Mount Dragon

353 Pages·1997·0.89 MB·English

by  Douglas Preston

“MOUNT DRAGONIS AS MARVELOUSLY COMPLEX

AS ANY THRILLER I’VE EVER READ. ...

IT IS NOTHING LESS THAN A TOURDE FORCE!”

—Stuart Woods, author ofChoke

“A delightfully gruesome yarn and an apt mirror of our love-hate relationship with science.”

—Business Week

MountDragon:an enigmatic research complex hidden in the vastdesertofNew Mexico . Guy
Carson andSusana Cabeza de Vaca havecome toMount Dragon to work shoulder toshoulder w
ith some of the greatest scientific minds on the planet. Led by visionary genius Brent Scopes,
their secret goal is a medical breakthrough that promises to bring incalculable benefits to the
human race. But while Scopes believes he is leading the way to a new world order, he may in fact
be opening the door to mass human extinction. And when Guy andSusana attempt to stop him
they find themselves locked in a frightening battle with Scopes, his henchmen, and the
apocalyptic nightmare that science has unleashed. ...

“The writing team that scared the willies out of readers withThe Relic returns with a second,
equally gripping novel of techno-terror. ... It’s a grand and scary story, with just enough grisly
detail to stimulate real-life fears and characters full enough to engage the attention.”
—Publishers Weekly

“Dynamic duoPreston and Child once again demonstrate their mastery of the genre. ... The
thrillfest runs full force to the very last page.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Read this and you’ll be panting forPreston and Child’s next yarn.”

—Booklist

(Inside Flap)

Page 1
The most dangerous place on Earth. ... “A slam-hang medical thriller, swift, gruesome, and
wickedly clever.”

—Richard Preston.New York Times

best-selling author ofThe Hot Zone
“The Hot ZonemeetsThe Stand. ... Explosive.”

Jack Anderson. Pulitzer Prize- winning columnist

“When you finish this book you’ll want to storm a genetic engineering firm and destroy their
projects.
...MountDragonis a powerful, fast-paced story, with a cast of interesting characters. ... It will
probably be made into a motion picture in no time.”

—San FranciscoExaminer

“Like a fictionalized rock-’em, sock-’em version of Richard Preston’sThe Hot Zone .”

—Library Journal

“A chilling, fabulous trip through cyberspace, flight and survival on the searing desert, high-tech
wonders that defy belief—all these elements and more combine for an evening’s worth of
heart-stopping excitement. A year ago, it seemed difficult, if not impossible, for these two guys
to top their first novel.
After I finished flipping the pages of this one and my near cardiac arrest had been averted, one
clear impression lingered. Brother, was I mistaken.”
—TheTampa Tribune-Times

(Reviews)

“Firstrate entertainment. ... Imagine a Michael Crichton-style thriller with immensely more detail
paid to the level of writing. ... And yes,Preston and Child weave in plenty of soberly provocative
discussion of the ethics of screwing around with human genetics. ... First class storytellers and
stimulating entertainers.”

Page 2
—Locus

“The Relicis a straight thriller. That’s like saying, however, thatDie Hard was just another action
adventure flick or thatGone With the Wind was just another Civil War film. Each stands as a
superlative example of its type.”

—OrlandoSentinelonThe Relic

“Better than anything the theoreticallyrecombinant team of Michael Crichton and Peter Benchley
could ever hope to achieve.”
—AlbuquerqueJournalonThe Relic

“The Relicsatisfies the primal desire to be scared out of one’s wits. ... The ending is a real
bone-chilling shocker.”

—Express BooksonThe Relic

Forge Books by

Douglas Preston andLincoln Child

Relic

MountDragon

Reliquary
Douglas Preston

&Lincoln Child

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK
Page 3
NEW YORK

NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen
property. It was reported as “unsold and de-stroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author
nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products
of the author’s imagination or are used ficti-tiously.

MOUNTDRAGON

Copyright © 1996 by Douglas Preston andLincoln Child

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

Cover art by Shelley Eshkar

Maps by Mark Stein Studios

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.
175Fifth Avenue

New York,NY10010

Tor Books on the World Wide Web:http://www.tor.com

Send author mail [email protected] [email protected]

Page 4
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

ISBN: 0-812-56437-5

Library of Congress Card Catalog Number: 95-41323
First edition: February 1996

First mass market edition: February 1997

Printed in theUnited States of America

0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

MountDragon is a work of fiction. The GeneDyne corpo-ration, the Foundation for Genetic
Policy, the
Holocaust Memorial Fund, the Holocaust Research Foundation, Hemocyl, PurBlood,
X-FLU—and, of course, Mount Dragon itself—are all products of the authors’ imaginations.
Any resemblance of these or other entities in the novel to exist-ing entities is purely coincidental.
All the characters and events portrayed herein are fictitious. Nothing should be interpreted as
expressing the policies or depicting the pro-cedures of any corporation, institution, university,
or gov-ernmental department or agency.

To Jerome Preston, Senior

—D. P.

To Luchie; my parents; and NinaSoller
—L C.
Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.10

INTRODUCTION..13

PART ONE.18

Page 5
PART TWO..87

PART THREE.177

EPILOGUE.272

About the e-Book.274
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First, we want to thank our agents, HarveyKlinger and CAA’s Matthew Snyder. Gentlemen, we
lift our tumblers of single-maltHighland scotch in your honors: this project would never have
been started were it not for the help and encouragement you’ve given us.
We’d also like to thank the following people at Tor/Forge: Tom Doherty, whose vision and
support have remained equally unflagging; Bob Gleason, for believing in us from the beginning;
Linda Quinton, for her refreshingly candid mar-keting advice; and NataliaAponte, Karen Lovell,
and Ste-phende las Heras, for their sundry acts of authorial succor.

From a technical aspect, we wish to thank Lee Suckno, M.D.; Bry Benjamin, M.D.; Frank
Calabrese, Ph.D.; and Tom Benjamin, M.D.

Lincoln Child would like to thank Denis Kelly: pal, erst-while boss, long-suffering sounding
board.
Thanks to Juliette, soul of patience and understanding. Thanks also to Chris En-gland for his
explication of certain arcane slang. Wotcher, Chris!

A pre-war Gibson Granada, along with a generous fistful of chocolate-chip cookies, to Tony
Trischka:
banjo deity, confidante, and all-around “good hang.”

Douglas Preston would like to thank his wife, Christine, who crossed the Jornada delMuerto
desert with him no less than four times, as well as Selene, who was helpful in so many ways.
Aletheia was a great sport, camping in the Jornada with us when she was only three weeks old.
Thanks to my brother Dick, author ofThe Hot Zone , for his help. Thanks also to Smithsonian
andNewMexico magazines, who helpedfinance our exploration of the ancient Spanish trail
across the Jornada known as theCamino
Realde Tierra Adentro.

Walter Nelson, Roeliff Annon, and Silvio Mazzarese ac-companied us on horseback around the
Jornada and were de-lightful riding companions. We also acknowledge with thanks the following
people, who kindly allowed us to ride across their ranches: Ben and Jane Cain of the Bar Cross
Ranch;
EvelynFite of theFite Ranch; Shane Shannon, former man-ager of the Armandaris Ranch; Tom
Waddell, current fore-man of the Armandaris; Ted Turner and Jane Fonda, owners of the
Armandaris; and Harry
F. Thompson Jr. of the Thomp-son Ranches. Gabrielle Palmer was very helpful, as always, with
Page 6
historical information.

Special thanks go to Jim Eckles of theWhiteSandsMissileRange for a memorable tour of the
3,200-square-mile range. We would like to apologize for the liberties we have taken in describing
White
Sands, which is without a doubt one of the best run (and environmentally aware) Army testing
facilities in the country. Obviously, no such place asMountDragon exists on WSMR property.

Finally, our thanks to all the rest who have helped us withMount Dragon in particular and our
novels in
general: Jim Cush, Larry Bern, Mark Gallagher, Chris Yango, David Thomson, Bay and Ann
Rabinowitz, Bruce Swanson, Ed Semple, Alain Montour, Bob Wincott; the sysops of
CompuServe’s
Literary Forum; and others too numerous to mention. Your enthusiasm helped make this book
possible.

Our symbols shout at the universe,
They fly off, like hunters’ arrows

Into the night sky.

Or knapped spearpoints into flesh.

They race like fires across plains,
Driving buffalo.

—Franklin Butt
One window upon Apocalypse is more than enough.

—Susan Wright/Robert L. Sinsheimer,
Bulletin of Atomic Scientists
INTRODUCTION

The sounds drifted over the long green lawn, so faint they could have been the crying of ravens
in the nearby wood, or the distant braying of a mule on the farm across the brown river. The
peace of the spring morning was almost undis-turbed. One had to listen carefully to the sounds
to make certain they were screams.

The massive bulk ofFeatherwoodPark ’s administrative building lay half-hidden beneath ancient
Page 7
cottonwood trees. At the front entrance, a private ambulance pulled away slowly from theporte
cochere, pebbles scurrying on the gravel drive. Somewhere a pneumatic door hissed shut.

A small, unmarked white door was sunk into the side of the building for use by the professional
staff. As
Lloyd Fossey approached, his hand came forward automatically, reaching for the combination
pad. He had been struggling to keep the sounds of Dvorak’s E-minor piano trio alive in his
head, but now he frowned and gave up. Here in the shadow of the building, the screams were
much louder.

The nurse’s station was all ringing phones and scattered paper. “Morning, Dr. Fossey,” said the
nurse.

“Good morning,” he replied, pleased when she managed to give him a bright smile amid the
confusion.
“Grand Central here today.”
“Two came in early, bang, one after the other,” she said, working forms with one hand and
passing him charts with the other. “Now there’s this one. Guess you already know about him.”

“Couldn’t help overhearing.” Fossey flipped open a chart, searched his lapel pocket for a pen,
hesitated.
“Is our noisy friend mine?”

“Dr. Garriot’s got him,” the nurse replied. She looked up. “The first one was yours.”

A door opened somewhere, and suddenly there was the screaming again, much louder now,
various urgent voices act-ing as counterpoint. Then the door shut again and only office noises
remained.

“I’d like to see the admit,” Fossey said, returning the charts and reaching for the metal binder.
He scanned the vitals quickly, noting sex, age, at the same time trying to mentally reconstruct the
strains of the Dvorak andante. His eye stopped when it reached the wordsInvoluntary Unit .

“Did you see the first one come in?” he asked quietly.

The nurse shook her head. “You should talk to Will. He took the patient downstairs about an
hour ago.”

There was only one window in the Involuntary Unit atFeatherwoodPark . This window looked
out from the guard’s station onto the stairway leading down from the Ward Two base-ment. As
he pressed the buzzer, Dr. Fossey saw Will Hartung’s pale, shaggy head appear on the far side of
thePlexiglas pane.
Will disappeared, and the door mechanically unlocked itself with a sound like a gunshot.

“How ya doing, Doc,” he said, sliding behind his desk and setting aside a copy of Shakespeare’s
sonnets.
Page 8
“Mr. W.H., all happiness,” Fossey replied, glancing at the book.

“Very funny, Dr. Fossey. Your talents are wasted on the medical profession.” Will handed him
the log, sniffing loudly. At the far end of the counter, the new orderly was filling out med sheets.

“Tell me about the early arrival,” Fossey said, signing the log and passing it back, tucking the
metal binder under his arm as he did so.

Will shrugged. “Retiring type. Not much for conversation.” He shrugged again. “Not
surprising, given his recent diet of Haldol.”

Fossey frowned and opened the binder again, this time scanning the admitting history. “My
God. A
hundred milligrams in a twelve-hour period.”

“Guess they love their meds at Albuquerque General,” Will said.

“Well, I’ll write orders after the initial evaluation,” Fossey said. “Meanwhile, no Haldol. I can’t
do an eval on an egg-plant.”

“He’s in six,” Will said. “I’ll take you down.”

A sign over the inner door readWARNING: ELOPEMENT RISK in large red letters. The new
orderly let them through, sucking air between his big front teeth.

“You know my feelings about placing arrivals in Involun-tary before an admitting diagnosis is
made,”
Fossey said as they started down the bleak hallway. “It can color a patient’s entire perspective on
the facility, set us back before we’ve even started.”
“Not my policy, Doc, sorry,” Will replied, stopping beside a scarred black door.
“Albuquerquewas pretty specific on that point.” He unlocked the door, pulled the heavy bolt
back. “Want me inside?” he asked, hesitating.

Fossey shook his head. “I’ll call if he gets agitated.”

The patient lay faceup on the oversized transport stretcher, arms at his sides, legs straight to the
ankles.
From his doorway perspective, Fossey was unable to make out any facial features save a
prominent nose and the knobbed arch of a chin, stubbled from a couple of days’ growth. The
doctor closed the door quietly and stepped forward, never quite used to the way the floor
padding rose obligingly around his shoes. He kept his eyes on the prone figure. Beneath the
thick canvas straps that crossed the stretcher, bandolier-like, the chest rose slowly, rhythmically.
At the end, another strap stretched tightly across the leather ankle cuffs.

Fossey braced himself, cleared his throat, waited for a re-action.

Page 9
He took a step forward, then another, mentally calculating. Fourteen hours since the release
from
Albuquerque General. Couldn’t be the Haldol keeping him quiet.

He cleared his throat again. “Good morning, Mister—” he began, then looked down at his
binder, searching for the name.

“Dr. Franklin Burt,” came the quiet voice from the stretcher. “Forgive me for not rising to
shake your hand, but as you can see ...” The sentence was left incomplete.

Fossey, startled, moved up to look at the patient’s face. Dr. Franklin Burt. He knew that name.

He glanced down at the chart again, flipping the top page. There it was: Dr. Franklin Burt,
molecular biologist, M.D./Ph.D. Johns Hopkins Medical School. Senior
Scientist,GeneDyneRemoteDesert Testing
Facility. Somebody had placed marginal question marks next to the occupation.
“Dr. Burt?” Fossey said incredulously, looking again at the man’s face.

The gray eyes focused in surprise. “Do I know you?”

The facewas the same—a bit older, of course, more tanned than he remembered it, but still
remarkably free of the gradual accretion of cares and worries that gravitate to the fronts of
foreheads, the corners of eyes. There was a gauze bandage on one temple and the eyes were
badly bloodshot.

Fossey was shaken. He’d heard this man lecture. In a way, the course of his own career had been
shaped by admiration for this charismatic, witty professor. How could he possibly be here, in
four-point leather restraint, surrounded by mattressed walls?

“It’s Lloyd Fossey, Doctor,” Fossey said. “I heard you speak at Yale med school. We spoke for
a while afterwards. About synthetic hormones ...?”

Fossey found his mind reaching out to the man on the stretcher, willing Burt to remember.

A moment passed. Burt sighed, nodded his head slightly. “Yes. Forgive me. I do remember.
You challenged me on the link between synthetic erythropoietin and metastization.”

Something inside Fossey relaxed. “I’m flattered you remem-ber,” he said.

Burt seemed to hesitate, as if considering. “I’m glad to see you practicing,” he said at last, his
lips twitching as if faintly amused by the awkward situation.

Now more than anything Fossey wanted to look at the binder in his hand. He wanted to read
and reread the medical clearance and the consults, to find some explanation. But he felt Burt’s
eyes on him and knew the older man was following the course of his thoughts.

Of their own accord his eyes glanced down, scanning the typed columns on the chart. He looked
up instantly, but not before he’d made out the wordsfulminant psychosis ... extremely delusional
... rapid
Page 10