Praise for MICROBE
NJ Sunday Star Ledger ... "Well-constructed and a fine read,... with admirable gusto."
Delaware Weekly ... "Exciting and moving. Twists and shocks that keep the reader wired right up till the end.
Booklist ... "This is pretty great stuff... Clem has a knack for spinning a suspenseful yarn."
BookPage ... " The best astrobiological thriller since The Andromeda Strain."
Philadelphia Book Review ... "Cliff hangers, thrilling cat-and-mouse maneuvers, romance, science, murder, and action. GO!"
Orlando Sentinel ... "[A] frantic-paced, pulse-pounding thriller that rivals the best works of Crichton or Cook. The action-packed adventure takes readers on an exciting adventure that feels perilously real. Microbe is one reading experience that the audience will never forget."
Mid Atlantic Book Review ... "It's brilliant. These characters have depth... The plot is twisty, turny, slippery, and surprising. As for the ending... WOW."
Microbe
Bill Clem
Vision Books
Published by Vision Books
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead,
is coincidental and not intended by the author.
VISION BOOKS
P.O. Box 9034
New York NY 10020
Copyright © 2007 by Bill Clem
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
ISBN 13: 978-0-9795808-1-9
ISBN 10: 0-9795808-1-1
www.billclem.com
Contents
Also by Bill Clem
ACKNOWLEGEMENTS
Book One: Out of The Sky
Prologue
Book Two: The Doctors
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Book Two: Riordan
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Book Three: Discovery
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Epilogue
Sample from IMMORTAL
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
Novels
Skin Deep
Diencephalon (Holland Carter Detective Series)
Presidential Donor
Bliss
They All Fall Down (Holland Carter Detective Series)
Medicine Cup
Immortal
The Seventh Day
The Lazarus Effect
Short Fiction
A Brief Interval
(Collection of Short Stories)
Special thanks to Nate Zimmerman for his assistance in gathering information about Ft. Miles, and for my tour of the main bunker; Jon Hertzog for his editorial assistance; Gary Wilkerson for his unwavering support of my work; and as always, my wife and children for just being there.
Book One
Out of The Sky
I always thought the most significant thing that we ever found on the whole goddamn Moon was that little bacteria who came back and lived and nobody ever said shit about it.-Pete Conrad
On April 20, 1967, the unmanned lunar lander Surveyor 3 landed near Oceanus Procellarum on the surface of the moon. One of the things aboard was a television camera. Two-and-a-half years later, on November 20, 1969, Apollo 12 astronauts Pete Conrad and Alan L. Bean recovered the camera. When NASA scientists examined it back on Earth they were surprised to find specimens of Streptococcus mitis that were still alive. Because of the precautions the astronauts had taken, NASA could be sure that the germs were inside the camera when it was retrieved, so they must have been there before the Surveyor 3 was launched. These bacteria had survived for 31 months in the vacuum of the moon's atmosphere. Perhaps NASA shouldn't have been surprised, because there are other bacteria that thrive under near-vacuum pressure on the earth today. Anyway, we now know that the vacuum of space is not a fatal problem for bacteria.
Ft. Miles, Delaware
January 23, 1941 10:05 P.M.
The olive-drab Army jeep bounced over the dunes and stopped abruptly at a point eighty feet above Cape Henlopen. Colonel Billy Riordan grabbed his binoculars and jumped out.
"What the hell was that?" he asked his driver.
"I don't know, sir. A meteor, maybe?"
"Meteor, my ass."
Riordan rubbed the fog from his field glasses and peered through the lenses. He could see the ocean over the top of the dunes and the constantly waving sea grass. The moon's reflection on the Atlantic showed the waters calm, the tide gently breaking at the shoreline. His breath came in excited bursts as he scanned the landscape around the ocean. What was that?
Something had hit the water at astonishing speed.
The radar would already have picked up the disturbance and alerted the Naval Tracking Station. Riordan felt a distant chill. He realized, to his dismay, that he had experienced an unfamiliar emotion. Fear. Ft. Miles was a strategic target for the German Navy. It was rumored that Hitler had developed missiles capable of reaching the coast.
Had that been what he saw?
Riordan wiped the lenses and swept the surface of the ocean again. It was vast and black with no sign of any disturbance. Perhaps he'd seen some sort of lightening phenomenon?
He swung back around to the shoreline, then beyond that to the sand dunes, trackless and empty, past those, more dunes. The only movement came from the grell grass and sage scrub that swayed in the breeze coming off the ocean.
Riordan shivered as he pulled the collar up on his parka. It was the coldest month of the year, and it was late. He climbed back into the jeep. The motor was idling softly; it was the only sound he could hear.
"Get me back to headquarters, ASAP," he told the driver
Book Two
The Doctors
Continental Oil Platform- Off the coast of Delaware
February 21, 2003 3:45 A.M.
Tom Grogan stepped out from the reinforced doors of his cabin and gazed out at the angry waters of the Atlantic. It always looked the same to him. A black and white haze of churning water that seemed to stretch to infinity. Never mind that the gigantic oil platform, which consisted of a 37,000 ton topside integrated facility mounted on a 600,000 ton gravity base structure, had storage tanks for 1.3 million barrels of crude oil and towered five hundred feet above the surface: the ocean's vastness made the rig seem as small as an erector set. But the reports showed an abundance of oil in the region and Continental was the first oil company to drill the new site. Grogan fully intended to profit from the first strike. He had his whole future invested in Continental stock.
"What happened, Hendricks?" Grogan asked the rig's drilling foreman.
"I don't know. Must have hit something," Larry Hendricks said.
"Where you at?"
"Bout fourteen hundred. It was cake after we busted through the plate. Might be an old shipwreck? This area is loaded with them."
Grogan, a huge Irishman with a ruddy complexion, laughed.
"Yeah, maybe we'll all get rich, then we can get off this shit-hole."
He zipped up his parka and put on some ski gloves.
"Let's get this thing up and see what it looks like, he said. "Top is flying in tomorrow, and I don't want everyone sitting around with their thumb up their ass." Top was the name Grogan had given to Continental's CEO.
"It's gonna take a while," Hendricks said. "She's frozen up, big time."
Grogan put a hand on Hendricks shoulder. "Do the best you can. And speaking of frozen, I just got a Telex from Frederick. There is a huge Nor'easter heading our way in the next few days. We need to get buttoned up."
"Great," was all Hendricks could manage.
Off the Delaware coast
February 21, 2003 6:00 A.M.
Charlie Parsons pulled the Keena Dale to a stop seventy five feet above the man-made reef just off the coast of Lewes, that morning, just as he'd done for the past forty years. The ocean temperature had stayed in the high thirties all winter so he had kept his boat in the water and continued to book fishing parties to make ends meet.
Parsons, a grizzled, third-generation waterman, gazed out into the distance at the gigantic tower of the newly placed Continental Oil platform. The massive rig looked like something from a Jules Verne novel that had landed in the middle of the ocean. The platform was an unwelcome sight to he and his fellow recreational fishing boat owners, who protested to the Delaware State Legislature to no avail. He tried to ignore the obtrusive hunk of metal and gazed back down the length of his boat. The fifty-foot party boat held sixty passengers, all rigged and ready for a morning of angling trout, flounder and bluefish. Parson's fishfinder located a large school and he dropped anchor and signaled for everyone to cast out. As the boat's first mate wandered around the boat helping the novice anglers get their hooks baited, someone who'd snagged something when their lure hit the water, yelled from the starboard end.
"Hey! Look at this. What is this crap?"
Parsons heard the commotion and clambered down from the captain's chair and went to the angry man, whose hands now held a good-size flounder.
Parsons took a closer look at the fish and felt suddenly sick to his stomach.
"I've never seen anything like that before," the man said to him.
Parsons nodded. "Neither have I. And I've been fishing these waters twenty-five years."
Parsons stared at the man's catch. The fish appeared to be half eaten on one side, yet it was still very much alive. And it was covered with a green phosphorescent gunk that seemed to be bubbling away at the fish's skin.
"You better throw that thing overboard," Parsons said.
The man took one last look at the unfortunate fish and shook his head before tossing it over the side.
Parsons gazed back at the huge oil platform, the sun just now glinting off of it. He shook his head in disgust and went back to the pilot's cabin.
* * *
*Five miles away just south of Parson's position, The Avon Lady was just pulling in her first net of fish for the day. The commercial fishing boat with its crew of ten fished for trout and whatever else they pulled up in the net this time of year. The first crewman to notice it, Dave Reilly, scratched his coarse beard and cocked his head as the younger members of the crew hauled the net across the starboard side of the vessel. As they prepared to dump the catch into the fish hold, he stopped them.
"Hold it! Don't you see it," he said, still dumfounded at what he saw.
The fish, numbering in the thousands-were all dead!
Continental Oil platform
February 21, 2003 7:00 A.M.
When Larry Hendricks finally got the drill bit up, Tom Grogan examined it carefully. He took several samples from the tip and placed them in three stainless steel vials. It was routine to take samples of any unknown substance they encountered while drilling.
This was the strangest shit he'd ever seen, though.
It almost looked... alive.
"Well, Hendricks, you definitely hit something. I don't know what this green shit is."
"Looks like some toxic crap," one of the workers said.
Hendricks looked up at him. "I've seen this once before," the worker said. "On a rig off Costa Rica. It turned out to be some Luminol by-product that United Carbon had dumped off in fifty-gallon drums. They got fined six-million. It took them years to clean it up."
The wind picked up and a sudden gust blasted through the deck. "Grab that drill pole," Grogan yelled.
Hendricks lunged for the pole and slipped, falling onto the side of the shaft as he did.
"Great," he said, "just what I need. Slime all over me."
Grogan handed him a cloth. "Here, get that shit off you. Maybe United Carbon has been around here. I don't need you glowing in the dark."
"Maybe I'll go take a shower."
"Do that," Grogan said.
*Hendricks wiped the green jelly-like fluid off his shirt and tossed the cloth in the trash. As he struck out across the familiar platform-that gigantic metal sculpture that was home six months a year-he kept thinking of his wife and kids. Three more weeks and he would be back in Milwaukee.
As he walked, he found himself staring out at the familiar, shimmering ocean, the white caps and distant boats. The sun was just rising, and the light from the platform illuminated the water several hundred feet out. As he stopped and leaned on the railing, he noticed a huge floating mass off to his right. It drifted with the tide and it seemed to be getting closer. He stood staring at the mass, as it got nearer. Finally, he could see it clearly.
Hendricks felt a wave of terror come over him. Shooting pains engulfed his heart, like piercing knives into his wide chest. He grabbed the rail for support.
Now he heard them. Slapping against the base of the platform. A wave of nausea swept over him.
"Oh God," he whispered.
Below him, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of dead fish, floated in the water. All covered in green slime.
Just like the slime on him.
February 24, 2003 8:00 A.M.
Scottsdale, Arizona
Sitting at his desk, in his small, comfortably cramped office, Justin Flannigan was about to get up and head for the local hospital for morning rounds.
The door opened after a light tap, and an old friend stepped inside. He was dressed in a Herringbone jacket, blue Oxford, and khaki slacks. He looked like a Harvard law professor or a mathematician.
Justin knew he was neither; he was John Singleton of the Center for Disease Control, Atlanta. One of the most important medical professionals in the world, and an old colleague of his.
"Hello, Justin." he said, "Good to see you. Sorry I didn't call."
...
Januszek66