This morning I went back to my old computer files to dust off one of my draft novels. I’d put it off for fear of seeing the depths of my ineptitude when I last gave this writing thing a try only to give up in dejected frustration. I learned a few things.

First, man, that was a while ago. 1999, to be precise. Second, though it may need to some additional editing, it wasn’t that bad. So why does it sit there, gathering electronic dust? Because I got tired of the rejection process, probably because I wrote a poor Query, or because life recalled me to “more urgent things.” Whatever the reason, I’m reading it now as if for the first time, and I think I’m going to give it a whirl again.

Wondering what you may think, here are a brief Synopsis and two sample chapters. With the understanding that yes, I will tweak this — a lot — please chime in. Is it worth saving?

Oh, one last interesting tidbit. The novel’s working title? Second Wind. Yes, oh, the irony.

Synopsis: Has someone engineered a deadlier strain of the HIV virus? This is the question that Dr. Susan Rodgers faces when she receives an unexpected package containing research data for a new HIV strain. Per the instructions accompanying the data, Susan contacts Dr. Stephen Clemens of the CDC. By the time he arrives, however, someone has stolen the data tapes and wiped Susan’s computers. Unbeknownst to her, this someone also coerces Clemens to prevent Rodgers from uncovering the truth. Learning that his handlers intend to use the new HIV strain as a slow-acting biological weapon, Clemens begins to have second thoughts. In the end, facing his own prejudice toward homosexuality, he turns to aid Rodgers. Together they learn that the man-made strain of HIV holds the key to a momentous discovery — a complete cure for AIDS. Unfortunately, achieving it will prove harder than all the complex science. They’ll have to get past those who want to keep their secrets intact.

Chapter 1

Susan’s eyes drifted to the large banner hanging from the back wall of the auditorium. “KILL AIDS NOW,” it read.

“We will work relentlessly until not another life is wasted,” she said into the microphone.

Applause, the thunderous kind, broke out throughout the auditorium. They clapped over their heads. They cheered. They stood up. They smiled broadly.

“Thank you,” she said into the microphone, her voice barely audible above the clapping. Susan waved and smiled. She hated this. She wasn’t running for office. She belonged at a lecture hall, or in some conference room, reading from one of her published papers. Not here, playing cheerleader, pumping up a crowd.

“Thank you,” she said again, a bit louder this time.

“Thank you, Dr. Rodgers,” another woman yelled into the microphone as she placed her hand on Rodgers’ back. “We wish you could stay with us, but we know you’re busy.”

Rodgers waved to the crowd and made her way off the stage. As she stepped down, two of men shook her hand and thanked her. A few others gave her thumbs up signs. She smiled, nodded, and did her best to be humbled by it all.

The applause and noise of the crowd subsided slowly. They began to take their seats.
“Thank you again, Dr. Rodgers. Your research into this disease is greatly appreciated. We will support you as long as . . .”

#

“Subject is on the move,” a young man whispered into the collar of a denim shirt. He stood at the back of the room and spoke carefully, for several members of the jubilant crowd stood near him. “I repeat, subject is on the move.” He waited a few more seconds, and watched Dr. Rodgers as she exited the auditorium through a side door.

He eyed the “GAY PRIDE” sign that hung over the stage with disdain. Checking his watch he feigned an “Oh man, look at the time” look, and walked out through a nearby door.

#

Appearances like these were necessary, Dr. Susan Rodgers reminded herself. People suffering from illness needed reassurance that science was doing something to remedy their plight. Activists needed to know that someone heeded their cries for help. Contributors needed to know that their money did not go to waste . . . Well, that really wasn’t the point, was it? she corrected herself. People suffered, even now, as she got in her car, and she had to find a cure. For years she and her colleagues may have thought the worst of the AIDS epidemic lay behind them. What had it been, a decade since retroviral drug therapy and aggressive techniques like bone marrow and even stem cell transplants led to remarkable, positive results? But the game had changed. Patients in remission for years were showing symptoms again. Word of a new strain resistant to the established treatments and protocol also floated amongst research circles, though in her mind, Susan treated the evidence for such claims as highly anecdotal.

And then, there was Robbie. As much as she tried to depersonalize her work, to think only of the technical, to shield herself from the human side of the disease, there was Robbie. He’d probably sat somewhere in that audience, attending the gathering with the sole purpose of listening to her ten-minute speech. She picked up her cellular phone, and dialed his number, knowing that she’d get his answering machine.

“As painfully disappointing as it may be,” Robbie’s recorded voice said, “I’m not here to take your call. Please leave a message, and don’t forget to place a condom over the receiver. Remember, practice safe phone tag.”

Susan grinned, and shook her head. “You got me again, Robbie. Almost made me forget what I’m calling for. Anyway, I know you’re out on the town instead of taking it easy, like I told you. Yes, this is Mama Rodgers calling to remind you to take your cocktail right on schedule, and to get plenty of rest.”

She hung up the phone. Robbie would probably get a kick out of that stupid phone message.

Yes, there was Robbie. She could not spare the time to be away from her work, giving speeches, making appearances, shaking hands. Today of all days she would rather have been back at the lab. Something of great interest, and possibly of great significance waited for her there. Every part of her wanted to arrive at the lab in an instant so that she could get to the bottom of her latest findings.

She drove her black BMW Z3 out of the parking lot and sped away into the night. In light traffic she should make it back to the lab in less than twenty minutes.

#

“Subject is on the road now. ETA is eighteen minutes,” the young man said into the collar of his shirt as he walked to his car. “I repeat, subject is—”

“I copy you, Gaylord. Copy you loud and clear,” he heard a voice say into his ear piece. “We’re just about done here. Cleaning up now.”

“Copy you, Tidy. Leaving now.”

#

Dr. Rodgers stepped into her office shortly before eleven in the evening. When she dropped her purse down on her desk, several folders fell onto the floor. She eyed the desk and shook her head, thinking of how little time she had to clean that mess. Selecting a lab-coat from several hanging on a coat rack, she walked out a side door, and headed down a long well lit hall.

Her eyes became fixed on a large metal door at the end of the hall and she quickened her pace. She smiled. She loved this stuff. She couldn’t wait to get inside that lab and get to work. It was a good feeling. So many people put up with dead-end jobs and were miserable. She loved what she did, found it fulfilling, and her work made a difference—hopefully someday, a difference between life and death, between living a life in fear, or being truly free to live.

She walked up to the metal door, ran a card through a scanner, and entered a six-digit combination on a keypad. The lock clicked, and she pushed the door open. As she suspected, no one welcomed her entrance.

She walked through two rows of computer workstations, and sat in front of a large monitor. She typed her user name and password quickly, and received no response. Pressing the return key repeatedly did not help.

“Hello, computer,” she said. Rodgers tapped the side of the monitor knowing full well that it would not help.

Recalling how sometimes pressing the escape key woke up these computers, she did so. The monitor blacked out and made a loud clicking sound. She pushed back on her seat and held both hands up. “Okay, what did I do?” she said. The computer became silent, and she realized that the sound resulted from an unexpected shutdown. She tried the power button. Nothing.

She moved to another workstation, and tried to enter her user name and password there. “Locked, just locked,” she said aloud. She angrily banged on the return key several times. “Great! Of all the times . . .” She eyed the escape key, sighed, and pressed it. The monitor blacked out and the computer shut down. Again, pressing the power button did nothing.

She stood up. Her chair tipped over and crashed onto the floor. “Alright, I’ve had enough! I’m not putting up with this computer . . .” Several choice words followed as she walked to a wall phone at the other end of the room.

Searching with her index finger through a list of phone numbers on the wall, she located the name of the hailed resident computer expert, and pounded out his number.

“Ron?” she said into the phone. “It’s me, Susan.”

“Hi, Susan,” Ron said. “What’s up?”

“Listen, Ron. I know it’s late, but we have a big problem here.”

She could hear him sigh. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow, Susan?”

“No, it can’t wait till tomorrow—”

“You know, some of us go home at night. You ought’a try it.”

“This can’t wait,” she repeated.

“It’s always an emergency. I have a life, you know. A life and a wife—”

“I know you have a life, but—”

“But nothing,” he interjected. “I don’t get paid enough to be on the hook around the clock. I got a family and a life.”

She closed her eyes, grabbed a handful of her hair, and let him go on.

“I can’t just be dropping everything every time something goes wrong in the lab. Every time I chase a problem, it turns out to be somebody tinkering around with the computers, thinking they know enough to fix something, and just making a mess of things. Give it a rest, Susan. Listen. Get some rest, and we’ll work on it tomorrow.”

“Okay, now you listen. I’ve been working on something very important. It just so happens that I have a deadline. I don’t have any time to waste, and all these computers are dying left and right, okay? I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Get down here now! It’s not an option!”

She slammed the phone down. “Computer geek!”

#

The phone rang in the bedroom, and he rushed to dry himself as he stepped out of the shower. Still dripping wet, he walked out of the bathroom naked, fumbling to wrap the towel around his waist. The towel fell off when he picked up the phone.

“Hello,” he said.

“Steve?”

“Yeah. This is Steven Clemens here. Who’s calling please?”

The chill of the room’s air conditioning beat against his wet body. He reached down for the towel with his left hand and tried to dry himself.

“Hey, Stevo. Listen, just want you to know that your meeting with Dr. Rodgers this morning should go much better now.”

“Who’s this?” he asked.

“Come on. You’re a smart guy. You don’t need me to tell you, do you?” The chill of the air conditioning turned into his own. “Anyway, just calling to let you know that you shouldn’t have too much trouble when you meet with her this morning.”

“Alright,” Clemens said. “I can guess why you don’t want to ID yourself. But could you be a bit more specific?”

“No need to, Stevo. You’ll see soon enough.”

“Now, look here, I don’t appreciate—”

“Hey, listen, I’m already going out on a limb calling you on an unsecured line, okay? Just wanted you to know your meeting’s gonna to be just fine. Looking out for you. That’s all.”

The line went dead. He set the receiver down and sat on the bed, shivering from the air conditioning, or so he told himself. He draped the towel over his back and rested his elbows on his knees.

What had these goons done now? He breathed deeply, trying to calm down. It helped little. He shook his head and felt his stomach twirl. Room service breakfast didn’t sound so good anymore.

Chapter 2

He grinned as he looked around the office. A humorous thought crossed his mind. Whenever he had left a job before, he would carry a box of his belongings. This would not be the case today. He was too important to be carrying his desk trinkets in a cardboard box. Someone else would do that for him. Someone else had in fact already packed most of his belongings.

No, the President of the United States, the leader of the free world, would not carry a cardboard box out of the Oval office on his last day at work. It might be a nice gesture to identify with the voters, and it would be a good way to show solidarity with the office dwellers throughout America. But he did not need votes anymore. He would never run in a campaign again. Polls no longer mattered. He did not need to act anymore. Waving and smiling would soon be optional. He’s only have to do it to keep up his brand long enough to secure posh speaking engagements. Tomorrow, his title as President of the United States would cease.

Oh, people would still refer to him as “Mr. President,” but it would not hold the same weight, it would not project the same power. Americans would not look up to him in the same way. Whatever he did now would not possess the same prestige.

Prestige? The word echoed through his mind. “Prestige,” he whispered. He tried to snicker at the thought, but instead his throat tightened and his eyes welled up with tears.

He walked over to a window and looked out to the snow covered lawn. He loved the sight of fresh snow. It was so uniformly white.

He took a deep breath, restraining his tears. But he could not shake the feeling of impending despair. He supposed that other Presidents felt that nothing they did after they left office would compare with the thrill, the power and responsibility, and yes, the prestige they experienced during their terms. There would always be some of that. They probably wondered, just as he did now, what the next part of their lives would bring, fearful that nothing they accomplished would measure up to past achievements.

He guessed that some of them probably felt relief also. Leaving the Oval office meant no more late nights, no more contentious cabinet meetings, no more consuming campaigns, no more stress over sending troops into battle, no more uncomfortable news conferences, no more striving with political enemies . . .

Well, he could not exactly say that, could he? His political enemies would follow him from Washington, hounding him wherever he went. In addition to a scandal ridden eight years of an otherwise successful two-term presidency, legal problems would follow him wherever he went. They wouldn’t give up. They would keep at it until they ran him into the ground.

The First Lady had left three weeks before. The press had reported that she was campaigning for this or that other cause. But everyone knew and kept quiet out of courtesy, mostly out of deference to her. She just could not take it anymore. She left dejected and determined to get on with it, and left him alone.

Alone he would walk out of the Oval office, and alone he would walk out of the White House. Alone he would remain once he arrived at the destination of his choosing. He would never receive the respect needed to accomplish much of significance. Political allies, the few that remained, would vanish. His political capital fully spent, he retained nothing else to fall back on.

No, he didn’t need to carry out a cardboard box. But after tomorrow, no one would carry it for him.

If that weren’t enough, he’d have to contend with memory loss. Alzheimer’s, the doctor’s at Bethesda had told him. Pretty sure? Yeah, pretty sure.

“Brian,” he said into the intercom.

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Bring me a cardboard box. A small cardboard box, you know about four by six?”

“Will do, Mr. President.”

#

Steven Clemens adjusted his tie when the phone rang again. He looked at his watch: eight-thirty.

“Hello,” he said into the phone.

“Hello, Mr. Clemens?”

“Yes, this is he.”

“Hi, sorry to call on short notice. This is Dr. Rodgers, Susan Rodgers. Listen, I’m sorry, but—”

“Hi, Dr. Rodgers. How may I help you?”

“Well, we’ve run into a problem here, and I would really appreciate it if we could postpone our appointment till noon. I know it’s short notice . . . I’m really glad I caught you before you headed over here.”

“Okay,” Clemens said.

“We’ve had a computer problem . . . We’ve been working on it all night. We think we can fix it by noon, but you see . . . Well, without the computers being up, I can’t show you the findings I told you about.”

“I see.”

“Listen, I’m really sorry about this. I know you’re busy and I don’t want to waste your time like this. But I’d really appreciate it if we could delay our meeting.”

“Okay, I suppose–”

“Tell you what. How about I meet you for lunch? We’ll make it a lunch appointment and go from there.”

He felt the compulsion to anger, but could not sustain it. She sounded pleasant enough. “Alright,” he said after a long pause. “I’m going to need instructions on how and where to meet.”

#

“Alright, I just bought us three hours,” Rodgers said as she put the phone down. “Now, we have to find those files.” She pointed her finger right at his nose.

“Listen, Susan—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Ron! Do your job. Find me those files! They couldn’t just disappear out of thin air. You told me yourself that as far as you can tell there are no other missing files. So I don’t think the computer crashes caused just two specific files to disappear.”

“No one else has reported missing files. Could it be that you erased them somehow?”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault! A bunch of computers start crashing left and right, we spend all night bringing them up, files disappear, and it’s my fault!”

“Well, it’s just like I told you. I used that file recovery program and I didn’t find anything remotely close to these file names you gave me.”

“Well, try again! The files are there. I know it. I didn’t delete them, okay?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“What about backup tapes?” she asked. “You guys run weekly backups right?”

“Oh, yeah, on Mondays,” he said.

“Well, guess what, Sherlock? Today is Wednesday, so you should have the files on the last set of backups. I’ve had those files on the system since last . . .” She opened her journal and paged through it. “Here, since Friday two weeks ago.”

“That would mean that the last two tapes have copies of the files,” he noted. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Oh, come on, Ron! Who’s the computer expert here? Do I have to tell you how to do your job? Please go and get me those files, ha?” She knew she was driving him hard, but why not? He probably hadn’t thought of the backup tapes because he didn’t want to bother with the extra effort.

He walked out and closed the door behind him. She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth and cursed. Could this day get any worse?

#

“What do you mean the files aren’t there?” Rodgers couldn’t stay seated for this one.

“Like I said,” Ron replied slowly. “I restored both tapes, the newest one first, and nothing. Your files just aren’t there. Everyone else’s files, including yours, except for those two, seem to be there. I did a compare, and the only differences are in files created or saved after we ran the backups. But your files are nowhere to be found.”

Ron seemed more confident now, defiant almost, she thought. He had the evidence that covered his rear, and he looked rather smug about it.

“Now look here, Ron,” she said walking around her desk. He frowned and took a step back. “You’re not telling me I’m going out of my mind here, are you? You’re not suggesting that I’m making all this up, because if you are . . .” She bit her lower lip and cut herself short. “I know those files are there. I know I saved them, just yesterday, alright? So please, please, please, try again.”

He nodded and started to walk out when an idea flashed through her mind.

“Hey, Ron?”

“Yeah.”

“Would it be possible to somehow run a backup and omit one or two files?”

“No, not the way we do it. We backup everything from the root directory on down. Full recursive backup. I’m sure we didn’t do anything that would leave two files out?”

“That’s not what I meant. I’m not blaming you guys.” She willed her voice into a kinder tone. “I know you guys did it right. What I mean is, would it be possible to delete two files and then run a backup without them?”

“Well, sure. If someone did that, then the files would be missing. But you said yourself that you saved the files just yesterday, right?”

“Sure, but if someone ran the backup tapes, say, last night . . . right before the computers crashed . . .”

“Hey, no way, Susan. Those tapes are locked down and I know no one touched them last night. Only you and I have keys.”

“But you said yourself that the computers have never crashed like this, didn’t you?” she insisted. “I mean, it’s pretty strange that the computers would crash, all of them like they did, right?”

Ron shrugged. “Just a fluke. Besides, how would the backup tapes be affected by a crash?”

“They wouldn’t. Not unless . . . Did you check the time stamps on the backup files?”

“Yeap. The tar files had the right dates on them. Last Monday and the Monday before. That’s why I said no one touched them.”

“Okay,” she said as she walked around her desk and reclaimed her seat. “Would it be possible to make it look like those tapes were created . . . you know, to fake the dates somehow?”

His eyes widened and his mouth parted. “Jeez. Who would do that? And why?”

“Let’s not worry about that. Could it be done? That’s all I want to know.”

“Yeah, but they would need access . . . They would need passwords. It would have to be an inside job.”

“Could it be done, Ron? Just answer that!”

He shook his head, the dumbfounded look on his face growing by the minute. “Let me go check something. I’ll be right back.”

Ron walked out and returned two minutes later. In his hand he carried a computer printout.

“You got a highlighter I can use?”

She handed him a yellow highlighter from a collection that resided in an old coffee mug, and he used it to mark several lines on the printout.

“Here,” he said handing her the printout. “There’s your answer.”

She looked at the piece of paper and struggled to make sense of it. “I give up. What’s this?”

“It’s a printout of a portion of the log file on your computer in the lab. If you look at it carefully, you’ll see your user name there on the first line. See it?”

“Yeah, I see it, srodgers. And?”

“User srodgers logs into the system. See that?” She looked.

“Now look at the next line. User srodgers runs a full backup. That creates a tape with the most recent contents of the computer. Next line: srodgers changes the time back to Monday two weeks ago. See that?”

She nodded, looked up at him, and then back at the piece of paper. Her stomach sank as she scanned each line. The printout detailed a long list of commands. Some commands looked familiar, others totally foreign. But one thing became all too clear: someone had made it look like she had deleted the files and manipulated the backup tapes so that the data was gone forever. She closed her eyes, and opened them again, hoping that the printout would somehow tell another story.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” she said, shaking her head. “How can this be?”

“It’s very clear, actually. Look. Your user name’s all over the place. Here you do a restore from tape. And here you—”

“Enough!” she said, then in a lower voice, “I get it.”

“I know you don’t want to hear it. But from the looks of it, you did all this. No one else has access to your password and user name. I mean, no one. Not even me.”

Susan closed her eyes, breathed in deep. She fought back the fear that swept over her. Not only had someone stolen or sabotaged her research files, but now the blame could actually fall on her. Could she lose her job over this?

“Have you shared your password with anyone, Susan?”

“No.”

“You made it a hard password, just like we instructed.”

“Of course I did. The system won’t take it unless it’s a zillion characters long and total, impossible to remember gibberish.”

“I gotta tell you. I’m going to have to report this.”

“Yes, of course, you are.”

“The log doesn’t lie.”

She leaned forward, and looked at the printout anew. “There’s just only one little problem.”

“What’s that?”

“You see the timestamp here, at the time when I supposedly logged in?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I was giving a speech twenty minutes away from here. I had been there for close to an hour. Close to an hour, Ron. And I have about five hundred of my pals who will say so.”

She checked her watch: ten-thirty. Roughly one hour remained for her to get it together. She struck the desk with a closed fist, cursed loudly, and hid her face in her left hand. Ron walked out without a word.

Tomorrow morning she would meet with Dr. Clemens from the CDC and show him what? Nothing. She had nothing to show him but scribbles and hand-waving.