at Fort Detrick, Md., doesn't look menacing. The three-story glass-and-brick structure, which could fit seamlessly into any suburban office park, is typical of buildings designed by architects who read studies linking sunlight with worker productivity. The leather chairs in the atrium seem to encourage lounging. The National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, which operates the IRF, plans to install a coffee bar in the atrium.
But cocooned within the nearly completed $105 million facility is a laboratory built like a submarine–11,125 square feet of airtight, carefully pressurized space. As soon as next spring, 30 doctorate-level scientists wearing protective suits and hoods will conduct groundbreaking research in these rooms, trying to determine how lethal infectious diseases kill their hosts.
Hemorrhagic fevers like Marburg and Ebola, which are caused by viruses, are among the world's most horrific afflictions. For about seven days after infection, patients suffer from flulike symptoms, but as the virus multiplies, blood starts to seep from the skin, mouth, eyes and ears. Internal organs hemorrhage into bloody, shapeless masses. Some of these fevers kill up to 90 percent of those who contract them, and they can be passed along by close contact with bodily fluids, maybe even by a sneeze.
Scientists still don't know much about how these rare but deadly diseases operate. If they take root in America–carried by unsuspecting travelers or by terrorists–the medical community would have no vaccines to halt their spread. And there are only a handful of laboratories in the world equipped to experiment with these highly communicable pathogens; none has the sophisticated diagnostic gear that is being installed at the IRF. Lessons learned here could one day mean the difference between an outbreak and an epidemic.
The best time for an outsider to visit the IRF is before it goes hot–that is, now, before the deadly bugs are brought to the site. "It's the only time," says Jason Paragas, the facility's associate director for science. Paragas is one of the 30 staffers who will work in the highly restricted lab. Quietly friendly, with a stout frame and easy disposition, he talks and moves with deliberation and does not seem to have an impulsive bone in his body. His dress is tidy and Maryland casual–loose button-down shirts, but never a tie. The 37-year-old researcher has spent nearly three years working on the new facility, so he makes a highly informed tour guide.
Paragas is standing in what will be the dividing line between two labs–an outer lab rated to handle dangerous infectious diseases and an inner lab designed for the worst pathogens in the world. The outer area is the medical research equivalent of a maximum-security prison–Biosafety Level 3. The inner sanctum is supermax, or BSL-4. Researchers can study bubonic plague at level 3; Ebola and other killers that are transmissible and currently incurable must be quarantined at level 4. The institute is so security-conscious that it asked Popular Mechanics not to identify the floor on which the BSL-3 and BSL-4 labs are located.
To enter the restricted BSL-4 lab, Paragas first has to pass through two stainless-steel doors set up as an air lock. He punches in a code that deactivates the magnetic lock on the first door. The keypad also alerts the building automation system (BAS) that the air pressure is about to change. The BAS adjusts the airflow, increasing the pressure in the BSL-3 area and decreasing it in the air lock. Once Paragas is ready to enter BSL-4, the BAS will ensure that high-pressure air in the air lock flows into the low-pressure, high-security lab, trapping airborne pathogens. The deeper the level of containment, the lower the pressure. "Biocontainment sucks," Paragas says. "Any breach is sucked in by the negativity."
The air-lock door closes with the sound of an overworked drill, which is caused by the rapid inflation of a rubber bladder that seals the smooth edges of the door. Once the facility is operational, the air lock will also serve as a decontamination shower. For 7 minutes, vertical banks of nozzles will spray water and virus-killing chemicals over exiting scientists' hoods and suits before the door to BSL-3 will open.
Paragas sees the glow of a green light: The BAS is allowing him to push open the second door and enter BSL-4. Fluorescent lights, hanging in airtight boxes to prevent microorganisms from collecting on edges, reflect off easy-to-decontaminate stainless steel. The walls have a glistening sheen from the layers of epoxy potting compound that form a continuous seal across every surface. Light fixtures and electrical outlets that penetrate the seal are housed in airtight boxes and lathered in epoxy. Construction workers went so far as to strip insulation from the ends of wires that emerge from the walls and seal the tips with the compound.
The IRF's architects designed everything inside BSL-4 to this level of security. Even fire-sprinkler heads are fitted with valves to prevent viruses from making an unlikely swim up the pipes. At the conclusion of experiments, lab technicians will rinse metal equipment with chemicals and then further purify the gear with an autoclave bake. "We are in control of our agents at all times," Paragas says.
Fresh air: A labyrinth of ducts guides air in the lab through banks of powerful filters, each of which removes more than 99 percent of particles larger than 0.0003 mm. Staff say air leaves the building cleaner than it arrives.
The integrated research facility
at Fort Detrick, Md., doesn't look menacing. The three-story glass-and-brick structure, which could fit seamlessly into any suburban office park, is typical of buildings designed by architects who read studies linking sunlight with worker productivity. The leather chairs in the atrium seem to encourage lounging. The National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, which operates the IRF, plans to install a coffee bar in the atrium.
But cocooned within the nearly completed $105 million facility is a laboratory built like a submarine–11,125 square feet of airtight, carefully pressurized space. As soon as next spring, 30 doctorate-level scientists wearing protective suits and hoods will conduct groundbreaking research in these rooms, trying to determine how lethal infectious diseases kill their hosts.
Hemorrhagic fevers like Marburg and Ebola, which are caused by viruses, are among the world's most horrific afflictions. For about seven days after infection, patients suffer from flulike symptoms, but as the virus multiplies, blood starts to seep from the skin, mouth, eyes and ears. Internal organs hemorrhage into bloody, shapeless masses. Some of these fevers kill up to 90 percent of those who contract them, and they can be passed along by close contact with bodily fluids, maybe even by a sneeze.
Scientists still don't know much about how these rare but deadly diseases operate. If they take root in America–carried by unsuspecting travelers or by terrorists–the medical community would have no vaccines to halt their spread. And there are only a handful of laboratories in the world equipped to experiment with these highly communicable pathogens; none has the sophisticated diagnostic gear that is being installed at the IRF. Lessons learned here could one day mean the difference between an outbreak and an epidemic.
The best time for an outsider to visit the IRF is before it goes hot–that is, now, before the deadly bugs are brought to the site. "It's the only time," says Jason Paragas, the facility's associate director for science. Paragas is one of the 30 staffers who will work in the highly restricted lab. Quietly friendly, with a stout frame and easy disposition, he talks and moves with deliberation and does not seem to have an impulsive bone in his body. His dress is tidy and Maryland casual–loose button-down shirts, but never a tie. The 37-year-old researcher has spent nearly three years working on the new facility, so he makes a highly informed tour guide.
Paragas is standing in what will be the dividing line between two labs–an outer lab rated to handle dangerous infectious diseases and an inner lab designed for the worst pathogens in the world. The outer area is the medical research equivalent of a maximum-security prison–Biosafety Level 3. The inner sanctum is supermax, or BSL-4. Researchers can study bubonic plague at level 3; Ebola and other killers that are transmissible and currently incurable must be quarantined at level 4. The institute is so security-conscious that it asked Popular Mechanics not to identify the floor on which the BSL-3 and BSL-4 labs are located.
Clean water: Water and decontamination chemicals from sinks and showers collect in three 1500-gallon tanks in the facility. These tanks heat waste fluids to 250 F, killing anything that survives the disinfectant rinse.'
Clean water: Water and decontamination chemicals from sinks and showers collect in three 1500-gallon tanks in the facility. These tanks heat waste fluids to 250 F, killing anything that survives the disinfectant rinse.
To enter the restricted BSL-4 lab, Paragas first has to pass through two stainless-steel doors set up as an air lock. He punches in a code that deactivates the magnetic lock on the first door. The keypad also alerts the building automation system (BAS) that the air pressure is about to change. The BAS adjusts the airflow, increasing the pressure in the BSL-3 area and decreasing it in the air lock. Once Paragas is ready to enter BSL-4, the BAS will ensure that high-pressure air in the air lock flows into the low-pressure, high-security lab, trapping airborne pathogens. The deeper the level of containment, the lower the pressure. "Biocontainment sucks," Paragas says. "Any breach is sucked in by the negativity."
The air-lock door closes with the sound of an overworked drill, which is caused by the rapid inflation of a rubber bladder that seals the smooth edges of the door. Once the facility is operational, the air lock will also serve as a decontamination shower. For 7 minutes, vertical banks of nozzles will spray water and virus-killing chemicals over exiting scientists' hoods and suits before the door to BSL-3 will open.
Paragas sees the glow of a green light: The BAS is allowing him to push open the second door and enter BSL-4. Fluorescent lights, hanging in airtight boxes to prevent microorganisms from collecting on edges, reflect off easy-to-decontaminate stainless steel. The walls have a glistening sheen from the layers of epoxy potting compound that form a continuous seal across every surface. Light fixtures and electrical outlets that penetrate the seal are housed in airtight boxes and lathered in epoxy. Construction workers went so far as to strip insulation from the ends of wires that emerge from the walls and seal the tips with the compound.
The IRF's architects designed everything inside BSL-4 to this level of security. Even fire-sprinkler heads are fitted with valves to prevent viruses from making an unlikely swim up the pipes. At the conclusion of experiments, lab technicians will rinse metal equipment with chemicals and then further purify the gear with an autoclave bake. "We are in control of our agents at all times," Paragas says.