. Surprisingly, the scent was more pungent than anticipated.

He jerked back. "Shit!" He wiped the liquid off on his tattered pant leg.

"Don't tell the captain, just ignore it," the other seaman growled. "He'd make us clean it up, and I don't clean up shit."

Both backed away and peered at the container that stood apart from the usual cargo, propped up on a platform made of two-by-fours. It extended to nearly the height of an average-sized man.

The lid was secured by hinges that had turned a dull patina-green from the high humidity and salty air.

"Come on, let's get outta here," Petropoulis growled.

The other nearly tromped on his heels as they scrambled back topside.