NO SAFE PLACE

by Steven M. Roth

  The young man reached over the iron railing and placed his backpack on the ground among the uncut saw grass, then nimbly vaulted the railing, landing on both feet.

  He glanced around quickly, swooped up his backpack, then sidestepped down the steep grassy slope leading to the strip of sand and structural pilings below the overpass. Once he’d again assured himself he was alone, the young man stepped under the overpass and lost himself in its damp shadows.

  The young man carefully set his backpack on the sand and cautiously put his hand into the canvas bag, feeling among its contents until he found the opaque, circular Petri dish he’d brought with him. He carefully placed the glass object on the moist sand and again reached into his backpack. This time he extracted a small electrical timing device which he attached to the Petri dish. He set the timer, placed the combined apparatus near a piling so it would not be noticed in the unlikely event someone happened by, and then he climbed back up the hill to the boulevard.

  Ninety minutes later the young man was comfortably seated in Business Class at 37,000 feet above the Earth on his way home to Evansville, Indiana.

  Forty-five minutes after the young man planted the device, it exploded with a pop and a hiss, its sound muffled by the sand, the overpass, and the nearby sea.

  The detonation shattered the Petri dish, spewing up into the ocean’s breeze millions of microscopic, aerosolized rod-shaped, gram negative pathogens that were encoded by nature to infest any moist lung tissue or any open skin abrasions they might encounter during their flight west from the Intracoastal Waterway through downtown Fort Lauderdale, on their way to the Everglades.

  Two days after he delivered the Petri dish to Fort Lauderdale, the young man’s charred body was found in the burned wreckage of his Indiana home. The coroner’s verdict was that the young man had died from burns received in an explosion and consequent fire that occurred at his house, destroying the structure. The fire marshal ruled that the cause of the explosion was unknown, but suspicious, and would require more investigation.

  CHAPTER 5

  Fort Lauderdale

  March 4

  Derek Peterson readied himself for the evening broadcast. He ran his palms along the sides of his head, smoothing back his hair, then wiped the perspiration from his forehead and neck as he waited for his cue from the Atlanta feed.

  “Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen. This is Cindy Kramer in Atlanta. You are watching CNN’s 11:00 p.m. broadcast of the evening news.

  “Tonight we start with an evolving story from our affiliate WXFL in Fort Lauderdale, at the Broward County General Hospital. We go there live now to our own Derek Peterson who is outside the entrance to the hospital’s emergency room. Hello, Derek.”

  “Good evening, Cindy.”

  Derek paused briefly, then said, “A spokesperson for the hospital has just told this reporter that the hospital’s available human resources — its medical and nursing staffs, its ER personnel, and all its support staff — are strained to their limits by the extraordinary number of admissions here during the past week. The spokesperson also told this reporter that available medicine is quickly coming into short supply and will soon disappear altogether unless existing stocks are soon replenished.” Derek quickly glanced at his cameraman, then looked back into the camera’s lens, seemingly without having missed a beat.

  “The cause of the problem, Cindy, is that people have been arriving at the ER with symptoms of a previously unknown strain of late-season flu that is spreading rapidly throughout the Fort Lauderdale metropolitan area.”

  He paused in response to an earbud signal he received from his producer, and remained silent for a few seconds until she again told him to proceed.

  “Cindy,” Derek said, “we’ve tried to speak with someone in authority at the Broward County Department of Health, but as of now no one has taken our calls or returned them. We will bring you up to date should we eventually make contact with the authorities.”

  He waited a beat, then said, “For now, this is Derek Peterson reporting live from Fort Lauderdale, Florida.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Fort Lauderdale

  March 5

  “Morning,” Trace said, as he padded into the kitchen, still shrouded in the fog of sleep. He wore a sky blue T-shirt, baggy, beige cargo shorts and flip-flops.

  Isabella looked up from the table where she was reading the morning paper. “Morning, Dear. Can I get you something to eat or some coffee?”

  Trace leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Thanks. I’m good. I’ll pour myself coffee. Want some?” he said, pointing at the coffee pot.

  Isabella shook her head.

  “Where’s Pete?” Trace asked.

  “On the patio. Probably listening to his music.”

  “And Nanna?”

  “Getting dressed. I’m taking her shopping at the mall, then out to have her hair done.”

  Trace nodded as he sipped his coffee, all the while watching Isabella over the rim of his mug. Then he walked over and kissed her on the top of her head, took his Maui Jim sunglasses from the countertop where he’d left them the night before, and stepped out onto the patio.

  Pete was fully stretched out on his back on a chaise lounge, facing away from the glass patio doors, his eyes closed. Apple earbuds plugged his ears at one end, and were jacked into his iPod NANO sitting on the table behind him, on their other end. Pete drummed his fingers on the arm of the chaise, repeating the rhythm of some sound unheard by Trace as he approached him from behind. A partially opened Reader’s Digest-size magazine formed a tepee on Pete’s bare, hairless chest.

  “Good morning, Pete,” Trace said.

  No response.

  Trace tried again, louder this time, as he walked to the front of the chaise, facing Pete.

  “Hello, Pete.”

  Still nothing. Pete’s eyes remained closed. His fingers continued their arrhythmic drumbeat.

  Trace walked around behind him, picked up the iPod, and disconnected the earbuds’ jack. He never took his eyes from his son.

  “What the fu—? Whoops. Sorry, Dad. I didn’t see you there,” Pete said, as he bolted up into a sitting position and turned around to face the table behind him.

  Trace held up the iPod in one hand and the disconnected earbuds’ jack in his other hand.

  “Very funny, Dad. I didn’t hear you come out. I was listening to music . . . or trying to.” He shook his head, rolled his eyes, then slumped back down onto the chaise.

  Trace handed the iPod and jack to Pete, and bent over to pick up the magazine that had rocketed from his chest when Pete had launched himself up into a sitting position. He looked at the cover of the magazine, frowned, and handed it to Pete.

  “Mom’s taking Nanna shopping,” he said. “Want to go to the Intracoastal, have lunch with me by the water?”

  “Absolutely,” Pete said. He began gathering his scattered paraphernalia. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  “What’s that magazine?” Trace said, nodding at the magazine Pete now held.

  “Nothing. It’s called 2600. It’s a quarterly magazine for computer hackers. I look at it for fun.”

  Trace narrowed his eyes and glared. “You’re hacking computers? When did this start?” He took a deep breath and counted to four to control his rising anger.

  “It’s nothing, Dad. Really. I just read the magazine because I’ll need to know this stuff when I go to college. Anyway, I don’t really hack. I just like reading about it.”

  That’s pretty lame, Trace thought. As if I’d actually believe that. He frowned again, looked hard at Pete, but said nothing. He would let the silence stimulate Pete to respond.

  “Really, Dad. You’ve got to believe me. I don’t steal information or anything. I just test myself to see if I can beat security in different systems. Nothing bad.”

  Right, Trace thought. First, I just read about it, Dad. Then, I just break into systems to test myself, Dad, but don’t steal anything. I just lurk. What’s nex
t? I’m a government-sanctioned teenaged white-hat hacker? Trace crossed his arms over his chest, remained inscrutably silent, and watched Pete squirm.

  He slowly breathed in, again silently counting to four, then breathed out to the same count, just as he’d been taught in SEALs’ training as a way to control stress.

  “Okay, Pete,” he finally said, his voice as neutral as he could make it, “let’s get going. We’ll continue this talk in the car on the way to lunch.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Soviet Union

  1982

  Viktor Rutkowska was seventeen years old when the Soviet military plucked him from his job as an automobile mechanic in the city of Kirov and conscripted him into the army. He left behind his elderly, infirm father and his younger sister, Svetlana. His mother had died from malnutrition when Viktor was four years old.

  Viktor entered his new life as a military recruit neither quietly nor passively. Instead, he resisted every aspect of Soviet military training. He groused about the food, the primitive conditions under which recruits were required to live, train and conform, and he complained about the ceaseless brutality of the instructors. As a result, Viktor created his own self-fulfilling prophecy and frequently incurred the wrath of those same instructors. This, in turn, led him to receive ritualized beatings and other corporal punishment.

  Viktor quickly became the subject of his trainers’ predictions that should he somehow survive basic training — an outcome his instructors considered extremely doubtful — Viktor could expect to be posted to some remote and dangerous region of Afghanistan where the Mujahideen would demonstrate why the harsh Soviet military basic training had serious value. This possibility — this likelihood, in fact — invariably brought derisive smiles to the faces of Viktor’s trainers and fellow inductees.

  It seemed, at best, that the most Viktor could hope for during his stint in the army would be a miserable, danger-filled, brief life expectancy.

  Except for one thing.

  Viktor, it turned out, was a gifted shooter.

  Viktor first became aware of this skill — for he had never before handled a weapon other than a short knife — when he participated in mandatory rifle and other firearms classes as part of basic training. Much to his surprise, Viktor consistently scored at the top of his unit.

  Viktor’s instructors were skeptical at first, finding it difficult to reconcile their deep-seated antipathy for the seemingly indolent and definite arrogant Viktor with their unavoidable recognition of his natural talent as a marksman.

  Even Viktor was skeptical at first, doubting that his achievements were anything other than blind luck, which, he expected, would desert him sooner or later.

  His instructors and fellow inductees also believed Viktor’s recent success resulted from luck, and wagered among themselves, picking dates when Viktor’s good luck would finally run out. After all, they asked themselves and each other, how can someone so recalcitrant perform so well so regularly and be so gifted in weaponry?

  Yet Viktor’s successful path as a marksman held because it was not founded on luck. Viktor’s skill was a natural quality, one he had the good sense to yield to and cultivate in the face of everything else negative and brutal about his life circumstances.

  Once he discovered his singular skill set, Viktor focused on his gift, and honed and developed his shooting skills. He also worked hard to learn about and excel in his survival, tracking, stalking, and camouflage classes. Before long, Viktor found himself being groomed to join an elite squad of shooters in one of the Soviet army’s special Spetsnaz units.

  Viktor adapted easily to his new Spetsnaz training. Not that it was difficult when compared with basic training. Although he still trained long hours — this time with a variety of specialized weapons — he now also had the best possible food, clean quarters, excellent medical care, and high pay.

  The price of failure in this special training, however, as Viktor and his fellow-trainees were frequently reminded by their instructors — the cost of washing out of this special elite grooming — could be disastrous. Failure here, even if Viktor were to survive his failing ways during training, would mean certain posting to some remote and dangerous region of Afghanistan, some place from which few Soviet soldiers ever returned.

  When Viktor’s former comrades and basic training instructors learned of his new posting with the Spetsnaz unit, they were certain Viktor would not succeed at this new assignment.

  “He doesn’t have the self-discipline,” one said.

  “Rutkowska will wash out in no time,” another said. “Before he knows what hit him, he’ll be sitting in some shit hole in Afghanistan hoping to die.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Comrades,” said another. “If he washes out, he’s screwed. If he doesn’t wash out, he’s screwed. The life expectancy of a shooter in Afghanistan is four months.” Everyone laughed and toasted Viktor’s new short life, raising their imaginary glasses, filled with imaginary vodka, in honor of Viktor’s certain early demise.

  But what Viktor’s former comrades and instructors did not know was that Viktor was nobody’s fool. When he transferred to Spetsnaz training he left behind his negative attitude and he accepted the reality of power. He yielded to the unbending will of his new trainers, to his new unforgiving regimen, and focused on becoming the best shooter in his group. Better a four month life expectancy as a sniper, he reasoned, than certain death as a common, miserable field grunt planted in some indefensible outpost in Afghanistan.

  CHAPTER 8

  Fort Lauderdale

  March 5

  Derek Peterson adjusted his shirt collar, faced the CNN camera, and waited for his producer’s signal to indicate that the feed from Atlanta had been thrown to him.

  When the signal came, Derek began by summarizing the information available about the current late-season flu epidemic. Then he spent one minute trying to allay the fears he’d likely stirred up, based on what he’d just reported to his viewers.

  Derek concluded his broadcast by saying, “. . . and finally for this afternoon’s broadcast, today the Broward County Health Department has asked this reporter to request that each of you remain aware of the tremendous strain the flu epidemic is placing on the county’s healthcare resources.

  “You are requested not to go to a hospital emergency room unless you have a true, life threatening emergency that cannot be dealt with by your private physician. The county’s ERs are so over-taxed by people showing up with minor ailments — and the ERs are now so understaffed — that unless something changes soon and changes drastically, the county might be forced to close all the ERs and deny access to everyone. You can do your part to help forestall this,” Derek said, “by avoiding the ER unless you absolutely must go there.”

  He paused, then said, “This is Derek Peterson for CNN coming to you live from Fort Lauderdale. Goodbye until my next broadcast at the same time.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Atlanta, Georgia

  1981

  Eleven-year-old Anthony Vista sat cross-legged on the living room floor smiling up at his parents and fondling the package his mother had just handed him.

  His mother and father sat on the sofa watching him, occasionally eyeing one another, and sporadically leaking restrained smiles.

  Anthony held the box above his head. He rotated it slowly and stared at it as if he could determine its contents if he just looked hard enough.

  He beamed, then returned his concentration back to the box. He held it alongside his ear and gently shook it.

  “Come on, Boy,” his father said. “Open it already.” He looked over at Anthony’s mother.

  “Poppa is right, Son. Do it. We’re excited, too.”

  Anthony carefully untied the ribbon and peeled away the wrapping paper, folding it into reusable squares before handing it to his mother.

  He lifted the box’s lid less than an inch and peeked inside as if he expected a gag toy to spring out and fly past his ear. Then he yanked off the lid and
plunged his hands deep into the cloud of white tissue paper, exploding the halves away from each other as he fanned out his palms.

  “It’s beautiful, Mom,” he said, “absolutely beautiful.” He looked up at his parents with a broad smile.

  “You like it then, Anthony?” his mother said. “You’re not disappointed?”

  “Like it? Are you kidding? I love it. It’s incredible.”

  Anthony lifted the sweater from the box and held it up, gripping the shoulders, showing it off to his parents as if they’d never seen it before.

  “It’s fantastic. It must’ve cost a fortune. Can I try it on?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Anthony tunneled his arms up into the sleeves and pulled the sweater over his head and down to his waist. He ran his palms across his chest and stomach, smoothing the yarn.

  “You look so handsome, Anthony,” his mother said. “It’s a blessing, this beautiful sweater for your birthday.”

  Anthony wore the sweater all through supper, careful not to splash food on it. He continued to wear it into the evening, interrupting his homework several times to leave the kitchen table and go look at himself in the bathroom’s cracked mirror. When he got himself ready for bed, he lifted the sweater over his head, careful not to stretch or snag it, and folded it just like the sweaters he’d seen displayed on shelves at Wal-Mart. He placed the sweater on top of his dresser where he could see it from bed.