by Daniel Wilde
“Yes. Thank you,” Anta said. “We’re looking for travel permits taken in the name of Riyad Shafik.” Anta was attempting to mimic the young secretary’s flirtatious attitude, and was doing a pretty good job. Now I had two of them to worry about.
“Okay.” The young lady tried to look around Anta, but Anta leaned sideways, cutting off her view.
Finally, the young lady gave up trying to look at me. “Let me look it up,” she said. “While I’m doing so, may I ask your purpose in learning this information?”
“You may certainly ask,” Anta replied, “but we won’t be able to answer you.”
Producing her government identification badge, Anta said, “We’re searching for information to aid in a confidential government search. I can tell you no more except that neither Mr. Shafik nor this office is in any kind of trouble.”
The obvious initial concern on the young woman’s face visibly eased upon hearing that she wasn’t in trouble. She then opened a digital file for us to peruse on a nearby table and we settled in. A review of the Board’s records indicated that Mr. Riyad Shafik had traveled into the Depression south of town prior to government advisements against doing so.
Mr. Shafik’s most recent permit indicated that he would be entering the Qattara Depression, traveling approximately 45 miles south of El-Alamein, by automotive travel rather than camel. He was supposed to be back by nightfall—yesterday. The young woman informed Anta that he had not checked in to the Board’s computers last night, nor had any word been received from his party regarding their whereabouts.
We spent the next few minutes speaking with a supervisor at the Tourism Board and some local police officers who were lounging on a park bench outside in the garden. Slow crime day I guess. Without telling them about the deaths in the Depression—the Health and Population Department forbid us from providing any information to any person, apart from Mr. Shafik, in regard to the deaths—we inquired about accident reports. None of the officers had knowledge of any. We were left without any choice—we would stick around and hope that Mr. Shafik returned soon.
Over lunch, Anta asked, “Have you given any more thought to what my father asked about this morning? Is it possible that these deaths may have been caused by some biological agent or disease?”
“Actually, I have given it thought, although until this morning’s conversation with your dad, I had thought it highly unlikely. As I tried to explain this morning, biological infections, like Anthrax for example, were almost completely wiped out by the 2050s. And, based on everything I’ve studied, which is a lot, there have been few successful attempts to engineer or create biological weapons. The nerve gases created during the Cold War era in the second half of the 20th century, the last historical instance of which I’m aware, were later destroyed when the containers they were stored in began to deteriorate. The US government spent a lot of money constructing facilities to contain the agents during the destruction process and even paid for a major portion of the destruction of the Soviet arsenal. So, without biological weapons and without any substantive biological agents running amok, there’s little to persuade me that pure biology is a possible cause of death. I still think we’ll find some other cause of death. But I’ve been wrong before.”
“No! You?” Anta exclaimed with a smile that lit up her face.
She was teasing me. That didn’t take long.
“I think I agree Shift, but I’m not convinced we should wholly discount the possibility.”
“Oh, I haven’t discounted the possibility; but we need to get to those bodies, and fast. I need to know when the photographs of the bodies were taken and when the men contracted whatever it is they contracted; or when they were mutilated, if that’s the case. I’ve got to know when they died too. If we can’t get to the bodies soon, and the bodies are actually decomposing rather than just sitting there after mutilation by some human or animal vandal, it’s possible that the decomposition of the bodies will have continued far beyond the point of any meaningful observational evaluation. That will leave us with only the possibility of body property analysis.”
“Agreed.”
“Of course, assuming the bodies are decomposing, based upon what we observed in the photographs, the bodies could be dust, blown away by the wind, before we ever get a chance to see them. That sandstorm started about 20 hours ago, right? So I assume our chance of finding the bodies now is a little more remote in light of the shifting sand.”
Again, Anta agreed.
After lunch, we made our way to the beach. It was beautiful. After a nice, long stroll along the beach, looking at Mediterranean seashells and watching the few beachgoers, I turned my head toward Anta and said, “I need dinner. All that talk of biological disease made me hungry.”
“We just ate,” Anta said with a smile.
“Your dad’s paying. I could eat all day.” I returned her smile.
January 4, 2093—Anta
Over dinner I brought up my concerns again to Shift.
“I’m worried about what we’re going to find in the desert. You seem pretty comfortable stating that those bodies weren’t infected by some biological agent, but I’m not convinced. After lunch today, that uncomfortable feeling I told you about, you know, when I first saw the pictures—well, it’s come back. I’m going to take precautions before we go looking for dead bodies, and I’ve got a good one.”
“Oh, what’s that?”
“You’ll see. I’ll bring them to your room a little later.”
“Them?”
“Yes, one for each of us. You’ll see. You should take a shower before I arrive.” I had to turn away so he didn’t see my smile. “By the way, I just exchanged messages with Mr. Shafik’s office. He still hasn’t returned to town.”
“Great. I guess we won’t be going out to look for anybody or any body, today.”
January 4, 2093—Shift
After Anta and I had gone to our respective rooms at the Porto Marina Hotel, I showered as requested. Then I sat quietly, watching some local news on the wall Holo and thinking about our dinner conversation.
What is Anta up to? I wondered. She thinks I didn’t see her mischievous grin as she turned away.. While I contemplated on that, there was a knock at my door. I saw Anta through the peephole, and didn’t want to keep her waiting, even though I was in my pajamas. So I opened the door. She quickly looked me up and down, grinned, and then, before I could invite her in, strode past me carrying a large box that looked awkward, but not heavy.
“What have you got there Anta?” I asked casually; although inside I was dying to know.
“Chem suits,” she replied simply.
Since she wasn’t offering anything more, I finally asked, “Why?”
Anta lifted two “suits” out of the box. They looked like something a firefighter or an astronaut would wear. She carefully laid each on the bed. She even took extra time to straighten out some creases. Then, finally, she proceeded to tell me.
“Dad made me bring these with us from Apion. Apparently, they were in some old government storage facilities. I’d never seen one until after our meeting at the airport, when dad gave me a little tutorial. They’re actually called ‘CBRN suits’. They’re government-grade personal protective suits, intended to provide protection against direct contact with, and contamination from chemical, biological, radioactive or nuclear substances—CBRN.”
“Of course,” I said. “Now I remember seeing that box in the back of your truck. You tried to kill it with my suitcase yesterday.”
Anta laughed. I’ve got to stop making her laugh. Gotta keep this professional.
“According to my dad, the suits were originally designed to be worn for long periods of time to allow the wearer to fight, and generally function, while under the threat of, or under actual chemical, biological, radioactive or nuclear attack. The civilian equivalent is, or was, the Hazmat suit.”
“Ahhhhh, the Hazmat suit. I used to wear one of those when I walked to my friend’s hous
e as a kid. His street was pretty bad.”
She laughed again—more of a giggle really—for too long.
Anta then spent some time teaching me the basic functions of the suit and providing general precautionary instructions in the event my suit or its attached breathing apparatus is breached. Anta had intended for us to wear these suits for a few hours only, while we investigated and bagged the bodies; but, after requiring me to remove my pajamas and put on something more appropriate for daytime activities, she helped me put it on. I didn’t look at her as I changed my clothes, wondering whether she was watching me. After helping me put on the suit, she casually informed me that I am not allowed to take it off for any reason until she says so; not even to sleep, shower or pee. She’s so bossy.
Thankfully, she also taught me how to use these specialized suits to crap and eat. She couldn’t explain how it works, but the suits expand and contract by entering a code on the arm-band. This expansion process blows the suit up like a huge tent that will allow us to move around inside the suit. Once “inflated”, there are pocket-like sections of the suit that allow for the entrance and exit of items, like waste products, food, and other things that we might want to physically handle rather than just relying on the gloves. Those little pockets “decontaminate” objects before allowing them to enter the suit. They’re awesome! We practiced using the different features of the suits—thankfully—since apparently, I get to sleep and pee wearing the thing.
Anta’s explanation as to why we get to wear the suits indefinitely had to do with the sandstorm, of course.
“Sandstorms,” she explained, “are known to increase the spread of disease. Bacterial and viral spores are blown into the atmosphere by the storms.”
“Ahhh,” I replied, feigning ignorance. Of course, I knew that this was why the spread of illness from infectious diseases had dramatically decreased in northern Africa. This whole area now has better access to medicine than ever before. But the expansion of farms through the Sahara, and the resulting decrease in sandstorms and strong winds in general, has resulted in a massive decline in the spread of disease by wind.
“We’re going to wear these suits now,” Anta continued, “because the wind is forecasted to shift and drive across the desert where the possibly-diseased bodies rest, toward El-Alamein. I know the bodies are probably covered by sand now, and if something biologic infected them, it’s probably not dangerous any longer; but we’re not taking any chances. I wouldn’t even be able to sleep tonight thinking that whatever may have infected those two men could be traveling on the wind in our direction.”
“Okay. You sold me. I’ll wear the tent-suit. I’m pretty sure we’ll attract a lot of attention walking around tomorrow. Might want to keep our public appearances to a minimum. By the way, how will we know when it’s safe to take them off?”
“The control on the arm of the suit has settings for safe air in all four conditions. I’ll set yours now. If the light turns from green to yellow, we’re entering marginally safe air. Normally, it will go immediately to red, meaning the air is contaminated and not breathable. When the process is reversed and the light returns to green, we know the air is safe again. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t spores around, stuck to things. So, no matter what, before we get out of them, we will need to decontaminate.”
“And do you have that worked out as well?”
“Of course,” she replied.
And then she smiled again. She’s killing me with that face, despite her efforts to keep me alive.
January 5, 2093—Shift
During the night, the sandstorm blasted our windows and kept me awake for a long time. I didn’t care. It was awesome! By sunrise, the storm was over—or gone.
This morning, around 9:30, Anta and I had breakfast in our rooms, ordering only food that would still taste good after going through the chem suit’s decontamination cycle, or was prepackaged, bottled or could be peeled, by us. Then we left the hotel still wearing our chem suits with their green blinking lights shining for the whole world to see. We probably looked ridiculous in the bright sunshine of this post-sandstorm morning, but we had to talk to Mr. Shafik.
Upon our arrival at his office, his stunned secretary rewarded us with the look of disbelief that I had anticipated. Her lower jaw hit the floor as she looked at us in our space suits. It was pretty funny, and I laughed. Anta hit me. Unfortunately, these suits don’t provide much insulation from that kind of assault.
The secretary eventually picked her jaw up off the floor, dusted it off, and then used it to inform us that Mr. Shafik had arrived back in town early this morning, a couple hours after the storm had abated. He was being briefed at the El-Alamein Police Department in regard to “rumors of murder in the Depression”. The cat was out of the bag—but at least the locals think those two guys were murdered, not infected by some crazy disease. That would probably be better anyway. And truth be told, we still don’t know that they weren’t murdered, or killed by a wild animal.
Of course, if the two men had been murdered, that would still create a media circus around here. I don’t mind a circus, but I prefer the kind with elephants and cotton candy, not the kind with questions firing out of the mouths of reporters like rounds from a machine gun. I’ve been there, back in 2084, when I was involved in the “discovery” of a buried Native American city in the desert of southeastern Utah, near the “Four Corners” area. The discovery was cool. The circus was not.
Violence, anywhere in the world, has become extremely rare over the past few decades, thanks to the work of the IWO and its political allies. And international conflicts are virtually non-existent now. Of course, theft, rape and murder still occur, along with the more petty offenses; but instances of all these crimes have been heavily reduced by police forces with nearly unlimited resources. Because countries no longer need to spend tax dollars on massive militaries, they focus their resources on controlling local crime. It’s pretty nice to feel safe. The reduction in crime, including in Egypt, has made nearly every case of murder a national, and sometimes international, headline. Then the circus comes to town—the bad kind of circus.
So, if these two men were murdered, and I hope we can discount any other cause of death, then little El-Alamein will be in the headlines, and I might have a front seat.
When we arrived at the police station, again, to the perplexed looks of the locals, Mr. Shafik was just finishing his report to the police. I waited for him outside while Anta had a frank discussion with the Police Captain about keeping any information gleaned from Mr. Shafik confidential. She also told him he was not authorized to conduct any investigation into any matters divulged by Mr. Shafik. I’m sure that went over well. Anta told the Captain that this was a direct order from the Ministry of Health and Population.
By the time Anta joined Mr. Shafik and me outside, I had confirmed that it was, indeed, Mr. Shafik who had taken the photographs of the two bodies. And that he knows where the bodies are located.
Mr. Shafik took the pictures on December 28, just two days before I was contacted by Minister Chalthoum. Soon after he arrived back in El-Alamein that same day, he sent the pictures to the Ministry of Health and Population. The pictures were taken during a tourist expedition he had led into the Qattara Depression. None of his clients observed the bodies as he led them away from the area after nearly stumbling over one of them. Mr. Shafik agreed to take us into the Depression to find the bodies.
Before Mr. Shafik answered any more questions, though, he begged us to tell him about our chem suits, which he had been examining since the moment I first approached him. I wanted to tell him a fantastic story about how the suits were a precaution against an army of biologically-created supermonsters, spreading disease and destruction throughout Egypt. But I didn’t want to, nor was I permitted to ignite a probably-baseless hysteria. So, I lied.
I told Mr. Shafik that, several days ago, we had been asked to investigate what was believed to be an ancient biological weapon discovered east o
f Cairo. And, because we may have been exposed to some ancient virus, as a precaution to those we come in contact with now, we had to wear the suits. Anta backed up my story, filling in the fake details that I missed. I hoped that this story would squelch any thought he may have about why we had suits, but it didn’t.
Mr. Shafik was enthralled with how the suits look and how they function. He pleaded with us, like a giddy child, to show him how everything worked. Mr. Shafik’s naivety was a welcome diversion, and pretty funny. Since I didn’t want to tell him why we were really wearing them, I spent the next several minutes showing him all the cool features. He laughed out loud when I showed him the poop chute in the back. I laughed a little myself, right along with him. His cheerfulness was infectious. I secretly hoped that was all that was infectious about him.
I concluded my demonstration of the suit’s remarkable functionality. Mr. Shafik then began to relate a curious tale of what he called “extraordinary things” on his most recent trip, from which he had just returned.
He told us that, two days ago, he took a scientist from the University of Cairo, and his young daughter, into the Qattara Depression to collect salt. He didn’t know what type of scientist Dr. Ghannam was, or why he needed the salt. But he saw some of the Doctor’s notes that talked about how salt reacts with chemicals to store energy, “or something funny like that,” he said.
Mr. Shafik explained that their ride into the Depression, by automobile, took no more than two hours. It was quick despite severe blowing winds and massive sand drifts across the highways. That same evening, when they were scheduled to return to El-Alamein, the doctor’s young daughter was missing. They hadn’t noticed her wander away and they thought she was probably lost in the storm.
Neither Mr. Shafik nor Dr. Ghannam had any luck contacting authorities in El-Alamein due to the sandstorm, so they spent the entire night and the next day (yesterday) searching for the girl. When they finally found her, after the storms had quieted down a bit, she led them to a cave. Mr. Shafik didn’t know of any caves in the area, so he concluded that it must have been buried beneath sand for a long time. This seemed likely given Mr. Shafik’s description of the uncharacteristically high number of sand storms over the past three weeks or so.