The Dolos Conspiracy



  The Dolos Conspiracy

  In Greek mythology, Dolos is the spirit of fraud and deceit

  By

  Frank Perry, author

  Hampton Falls, New Hampshire

  [email protected]

  The Curse of the Disease

  Hemorrhagic fever is the most deadly virus on earth. Ebola outbreaks in West Africa have threatened, on more than one occasion, to spread around the world. There is no effective inoculation against the disease. The virus mutates and is seldom the same strain twice.

  A small biotech company in the U.S. has provided new medicines that have stopped the last two outbreaks. The Global Hemorrhagic Institute, GHI, has invented a process for predicting the metamorphosis with amazing accuracy. With this knowledge, they have had the cures ready when needed. This ability has excited medical communities around the world and the wealth of the GHI founders is growing exponentially with each success.

  A young technician has made a discovery inside GHI showing another side to their successes. It’s diabolical. A conspiracy is so well hidden under scientific veils that nothing can be proven to law enforcement, yet it has been responsible for killing hundreds, or even thousands, of people. Only scientists cleared for access to the secure laboratories and data, and the training to understand it, can bring it into the open. This discovery can mean life or death to countless people and threatens the welfare of anyone becoming aware of it.

  Copyright © 2016 by Frank Perry

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email to: [email protected].

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to express my gratitude to the many people who saw me through this book; to all those who provided support, talked things over, read, critiqued, offered comments, and assisted in the editing, proofreading and design. I would like to thank Beverly Heinle for patiently proofing, editing and suggesting improvements that have been invaluable. Above all I want to thank my wife, Janet, who supported me throughout this and edited the first drafts.

  I also would like to thank Rick Cesario for laboring through the earliest draft, and making invaluable suggestions. Mike Abdinoor read and early version and provided helpful comments. Nancy Ramos made enriching comments. Special thanks to my son, Brendan Perry who developed the cover art.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, world organizations, government agencies, regulations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The author professes no medical training related to the subject matter.

  2012

  The death toll was over 4000 and rising by more than fifty per day. The rate had been starting to drop but not fast enough. Medical teams from around the world, like the World Health Organization and the CDC, were spread all over western Africa desperately trying to stop the spread of the disease. Dr. Abagael Van Acker was in the middle of the hot zone in Sierra Leone fighting a losing battle against the virus. Some days, the numbers of dead dropped, but other days they soared.

  Her eyes burned, sweat dripping from her forehead. “Dammit.” Working inside the Tyvek EVD suit was impossible! Her body temperature was nearing one hundred four degrees Fahrenheit. But, there was no alternative. Every part of her body, every pore, had to be protected. Any contact with fluids from patients could be deadly and these patients were secreting from every orifice. Blood, vomit, saliva, sweat, urine, feces … it was endless and all lethal.

  She yelled. “Salia, get here, I need you now!” It was difficult to know if anyone heard her in the crowded isolation tent. The young mother lying on the cot in front of her had been healthy less than twenty-four hours earlier, but was now dying. Her face grimaced between spasms from fear and pain. She pleaded silently for help. Blood ran from her ears, mouth and nose. Her clothing was soaked in disgusting colors. It was only a matter of time. All Van Acker could do was hold the terrified woman’s hand and speak reassuring words; words that were false and probably not heard at all. The girl would die in a few minutes. There was nothing that could be done. Even with the vaccine that had finally arrived from Global Hemorrhagic Institute (GHI) in America, it was too late for this girl. Abagael had seen too much death over the past weeks. It had hardened her to the point that it no longer bothered her sleep. She slept fine, even knowing half of the affected people were doomed.

  She had held countless hands over past weeks, sensing the passing of life in those last moments. She was the last person these people would see above them. None of their relatives would ever see them again, once they had been moved into the isolation tent. She was their last human contact, if contact through all the protective clothing was the right term. A burial team was standing ready and seldom idle. The clear plastic visor covering her eyes was blurred with her own sweat and she could barely see the pleading eyes from of the patient lying on the cot below, seeking a miracle, knowing her life was over. Abagael could not feel a pulse through triple layers of latex gloves, so would only know the moment of death by feeling the girl’s grip release. “Salia, I need you!”

  “I am here, Madam Doctor.” The native assistant was dressed identically. “I am apologizing. We are very busy with the bagging.” Each body was sprayed with chlorine as soon as death was confirmed by a physician then placed inside two body bags for quick burial in a shallow mass grave, breaking all native customs and rituals. The dirt floor of the tent was saturated with foul fluids.

  “Here, take this girl.” She gently traded hands with Salia. “She no longer will know who is with her.” Salia nodded, understanding that the chief physician was going to alert the burial detail, then going to the decontamination area for a break. It was normal protocol to stay dressed in the suits for no more than one hour. Otherwise, the medical teams could suffer heat stroke in the punishing climate. It wasn’t an efficient use of protective supplies, but there was no other choice.

  The decon area was just a plot of ground outside the tents where automatic sprinklers sprayed chlorine solution in powerful jets. Like the isolation tent, the ground was saturated. Removing the protective gear was difficult, but the searing heat felt refreshingly cool to her uncovered face. She stepped out of the coveralls and took a deep breath, tilting her head to escape as much of the smell as possible. The resting tent was beside the decon area.

  The “rest and recovery” tent for the staff was air conditioned, sort of. It wasn’t really cool, but it allowed the medical personnel to hydrate and recover away from view. Dr. Phillipe Willoughby sat inside at a long bench drinking ice water. “Hello, Abagael, it is another depressing day in my country. The gods are against us.”

  She finished filling a paper cup with water from the dispenser and sat across from the local physician, one of the country’s most capable doctors, trained in the UK. He was about her age, middle fifties, tall with short greying curly hair on top of a large head and even larger body. “I could agree with you today, Phillipe. I wish we could save some of them.”

  By contrast, she was a full head shorter, of average weight for her age, although she’d gained some before leaving Holland, having recently quit smoking once again. This was her eighth trip to West Africa with the WHO, and she had begun smoking again after prior trips. The stress of the wo
rk had gotten to her each time after returning home. The reality of the strife here didn’t sink in while immersed in it, but the traumatic shock had affected her after returning. Since beginning to volunteer for WHO, her hair had grown thinner and almost all white.

  Phillipe smiled gently, seeing her look more exhausted each day, “It is quite a different world here compared to the Netherlands, I imagine. Whether or not you believe it, you are making a tremendous difference. I can assure you of that.” He had a marvelous smile that was infectious; bright white teeth contrasted against ebony skin.

  She smiled weakly. “I just wish there was more we could do. I’ve been coming here since the 1980’s, starting in the Congo, and we haven’t made any progress in curing the disease.” He just nodded in agreement. “I mean, doesn’t the world know what’s going on here? Hundreds of thousands have perished. Only ten percent can survive once they get the Ebola virus. It’s more deadly than your civil war.”

  His smile dimmed.