The Beality Journal

"A Different Way of Looking at Things"

Proteus (novel)

All Women (poem)

Fall Feeling (poem)

24 Forever (poem)

Domain Conflicts

Proteus

Chapters Five through Eight

a Novel by Bruce Leonard Beal

FIVE                                

The White House

Washington, D. C.

One Hour Later, Tuesday, June 16 

John Hopkins University 's Bioengineering Department Chairperson, Dr. Saul Berenstein, had never been to the White House.  Neither had any of his associates.  All were carrying hastily filled briefcases.  

They fairly filled the limousine bound for the White House, and silence had been the order of the night.  None of them had had any sleep, since the bad news had come from Saudi Arabia.  Adrenalin supplies had been exhausted already.  None of them relished the thought of meeting the President for the first time under these circumstances.  

The custom of killing the bearer of bad tidings had died, but not the negative association.  Saul knew he would never have a positive connotation with the President, unless he could somehow cure the deadly disease now facing humanity.  Unfortunately, Saul did not have a clue how to do that.  

For all those present in the limousine, the dream of accompanying Dr. Spencer to a congratulatory White House dinner was dimming very quickly into their troubled subconscious minds.  How much better it would have been to witness the praises of the President for winning a Nobel Prize for , for keeping in the forefront of a new science, and for providing such a valuable new product to the World.  They would not speak of the personal profits such a product would produce after the mandatory patent and new company had been set up.  

Instead, Dr. Spencer was dead, and the Nobel Prize, meaningless.  The wondrous new product had morphed into a monster.  Saul was not relishing the possibility of going down in the history books as one of the perpetrators of "The Bioengineered Bug that brought down Modern Civilization".  

Rather, Saul was attempting to create the scenario of a good sequel, one with a Hollywood ending, a good ending, something like "Saul Gives the Bioengineered Bug some of its own Medicine".  

"Saul, have you figured out how you're going to present this to the President?"  It was Brent Bedford, one of the Senior Research Assistants in the Department.  

"Brent, I don't know what to do, except just to give him the facts, and if I don't know the facts, I'll just tell him that I don't know."  

"Sounds like a plan." stated Brent, with a noticeable edge in his voice.  

"Well, what do you think I should do?", asked Saul, somewhat irritated.  

"Saul, the truth, as we see it right now, is going to be a little hard to deal with, even for a man as tough as the President, and a country as tough as America.  I really don't think we should lay on the President what we have been predicting for this thing."  

"When I said the facts, I did not mean speculation, Brent.  If the President asks the tough questions, I do not know what to do, except just to say that we do not know.  If he asks, 'well then, what do you think?’, we will be in real trouble."  

"You might try this line, Saul, "Modern science created this problem, and modern science is going to solve it." 

"Christ, Brent, we don't really know what Spence was up to.  He kept it close to the vest.  He did not exactly leave many working notes around.  We do not have a clue of how to stop this thing.  

"Granted, but there is a way to stop this thing."  

"Would you bet a year's pay on that?"  

"Well, probably not."  

"Excuse me gentlemen."  It was the driver.  "We are approaching the White House gate."  

All heads looked out of the limousine windows. 

The John Hopkins team was led briskly through the White House, which was for the most part still dark.  The sun was not yet up, and the lights were still in dim mode.  Saul felt suddenly as if this was a dream, but then convinced himself that this was reality . . . reality, yet still a nightmare.  

Two very large French doors opened to a brightly lit conference room.  It was very stately, but had the atmosphere of a war room.  Saul could discern that hidden not far behind the cherry wood were high tech gizmos to display this and show that, probably satellite maps of every square inch of the world and who knows what else.  

The Chief of Staff quickly introduced the John Hopkins team members to the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency and the Chief of the National Security Council.  He then indicated that the President would be along shortly and waved them to the chairs surrounding the conference table which was circular in all respects, except at one end, where obviously, the President would sit.  

No sooner had they settled in their seats, than the President fairly burst through another set of doors.  For someone who had recently and rudely been awakened, he did not look worse for the wear, thought Saul.  He was draining the last of a cup of coffee.  

"No need for introductions, gentlemen, except that I would like to know who is leading the John Hopkins group."  

The President's eyes followed all of the group members' eyes to Saul.  

"I am Dr. Saul Berenstein, Chairperson of John Hopkin's Bioengineering Department.  Dr. Walter Spencer, creator of Bacillis SpencerProteus, now known simply as "Proteus", was a distinguished member of my department."  

"Excuse me, Doctor, but you said 'was'.  You have not fired him, have you?  It would seem that you need him now more than ever to assist us in finding an antidote, or whatever, for this thing."  

It had not occurred to Saul that the President would not have known of Dr. Spencer's suicide yet, even though it had only been two hours since.  After all, he had been asleep, until recently, and waking up a President from his sleep to advise him of the premature death of an American Nobel Laureate was not exactly something even Saul would consider.  

"I am sorry to advise you, Mr. President, that Dr. Spencer is dead.  Upon hearing of the news, he threw himself through an upper story hotel window and down onto the outside seaside patio.  Unfortunately, his wife and child were nearby."  

The President stared at Saul in quite visible surprise, his expression changing slowly to dismay.  

"I am sorry to hear that," stated the President, "but didn't he just receive a Nobel Prize?  I believe the First Lady and I were to have dinner with Dr. Spencer and his new wife upon his return to the States in a few days."  

"Yes, he did just receive the Nobel Prize in Sweden.  I think my timing was bad.  He was basking in the glow of the Prize, when I advised him that his prized bacterium was unleashing unmitigated havoc upon the human race.  He suddenly realized that he was responsible, and he cracked.  I heard the phone drop and the window shatter.  It didn't take me long to figure out what had happened."  

"That is indeed unfortunate," continued the President, "for we will undoubtedly need his services, unless, of course, you are familiar with all of his work and equal to him in the task at hand."  

"Mr. President, I must be frank.  I am Chairperson of the Department.  I have paid my dues.  I have not been directly involved with research for years.  My job is to make sure John Hopkins finds and keeps the greatest research talent it can find.  Beyond generalities, I am not all that involved in the research of my staff, and god knows that they all can run circles around me in the areas of bioengineering knowledge and research."  

"Well then, does anyone know what Dr. Spencer knows, or knew?  Do any of these others you have brought with you have knowledge of Dr. Spencer's work?"  

"They all have varying degrees of familiarity with bioengineering in general, and with Dr. Spencer's work, in particular.  That is why I brought them.  None of them has, however, admitted to me, that they know the precise mechanism involved or the calculations."  

"Oh, really?"  

"There is, however, one individual, who is not here now, who possibly knows more than any one individual in the world about Dr. Spencer's work."  

"And who might that be, and why isn't he here?" 

"Mr. President, she is not here, and she is, or was, Dr. Spencer's wife."  

"Oh?" 

"Her name is Susan.  She is still in Sweden.  We did not feel that it was yet proper to pull her away from Dr. Spencer." 

"I quite understand.  But why would she know more than any of you about this 'Protemaz' or whatever it is?"  

"Because, Mr. President, she is a brilliant bioengineering researcher, a doctor in her own right.  She was Dr. Spencer's most involved research assistant.  They were apparently very involved in other than research." 

"Yes, I see.  Let us get down to the facts.  As I recall, Charles, my Chief of Staff, told me that an organism, called 'Protemaz' or whatever, might be consuming all of the oil in the Middle East.  Could that possibly be a fair statement?"  

Saul was stunned.  Here it was, the very dilemma he had discussed with Brent en route to the White House - whether to confine himself to the facts or speculate about the implications.  The President had just started, and he wanted the bottom line.  He was not demanding the facts; he was demanding speculation - at least informed speculation.  

Saul would have preferred to launch into a relatively innocuous statement of the history of Proteus and the events as they had been related to him from the Middle East.  Instead, he was forced to answer the President's question.  He would have to rely on his gut instincts to tell him what to say. 

"Yes, that is a fair statement, Mr. President." 

The President was quite obviously agitated at this point.  He had hoped these John Hopkins boys were going to tell him this whole affair was a rumor out of control, that everything was alright, and that he could go back to sleep now.  It was not to be.  There would be no sleep for the President of the for a long time. 

"Chuck, what was that process you alluded to earlier?" 

"Mr. President, Dr. Berenstein said something about a 'catastrophic process'."  

"Yes, that was it.  Dr. Berenstein, what is this 'catastrophic process' you are talking about?"  

Saul sank deeper into his chair.  This was not getting better.  He took a deep breath. 

"Mr. President.  We don't know how to stop Proteus."  

The President was silent.  Either he did not comprehend what Saul had just said, or he was waiting for Saul to expand.  

"We never in our wildest imaginations believed it could get as far as it has.  The fact that it has gotten into the oilfields of indicates that it will also get into the oil fields of all the nations of the Persian Gulf - the Emirates, Kuwait, Iraq, and Iran.  We are talking about one-quarter of the known oil reserves of the entire world.  

“And the largest supplier of oil to the , added the President.  The Presidents eyes were getting squintier.  Obviously, he was struggling to understand the import of what was being said to him.  Everyone else in the room was squirming in his chair. 

"In the hours since we learned of the problem, we have done many things.  We have checked the field evidence against known research, and this bacterium can consume oil in the underground oil fields, as well as in tanks, pipelines, and even tankers . . . tankers that have been leaving the Gulf daily for all parts of the world.  Conceivably, tankers could be docking this moment somewhere in the with a load of Proteus, rather than crude oil." 

The President fairly rose out of his chair.  

"You mean in ?  This thing could be in already?" 

"Yes, Mr. President." 

A few moments of unbearable silence ensued.  

Then, the President, "How the hell did this happen?  I mean, it seems obvious that this could happen.  Why did not somebody test this stuff before unleashing it upon the world?" 

"It was tested . . . in the laboratory." 

"By whom?  Let me guess . . . Dr. Spencer."  

"Yes, sir."  That cut Saul to the quick.  "In all fairness, it is pretty inconceivable that Proteus could travel backwards through tanker loading facilities, backwards through valves, backwards through pipelines, through more valves and into tanks." 

"Well, how did it happen, then?" 

"The only thing we can think of is that they let the oil loading hoses fall into the sea between loadings.  Leaving oil in the pipelines stagnant for varying periods allows Proteus to progress up the pipe.  When the oil flows again, some of the Proteus organisms must remain stuck in cracks and crevices in the pipes and valves, just enough to start a new culture when the oil stops again, and so it moves in stages up the pipelines. 

Of course, once it got in the pipelines, it got in the tankers . . . every tanker taking oil from every infected pipeline thereafter.  Our brief research this morning shows that Proteus reproduces much faster in an anaerobic condition than in an aerobic condition."  

"What exactly does that mean?” asked the President.  Obviously, he was taking a keener interest in the exact nature of this problem now. 

Brent Bedford took his chance, “Anaerobic means an environment with no oxygen present, Sir, or no air, exactly like the conditions you would find inside a closed pipeline or tank.  Aerobic, on the other hand, means an environment where oxygen is present, or air, like the conditions you would find on the surface of the ocean.” 

He continued after some hesitation in light of their previous discussion about the bearing of bad news, “Unfortunately, Proteus does a much, much better job of cleaning up oil in pipelines and tanks than it does in cleaning up oil slicks on the surface of the ocean, and it does that pretty damn well at that." 

The President felt nauseous.  "This is incredible.  I mean, I can hardly believe my ears.  This is a horror story."  

It was the Chief of Staff.  "We cannot release this to the media . . . at least until we have a solution or a comprehensive program to defeat this menace."  

"This is the worst news I have ever heard," shouted the President.  "Gentlemen, you have got to tell me ways to deal with this problem."  

"Mr. President, the remedies must be drastic.  I mean, we are talking about burning every oil tank that is infected, flushing every infected pipeline and incinerating the contents, intercepting every oil tanker coming out of the Middle East and burning the cargo."  Saul's mind was racing along.  He had not really prepared for this, but the necessary steps all logically flowed into place. 

"All of the governments of the world will have to take control of the oil products within their boundaries, test all of same, and destroy infected stocks.  All incoming shipments must be inspected and quarantined sufficiently long to determine whether they are infected." 

"Is that all?", asked the President, with perceptible sarcasm in his voice. 

"That should control it."  

"Control it?  You mean we cannot eradicate this thing?" 

"Very doubtful.  Proteus will continue to float through the oceans of the world, living on natural and unnatural oil slicks.  It will secret itself in a myriad of places, ready to spring into action in the presence of new oil.  I think Proteus is here to stay." 

"And what if we do not control it, as you have suggested?  I am not at all sure I can do the things you say are necessary to do in , let alone convince all of the other nations of the world that the threat is real and sufficient enough to take the same precautions." 

"Mr. President.  Those nations who fail to protect themselves will almost certainly run out of oil in a matter of weeks or months.  They will not be able to use new oil, procured from pure sources, because their infected oil distribution systems and infrastructure would destroy the oil as fast as they could procure it.  Societies within these countries would cease to exist as we know them today."  

"Dr. Berenstein.  I hope you are wrong.  I hope that this is just a nightmare, and that I am going to wake up any minute." 

"Mr. President.  I do too."  

The President turned to the Chief of Staff and instructed him to call the Secretary of Energy, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Presidents of any major oil companies who could be found in the Washington, D.C. area.  

"Chuck, wake them up.  Tell them to get here as soon as possible.  No excuses.  Dr. Berenstein, please stay here to coordinate the development of our program along the lines you have outlined earlier . . . and please have your associates return to John Hopkins to commence developing some sort of bioengineered cure for this Proteus."  

"Mr. President, if I may interrupt.  Brent, go back and scour Dr. Spencer's notes.  Get Mrs. Spencer back from and involved as early as possible.  Proteus must have a weakness.  Let's find that weakness, Brent."  

"Yes, Saul, we will find a weakness." 

SIX                                 

The New World Trade Center

Commodities Trading Room

International Trading House

New York, New York

One Hour Later, Tuesday, June 16 

Terminals were on everywhere blinking numbers only commodities traders could fathom.  Eisenstadt sat staring at his terminal.  He always came to work early to get a feel for the market before everyone else.  

The London Exchange was still open.  Things seemed quiet.  Nevertheless, Eisenstadt knew commodities could change precipitously, and only those traders in constant touch with the market made money.  Eisenstadt was seasoned and had weathered many frantic sessions that had ruined the health and wealth of many others.  

Eisenstadt's eyes caught an increase in frequency of oil trading in London.  The buys outnumbered the sells.  This was unusual activity for an oil glut.  Something was up.  Money always speaks louder than words.  

One of Eisenstadt's telephones rang out in the early quiet.  Very early, thought Eisenstadt, but it was the telephone with a number he only gave out to valuable insiders. 

"Eisenstadt here." 

"This is Doug Foley.  I have got something for you."  Foley was positioned high in the White House and could pick up advance information on Administration moves affecting commodities prices.  Foley had made quite a bit of money for Eisenstadt, and of course, Eisenstadt had rewarded Foley appropriately on such occasions, secretly, of course. 

"Eisenstadt, you are going to owe me big on this one.  I mean big with a capital 'B'." 

"Alright Foley, let me decide that." 

"Something is happening in the Middle East.  Saudi oil is on fire or something.  Anyway, the Administration is already making plans for mandatory rationing….”  

"Shit, thanks Foley.  Have to go.  Thanks for the tip.  It is big." 

"But there is more…." 

 "Got to move on this right away, Foley.  Oil is already moving in London."  

 Eisenstadt already had the automatic dialers working on every  telephone he had.  

  "Hello, Arthur?"  

 "Yes, I know it is early.  I want to put your whole account in oil." 

"What…?"  

"Why…?  There is an embargo coming, or war, or something big."  

"Where…?  This comes from inside the Administration, a reliable source."  

"You will call me back?  Sorry, I do not have time.  Got to go." 

"Hello.  Who is this?" 

"Get me your father please.”  Click.  

"Hello, Stanley , I do not have time to explain; you have got to buy all the oil you can right now.  Trust me."  Click.  

"Is that you, Hermann?  Shit, Hermann, oil is up a half dollar in London already.  I am punching the computer right now with all of my money in oil."  

"No, Hermann, I am not crazy.  Hold on Hermann, I have got Joe on another line."  Click, click, click, click, click.  

Joe, I am talking to several people at once now."  

"Charles, is that you?" 

"I am putting all of the phones on the table and shouting to you all.  I cannot hear you.  I am putting all of you totally into oil futures, long.  No time to explain.  Trust me."  

Eisenstadt could hear agitated voices coming from all of his receivers lying in disarray before him.  Click, click, click, click, click, click. 

Eisenstadt had no time to talk to his clients.  He had to punch in the orders whether they liked it or not.  He was going to be a hero.  

London oil was already up seventy-five cents.  The smart money was talking, and soon the crowd would hit the market.  Shit, thought Eisenstadt, Foley had better be right about this one, or one Eisenstadt was busted, or worse yet, dead. 

As oil prices began their parabolic rise, Eisenstadt’s fingers would ache to the point of ceasing to function at all.  He no longer used the telephones, their receivers scattered around, chirping to be hung up. 

Eisenstadt had to keep London and Frankfurt and Hong Kong from cornering the world's oil supply.  He had to save some for New York. 

By the time the others came to work, it would be over.  

SEVEN                              

            At a Seret Location on Lake Ladoga
            Two Hours Later, Tuesday, June 16

President Putin relaxed in the sun upon the deck of his luxurious yacht on Lake Ladoga. 

His personal encrypted radio link with Moscow came alive.  It was the Russian Intelligence Chief. 

"This had better be important," barked Putin. 

"Sir, our intelligence satellites have picked up unusual activity." 

Putin's stomach tightened a notch.  He hoped this was not serious, as he had had a few vodkas. 

"Sir, the Americans are mobilizing armed forces around their Strategic Oil reserves.  It is most unusual." 

"To protect their precious oil against Greenpeace, I presume."  Putin regretted saying this, realizing that the vodka in his veins had enhanced his sense of humor. 

"We don't know sir, our sources are on it right now…." 

"Has NATO gone on alert?" 

"No." 

"Any other unusual activity?"  

"Well, sir, there is one more thing." 

Putin could only wonder at what strangeness could follow what he had already heard. 

"There are several oil tanks burning at ARAMCO." 

"Iranian strike?" 

"No sir, the Iranians don't know anything about it, and neither do our Syrian friends.  If it is war-related, they should know about it.  I do not like it." 

"Well, find out what is happening." 

"Sir, something just came in.  Our sources in Washington say that high-level military and scientific types are hurriedly preparing to fly to Saudi Arabia.  Something is up, and I do not like it." 

"I do not see any particular harm in it for us, Comrade Chekovski, but I must say that it is very interesting.  Keep me informed." 

"Yes Mr. President."  

EIGHT                                    

Channel 9  

“Warlords of the 21st Century”  

Des Moines, Iowa  

One Hour Later, Tuesday, June 16 

Dave Gehring was thumbing through his TV Guide on his day off, remembering that Butch had said there was an old movie today that was good. 

"Where is my remote?"  Dave was talking aloud to himself.  Click.  The television sprang to life. 

Dave stared at a screen filled with the pristine beauty of Wyoming or Colorado or some similar area.  An abandoned gas station comes into view.  A sign, "WHILE IT LASTS", comes into view.  Horses are heard in the distance, coming into view now, pulling something, a VW van of all things, just like a stagecoach. 

"Was this the right channel?" 

Dave rechecked his TV Guide. 

"Yes." 

"Somehow," Dave thought, "this did not seem like the 21st Century." 

A strange armored truck appears.  They are searching for diesel oil.  They are armed and dangerous.  They stop the horse-drawn VW.  They discover a barrel of diesel in the back.  Crack.  One of the VW drivers is down.  The other pleads for his life. 

He says he knows where there is more diesel oil.  They take him into the armored truck. 

"It sure is a mean-looking machine," thought Dave. 

"We interrupt our regular programming to bring you a news bulletin." 

"Damn, I was just getting into this movie." 

"Middle East sources are reporting large fires burning at the Abqaiq oil fields in Saudi Arabis.  There are unconfirmed reports that other oil fields are similarly affected.  No cause has yet been given by the authorities, although sabotage, or war, are likely causes.  The White House has announced a Presidential news conference later this afternoon, and it is presumed that these events will be the subject of the news conference.  Please stay tuned for further announcements."  

"Shit, the Iranians had finally attacked Saudi Arabia.  Where was this Middle East thing going to end?” 

"And now back to our regular programming." 

The hapless VW driver was standing on a rock gesturing downwards.  The armed men were about to shoot him for leading them on a wild goose chase, when the man moved something.  The rock began to rise, pushed up by a futuristic looking pumping device. 

"See, I told you it was here.  There are more than 50,000 gallons under here." 

The armed men were obviously delighted. 

The telephone is ringing. 

"Mary, get the telephone, will you?" 

The armed men shot the poor bastard who had led them to their prize. 

"Dave, it is James.  He says it is urgent." 

"Damn, I'm never going to see this movie." 

"James, what’s up?" 

"Dave, we have been called up!"  

"What?" 

"The President has called up all Guard units.  We are to report to the Armory immediately." 

"What is happening?" 

"I don't know." 

"Did you catch the news on television just now?" 

"No." 

"There is trouble again in the Middle East." 

"Oh shit!" 

"Do you think this is it?"