“Chicken pox is caused by the varicella-zoster virus, also known as human herpesvirus three, and it has been embedded in your central nervous system since you were four or five. When you turn fifty, you will be exposed to something that will trigger the virus and cause shingles.”

“What triggers it?”

Tan Lily shook her head. “We don’t know. We don’t understand that yet, but we do know how to engineer switches so that a molecule — like caffeine, for example — could be used as a ligand to activate a gene. You could do this at the DNA level or the RNA level and promote the production of those genes — either through more RNA, which leads to more protein, or more protein right off the bat.”

Punky shook her head, still trying to gain an understanding of the biology and chemistry involved in making something like this work.

“These switches, called riboswitches, are nature’s way of turning a gene on or off. Technically, it’s a regulatory segment of a messenger RNA molecule that binds a small molecule and results in a change of production of the proteins encoded by the mRNA. But, because we are so smart and like to play God, we have figured out how to take these switches and insert them into a constructed pathogen.”

“Why?”

“Because exposure to an innocuous or ubiquitous chemical would promote the pathogen’s efficacy.”

Punky held up her hand. “Wait a second. Are you saying that you could infect a large group of people with a pathogen that might go undetected until exposed to a second chemical?”

Tan Lily nodded. “I just told you that you have the varicella-zoster virus in your system now, but you haven’t had any symptoms or adverse effects since the chicken pox and won’t until that switch is triggered when you get older. Yes, you could infect a population with a pathogen that remains dormant until you trigger it.”

“Why would you do that?” Jax asked.

“I can tell you why we were asked to look into it.”

Punky’s skin broke out in gooseflesh. “Why?”

USS Ronald Reagan (CVN-76)

East China Sea

Andy Yandell felt the C-2 Greyhound cargo plane shudder underneath him as the eight-bladed propellers spun to a stop. With practiced motions, he completed the engine shutdown procedure from memory while his copilot read the checklist out loud and verified each step had been done properly. After the final one, Andy took a deep breath and readied himself for spending a night at sea.

As if reading his mind, his copilot said, “Thank goodness we’re only here for one night.”

Even if he shared the sentiment, his conversation with the Navy fighter pilot over beers at Club Iwakuni still resonated with him. “You know you’re in the Navy, right, Greg?”

“Hey, man, there’s a reason I became a COD pilot. Let the fighter guys get all the glory. I’ll just keep their girlfriends company and rack up my Bonvoy points and per diem.”

Andy shook his head, then unstrapped from his seat and stepped over the center console to make his way aft from the cockpit and down the steps into the cargo hold. Sailors from the Reagan’s supply department were already swarming up the ramp to retrieve their requisitioned cargo while his crew chief worked to unstrap pallets from the steel decking.

Andy stepped around a stack of crates marked with “Fishermen’s Cooperative” but paused when he caught a whiff of a pungent aroma wafting up from one of them. He wrinkled his nose and squatted down for a closer look at the suspected culprit.

“What’s that smell?” Greg asked, descending from the cockpit. “Please tell me it’s not dinner.”

“It’s not dinner.”

Andy reached out to touch the liquid seeping through a crack in the wooden crate and rubbed his gloved finger and thumb together. The liquid had an oily texture that turned his stomach, and he thought better of bringing it closer to his nose for a second whiff. Instead, he wiped it on his flight suit pant leg and stood.

“But, just to be safe, I’d stay away from the fish sticks.”

Greg groaned. “Next you’re going to say I can’t have hot dogs either.”

Andy chuckled and watched the other pilot duck through the hatch on the port side and descend the ladder to the flight deck for a breath of fresh air. He didn’t think that was such a bad idea, and he had more important things to worry about than seafood that had already spoiled.

“Hey, Mike,” he yelled to his crew chief. “Make sure you get this one off here quick. It’s gonna stink the bird to high heavens!”

19

When Lisa regained consciousness, she struggled to orient herself. Her legs and arms were numb, but every joint in her body ached with tension. She was trapped in the box again and strained each second to keep control over the panic threatening to overwhelm her. She wanted to thrash about and flail against the wood keeping her constricted but knew it was futile.