The Cocaspore Project

By William Claypool

A new novel from the author of Windfall Nights -

Can the creativity of a single man eradicate cocaine from the world? In The Cocaspore Project, Paul Sloan is an academic botanist at a major Midwest university who has invented a technology that can destroy the world’s source of cocaine. He has been doing his research under a secret government grant and has succeeded to the point where his invention might become a real tool to use against the worldwide drug trade. Sloan’s technology is nearly operational when its existence becomes known to a powerful, ruthless drug lord who is committed to stopping him. From that moment on, the scientist’s life is in jeopardy. Were it not for an unseen protector, Sloan and his family and laboratory staff would be destroyed along with the technology they created. Fortunately for Sloan, his guardian angel is as committed and resourceful as his would-be executioners, and he has been given a chance to survive.

The Cocaspore Project is a biotechnology rollercoaster of a novel. The characters are engaging, the plot is riveting, and the outcome will not easily be forgotten.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Claypool
• Release date: Oct 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9780986063701

William Claypool

William Claypool attended the University of Notre Dame and has taught at the University of Illinois at Chicago, the University of Pittsburgh, and the University of Pennsylvania. He and his wife live outside of Philadelphia. During portions of his past, he was a naval medical officer and a research biologist. The Cocaspore Project is his second novel. His first novel, Windfall Nights, was published in 2011.

Book preview

September

It had been an endless night of torment.

Four hours had passed since his last shot, and the combination of pain from his injuries and the continuous hospital noise forced him awake. A constant, nauseating throb radiated from his leg and it hurt to breathe. Blisters around his mouth from the tape that, until a few hours ago, had secured his breathing tube, made it torture to open his mouth. He longed to escape in sleep, but that was another battle he would not win.

He gradually focused his vision on the now familiar room. The containers of clear fluids on the breakfast tray by his bedside reminded him he was making progress, and he needed every reminder. Although removing the tape and the tube had been torture, it was a relief to be breathing on his own, uncomfortable as even that was. Now, for the first time in weeks, he believed he was going to leave the hospital alive. He still couldn't move with his leg in traction above the bed and the chest tube stuck in his side, but he believed.

Feeling more awake than he had at any time since arriving in the ICU, he noticed how pretty his nurse was. She wore a subtle perfume that complemented the smell of fresh linens, and her faded blue scrubs didn't hide her slender, athletic figure. She leaned over to change his sheets and seemed unbothered that her breasts pushed against his arm. He tried to smile through the oxygen mask, but the sores around his mouth made that nearly impossible. She didn't respond, but he didn't care. He was alive and was going to recover.

The nurse gently washed his face and arms and then carefully bathed his torso. He gasped involuntarily when she cleaned around the chest tube and again when she rolled him on his side to scrub his back. After she finished with his chest, he fought the pain and thanked her for his care.

She nodded and proceeded to bathe his lower abdomen. Relaxing as she gently washed his upper leg and groin, he had mixed feelings to learn another part of him was much more alive than dead. She looked sweetly at him while she continued his bath. When the nurse finished, she smiled and left the room without saying a word or looking back. His eyes lingered on the doorway after she had gone.

He now had no doubt he would walk again. Marching could wait. He had survived. He would carry on.

Then he thought of another woman who was far away and in the past. As he remembered what had happened between them, tears welled in his eyes.

He realized he was truly still alive, and that very little had changed.

1

August

Paul Sloan stirred at the sound of a car passing the house.

He gradually opened his eyes and looked at the bedside clock. He was an hour later than usual but he was not concerned. Beside him, Peg was still asleep, breathing heavily. Her light brown hair splayed over the pillowcase like an afternoon shadow and her face was still made up from last night's surprisingly enjoyable Sunday night faculty party. He had fully undressed her when they went to bed and the sheets were now bunched at her waist. Sloan resisted the urge to wake her as he eased out of bed. She moaned softly as he moved across the floor, and he knew she would not still be there when he returned from the shower.

After dressing and gathering the papers he had intended to read before work, he went downstairs. Julie, his seventeen-year-old daughter, sat at the kitchen table, already texting friends. Peg managed to make it downstairs and was huddled behind her steaming cup of coffee, wordless, eyes closed.

Good morning, both of you. We're running a little late today, aren't we? Sloan asked cheerfully. He had never had a hangover in his life and was not above lording that phenomenon over Peg.

Hi, Dad, Julie replied, eyes on her phone.

How was your date last night? Sloan asked.

Very quiet, just dinner and a movie. Then home by ten since he has a tennis match today and wanted to get home early. Pretty boring, actually.

That's what a father likes to hear.

Did you two have a good night?

Too good, Peg mumbled, momentarily rising from the dead. I didn't think I was having such a good time until I woke up this morning.

Do you remember dancing with the dean? Sloan chuckled.

Of course I do, she growled. I have his footprints on my new shoes as a reminder.

I could ask my department chairman to reimburse you for the damage.

Don't. I'd be embarrassed to say how much I spent for them.

Have it your way, but don't say I didn't try.

Did you have fun too, Dad?

Peg revived with the prospect of retaliation. He certainly did. Remember that post-doc, Linda, from two years ago?

The one with the big boobs? Julie asked.

'Yeah, that's the one. She's now the belle of the biology department and guess who she tried to monopolize all night long?

Sloan rallied in self-defense. Please, she only felt sorry for me because the dean took my date.

Well, Peg continued, she'd better not try it again. You're not much, Professor, but you're all I have. So, you watch out for those young chippies. Remember, substance comes from experience.

Oh, I will. Can I go to work now?

Give me a kiss first, Peg demanded.

Sloan kissed them both and walked out the door, thinking about how blessed he was. I love you, Peg. Have a good day, Sloan called over his shoulder. You have a good day, too, Julie. Love you both, bye.

Sloan did not wait for their trailing good-byes but walked directly to the garage for his bike. It was rare for him not to ride his bike the few blocks across town to the campus. Despite the Chicago climate and the wind off the lake, he always enjoyed the ride; it was only when the weather was especially bad that he walked to work. He never took the car unless his wife insisted on driving him. Rather than driving himself, if the weather was too miserable, he worked at home.

There were no such considerations on this day. The early August morning was beautiful and Sloan wanted to prolong his ride along the path that followed the Lake Michigan shoreline. The warm, gentle wind off the lake rustled the leaves of the trees near the path and further masked the sounds of the traffic beyond. He could see an ore boat on its way to Gary. In the foreground, sailors were enjoying the peace of a sunrise sail. He would have extended his ride were it not for the phone call he was expecting. It was too nice a day to consider the serious business at hand. The ride, as always on days this beautiful, was too brief and he was on the campus well before he was ready to confront the real world.

Although he was an hour behind his usual schedule, the campus was still asleep. A few undergraduates were straggling toward the dining halls and the mood was of park-like peace. The serenity would dissolve into a lawn party when the Frisbee throwers and softball players awoke, but that was still hours away.

Sloan expertly maneuvered his way around the handful of students as he navigated the too-narrow sidewalks to his laboratory. His thoughts were clouded with the day ahead. He pulled up to the Biology Building—a mix of 1920s granite and modern glass and steel—and parked his bicycle. He locked the bicycle and entered the building through the arched stone entranceway. The Biology Building was superbly maintained, and to Sloan, the place was like an old friend. He had walked into this building for most of the last nineteen years and much of the peace and pleasure of his life had come from his accomplishments here.

He greeted a few colleagues on his way down the hall, and turned down the wing housing his laboratories and office. As he walked through the lab's air-locked doors, he saw his technicians, Denise and Mark, already hard at work. He greeted them and continued into his office adjacent to the laboratory.

The office was small, but most of his colleagues would have gladly exchanged their spaces for it. It was unique in that one of the office walls was part of the larger glass wall of the huge experimental greenhouse that opened off the back of the laboratory. Although Sloan's primary research was in tropical and sub-tropical shrubs, he had developed his hobby of orchid cultivation to a world-class level. His full collection was visible in an isolated section of the laboratory. Another wall in Sloan's office had a floor-to-ceiling window with an unobstructed view of the lake.

The office was clutter-free. Sloan's firm dictum was that if he didn't read a document within forty-eight hours, it wasn't very important and should be discarded. This habit left him well informed and kept his desk clear. He checked his computer and then called the departmental secretary to confirm he hadn't missed his call. Satisfied that everything was in order, he went for a walk through the greenhouse before summoning the technicians to his office for their weekly status meetings with him. Even though he spoke with both of them several times a day, he felt it was important they knew they had some confidential time with him every week.

Sloan called Mark in first. Mark had been working in the laboratory for only a few months. He was a recent graduate of the college and Sloan had known him as an undergraduate. His work involved examining some specific lectins, plant proteins that bind carbohydrates, in a species of a South American shrub's seedpod. The research was known as a 'can't miss' project. No matter what they found in this specific pod, it was publishable, and it would keep Sloan's name alive in academic circles.

Mark's experiments were going well. That was predictable. Most research seemed to go well in its early stages. It was one of the bitter ironies of biological science. Mark had accomplished purifying the lectin and the binding assays showed a clear trend, although not so clear that Sloan had to wonder about Mark's honesty in performing experiments. Sloan went to the whiteboard on the wall and outlined Mark's experiments for the week, then discussed them for about thirty minutes; when Sloan was satisfied Mark knew what he was going to do, and why he was going to do it, he let him return to work.

After Mark left, Sloan turned and looked out the window to the lake. The whitecaps had increased and small sailboats bobbed in the water's windy chop. He hadn't had to get involved; he could have let someone else do it, and saved his peaceful, academic life. But, he smiled to himself, that wasn't the Marine way. That wasn't his way, either. Semper Fi. He thought of his son and remembered the fun they had together before the boy died. They'd spent many a day sailing on the lake outside his window. He had been a good kid despite all of the problems at the end. He and Peg were fine parents. There was no reason for it. There was no reason for the drugs, no reason for their son to die. But he was gone and his death changed everything.

Sloan was still at the window, thinking of the past, when he heard Denise enter.

She greeted him with a wide smile. Good morning, Paul. She had abandoned calling him 'Doctor Sloan' for no apparent reason two years earlier. Do you want me to come back later?

Sloan turned toward her. No, come on in. I was just daydreaming. Did you have a nice weekend?

Yes, I did. I went up to Wisconsin with my accountant friend. We had a great time.

It sounds serious, Denise. It's been over a month now with this one, He teased.

She shook her head, grinning. I don't think so, not enough fire in that man's heart for me.

Denise had worked for him for five years and it had been fun for Sloan to watch her mature. She had arrived as a bright but naïve recent graduate from a small college in the middle of Illinois. She said she thought she wanted to go on to graduate school, but she wanted to wait a year or two to be sure. Denise had a nice smile, although early on she had been rather plain and drab in every other way. Over time, city life had changed the small-town girl. With the benefit of a good haircut, make-up, and a new wardrobe, Denise had transformed from stainless to gold. What Sloan most enjoyed was the way she flaunted it.

Did you and Peg have a good weekend?

Peg had always liked her, Sloan thought. Never jealous, always trusting-how well she knew him. Yes, it was very restful. I worked around the house, mostly. Sloan sat down next to her. Have you been through the greenhouse yet?

Yes, I was in there bright and early.

What's happening?

Pretty much the same trends we saw last week. The 510 series are all dead. They're naked shrubs now with no leaves at all. The 520s are molting and dropping their leaves, the 530s have all of their leaves, but are very blotchy and heavily infected, and the 540 group—which I only inoculated on Friday—is already showing some early depigmentation.

Very good, it seems to be working, Sloan said with a small smile.

Yes, now you and Tom just have to find a vaccine for it. That will be the hard part, right?

Sloan's smile widened. Denise's innocent tone reminded him of Julie's trusting voice before her teen years. Probably the best years of our lives, he thought. The four of us had been so complete. The cares of the world could be so far away.

Yes, that will be the hard part. He tried not to sound patronizing. This week I want you to inoculate two more series of shrubs. Cut the inoculum in half again and we'll see just how virulent it is. Also, take some leaves representing various stages of the infection to Dr. Anderson. He said that he would do both scanning and transmission electron microscopy on them for us. Actually, go up there early and get the fixative before you pluck the leaves. Send some of the images of the whole plants, as well as the close-ups on the leaves, to Jack in Graphics. I'll need about a dozen high quality eight-by-ten prints for my trip to Washington tomorrow. We'll see what happens with the next inoculation and then decide on the later experiments. Okay?

They had shared conversations like these dozens of times. Sloan knew that although she looked like she was daydreaming or was more concerned about her fingernail polish than with what he was saying, Denise could repeat what he said verbatim. There would be no confusion.

Yes, all set. She stood up, brushed the bangs off her forehead and started to walk out the door.

Denise, please send Tom in, if he's here.

Sure, she acknowledged as she left.

Sloan had told Denise that their work was examining the characteristics of a soybean fungus that was becoming a problem for European farmers. The major focus of the research was to develop a genetic vaccine for the fungus, that is, to develop a heartier strain of plant that could withstand the onslaught of the fungus. Sloan also told her that for experimental purposes, he'd brought in a related shrub, which shared the susceptibility to the fungus. He explained to her that the shrub would be heartier and would maintain the fungus better than the soybeans. By using the shrubs as a model for the fungus, they would have a longer observation period and would be able to understand more about the growth characteristics of the fungus. Sloan had been operating with that story for about sixteen months, never giving her a reason to doubt him.

Sloan's conversation with Tom Phillips, his research associate, would be far more direct. Only Tom knew the project as he did. Not even Sloan's department chairman fully understood what was going on. He had, however, given Sloan more greenhouse and laboratory space than the rest of the department combined. The rest of the department, of course, had no idea why Sloan was so blessed. The DOD grant for converting an old storage building a few blocks away into three separate greenhouses was not known to anyone except the dean, the department chairman, Sloan, and Tom. Only Sloan and Tom understood why it was done.

Phillips walked into Sloan's office and sat across from him. Tom's work habits seldom varied—he had been up all night and was now ready to go home for the morning. He would be back in the late afternoon and stay until after midnight.

How was your weekend? Sloan asked.

Not bad, Phillips answered, yawning. How was yours?

Sloan had no doubt Tom had been in the laboratory all weekend. He was usually specific regarding his activities whenever he did something other than work , which was not often. Tom was the hardest working person Sloan had ever hired. Tom was several years older than most of the people who worked there, but it was more his experience than his age that made the difference. He had been an Army Ranger before he came here to graduate school. Tom had been sent to the Middle East early in his military career, and even earlier in his marriage. After being overseas for six weeks, the letters from his wife of less than one year began to take on a very depressing tone. At four months, they were obliquely suicidal, and he was frantically pleading with his in-laws to help her. At five months, he was summoned home. His wife had been in a fatal one-car automobile crash with high levels of alcohol and barbiturates in her blood. Tom rarely talked about that part of his life, and Sloan never pressed him about it.

Did Denise tell you about the Friday inoculum? Tom asked.

Yes, she did. Pretty impressive, isn't it?

It is. There's some mighty powerful juice there, Professor. The Erythroxylon doesn't like it at all.

We've certainly established that the fungus can kill, but can it discriminate? What's happening in X-ray, Yankee, and Zulu?

This aspect of the project was their secret. They had designated the laboratories in the main Biology building as A, B, and C. The storage building greenhouses were known as X, Y, Z. Only Sloan and Phillips really knew what was happening in them.

So far, so good. The cash grains and other indigenous grasses are thus far completely spared with even the highest inocula. There's a non-lethal effect on some of the related shrubs but it looks as if these plants can contain the infection; over ninety-five percent of them are still alive after three weeks with no visible sign of infection. A few plants from the highest dose group have had some minor discoloration, but it looks transient. So far, out of over two hundred species of plants and shrubs from Peru, Columbia, and Bolivia, only the Erythroxylon genus has shown any significant early effects.

Good, very good. How well have you simulated the environmental conditions?

As well as we can here. Temperature, humidity, and rainfall, as you know, have been relatively easy to mimic. I think we have the right soil composition but you can never be absolutely sure outside of the place itself. I've even asked a friend of mine at the U of I Medical Center to expose a few of the more common indigenous plants in their altitude chamber at a range between eight and twelve thousand feet. There is still no lethal effect even when we mimic the low oxygen tension that would be encountered in some of the highland Andes growing areas. He watched Sloan's reaction. To sum it all up, it looks to be a hundred percent specific for the lethal effect. It's still early, but the data look terrific. Phillips smiled.

It's almost too good to believe, Sloan responded.

Just quality genetic engineering.

The broad concept had been Sloan's idea but Phillips had developed the microbiological genetic engineering expertise that made it all possible. The research involved selecting engineered fungi that were to be lethal and specific for the target plants. Once virulent strains were established, recombinant DNA techniques were used to enhance the ability of the fungi to release the enzymes necessary to destroy the plant cell walls. Simultaneously, strains of the fungi binding to the specific plant proteins were enriched to improve their targeting to the Coca bush. Thus was born a deadly fungus entirely dependent on a unique plant cell receptor for its attachment and lethal effects. The secretory materials in which the fungus would bathe the plant cells were highly toxic and the death of the leaves followed rapidly. Then, as a bonus, when the infected leaves dropped on the soil, the fungus gained access to the root system. Once in the roots, the plant died quickly. The net effect was that it was a highly lethal agent for the plant. More importantly it only seemed active against the one plant species, Erythroxylon Coca.

Well, Phillips said, I've had it for the day. If you don't need me for anything else today, Paul, I'm going to go home, read the paper, and take a nap. I'll probably see you around five. Phillips stood.

See you later. I'll talk to you before I go to the USDA tomorrow. I guess I'll tell them the whole story.

You may as well. We're coming to the end of the road on this. The mission is just about finished if the specificity is as good as it looks now. There sure isn't much doubt about the virulence of the damned stuff, although I'm sure you don't want to let it out of your control until we're just a little bit more sure of its safety.

I agree with that a hundred percent. If I don't see you, I'll call you before I go.

Good. Knock 'em dead in Washington.

Phillips left and Sloan felt somehow empty as he walked out. In a way, he almost felt dirty. He knew Tom was as bright as any scientist he'd ever met and that none of the work Tom had done with Sloan over the last three years would ever see the light of day in the scientific literature. Tom knew all of this before he started the work, of course, but even so Phillips had chosen to accept the contact research associate position rather than a traditional faculty posting. It was why he was making twice the salary of any other assistant professor in the department. He was working under a Top Secret government contract while he refined his research techniques. Still, it was too bad. The work he had done was brilliant, no matter what the circumstances. The fungal genetic engineering techniques Phillips had pioneered would have made him twice his present salary in any agri-business research laboratory. But his work on the fungus, his initial opus, would be classified Top Secret for the foreseeable future. There was no predicting when the biotechnology they designed might become operational.

The ringing phone interrupted these thoughts and his secretary confirmed it was the call he was expecting.

The call was from Frederick Lewis, who also knew the full scope of the project. It was Lewis, the USDA Special Projects Director, who had initially contacted Sloan to do the work. It was Lewis who continued to be Sloan's program manager and would be until the research was transferred fully to the Department of Defense. In his meetings in Washington, Fred Lewis was always there for him. When the work had been slow going, Lewis was a cheerleader. When they needed equipment or supplies, Lewis was a fundraiser. Now that the technology was almost ready to be deployed, Lewis was an administrator.

Lewis had been discreetly briefing the agents from the Federal Bureau of Intelligence and the Drug Enforcement Agency over the last few months on the general outline of the project. Sloan had met some of them, along with the representatives of the White House task force on illicit drugs, during his last trip to Washington. Under Lewis' direction, Sloan had been painfully vague about the specifics of the research except for the admission they were undertaking some projects with biological agents that might someday prove useful in the war against drugs. Lewis was not pleased with the limited disclosure, but that's all they were authorized to share at the time. Tomorrow, however, would be the day the details of the research could be laid out for them. Sloan knew that Lewis couldn't have been more excited about it.

Sloan reached for the phone. Fred, how are you?

I'm fine, Paul. Are you all set for tomorrow?

Just pulling together my presentation. I'll be ready by one o'clock.

Good, are you coming into town tonight?

No. I'm going to fly in tomorrow morning.

Don't be late.

Don't worry, I'll be there. By the way, who will be in the audience?

Oh, you'll be talking to an impressive group. Interest in this whole business has assured that you will have a whole conference room full of high level movers and shakers.

Since a potential operational scenario for the technology involved the importation of biological agents across international frontiers, Sloan wasn't surprised. Who will be there?

"Well, the White House task force representatives, two representatives from the FBI, three from DEA, my boss, one from the Navy, and maybe