by Ginger Booth
Niedermeyer smiled. I smiled. Adam put his hand on the small of my back to draw me to his other side to chat. So apparently that was enough of that. I was just grateful I didn’t have to wade alone back into the throng of large men in cammies again just yet. Adam and I had a fine time catching up quietly. Occasionally Niedermeyer boomed greetings to others, but Adam merely smiled and nodded politely to them.
Of course, that didn’t include Emmett. After Niedermeyer fulsomely greeted Emmett, Adam pulled his right hand off my back to offer it to him. “Good to see you again, Major.”
“Have we...met,” Emmett managed, glancing down at Adam’s name tag and thus answering his own question. “Ah, of course, Lieutenant Commander. At Zack’s funeral.” He was not pleased to find me with some other man’s hand resting on my back. He was not more pleased to recognize my ex-fiancé. Being reminded of Zack’s funeral didn’t help much, either.
I was annoyed enough with Emmett to be glad. I smiled sunnily.
His head tilted. “Uh-huh.”
With all the panache you’d expect of a Wall Street scion and prep school upbringing, Adam cut in smoothly, “I hope your trip from Totoket wasn’t too challenging. I hear a bridge was out on I-95? Refreshments will be served in a few minutes.”
“The inevitable pizza?” I quipped.
“We’ve adopted the inevitable clam chowder of late,” Adam played along. “I also anticipate cider.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Commander.” Emmett placed his hand firmly on the small of my back and led me away to stand against a wall between him and a rubbery plant. He occasionally greeted people. I smiled and shook hands when he introduced me, and otherwise bonded with the rubbery plant while he socialized with not-me.
“I only know three people here,” I pointed out to Emmett during a lull in the greetings. “You, Adam, and the Marine at the door. The Marine held me in jail last winter. Well, Mora too, but I haven’t seen him yet.”
“Uh-huh.”
I shot him a hairy eyeball. Accidentally, on my eyes’ way back to pleasant blandness, I caught Adam’s eye down the hall. He looked amused. He also looked damned good. In a sea of large bulky looking men, leave it to Adam to actually look good in cammies. Superior tailoring, no doubt. I fought to suppress a grin.
“Dee, I didn’t brief you,” Emmett cut in, “because I wasn’t worried about you. You’re better at making instant friends than anyone I know. Then twisting them around your little finger.”
“I didn’t want to embarrass you,” I claimed.
“Uh-huh. So you just did. Right in front of Niedermeyer.” Emmett looked pointedly at Adam, then held my eye again. “Look, the brass is going to be here any minute. I just introduced you to a half dozen colleagues of mine. They’d love to know you. Go mingle.” He sighed. “Try to avoid the brass.”
He pushed off and immediately another man’s arm flung around him. The same little Resco flock from outside drifted back to him, their seeming center of gravity.
I kicked myself mentally for being slow on the uptake. That’s exactly what was happening. Emmett was second in command of the Rescos in Connecticut. This was his team, and he was revving them up until their boss, Mora, showed. And brass would be...Mora? And Niedermeyer?
I drifted into a side room to sample the clam chowder – the standard New England cream-based variety. No pricey wheat crackers were included. It had been a century or so since New England had grown much wheat, and we were still tooling up on that. My sense of humor gradually kicked in. “Oh, good heavens, you’re from Massachusetts? I wasn’t sure it was still there!” and other party quips to my fellow buffet grazers.
One of the other Connecticut Rescos, Cameron, from the northeast corner, ducked in for food. He actually stopped to get to know me. “I can’t tell you how much Emmett has helped me, Dee. And Amenac! God, it’s a lifesaver. I’m really looking forward to your presentation tomorrow!”
“And what are you presenting, Cameron?” His badge told me that he was presenting.
“Um...” He glanced around guardedly. “Prisons. We Rescos kind of each have a pet project. I do prisons. Hey, Dee – great to meet you! I ought to get back to the brass. And hide in the back.” He chuckled nervously. “We’ll see each other tonight at the hotel.”
After he left, I drifted toward the door to peek out at what was happening in the hall. I needn’t have worried about identifying ‘the brass.’ They were the only ones in dress uniform, brass buttons shining. I’d never seen Emmett or Adam at parade rest before. They all stood that way, except for ‘the brass.’
“Major Emmett MacLaren,” our host Captain Niedermeyer called out, once we’d settled into the gorgeous modern auditorium. The hall was paneled in golden wooden beams overhead, as though we were tucked under a newly joined Viking hull, made posh. We had plenty of elbow room, with only a few dozen attendees.
“Why don’t you present first, Major?” Niedermeyer pointed at the projection console in front of the stage. I was relieved to see that a technician manned that station, so Emmett didn’t have to figure out the cables and talk to an audience at the same time.
“While Emmett’s setting up – welcome!” Niedermeyer said. He didn’t bother with the stage, but rather lounged a couple rows up, his arms draped across a few seats, legs crossed. No one sat in front of him. Adam and some others flanked him. The five brass sat a few rows behind him, buffered by Lt. Colonel Mora, Navy Captain Amatrudo from Ark 7, and several others I didn’t know, but assumed were of similar rank-above-Emmett. The rest of us gave them a wide berth. I’d chosen a seat behind Emmett and the tight group of Connecticut Rescos, across the auditorium from their leader, Lt. Colonel Mora.
“The purpose of this summit is two-fold,” Niedermeyer continued. “First and foremost is to discuss the possible relief of New York City. Secondly, since we’re all together, we have some presentations on resources and progress here in the Northeast.” He gestured up at the brass. “Those won’t be of interest to our higher-ranked guests. So we’ll tackle New York first.
“We have four proposals. I believe Major MacLaren’s plan is the most extensive. So I’ve asked him to go first as a basis for comparison.” Emmett hopped onto the stage, as his first slide came up on the screen behind him, and the room lights dimmed slightly from the pseudo-keel above. “Ready, Emmett?”
I was listed on that slide as second author of the proposal, ‘Dee Baker, Amenac.’ I’d worked on data and graphics and slides. But I hadn’t seen it all put together. And I wasn’t expecting to be honored as a full co-author.
“Sure!” Emmett said with a wry grin. “Thank you all for coming. I know it’s not an easy trip. And thank you, John, for hosting such an expeditious meeting. We’re all very busy.”
“Sorry to put you on the spot, Emmett,” Niedermeyer returned. His grin didn’t look sorry.
Emmett introduced himself, and me as co-author. Cameron the Resco discreetly prompted me when to stand and smile around the room, and when to sit back down.
“Major, why are you presenting in combat uniform?” one of the brass demanded. “And why is a civilian listed as co-author of this proposal?”
Niedermeyer shot a look at another brass. That one said, “General, I believe this is Captain Niedermeyer’s meeting. And we have four proposals to review. It’s a large topic.”
“Thank you, Admiral,” Niedermeyer said. “Proceed, Major.”
And Emmett laid it all out. I knew it was going to be hard, to relieve New York, but the scope and audacity of his plan was breathtaking. Four exits from greater New York into quarantine and recovery zones. Hundreds of thousands of troops and medical volunteers and how to deploy them at the exits. Food and shelter and medical supply levels. Estimates of the current status and population distribution inside the New York borders. How to resettle the refugees through New England, New York, and New Jersey. Estimates of civilian acceptance of refugees and ability to feed them.
Painful as it was to accept, his proposal onl
y saved about 2.5 million people, of the 21 million population that was once inside the New York epidemic border. Of those, most would only be freed to Long Island. Only a million would migrate outside the border. Given the complete breakdown in communication within the border, he could only guess at how many people survived in there. His current estimate was about 7 million, and falling.
Emmett had done a masterful job at making the presentation succinct, given the scope of the plan. If he’d presented without interruption, it might have taken 45 minutes. But despite Niedermeyer’s best attempts to squelch questions until the end, even Niedermeyer himself interrupted Emmett a few times. Emmett was giving a fair impression of remaining fresh and professional after two hours on that stage. But I didn’t buy it. He had to be exhausted.
“In closing,” he said, “I’d like to share some photos. These are fresh refugees entering into our quarantine pilot project on Long Island.” They looked like images from the emancipation of Dachau or Auschwitz at the end of World War II. But these were in living color instead of grainy ancient black and white. Instead of shaved heads and efficient German striped pajamas, the remains of normal American attire flapped loosely on them.
Emmett clicked through the photos slowly, trying to control a catch in his voice. “As you can see, few of these people are in any condition to make it to the exits on their own power.
“These are refugees graduating from quarantine...” They looked better, but still skeletally thin, often still with bandages.
“A Coast Guard photo of a refugee ship, trying to make it to the Connecticut coast...” I glanced over at Adam and Niedermeyer. Their faces were set in icy rage. The Coast Guard was charged with gunning those ships down.
“A SEAL team took me into Manhattan last week...” My head whiplashed back to Emmett in horror. No wonder he’d been so sick. “A body pyre in Battery Park... Corpses in the 9/11 Memorial... This community had a hydroponic garden on the roof... We traded our MREs for their supper. This was my serving of rat stew...”
Emmett lost it then, and turned his back to the audience. “Take a moment, Major,” Niedermeyer encouraged gently.
Emmett nodded. After a few moments, he slowly clicked through his remaining collection of images from his foray into Manhattan, without trying to speak. Next came images of border emplacements with guns trained on suburban Westchester County. One photo showed soldiers bowling with what looked like a child’s skull. He clicked on through to an overall schematic of the four land exit routes out of New York.
With visible effort, he concluded, “I believe we can do this. The risks are high but manageable. I believe we need to do this. I wish we could save more people. Perhaps later we can, in a second wave.”
Silence held the auditorium. After a minute, the testy general said, “Jesus.”
Niedermeyer rallied. “Thank you, Major MacLaren, for a masterful presentation. I believe we need to break for lunch before questions.”
Emmett nodded stiffly, and strode straight out of the room. I pelted out after him, while everyone else still tried to rouse themselves. In the hall, Tibbs silently directed me out the door. I found Emmett standing off to the side, out of line of sight from inside the building. He stood with his face up to a light rain.
I wasn’t sure whether to touch him, with the girlfriend prohibition in place. “Emmett, you were amazing,” I hazarded.
He grabbed me to him and hugged me hard, pushing my face into his shoulder. I hugged him right back. When his rigid muscles started to relax into me, I tried a quip. “This might be a compromising position, Major.”
“Screw that,” he breathed, and kissed me. “Thank you.”
“Thank you. I am proud beyond measure.” It was a stilted thing to say. But there’s a time for that.
He pulled my head back onto his shoulder, and said, “They’re going to shoot it down, Dee.”
“The brass? Like hell they will!”
“Shh. Just don’t be surprised. The hard part will be the Q&A.”
6
Interesting fact: Pennsylvania has two large cities – Philadelphia and Pittsburgh – widely separated by rural areas. Of particular interest at this point, Pennsylvania was home to tens of thousands of Amish and Mennonite farmers, expert in low-tech sustainable agriculture.
Tibbs let us back into the building without inspection. I glanced him a question, and he nodded to a video monitor trained on where Emmett and I had just stood. Tibbs shrugged apology. If Emmett noticed any of this by-play, he didn’t care. His Resco flock quickly coalesced around us, and bore us into a larger room down the hall, where they’d staked out a table for lunch. We both enjoyed congratulations on a job well done. Emmett’s buddies policed each other to suppress any questions.
Colonel Mora’s right hand fell on Emmett’s shoulder between us, and the Rescos fell silent. “Hell of a job, Emmett. In two weeks.” Emmett swiveled to shake his hand. “He even took a day off to pick apples for the elderly.” That was addressed to the other Rescos. Emmett’s commanding officer was boss to them all. “Plus that sightseeing stunt in New York. Damn fine work from you, too, Ms. Baker. Couldn’t you have stopped him from taking the side trip?”
“I would have tried if I’d known about it, Colonel,” I admitted. Though on reflection, I was kind of glad I hadn’t known he was in New York those three days. I would have worried myself crazy.
“That makes two of us.” Mora shrugged. “It needed doing. You didn’t need to go along, though, Emmett.”
“Sir,” Emmett replied, in polite disagreement. “How did it play in the gallery?”
Mora shrugged microscopically. “Pull your punches in the Q&A,” he advised. “You don’t know your own strength. Oh, and Emmett? If you could pull this off in two weeks, clearly you haven’t been giving me 100%.” They all laughed. “Enjoy your lunches, gentlemen, Ms. Baker.”
Mora moved off to physically block a brass bearing down on us, and redirect him toward the brass-and-upper-minions table at the far end of the room. His flock of Rescos visibly relaxed. The one to my left said, “Phew,” and shot me a grin.
“This is kind of entertaining,” I offered to him. “I have no idea what’s going on. I’m just reading body language.” He was Major Papadopoulos, his name tag supplied, Resco for Fairfield County, the Connecticut Gold Coast just west of us, the wealthiest suburbs of New York City. Or, they used to be.
“I imagine body language is speaking volumes, Ms. Baker,” he replied.
I smiled at him, and resolved not to underestimate these guys. They might look cute flocking together for support at the moment. But on a normal day, each held as much authority as Emmett.
Lunch was served, eaten, and cleared with surprising dispatch. Captain Niedermeyer pulled Emmett away for a few minutes of discreet consultation.
Then we all filed back into the lovely wooden auditorium. Emmett took the stage, and beckoned me to join him. In consternation, I did. We set up my laptop on a little table.
“Welcome back,” boomed Niedermeyer, causing stragglers to settle faster. “We neglected one item before breaking for lunch.” He stood up, and started clapping.
At his cue, everyone in camouflage stood and gave us a standing ovation. Emmett nodded acknowledgment. They kept it up. He held out a hand to clasp with me, and we both smiled around the room. They kept clapping. “Thank you,” Emmett attempted to settle them.
“Thank you,” Niedermeyer insisted, and they clapped harder.
The brass remained seated and silent through it all. In increasingly fidgety discomfort, I was glad to see. I thought Emmett deserved a standing ovation. The Amenac team deserved it, too, and all the Rescos here who bridged the draconian Calm Act with a little human decency.
Eventually Niedermeyer sat. The room quieted, following his lead.
The testy general tried to ask a question first. “Major MacLaren, who authorized you to –”
“I did,” Niedermeyer belted out, cutting him off. “I invited everyone to t
his summit, and I proposed the topics. We have limited time, gentlemen. I suggest we address the message, not the messenger. Major MacLaren, I have some questions.” And he dove right in. It was Niedermeyer’s meeting, and he didn’t let the brass forget it. He allowed some of their questions, but that wasn’t the last one he vetoed.
“Major, how did you determine how many refugees to relocate where?” Niedermeyer began.
“Thank you, Captain. My co-author, Ms. Baker, and the Amenac team collected the data civilian-side. Dee?”
“Yes,” I said, trying to feel entitled to speak here, “there are a number of Amenac boards well-attended by Rescos, Cocos, relief organizations, and town and city governments. We instigated some discussions. They’re still going on, but some towns have brought the matter to a vote, and reported a commitment.”
I sifted through Emmett’s prodigious collection of backup slides on my laptop, and cued the right one onto the screen. “The example Emmett mentioned,” I continued, “Poughkeepsie, is one of those communities. They opened their own public sub-board and had a lively debate online. Which was interesting to watch. Initially they were very hesitant, and suggested maybe 1% of their population. The Poughkeepsie area, Dutchess County, is comparable to southern New Haven. So only 4,000 refugees. But soon people realized that they expected – hoped – they’d get more than twice that, just from family members reunited. Almost universal agreement emerged, all across the Northeast, to reunite any family members found in New York. On this slide, I plotted against discussion time, how many refugees the Poughkeepsie Resco estimated they would accept. First day, 4,000. Second day with family reunions, 12,000. And so on. Two days ago, when I last contacted him, he said 48,000. You can see the steady increase over time. The more they talked, the more refugees they committed to accept.”
“I’d estimate 60,000 now,” a Resco called out.
I grinned. “Is that avm89?”
“Yes, ma’am. Also known as Ash Margolis. You’re the Mangler?”