The Sons of Scarlatti. John McNally
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two specimens remained. One was sent to the United States under the Hixton-Fardale Shared Research Agreement, and has presumably been destroyed.. A second was secretly frozen and stored at Porton Down by the government of the day ‘just in case’ or, as we like to put it more formally, for ‘Reasons of National Security’.”
Commander King allowed his eyelids to close so as to avoid the righteous glares of the other committee members. Then he took a deep breath.
“One of our Porton Down research fellows, a Dr Cooper-Hastings, seems to have lost all reason, found a way to access the secure cold store and… has released the last remaining Scarlatti.”
There were gasps.
“He did what?” asked the US President.
King turned to his screen. “Dr Cooper-Hastings released the specimen into the atmosphere, sir.”
A staff-card mugshot of a middle-aged scientist flashed up. Thick glasses. Dull eyes.
“He stayed late at work, leaving at 10pm. A search was initiated six minutes later when an algorithm discovered an access control code override on his staff card. An empty cryogenic support cylinder was eventually found outside his abandoned car at 03:32 this morning near the village of Hazelbrook, thirty-six miles north of here.”
A map of Hazelbrook flashed up onscreen and a photo of the abandoned car.
“The area around the village has been declared a biohazard zone and evacuated. We’re conducting a full investigation and every available officer from every agency is involved in the manhunt for Cooper-Hastings.”
“Cut to the chase. What exactly are we talking about here – worst case?” asked the US President.
King and Professor Channing exchanged looks. The Professor stood up to deliver the bad news.
“Worst case: we estimate that with a first swarm in four days national contamination will be total within four to six weeks, continental within three months, global-temperate within six months.”
“Global-temperate?” repeated the US President.
“Nearly all of Western Europe, a good two-thirds of North America, Africa, Asia, the Middle East, most of South America, Australia. Only cold air and altitude offer any protection. In total, two-thirds of the land mass of the earth.”
There was a pause.
“Nearly six billion people,” said King.
DAY ONE 13:38 (BST). English Channel
Dr Miles Cooper-Hastings opened his eyes. They stung. Blackness and stars swam before him. His throat was so dry he half retched to bring forth some saliva. He could see nothing, but he could feel his head pressed up against something wooden. He was freezing. For a waking moment of pure terror, he wondered if he was buried alive. But, as his body repulsed and kicked out at these thoughts, the lid of the sea chest he had been locked in for eight hours or so leapt up as far as its lock and clasp would allow and for a split second let in a strip of daylight.
He kicked out again. He saw light flash again. And he realised he could taste the freezing sea.
“Where is it?” Cooper-Hastings yelled into the blackness, fear filling his lungs. “What have you done?”
“On day one the Scarlatti lays its eggs,” said King. “On day two the nymphs hatch and grow. On day three the nymphs develop distinct body sections and the wings separate – shedding their skin several times. By the start of day four – after their final moult – they can swarm.”
The danger was spelt out in a fan graph that showed a range of possible development outcomes if the Scarlatti had located a ‘host protein’ overnight. The blood-red line of development started tight on day one and by day four spread to cover the entire graph.
“Four days. We’re already halfway through day one and we daren’t risk day four,” said King.
He turned away from the graph and back to his guests.
“So far, so bad. What matters is what we do now,” he said.
There was an air of stunned disbelief in the control gallery and around the world.
Seated beside the US President, General Jackman – the grizzly bear Chairman of the US Joint Chiefs of Staff and the world’s most powerful soldier – punctured the silence:
“Create hell. Flood the area with chemicals. Go nuclear.”
“Thank you, General Jackman. The problem is – scale,” explained King.
On a projected map he drew a rough semicircle east of the village of Hazelbrook.
“Last night’s turbulent air could have taken it twenty miles north and east, which means an area that covers roughly a third of London.”
“Nuke London…?” said someone, appalled.
“Or,” King said before a hubbub could break out, “following on from discussions with the scientists this morning, there may be another way.”
With a quick glance at Al, King turned to the corner of the gallery.
“Entomologists, would you oblige us?”
Channing beckoned a pair of entomologists from Porton Down into camera view, part of the group that had been there since early morning. A grey, middle-aged man with a much younger, sharper colleague.
“Professor Lomax and Dr Spiro were colleagues of Dr Cooper-Hastings at Porton Down.”
Lomax wore a suit under his lab coat, Spiro a T-shirt and jeans.
“Professor Channing? The hypothesis, please.”
Finn remembered his mum explaining that hypothesis was a term scientists used to describe an idea so they didn’t sound common.
“Pheromones,” Channing began, pushing back his glasses as if addressing a learned symposium, “are tiny distinct chemical signals that all living things emit.”
“‘Phero’ from the Greek for ‘to carry’,” Professor Lomax helpfully explained, “‘mone’ from ‘hormone’ or—”
Dr Spiro cut across them with the urgency the occasion demanded.
“If we can trace the Scarlatti’s pheromones then we can catch it before its first swarm. We could locate it, find its nest and destroy a much, much smaller area.”
“Possibly,” interjected Lomax, glaring. But Spiro continued.
“The ’83 data is categorical. Scarlatti pheromones are very distinct – the result of atomic mutation almost certainly – and emitted in very large quantities, with receptor sensitivity heightened by a super-developed swarm instinct. These insects will do anything to be with their own kind. Anything.”
“Thank you, Dr Spiro, I did produce much of that data…” muttered Lomax.
But how? How would you trace the pheromones? Finn wanted to yell, wriggling in his hidey-hole and finding it difficult to keep his mouth shut. King sensed it and shot an eyebrow his way.
“How?” asked Al obligingly. “How would you begin to define and then detect the appropriate molecules, let alone—”
“With another member of the same species!” Professor Channing announced, striking a blow for the over-fifties by jumping in before young Dr Spiro.
Al looked across at Finn. He raised his eyebrows at him: “Plausible?”
Finn shrugged back a Why