So the general had done at least some of the homework. Atropine was the most effective antidote for nerve gas exposure on the battlefield. It prevented death and minimized the degradation of essential bodily functions, but it didn’t counteract the loss of muscle control brought on by the chemical weapon, which could leave the soldiers vulnerable to attack for a significant length of time.
“Of course, we’ll analyze the pigs by necropsy after exposure to determine the full effects,” Polten said, “but we shouldn’t see any overt symptoms on camera.”
A Humvee approached from the direction of the target and pulled up next to the command post. Charles Davis, Polten’s chief chemist on the project, jumped out of the driver’s seat and ran inside. A heavyset, balding man with a messy beard, Davis was panting as he launched himself through the door.
“Everything is set,” he said and plopped himself into a chair. “I double-checked all the injectors on the pigs and they’re ready to go.” Davis tapped on his laptop keyboard, and Polten could see that the status of each injector had a nominal reading. With one press of a button, the Panaxim would be injected into all eleven pigs simultaneously.
Polten looked at Jefferson. “General, you can tell the pilots to begin their attack run.”
The general nodded to his aide, who told the communications officer to radio the pilots. “Tango One and Two, this is Sierra Base. You have a green light
. Cleared to start the attack sequence.”
“Acknowledged, Sierra Base. Tango One and Two beginning our run.”
Polten picked up a pair of binoculars and focused them on the Warthogs wheeling over the mountains. They plunged down to a thousand feet and rocketed over the desert floor. When they were within a thousand yards of the pigpen, the jets released two bombs each. Then the pilots yanked their sticks up, and the A-10s shot skyward.
The bombs detonated on the ground without the usual fireball, which would have consumed the gas encased inside the shells. Instead, they blew apart in a cloud of smoke and mist that immediately began drifting toward the pigs, now climbing over each other in a frenzy because of the explosions.
The chemical warheads had been seeded with red powder so that the cloud could be tracked more easily. The scarlet mist lazily drifted toward the pen. When it reached the first pig, Polten instructed Davis to activate the injectors.
Davis tapped a key. “Injectors firing.” After a pause, he said, “All eleven injections have succeeded.”
Now all they could do was wait. Polten felt a bead of perspiration trickle down his brow as he watched the screen while keeping an eye on the clock. He had Davis turn up the audio feed, and the squeals of the pigs filled the room.
The pig marked with the A collapsed within seconds. It shuddered on the ground before going still. None of the other pigs exhibited any signs of distress beyond their fright from the jets and bombs. They shuffled around the pen as they normally did, futilely rooting in the dirt for food.
The timer seemed to move agonizingly slow. When it reached two minutes, Polten exchanged a triumphant glance with Davis. He looked at General Jefferson, who nodded at the screen in appreciation before turning to Polten.
“Looks like you’ve made some real progress here, Mr. Polten. I suppose the next step is deploying Panaxim in the field. When can you—”
He was interrupted by a high-pitched squeal from one of the pigs. They all looked at the monitor, and Polten froze in horror when he saw what was happening.
One of the pigs was lurching around, trying to stay on its feet. It was clearly having trouble breathing. It keeled over and slumped in the dirt. Soon, two more pigs were staggering, then all of them were. It didn’t take long after that. Within a minute, nothing but silence from the speakers.
The general let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. “It seems your timing was a little off.”
Polten tried to salvage the situation. “General, we just need to adjust the dosage. I’m sure with a few more tests we can—”
“Mr. Polten, I told you to give me your best effort on this test.”
Polten, wrung out, couldn’t restrain his annoyance. “That’s not how science works, General. You don’t always get it right the first time.”
“Then when are you going to get it right? Five more years and another truckload of funding?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“Sorry, Mr. Polten,” Jefferson said, putting on his hat. “I’m going to recommend that we stop throwing money away on this project. We’ve got other more promising avenues to investigate.”
“Nothing is more promising than this! I’ve seen the reports from your other projects and they’re no closer than we are to developing an effective serum.”
“And you’re no closer than they are, even though your project has cost three times as much . . . Gentlemen.”
With that, he headed out with his retinue of officers, leaving Polten and Davis alone with the rest of the development team. They all looked at Polten in pity mixed with fear about their own jobs.
“I’ll talk to him,” he muttered. “Get out to the hazmat truck and collect the pigs for dissection.”
They shuffled outside, but Davis didn’t follow them.