The Coming Plague Read Online Free PDF

Maryland, to see Al Wieden. A pioneer in laboratory safety, Wieden had turned Fort Detrick into the world’s premier center of research on deadly microbes. Johnson wanted something unheard of: a portable box of some sort so he could safely study Junin in the field—or whatever was wiping out the people of San Joaquin.
    At Fort Detrick there was a lot of research underway on “germ-free mice”—animals that had such weak immune systems that virtually any microbe could prove lethal to the mutant rodents. To keep the mice alive, scientists housed them inside airtight boxes that were constantly under positive pressure, pushing air past special filters to the mice, and then out again, toward the scientists. In this way, the mice breathed only sterile air. Scientists worked with the mice by inserting their hands into airtight rubber gloves that were built into the sides of the pressure box. The “glove
boxes,” as the steel contraptions were called, were about the size of large coffins and weighed hundreds of pounds.
    Johnson’s idea was to convert one of these contraptions from positive to negative pressure so that all air would go inward, toward samples of possibly dangerous animals or microbes. That way, he could work relatively safely in a portable laboratory.
    Such a portable laboratory had never before been used, and Wieden wasn’t sure how to jury-rig the positive-pressure boxes. But, racing against time, Johnson and Wieden found a new, lighter-weight plastic glove box and surrounded it with a vast rib cage of aluminum poles to prevent the container from imploding when the pressure reversed from inside-out to outside-in. To their mutual delight, it worked.
    Meanwhile, MacKenzie still faced tough opposition in Bethesda, as well as at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta. Though he was a physician and had public health training, some higher-ups frankly doubted whether the thirty-seven-year-old MacKenzie had enough tropical experience to be able to recognize a new epidemic. They insisted it would be a waste of time and resources to deploy a team to investigate what would probably turn out to be some garden-variety bug such as influenza.
    In the fall of 1962 MacKenzie appealed to Bill Reeves, his old mentor from public health graduate studies at the University of California in Berkeley. He described Magdalena to Reeves, who insisted that MacKenzie “stand up to the Bethesda bureaucrats.”
    â€œGo for it. You got something there. Don’t let ’em discourage you,” Reeves urged.
    On January 9, 1963, a meeting of the top brass in the NIH’s infectious diseases division was held in Bethesda, and MacKenzie persuasively pleaded his case. It was decided that he and a MARU ecologist named Merl Kuns should first undertake a scouting mission to assess the extent of the epidemic, collect blood samples, and define the nature of the local ecology.
    The pair made their journey in March, and returned a week later even more firmly convinced that a serious epidemic was underway. Kuns, a University of Wisconsin-trained ecologist, was stunned by the thousands of bats that lived in the thatched roofs of towns like Magdalena, swooping out at night to forage for food. They were small bats, about the size of monarch butterflies, but they clustered in huge flocks that could suddenly fill the village sky. For his part, epidemiologist MacKenzie was convinced that nobody was actually getting infected in Magdalena, and the real epidemic was some fifty miles away in a town called San Joaquin. The pair returned to Panama with more than adequate evidence to gain approval for further investigation.
    With his new laboratory contraption in crates, Johnson headed to Bolivia in May 1963, along with MacKenzie and Kuns. After arriving in the capital, the team chartered an old USAF B-17 bomber and flew to the eastern edge
of the Andes, then down the eastern Andean foothills to the Itenez River, and