Isegoria

In the early days of the Cold War, Ken Alibek explains (in Biohazard), when the USSR appeared to be leading the world in space and nuclear weapons technology, Soviet biology was paralyzed:

We had gone from being one of the world’s powerhouses of immunological and epidemiological research to a backwater of demoralized and discredited scientists. The cause was one man—a Russian agronomist named Trofim Lysenko.

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Lysenko, who once bragged that he never reported the results of an experiment that contradicted his theories, claimed his work proved that environment was more important than heredity in the evolution of plants and animals. Calling genetics a bourgeois discipline that insulted the proletariat, he emerged as a paragon of the “new” Soviet science based on Marxist materialism.

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Soviet biologists knew about the work in the West thanks to smuggled journals and reports, but research conducted in Russian labs was heavily restricted. The influence of Lysenko—who lived until 1976—was too powerful.

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Only one scientist had the clout, and the courage, to speak up. His name was Yury Ovchinnikov, vice president of the Soviet Academy of Sciences and a renowned molecular biologist.

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He decided to resolve the crisis in Russian biology by appealing to the self-interest of the masters of our militarized economy. In 1972, he asked the Ministry of Defense to support a genetics program devoted to developing new agents for biological warfare.

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Ovchinnikov found an influential ally in Leonid Brezhnev. The one-time metallurgical engineer who led the Soviet Union for eighteen years until his death in 1982 regarded the magisterial akademiks of the Soviet scientific establishment with a respect bordering on awe. Ovchinnikov was soon giving private lectures on genetics to Brezhnev and his aides.

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Launched by a secret Brezhnev decree in 1973, the program aimed to modernize existing biological weapons and to develop genetically altered pathogens, resistant to antibiotics and vaccines, which could be turned into powerful weapons for use in intercontinental warfare. The program was called Enzyme.

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The Enzyme project focused on tularemia, plague, anthrax, and glanders—all diseases that had been successfully weaponized by our military scientists but whose effects had been undermined by the development of antibiotics. But there were many other agents under review, including viral agents such as smallpox, Marburg, Ebola, Machupo, Junin, and VEE.

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Over the next decade, dozens of biological warfare installations disguised as centers of pharmaceutical or medical research were built throughout the country. In Leningrad, the Institute of Ultra-Pure Biopreparations was created to develop new techniques and equipment for cultivating pathogenic agents. At Omutninsk, in the pine forests near Kirov, a bacteriological research and weapons production facility was constructed alongside an old munitions plant operated by the Ministry of Defense. An entire “research city” for genetic engineering went up at Obolensk, just south of Moscow, and the Lyubuchany Institute of Immunology was established in Chekhov, also in the Moscow region, to investigate antibiotic-resistant disease strains. For work on viruses, the enormous Vector research and testing compound was built near the Siberian city of Novosibirsk.

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Between 1979 and 1989, the Soviet Union conducted large-scale tests of an aerosol containing Bacillus thuringiensis—a harmless simulant—over the Novosibirsk region, using a plane with civilian markings. Similar experiments were run at a military proving ground near the city of Nukus in the Kara Kalpak Republic, and in the Caucasus. Another harmless agent, Serratia marcescens, was used in several tests conducted by the Institute of Biological Machinery inside the Moscow Metro system during the 1980s. Ballistic missiles containing simulants of biological agents were fired in tests over the Pacific Ocean between 1960 and 1980.

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When our biological warfare program was operating at its peak level, in the late 1980s, more than sixty thousand people were engaged in research, testing, production, and equipment design throughout the country. This included some thirty thousand Biopreparat employees.

Money was never a problem. As late as 1990, when Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev was promising the world major cutbacks in our arsenals, I was authorized to spend the equivalent of $ 200 million, including $ 70 million for new buildings. The total figure spent that year on biological weapons development was close to a billion dollars.

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In April 1975, two months before I graduated from the Tomsk Medical Institute, a polite white-haired man in civilian clothes came from Moscow to the drab industrial town in Siberia where I had spent the previous two years in graduate study.

He wanted to meet several of the students who had specialized in epidemiology and infectious diseases. By then, I was one of them. In the intervening years, I had attended lectures on all forms of weapons of mass destruction and learned methods of protecting troops against nuclear, biological, and chemical attacks. No one ever suggested that we had a biological weapons program of our own. Instead, we were warned that as our enemies had them, it was vital for us to understand how they worked.

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I also assumed he was not telling the entire truth when he spoke of biological defense. A special knowledge comes with growing up in a state like the Soviet Union. You were constantly alert to the probability that what you were being told had little relation to the message that was being conveyed.

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“One more thing,” he called out. “Don’t tell your friends or teachers about this conversation. Not even your parents.”

One of the Soviets’ most successful biological warfare programs, Ken Alibek explains (in Biohazard), was created by the Ministry of Agriculture:

A special division was established to research and manufacture anti-livestock and anti-crop weapons. The division was given the uninspired title of Main Directorate for Scientific and Production Enterprises. The biowarfare program was code-named “Ecology.”

Scientists at the agriculture ministry developed variants of foot-and-mouth disease and rinderpest for use against cows, African swine fever for pigs, and ornithosis and psittacosis to strike down chickens. Like anti-personnel biological weapons, these agents were designed to be sprayed from tanks attached to Ilyushin bombers and flown low over a target area along a straight line for hundreds of miles.

This “line source” method of dissemination could cover large stretches of farmland. Even if only a few animals were successfully infected, the contagious nature of the organisms ensured that the disease would wipe out agricultural activity over a wide area in a matter of months.

Many of the ministry’s facilities were installed in the centers of towns and cities, to keep their military connection camouflaged. This suggests how little those who ruled our lives worried about our health.

Across the street from the apartment block where I grew up in Alma-Ata (now Almaty), the former capital of the Soviet Socialist Republic of Kazakhstan, a large, rusting factory served as a makeshift playground for children in the neighborhood. It was a fantastic world of hulking machinery and cavernous tunnels, made all the more alluring by the large Keep Out signs posted conspicuously on the property. We would crawl through the fence on afternoons after school and, shifting through piles of metal, would occasionally stumble on odd-smelling canisters, painted in army green. Luckily, we never managed to open them.

Many years later, going through some old reports, I discovered that the factory was used by the Ministry of Agriculture until the early 1960s to make anti-crop and anti-livestock agents. It was called Biokombinat.

The Soviet Union’s approach to biological warfare took a new turn in September 1945, Ken Alibek explains (in Biohazard), when Soviet troops in Manchuria overran a Japanese military facility known as Water Purification Unit 731:

The unit, commanded by Lieutenant General Shiro Ishii, experimented with anthrax, dysentery, cholera, and plague on U.S., British, and Commonwealth POWs. During the Japanese invasion of Manchuria, porcelain canisters of fleas infected with plague and other primitive biological weapons were used in air raids that killed thousands of rural Chinese.

The captured Japanese documents were sent to Moscow, where they made absorbing reading. They included blueprints for biological warfare assembly plants, far larger and more complex than our own. Japan’s program had been organized like a small industry, with a central production facility fed by continuous research and development.

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In 1946, a year after the war ended, a new army biological research complex was established at Sverdlovsk.

Biological warfare was the furthest thing from his mind, Ken Alibek explains (in Biohazard), when he entered the military faculty of the Tomsk Medical Institute in 1973 to begin graduate studies as a cadet intern:

I was planning to become a military psychiatrist, until a professor gave me an assignment that changed my relationship to medicine. He asked me to analyze a mysterious outbreak of tularemia on the German-Soviet front shortly before the Battle of Stalingrad in 1942.

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The first victims of tularemia were German panzer troops, who fell ill in such large numbers during the late summer of 1942 that the Nazi campaign in southern Russia ground to a temporary halt. Thousands of Russian soldiers and civilians living in the Volga region came down with tularemia within a week of the initial German outbreak. The Soviet high command rushed ten mobile military hospitals into the area, a sign of the extraordinary rise in the number of cases.

Most of the journals reported this as a naturally occurring epidemic, but there had never been such a widespread outbreak in Russia before. One epidemiological study provided a telling statistic: in 1941, ten thousand cases of tularemia had been reported in the Soviet Union. In the year of the Stalingrad outbreak, the number of cases soared to more than one hundred thousand. In 1943, the incidence of disease returned to ten thousand.

It seemed strange that so many men had first fallen sick on one side only. The opposing armies were so close together that a simultaneous outbreak was all but inevitable. Only exposure to a sudden and concentrated quantity of tularemia could explain the onslaught of infections in the German troops alone. Seventy percent of those infected came down with a pneumonic form of the disease, which could only have been caused by purposeful dissemination.

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“It suggests that this epidemic was caused intentionally.”

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He pointed to the paper I had left on his desk.

“I don’t want to see this until you’ve given it some thought. And never … never mention to anyone else what you just told me. Believe me, you’ll be doing yourself a favor.”

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Years later, an elderly lieutenant colonel who worked in the secret bacteriological weapons facility in the city of Kirov during the war told me that a tularemia weapon was developed in Kirov in 1941, the year before the Battle of Stalingrad. He left me with no doubt that the weapon had been used.

The lesson of Stalingrad would not be forgotten by our biological warfare strategists. In the postwar years, the Soviet high command shifted its attention from battlefield deployment to “deep targets” far behind enemy lines, where there was no danger of infecting one’s own troops.

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The moral argument for using any available weapon against an enemy threatening us with certain annihilation seemed to me irrefutable. I came away from that assignment fascinated by the notion that disease could be used as an instrument of war. I began to read everything I could find about epidemiology and the biological sciences.

I don’t recall ever hearing the name tularemia growing up, but I’m pretty sure I was vaguely aware of something called rabbit fever — if only because I’d seen the warning against rabbititis in Hare Tonic:

“And then suddenly everything’d go black!”

Tularemia is a debilitating illness, Ken Alibek explains (in Biohazard), rife among wild animals and common in the Rocky Mountains, California, Oklahoma, parts of eastern Europe, and Siberia:

It is a hardy organism, capable of surviving for weeks, sometimes months, in decaying animal corpses. Tularemia is primarily transmitted to humans by ticks, mosquitoes, and wild rabbits, though squirrels, sheep, cats, and dogs have also been identified as carriers. While highly infectious, it almost never spreads directly from one person to another.

Victims can be laid up for weeks with chills, nausea, headaches, and fever. If left untreated, symptoms usually last two to four weeks, but they can continue for months. Francisella tularensis is lethal in 30 percent of untreated cases.

After World War II, scientists in the United States, Britain, and Canada developed tularemia for use on the battlefield, where it could immobilize an entire division through the intensive medical care required for each stricken soldier.

Soviet commanders considered tularemia an unpredictable weapon for close-quarter tactical maneuvers. The risk of infecting one’s own troops was high. But we had obtained, from a leading international research institute in Europe, a strain capable of overcoming immunity in vaccinated monkeys.

Our civilian credentials ensured that no questions were asked when we requested it. As far as we knew, there had never been an attempt anywhere in the world to weaponize a vaccine-resistant strain of tularemia. For Kalinin, the project represented a chance to prove what Biopreparat could do.

Five hundred monkeys were ordered from Africa for tularemia tests on Rebirth Island, he explains:

Importing that many animals at one time without arousing suspicion was not as difficult as it sounds. The arrangements were made well in advance by clandestine overseas trading associations run by the Soviet Ministry of External Trade, which also supplied us with the cages and other special equipment.

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Since we were testing a vaccine-resistant weapon, all of the monkeys had to be immunized before they were exposed.

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There was no telephone at the test center, and the only communication with Aralsk was through cryptograms on the army’s closed-circuit communications network.

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Nearly all the immunized monkeys died.

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The next year we conducted new tests with an even more efficient dry variant of tularemia, following all the procedures meticulously, and the new version of weaponized tularemia entered the Soviet arsenal.

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Meanwhile, at Rebirth Island, everything connected to the tularemia test, from research notes to blood samples to the monkeys’ corpses, had to be incinerated.

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Open-air testing at Rebirth Island stopped in 1992. Records of what happened there no longer exist.

Over the centuries, Ken Alibek explains (in Biohazard), armies have used primitive methods to spread pestilence:

The Romans dropped poison into wells to contaminate their enemies’ water supplies. The English gave blankets smeared with smallpox to Indians in the eighteenth century during the French and Indian Wars. Confederate troops in the American Civil War left corpses of animals to rot in ponds along the path of Union forces. And during World War II, Japanese planes dropped porcelain bombs containing billions of plague-infected fleas over Manchuria.

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Soviet scientists combined the knowledge gained from postwar biochemistry and genetic research with modern industrial techniques to develop what are called “aerosol” weapons—particles suspended in a mist, like the spray of an insecticide, or a fine dust, like talcum powder.

Temperature and weather conditions will determine the success of an aerosol’s dissemination. Bacteria and viruses are generally vulnerable to sunlight; ultraviolet light kills them quickly. Heavy rain or snow, wind currents, and humidity impede their effectiveness.

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A bioweaponeer will know to strike at dusk, during periods when a blanket of cool air covers a warmer layer over the ground—a weather condition called an inversion, which keeps particles from being blown away by wind currents.

We packed our biological agents in small melon-sized metal balls, called bomblets, set to explode several miles upwind from the target city.

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Primitive aerosols lose their virulence and dissipate quickly. In our labs, we experimented with special additives to keep our agents from decaying when transported over long distances and to keep them alive in adverse weather conditions.

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We tested a variety of animals, including rabbits and guinea pigs, but monkeys, whose respiratory systems are so similar to ours, were the most effective surrogates for humans. An average person takes in ten liters of air every minute. A monkey inhales four. If four particles of an agent in a given volume of air killed at least 50 percent of the monkeys exposed to an aerosol, we could assume that ten particles would have an equally lethal effect on human beings.

Our standard measure of success for a biological weapon was referred to as Q50, representing the amount needed to infect 50 percent of all exposed human beings in one square kilometer of territory. The Soviet Union devoted an enormous amount of time and money to developing concentrated aerosols that could reach the Q50 level with minuscule numbers of bacterial cells or viral particles.

The most effective biological weapons go on killing long after they are used. Some viruses, such as Marburg, are so hazardous that casually inhaling as few as three microscopic viral particles several days after an attack would be enough to kill you. Biowarfare strategists often look beyond the immediate target to focus on the epidemic behavior of disease-causing agents.

Unlike nuclear weapons, which pulverize everything in their target area, biological weapons leave buildings, transportation systems, and other infrastructure intact. They should properly be called mass casualty weapons, not weapons of mass destruction.