Empty Promises Page 2

  “But…when we were trying to modify the methyl chain of the 4,5-epoxymorphinan ring we were just trying to increase the affinity for the mu opioid receptors on the opiate-sensitive neurons so we could trigger a quicker dopamine release in the ventral tegmental area.”

  Schanlon squeezed Lankin’s shoulder again, harder this time. “My dear Martin…you do remember that I’m a Ph. D chemist from MIT, don’t you? I hope you realize you’re not going to confuse me with all this technical drivel.” He moved in front of Lankin, perching on the edge of his large desk. “Why don’t you just cut to the chase—make your point.” Schanlon smirked at him. “If you have one.”

  “Well…that change should have helped people feel satiated after eating smaller amounts. The theory was that would mitigate overeating.” Lankin twisted back and forth in the chair, dragging his toes back-and-forth across the plush carpeting. “We were caught off guard when the chemical change demonstrated such an affinity for the receptor that study subjects stopped eating…entirely.”

  “Yes!” Schanlon blurted. “That’s exactly what got me so excited when I read your study report!”

  Lankin’s expression was a mix of confusion and concern as he turned his gaze to Schanlon. “But, as we’ve discussed, the drug seems to have affected the brain circuit triggers in the mesolimbic reward system—you know—the area that causes feelings of pleasure.” He used a finger to spin a coaster on the glass-and-chrome table next to his chair. “That’s definitely not what we were shooting for.”

  “Again, enough of the tech-garble. Your concern is what?’

  “Subjects taking the drug actually became addicted to starving—and they felt good while they were wasting away to nothing! That has got to be the weirdest side-effect I’ve ever seen.” He shook his head slowly. “Then we discovered we couldn’t reverse the effect.” He mumbled, looking guiltily at Schanlon. “We’re lucky the FDA didn’t bring us up on charges when study participants started dying. I think shutting the study down quickly may have saved our collective bacon.”

  “Forget about all that FDA crap.” Schanlon waved his hand as if shooing away a fly. “Can you imagine? A drug so addicting that people will crave it even while it’s killing them! How cool is that?”

  Lankin’s mouth fell open as he stared silently at his new CEO.

  “What? What’s with that look?” Schanlon leaned back and smiled broadly. “Don’t give me that look—endorphins are natural opiates manufactured in the brain when the body experiences pain or stress. They’re nature’s feel-good chemicals. Why would nature have made such a chemical in our brains if it wasn’t good for us? It’s not like we’ve created some evil new chemical, after all.” He straightened his three-hundred-dollar silk tie. “We’re just making a chemical that happens to work better than nature’s version.”

  “Sir…I, uh, don’t think we’re in the business of creating drugs that will kill people…”

  “What? I don’t see the issue. We don’t make drugs to kill people, but if somebody kills themselves by abusing that drug, that’s their problem, not ours. Right?”

  Lankin shrugged. “Uh…”

  Schanlon jabbed a finger at Lankin. “Make your case or stop wasting my time! Why would we not pursue this?”

  “If we add this molecular modification to opioids, it would cause a super affinity for those pleasure receptors I mentioned. It’d be like we put a super electromagnet on a drug, and that part of the brain is made of pure steel—once that chemical bond is made, it would almost be impossible to break it.” Lankin glanced quickly at Schanlon then at the floor. “That’s why not.”

  “I understand the technical aspects. Again, I don’t see the problem. That sounds like a good thing to me.”

  “Well…sir, that means that pretty much everyone who takes this form of the narcotic is guaranteed to become an addict—after even a single dose!”

  Schanlon jumped from his desk and pumped his fist in the air. “I know! Isn’t that great? That’s what gives it such outstanding sales potential!”

  The chemist looked taken aback. “Wh-what? We don’t want that—”

  “Yes! Yes, we do.” Schanlon replied in an edgy, firm tone. He moved behind his desk and plopped into his chair, looking into the distance. “We sell drugs to make money. Can you imagine? A drug that is instantly addictive. People will crave it more than sex!” He laughed raucously. “Hell—more than oxygen!”

  “B-but…we’d be creating a nation of addicts…”

  “No—not addicts—loyal customers! And they won’t be feeling their pain while they’re taking it, will they?” He leaned forward on his desk, staring intently at Lankin. “And we’ll price it for a huge profit—after all, high prices will hardly stop them from buying more.” He picked up his glass of scotch and gulped it down. “No pain for them, big money for us. It’s all good, Martin!”

  “It’s not all good…it will likely depress respiration more than usual, too. What if a lot of people start dying from opioid-induced respiratory arrest? Like that rock-star, Prince, did.”

  “That’s another reason I called you up here to talk with me. I want your team to keep working on this new super-narcotic…but we need something more—we need a new reversal agent, too. Something we can patent that gives us a corner on the market. Then, if anyone needs to be treated for an overdose from our new narcotic, we will be the only producer of the reversal agent.”

  “But people will overdose…they won’t be able to stop themselves. And they will die when they do—before anyone can even give any reversal agent.”

  Schanlon shrugged. “Not my problem.” He jabbed a finger at Lankin. “But I do want your team to create a reversal agent that will work—and I want it developed fast! I already arranged for a little primate testing of a sample of your opioid drug and…there was a little problem when the test subjects were given the naloxone reversal agent. I need that treatment gap corrected so I can get samples out for some human trials, too.”

  “Primate testing? Human trials? How did you get away with that? We’re nowhere near ready for those research steps! What about the FDA monograph standards?”

  “That’s none of your concern, Martin!” Schanlon growled. “I just need your team to create a reversal agent that will work and not cause any…undesired side-effects.”

  “But even if we can create what you’re asking for, it will still need to be immediately available to treat overdoses before people die. How can we assure that?”

  Schanlon waved a hand in the air, brushing the concern aside. “I’ve already got a few of our congressional whores…sorry, I mean congress-people, working on introducing laws related to that.” He chortled. “These politicians may act like religious, self-righteous zealots, but they can all be bought if the price is right. The new laws will require businesses and public service locations to keep the reversal agent in stock at all times. All emergency first-responders will also be required to carry it on their person.”

  Martin squirmed in his chair, mumbling unintelligibly as he looked around the room for a couple of minutes at all of the expensive art work, finally pinning his gaze on Schanlon.

  “But my team’s goal was just to try to create an appetite suppressant. To help people be healthier.” His shoulders sagged, and he sighed loudly. “This is something totally different. My team won’t like it.”

  Schanlon hopped from his chair and rushed around his immense chrome-and-glass desk, stopping behind Martin then clapping him on the shoulder. Martin hunched his shoulders, his head snapping from side-to-side.

  “Frankly, I don’t give a shit what your team likes. Tell them to think of it as us making a better endorphin than that dumb bitch, Mother Nature.” Schanlon snarled. He spun Martin’s chair so they faced each other. “I’ve already set a production schedule with a foreign producer so the stuff can hit the pharmacies ASAP. They’re already tooled up and waiting.” He poked Martin in the chest with a finger. “They’re not patient people. You don’t meet that sche
dule, you’re gone from this company…maybe from this earth.” He yanked Lankin by his lapels from the chair. “Now, get your ass down to the lab and get to work on these drugs!”

  Chapter 4

  General George Smithson sat in his recliner in the living room of the home he, Jack, Amanda, and Hank Green, an ex-Green Beret, shared.

  Smithson and Jack Bass had known each other for years, companions both in their army days and since becoming civilians. Smithson and Jack had taken Hank in after Jack had rescued Hank from a homeless veteran slave camp. Hank was now an inseparable member of this close-knit group.

  Smithson lowered the newspaper he was reading and arched an eyebrow as he watched Hank rubbing his thigh. “I’ve noticed you’ve been doing that a lot lately, Hank. The old gunshot wound bothering you?”

  Hank glanced at Smithson then abruptly stopped massaging his leg, wincing as he slid back on the couch. “Nah. Just gettin’ old, I guess.”

  “Isn’t that the thigh where you took a bullet back at the slave camp?”

  “Yeah. Nothing I can’t handle, though,” Hank replied noncommittally, but his smile twisted into a grimace as he crept a hand onto his thigh.

  Smithson gazed skeptically at Hank for several seconds in silence.

  “Uh huh.” He raised the paper. “You’re not active special-ops anymore. If you’re hurting, you surely don’t need to just tough it out.” He lowered the paper just enough to peek over it. “You can forget all that macho bullshit you had crammed down your throat in the army.”

  Hank stared at Smithson. “Yeah…I know. It’s really not that bad, though—”

  “Bullshit! You forget I was an army physician for longer than you’ve been alive—you’re not going to blow smoke up my ass about this. I’ve taken care of plenty of gunshot wounds, and I can see you’re hurting…and it seems to be getting worse.”

  “I’ll be fine, George. I appreciate the concern, but I don’t need a nursemaid—I’m a big boy. Just back off! Okay?”

  “Well, excuse me for caring!” Smithson huffed, rattling the newspaper loudly as he raised it in front of his face. “You know, ‘big boys’ can hurt, too!” he said from behind the paper.

  Hank pulled a couch pillow onto his lap and fiddled with the cording as he gazed at it. “I’m sorry for snapping—I know you’re just trying to help.”

  “Damn straight!” Smithson folded the paper and set it aside. “And with that thought in mind, I already did a little digging around. I get newsletters from the VA, and I ran across a study they’re co-sponsoring with some group called Greater American Pain & Spine. They claim it’s a promising new pain reliever. They’re trying to attract veterans who have severe chronic pain. Might be worth a call.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I already e-mailed the enrollment info to you.”

  Hank hopped from the couch, his face contorting in pain as he did, then turned to Smithson. “Thanks, but like I said—I’ll think about it.” He spun and hobbled out of the room, moving slowly toward the hallway to the bedrooms.

  “Can’t hurt to give it a try,” Smithson called out after him. “Look at the email from me.”

  Chapter 5

  Amanda, Jack’s daughter with Major Lori Darden, RN, sat on the couch next to Jack as he watched the evening news. She muted the TV without warning and twisted toward Jack, tentatively looking up into his face.

  “You sure seem to be feeling better these days, Dad.”

  Jack was caught off guard by the comment and just nodded in response as he gazed into her eyes.

  “That whole memory loss thing you went through after you got shot at the slave camp was really weird, wasn’t it?”

  “Uh, yeah…it was…is,” he mumbled. He pointed at the TV. “You want to turn the sound back on?”

  “Especially back in Turkey when you kept calling me by Mom’s name…”

  Jack sighed and turned toward her. “I don’t remember that, but I’m sure it was strange for you.” He smiled at her and tousled her hair. “You must have been doing something pretty brave, though, if I thought you were Lori.”

  “Not really—it was just when you were helping me escape from those terrorists…”

  “Terrorists?” Jack shrugged. “Sorry—just not ringing a bell with me, sweetie.”

  They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, both chewing slowly on bites of their pizza slices as they stared at the TV. Amanda turned the TV off and scooted away a bit, turning to look up at Jack’s face again.

  “Tell me again, Dad—what was she like? Mom, I mean. I can barely remember her from when I was a little kid.”

  Jack regarded Amanda for a few seconds then swallowed and slowly set his half-eaten slice on his plate. “She was a wonderful woman. A special person. Smart, brave, dedicated…” His voice cracked, so he stopped talking and cleared his throat. He squeezed Amanda’s shoulder gently. “You couldn’t have asked for a better mom.”

  “I couldn’t have…if I’d ever known her, that is,” she mumbled. She nibbled at her pizza and swallowed. “Did you see her when you were dead?”

  Jack had been mortally wounded by a gunshot when he’d rescued Hank and other homeless veterans from a slave camp. He’d been clinically dead but the medics had revived him while he was airlifted to a trauma center.

  “I-I don’t remember anything from when I died.” A shudder ran through his body.

  She turned from him, casting her eyes to the floor. “I’ve seen her pictures—she was beautiful.”

  “That she was…but she never saw herself that way—didn’t like it if someone told her she was.”

  Amanda spun toward Jack. “Why, Dad?”

  “Why didn’t she like being told she was beautiful?” he asked, confused.

  “No. Why did she have to die? Why couldn’t she still be here…with us.”

  Jack’s lip started to tremble as the vision of Lori’s brains splattering on his uniform back in Iraq flashed into his memory. The overwhelming hatred Jack had felt toward the Iraqi major who’d killed her in cold blood during the war flooded his senses. He didn’t like the feeling, especially in the presence of Amanda. He shook his head hard to try to clear that emotion from his mind.

  “I-I don’t know, Amanda. I’ve asked myself that more times than I could ever remember.” He put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, not wanting her to see the tears forming in his eyes. “I wish every day that it had been me who had died instead of her.”

  She wriggled from his grasp and punched him in the shoulder.

  “No! That’s not what I meant—don’t even say that! I mean, why can’t both of you still be alive?”

  Jack turned his head away, the warm tear tickling his face as it crawled erratically down his cheek. He snatched up his pizza slice and shoved it between his lips, afraid his voice would crack if he spoke. Amanda reached up and put her hand softly on his chin and turned his face back toward her.

  “I-I’m sorry, Dad. I know how much it bothers you to talk about Mom getting killed.” She sighed loudly. “Sometimes, I just…miss her, though…wish she was here to talk to.”

  Jack pulled his head back and again turned his face away. “Me, too, sweetie. Me, too,” he croaked.

  Chapter 6

  Hank walked into the house after dropping Amanda at school. He strolled back to his room and plopped onto his desk chair, staring at his laptop for a couple of minutes. He finally shrugged and flipped it open.

  “Can’t hurt to look, I guess,” he muttered.

  He quickly found and opened the email from Smithson about the pain drug study and opened the embedded link, which connected him to the Veterans Health Administration website. Hank was somewhat familiar with the VA site from going there to learn about PTSD and its treatment. He quickly clicked through several screens until he found a list of current studies underway in the Biomedical Laboratory Research and Development section.

  “Hmm. ‘Conducts preclinical research to understand life processes from the
molecular, genomic, and physiological level in regard to diseases affecting Veterans.’ I wonder what the hell ‘preclinical research’ means?” He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t feel like being some damn lab rat.”

  He quickly scanned the list of active studies, eventually finding one being conducted in collaboration with Greater American Pain & Spine. He Googled the organization, grunting when he landed on the garish homepage of their website.

  “I already don’t like them—too damn flashy for me.” He clicked on a “details” tab and started to read. “Let’s see… ‘study to determine effectiveness of new pharmaceutical treatment for chronic pain.’ I’m gonna guess that’s the one George was talking about.”

  He snorted as he read the details of the study, subconsciously rubbing at the old gunshot wound on his thigh. The bullet had snapped his femur, and he now had considerable metal hardware holding the bone together. Though he was a Green Beret for many years and had recaptured that military discipline after recovering from his substance abuse problem, he found he could not ignore the significant pain in his thigh.

  “I’m not so sure about this…but I know George wouldn’t have recommended it if it wasn’t legit.”

  Hank flipped to an enrollment screen and filled in his personal information. When he finished he sat frozen, his finger poised over the “submit” button.

  “I ought to be able to just tough this out. I really don’t want to get hooked on a drug again, even if it is a prescription drug.” He moved his finger away from the keyboard. “But this pain keeps getting worse—what will it be like in a few years if I don’t do something now?” He hovered his finger over the button again. “I hope this won’t turn me into some damn junkie.” He raised his finger a fraction of an inch.

  “Just push the damn key already!” Smithson said impatiently from a few feet behind Hank.