Cold Silence

by James Abel

  “Too many. A week?”

  Eddie was staring out the window, looking slowly north to south, east to west, frowning.

  “Uno? Take a look out there.”

  At first I didn’t see it. I saw Camp Pendleton South dropping away, Munn Airfield, California scrub desert, I-5 Interstate running north to Long Beach and south to San Diego, and the ribbon of gray Highway 76, heading east.

  “No commercial planes,” Eddie said. “We should be seeing airliners in holding patterns for San Diego and Long Beach. Check the roads, One. There’s almost nothing moving at midday. And anything moving is trucks.”

  My stomach began to throb. The sky was empty of even contrails, in an area normally rife with traffic. All the transports climbed and headed inland, surprise number two. Pendleton Marines were Pacific Marines, and I’d assumed that deployment would carry us in that direction, or maybe south toward Mexico, cartel country, maybe west toward refueling in Hawaii, maybe on to Asia, or up to Canada, for joint maneuvers.

  Eddie nodded, seeing my face. “Right, Uno. East. Hey, look who’s here! Ray Havlicek!” I saw the tall, lean FBI agent threading his way around the mass of equipment that blocked our view forward. He wore field colors, dark blue and letters in gold. The former college runner looked wan, pale, but freshly shaven. His expression changed from a grim disapproval when he eyed me to something softer and more sympathetic when he took in Chris, his old girlfriend.

  “Boy, did you screw up, Joe,” he said, one hand on the fuselage for balance as the plane hit an air pocket.

  “Ray, what did I do?”

  “I’m not the one to tell you that.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Supervising.”

  “How long were we inside?”

  He snapped, “For once, shut up. I’m going to put you on with Secretary Burke. If you know what’s good for you, listen to him and listen well. People have been fighting over you for the last eight days in Washington. The shit’s hit the fan everywhere.”

  Ah, we’ve been in prison for eight days.

  “Take my advice and act contrite, Joe.”

  “Act contrite over what?”

  “Like you don’t know?”

  He produced a tablet and wedged it between my cuffed hands. His thumb hovered over the Activate button. He seemed torn over whether to give further assistance, and then his better side won out. “Joe, apologize and answer questions, without asking any back. This thing went all the way to the White House, but in the end, it’s Burke’s call.”

  The ex–Dallas police chief’s face swam into focus as the transport hit another air pocket. His expression had the cold focus of a Roman statue, flesh as marble, eyes rock hard. The lines at his eyes and mouth suggested pressure. Rage almost pulsated off the two-dimensional image on the little screen.

  Burke finally told me what my infraction had been. It was so stupid that I wanted to laugh.

  I said, “The what? The sandwich?”

  —

  “Answer yes or no, Colonel. Were you specifically told that patients were not to eat cheese products? Then, in complete disregard of that, did you order the hospital staff to allow her to have the outside food?”

  I looked around as if expecting the entire scene—the transport, the Marines—to turn into some massive joke. Food? This was about food? I knew I was not supposed to anger Burke further, but the petty infraction made me hot. I started to demand to know what food could have to do with anything important, but Burke cut me off as cleanly and surgically as a drill sergeant reaming out a new recruit.

  “You decide what is important. You, as usual, did not think of consequences. I warned you. I told you clearly and concisely what would happen if you violated orders. Do you remember that conversation, Colonel?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You recall my exact words?”

  His words had been Leavenworth prison, a place which, for any reason, is no laughing matter. “I do recall.”

  “But you couldn’t listen, could you? So let me tell you what happened because you, once again, thought you knew better than everyone else. You violated orders in front of the nurses. You gave an order that resulted in a nurse turning on a bedside telephone in a patient’s room!”

  Uh-oh, I thought, remembering what I’d told that nurse. Do whatever you have to do. Get that woman her meal. I’d assumed that the nurse would make any phone call herself. It had never occurred to me that the nurse might let the patient make a call.

  “That’s right. The patient gets the phone. The nurse was called out of the room.”

  Now I was the one feeling sick, seeing where this was going.

  “She didn’t call the restaurant, sir?”

  “Oh, she did, after she called her brother, who works at the L.A. Times. Within the hour the White House was getting calls asking about the quarantine of an American town, outbreak, terrorist attack.”

  Oh shit.

  “The Times got hold of satellite shots of the base, troops all around it. They sent a reporter in a car. The car got turned around at a roadblock.”

  Oh shit, shit, shit.

  “It went viral. Let’s see, Joe. White House hiding outbreak! Possible airborne pathogen! FAA stops all flights to Nevada and Southern California! And, Joe, because this happened at a military base, you should have seen the foreign reaction, Korea, Iran, they loved it. U.S. violates germ warfare treaty! We were set to release the news our way. It was going to be orderly. Every blogger in the world got it early. We lost control before it even started.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not finished. Next, and we still can’t find who is doing this, Wikileaks released transcripts of our meetings, with a message of support for patients locked up in Nevada. And support for the gallant doctors who risked their lives while I tried to stop you from feeding the patients!”

  “Christ.”

  “Demonstrations at bases. Governors calling for calm. Half of Congress screaming for an investigation. No one believes the President.”

  “Nobody’s claimed credit, sir?”

  He snapped, “Half the world thinks we did it to ourselves.”

  “Sir?”

  “What?”

  “Was it one of our programs?”

  “You dare to ask me that even now?”

  “Sir, it is a legitimate question.”

  The screen showed him going purple. He said nothing for an instant. I’d gone too far. Then he said, very slowly and distinctly, “It is not, and has never been, one of our programs.”

  Then I realized the even greater consequences. I saw why there had been no air traffic when we took off, why roads below were clear. “Sir, it’s not just that news got out. It’s spreading if you’re shutting down flights and roads. How bad is it?”

  “Seven more cities. Over eleven thousand dead. Over forty thousand infected so far and climbing and CDC predicts even that number could explode.”

  It was cold in the plane but I had begun sweating. He was right. Completely right. I’d made the panic worse because of a stupid sandwich. I had not kept my mouth shut, or if I had to open it, I’d shown disdain for those in control. I’d made the President’s job harder, Burke’s job worse. The news would have broken anyway. But now my bosses had to fight rumor and blame as much as disease.

  “I warned you,” Burke said. “Ray! Put Chris on!”

  I looked to my left, where she’d gone paler at the word spreading. She was thinking about Aya. The truth hit us simultaneously. The troops in this plane, the troops in the planes around us, were quarantine or protection troops, moving east. To where? Chicago? Denver?

  “I’m disappointed in you, Chris,” Burke said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You were there. You stood right beside him. You could have stopped it, or tried to, and you said
nothing.”

  “I have no excuse.”

  “Goddamnit, Chris. I trusted you.”

  “I know. I know. You did. You’re right.”

  “You said you’d control him.”

  “I did.”

  This was the instant he’d decide our fate. Maybe her agreeing saved us. Maybe Burke liked her to start with. Maybe he figured, if I lock away one, I have to punish all. Or maybe he was the type who wanted to spend his rage verbally. In any event, I felt the smallest hint of his fury subsiding, the faintest whiff of second chance.

  Considering what he could have done to us, what he did was small.

  “You’re off the unit,” he said. “Rush? Nakamura? You’ll work as medical doctors for the duration. I need doctors with experience and that’s the only reason you’re not in jail. If you come out of this alive,” he said, “we’ll talk about what happens to you next. No travel. No investigations. You’ll be at a hospital, and if you don’t stay there, I don’t care how much experience you have, I’ll bury you. Rush? You did just what I expected. Chris? You didn’t, and for that, I’m sad. You’re not qualified to supervise anyone. You’re out. You’ll be local, too. No investigation work.”

  He clicked off.

  I asked Ray, “Where are we going?”

  “Don’t you know? You helped write the protocol, Joe. Never use local troops in an outbreak. They may have relatives in town and be reluctant to use force. We’re headed for the capital. It’s under semilockdown.”

  Eddie frowned. “My family is in Boston.”

  “You should have thought of that before. It hit Capitol Hill, FedEx Field, even some kids from a high school science fair. Washington’s the worst.”

  Chris gasped. “Which high school?”

  “Wilson.”

  Chris groaned and leaned forward and tried to draw her hands in to protect her stomach. The cuffs prevented that.

  Ray Havlicek sighed. “This isn’t the way anyone figured it could happen.”

  “It never is,” said Eddie.

  “Wikileaks? The war games never included Wikileaks. Fucking Wikileaks!” said Ray.

  Chris whispered, “Aya.”

  Chris was shaking in her seat.

  ELEVEN

  Just before the food riot started, Admiral Galli was showing us around Washington.

  The troops had turned it into a different city. The buildings were the same, but the feel was like one of those permanent Hollywood sets, where the mood changes each time a different film is shot. One day love on the rooftops. The next, same rooftops, but revolution. Until now, D.C. had existed as a stage for power or calculation, importance and glitter. But the few faces in the street, mostly covered by surgical masks; the shuttered shops; idling police cars; and ambulances stationed in traffic circles beneath snow-dusted statues of dead generals—it all reflected raw fear.

  “Airport and Amtrak closed while they revamp travel rules,” Galli said. “We’re assigned to Georgetown University Medical Center. The school is evacuated and the dorms are for doctors and their families. Burke’s the city’s Outbreak Czar. But the thing is spreading faster than our ability to track it. Joe and Eddie, emergency room. Chris and me, logistics.”

  “I want to help,” Aya said. “I’m a good researcher, Mom. You said! And I’m good with science!”

  “Just being here with me is help,” said Chris.

  “I mean really help!”

  Chris put her arm around Aya. She and Chris sat beside me in the backseat. Chris was still trying to get over the shocks: terror that Aya had been sent to the hospital, delight when she’d found out that Aya had been released, pronounced clean, and then both joy and fury when the admiral showed up with the girl, outside protected hospital grounds. Galli saying that he’d refused Aya’s pleadings—let me come with you—initially, but Aya had argued, wept, followed him to his car, said she could get sick just as easily inside the grounds as out, and Galli—a soft touch sometimes, and overconfident in the military’s ability to do its mission sometimes—protecting citizens—had given in.

  “I can’t believe you took her,” Chris had raged.

  “Mom, don’t blame him. I made him do it.”

  “You are fifteen years old and he’s an admiral, for God’s sake. What if the car breaks down! There’s a twenty-five percent mortality rate if you get sick!”

  Galli soothed, “There are troops all over. She won’t be in contact with the sick. If we break down, we call for help, Chris. The city is quiet and she was frantic. She needed to see you. She’s had a bad time.”

  “Don’t tell me what my daughter needs!”

  I liked Aya. She was smart and had guts. Despite Chris’s rage, the mother and daughter had broken into happy tears when they saw each other. The admiral had ordered us to stay in the car, no matter what we saw outside.

  Washington’s avenues were as quiet as back alleys. Government buildings, State Department, Interior, open to essential personnel only, on a limited schedule, with most federal workers on “temporary holiday.” Marines on corners. Museum Row deserted; the Air and Space Museum and Smithsonian Castle as empty as on Christmas. No tourist busses at the monuments. Gas stations shut by mayoral order. A tenth of the usual traffic on the road.

  Galli said, “Once we get to the hospital complex, you need a pass to get out. Anyone working with patients has to get a blood test once a day.”

  “What about my family? Can I bring them in?” asked Eddie. His voice was low and anguished, and he stared out the window at unplowed slush on the road.

  The admiral sighed. “Boston’s clean, Eddie. Not one case so far.”

  Eddie mumbled, “So far.”

  Galli smoothly steered his 4Runner along downtown. K Street was semideserted at midday, when normally you’d see reporters, lawyers, and lobbyists. The White House looked like a giant mausoleum. Lafayette Park, always the site of one political demonstration or another—U.S. Out of Afghanistan—was empty. Aya divided her attention between the sights and a tablet on which she relayed news or rumors or sent nonstop reports to friends. She was a fountain of unofficial information.

  “Japan just blocked all flights from the U.S.,” she said.

  “When the news broke, there was lots of crazy speculation,” Galli said. “That the Bible Virus is worse than Ebola. That it spreads by touch, air, food. That thousands more deaths have been covered up. Creech wiped out. Tehran responsible.” His gray eyes flicked to me in the rearview mirror. “Some people on the Hill want war.”

  “Against whom?”

  “Whoever they wanted to fight before this started.”

  I asked, “The Bible Virus?”

  “That’s what Fox TV dubbed it.”

  “It’s not a virus. It’s bacteria,” grumped Eddie.

  The admiral shrugged. “Most people couldn’t care less about the difference. All they want to know is if they’ll catch it. The talking heads had a field day. Conspiracy theories. Maps of worst-case spread. Twenty thousand dead. A hundred thousand. Double by Thursday.”

  “For all we know, possible,” said Eddie.

  More cars than usual were parked by the Islamic Center on Mass Ave.—ringed with guards—and outside the National Cathedral on Wisconsin. I stared at the retreating towers of the cathedral, an idea tugging at me, but it remained out of reach.

  Galli wore a blue Northern Outfitter parka and Merrill boots and a stocking cap. He looked fit for a man in his sixties, and had the heat dialed up. We hit a bump and his glasses went askew. But he was one of those guys who carried quiet authority. He didn’t need a uniform to wield it. Exiled in his own city, he had lost no stature. Plus here, half the time, out of power means comeback. You take people seriously when they’re out of power. Galli’s personality was so strong that you’d take him seriously if he was lying in bed with a fever.

  “I’
m fired, but not dead,” he said. “We’re not just going to sit around. We can call Havlicek or Burke or at least reach out to their staffs if we think of something. And Aya’s pretty good at social media. Hell, she learns more from that little tablet of hers than I get from CNN.”

  Aya beamed. “See? I can help!”

  “Building morale, Admiral?” Eddie said sourly.

  “Can the tone, Marine.”

  “We’re out of it. And how will we find out anything if we’re stuck at the hospital anyway?”

  Galli studied him in the mirror. Eddie was sick with worry for his family. “No, Eddie, we’re private citizens, who can do what we want, off duty, as long as we don’t get in their way. We still have minds. We can think. Frankly, I’m not thrilled with the direction the investigation was taking. They’re not looking beyond the usual suspects. They made a decision early based on outbreak pattern. Americans in a Muslim country. Air base. Soft targets. Islamic terrorists. I’m not saying they’re wrong. But they’re sticking to scripts. No harm in considering other possibilities.”

  Eddie said, “In case you forgot, Secretary Shithead said stay put and keep out of it.”

  “Watch your language,” snapped Chris, glancing at her daughter, who was texting and only half listening, or maybe listening to ten things at the same time. “Aya, you must have been terrified when they quarantined you.”

  The girl looked up. “Teddy Simon got sick, his whole family did. So all the kids got hauled into Georgetown. But they released us after two days, except for Teddy.”

  “How is Teddy?”

  Aya teared up and looked six years old. “His whole family is dead! They went to that Redskins game. All the first cases were there!”

  We reached Connecticut Avenue at the Calvert Street Bridge, and beneath the lion statue I saw three figures beating up a fourth lying in the snow, right in the open. The attackers surrounded him, their boots angling back and forth. They wore ski jackets and balaclavas with surgical masks over their mouths. They were bulked-up thugs or self-appointed militia, or maybe they were using the emergency to pay back a debt, or rob. It looked like the city wasn’t as orderly as Galli said.