Pandemic Read Online Free
Author: Daniel Kalla
her forties than she had in her twenties. Still, she shuddered at the thought of one day facing the "dating scene" again.
Savard was relieved when Alex Clayton, the Central Intelligence Agency's Deputy Director of Operations, interrupted both her unhappy ruminations and her subordinate's endless rambling. "Yeah, Dr. Graves, fascinating stuff," Clayton said, but his stifled yawn belied the remark. "Can you get to the part where you update us on the powder trail from the anthrax mail out?"
Oblivious or indifferent to Clayton's condescension, Dr. Clive Graves responded in the same nasal monotone. "We know the powder is consistent with what was developed in Baghdad in the late 1980s, but we haven't matched it with any of the U.S. control samples. We've tested the known substrate from the labs and universities with legal access to anthrax in every state. We're in the process of subtyping--"
"So the trail's gone cold, Doctor?" Clayton cut him off.
Graves pushed his glasses back up his nose. His shoulders sagged. "Um, I'm not in the detective business, so those aren't the, er, terms I would choose..." he stammered.
Always protective of her staff, Savard stepped in. "Even in ballistics, a far more traceable science, you need to find the gun before you can match a bullet to it. Short of what we've known for some time--that the powder on those letters was consistent with what the Iraqis and Soviets were producing in the eighties--we will never be able to narrow down the origins until you and your colleagues . find us some source material to compare it to." She leaned forward in her seat and eyed Clayton steadily. "Find us a smoking gun, Alex, and we'll tell you if it's the right one."
Clayton chuckled. "I'm not packing today, Gwen."
Though Savard maintained a healthy suspicion for anyone associated with the CIA, Clayton's ability to laugh at himself and his organization--an exceedingly rare characteristic among the spies she'd met--endeared Clayton to her. In spite of his brash, reckless demeanor, she liked the guy. Not quite enough though to ever accept one of his offers for coffee or a movie.
"So, in summary, you've made no progress on the anthrax case," Moira Roberts interjected with a heavy sigh. In just a few months on the job, the Deputy Director of the FBI had already cemented her reputation as a humorless and brusque bureaucrat In her early forties like Gwen, Roberts was one of the youngest deputy directors in the FBI's history, but with her gray hair and formless matronly wardrobe, few realized she was still on the young side of middle age. "Dr. Savard, is there any possibility we can move on to variola major?"
Gwen Savard resisted the rising ire. Who was this woman trying to impress by tossing around esoteric phyla names? Even the people in the know, and Roberts wasn't one, always referred to it as smallpox. But Gwen refused to let Roberts draw her into another confrontation in front of the whole committee. She wasn't about to give the otherwise male group more locker-room fodder with another demonstration of alpha females butting heads.
"No problems with smallpox," Gwen said, realizing the irony of her remark but choosing not to rephrase it. "Vaccine production is on schedule. We should have 300 million doses available by spring. The logistics of the vaccination program are still being hashed out. Public Health estimates a minimum of one year to inoculate the majority of the population."
The group discussed the smallpox vaccination program a few minutes longer, before moving on to monkey pox. Every week the committee covered all the communicable big hitters of bioterrorism: anthrax, botulism, stnallpox, Ebola, cholera, the plague, Q fever, typhoid, shigellosis, brucellosis, and tularemia. The panel cut across all government and scientific agencies. Aside from CIA, FBI, and Homeland Security, there was at least one representative from the Centers for Disease Control, Department of Justice, Department of Health and
Savard was relieved when Alex Clayton, the Central Intelligence Agency's Deputy Director of Operations, interrupted both her unhappy ruminations and her subordinate's endless rambling. "Yeah, Dr. Graves, fascinating stuff," Clayton said, but his stifled yawn belied the remark. "Can you get to the part where you update us on the powder trail from the anthrax mail out?"
Oblivious or indifferent to Clayton's condescension, Dr. Clive Graves responded in the same nasal monotone. "We know the powder is consistent with what was developed in Baghdad in the late 1980s, but we haven't matched it with any of the U.S. control samples. We've tested the known substrate from the labs and universities with legal access to anthrax in every state. We're in the process of subtyping--"
"So the trail's gone cold, Doctor?" Clayton cut him off.
Graves pushed his glasses back up his nose. His shoulders sagged. "Um, I'm not in the detective business, so those aren't the, er, terms I would choose..." he stammered.
Always protective of her staff, Savard stepped in. "Even in ballistics, a far more traceable science, you need to find the gun before you can match a bullet to it. Short of what we've known for some time--that the powder on those letters was consistent with what the Iraqis and Soviets were producing in the eighties--we will never be able to narrow down the origins until you and your colleagues . find us some source material to compare it to." She leaned forward in her seat and eyed Clayton steadily. "Find us a smoking gun, Alex, and we'll tell you if it's the right one."
Clayton chuckled. "I'm not packing today, Gwen."
Though Savard maintained a healthy suspicion for anyone associated with the CIA, Clayton's ability to laugh at himself and his organization--an exceedingly rare characteristic among the spies she'd met--endeared Clayton to her. In spite of his brash, reckless demeanor, she liked the guy. Not quite enough though to ever accept one of his offers for coffee or a movie.
"So, in summary, you've made no progress on the anthrax case," Moira Roberts interjected with a heavy sigh. In just a few months on the job, the Deputy Director of the FBI had already cemented her reputation as a humorless and brusque bureaucrat In her early forties like Gwen, Roberts was one of the youngest deputy directors in the FBI's history, but with her gray hair and formless matronly wardrobe, few realized she was still on the young side of middle age. "Dr. Savard, is there any possibility we can move on to variola major?"
Gwen Savard resisted the rising ire. Who was this woman trying to impress by tossing around esoteric phyla names? Even the people in the know, and Roberts wasn't one, always referred to it as smallpox. But Gwen refused to let Roberts draw her into another confrontation in front of the whole committee. She wasn't about to give the otherwise male group more locker-room fodder with another demonstration of alpha females butting heads.
"No problems with smallpox," Gwen said, realizing the irony of her remark but choosing not to rephrase it. "Vaccine production is on schedule. We should have 300 million doses available by spring. The logistics of the vaccination program are still being hashed out. Public Health estimates a minimum of one year to inoculate the majority of the population."
The group discussed the smallpox vaccination program a few minutes longer, before moving on to monkey pox. Every week the committee covered all the communicable big hitters of bioterrorism: anthrax, botulism, stnallpox, Ebola, cholera, the plague, Q fever, typhoid, shigellosis, brucellosis, and tularemia. The panel cut across all government and scientific agencies. Aside from CIA, FBI, and Homeland Security, there was at least one representative from the Centers for Disease Control, Department of Justice, Department of Health and
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