Amanda's Story Page 5

  “What was it?” Kane asked as all three men found a seat.

  “Definitely a viral pathogen, but a whole lot worse than anything I’ve seen before. This is something new and something that most definitely needs to be contained.” Ryan drained the last of his water. “Looks like some form of Ebola or another hemorrhagic fever, only far more aggressive. I didn’t think that was possible, but there it is. Like I said, nothing I’ve ever seen before, and I’ve seen them all. Both men were Middle Eastern, judging from the dental and medical work; both were healthy and in excellent shape, at least before they had their little run-in. The first body died of three bullet wounds to the chest, and the second from …” For a moment he was at a loss for words. “The best that I can say is that he was dissolved. His lungs, heart, kidneys, brain, everything was in an advanced state of dissolution. Whatever did this attacked virtually every cell type and caused massive and relatively sudden cellular damage. This guy lived maybe several hours after being exposed, no more.”

  “But the first man was shot?” Nerring questioned.

  “Three to the chest. Probably bled out in under a minute; he had a big hole in his left ventricle.” Ryan held up his pinky finger. “No bullets recovered, but they were from a high caliber assault rifle.”

  “So this Ebola-thing wasn’t the cause of his death?” General Kane phrased it as a question.

  “The bullets made it a cleaner, quicker death, but this guy was just as infected as the other guy. In fact, that’s what makes this so nasty. Death at a cellular level takes hours, and despite this guy being clinically dead, the virus, or whatever it is, was still active, at least until there were no more viable cells. I’m guessing that he was infected shortly before he ran into those bullets, but our happy little pathogen continued to do its thing. Nothing I’ve ever heard of does that.”

  “We recovered the bodies from a camp in the Libyan Desert. They had disguised an underground research facility as a small terrorist training camp. When they first showed up on satellite, we watched their fighters train for a little while, but they seemed relatively harmless and ineffectual, so we pretty much forgot them. Which unfortunately is exactly what they wanted, but a couple months ago we received some intel that made us take a fresh look. A few years back they bought some medical equipment—things like incubators, centrifuges, isolation equipment, nothing very alarming. At least until they purchased 20 squirrel monkeys.” Kane waited for Ryan’s reaction.

  “Oh, shit,” the pathologist said, and then tried to take a sip from his empty water bottle.

  “Yeah, that sent up red flags all over and their little ruse began to unravel. Three days ago we raided the place. We found these two guys along with about a hundred others, all dead.” General Kane swirled his plastic bottle of water nervously.

  “So the working assumption is that they were sophisticated enough to create this thing but not contain it? Sounds a little incongruous.”

  “We don’t really know what happened. Some are speculating that it was sabotage. There was a lot of gunfire; the three-in-the-chest guy wasn’t alone.”

  “The good news is that this thing kills so fast that it won’t make much of a weapon beyond creating a local hot spot.” He paused as implications beyond the creation of a small cluster of infection began to tickle his mind. “I’m impressed and a little worried that they could do this in some lab hidden in a desert. I hate to think what they could do in a real facility. Any idea who was behind this?”

  “Nothing definitive,” Nerring answered.

  “You probably wouldn’t tell me if you knew.” Ryan smiled and neither of the two officers responded. “Well, I would strongly recommend that you find this guy and put a net over him. With a little more work this little pet of his could become a giant problem for us.” He slowly, painfully got to his feet. “It’s hell being old, but it beats the alternative. Okay, I have to get back to work. One of you is going to have to show me back to the lab. I don’t want to accidentally walk in on any alien autopsies.”

  CHAPTER 6

  After a week of policy and procedure classes, Amanda’s excitement over starting a new life and job had given way to boredom. As her mind drifted away from the lecture detailing legal responsibilities in foreign countries, she was happy to be bored. One of the inherent properties of boredom was a desire to be doing something else. After a year of despondency and paralysis, with no desires, wants, or needs to be here or anywhere else, a little boredom was a refreshing improvement. A part of her still guarded against a relapse, but on the whole she felt as if she was adjusting well to her new circumstances. “Are there any questions?” The lights had come up and Amanda, along with the six other new members of the Lieber Institute, began to stretch and yawn. The lecturer waited a discrete interval, thanked them for their attention, gathered his notes and awkwardly left the small classroom without another word.

  “Well, that was exciting,” the only male in the class said after the door closed. He turned in his seat and casually glanced around the room, waiting for the next lecture. Amanda felt his gaze linger on her a little longer than a casual glance allowed. She was sure that he was about to say something when the door opened and all attention returned to the front of the room as Bernice Scott, their orientation proctor, walked into the room.

  “Well, I see everybody is awake now. Sorry about that, but by law we are required to inform you of your legal position when you’re working out of the country. As you’ve probably guessed, you do not need to have a personality to work for the State Department.” The class gave her a small chorus of laughter. “Okay, we are going to break for lunch now. Your next lecture will start at 1:30; see you then.” Everyone began to stand. “Amanda, can I have a word?”

  “Sure,” Amanda answered, pulling on her coat.

  Bernice was in her early sixties, and rumor had it that she was a relative of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. “So how is it going?” Bernice asked as Amanda walked to the lectern.

  “Fine.” Amanda was confused by the sudden personal attention. Over the past week she had talked with Mrs. Scott several times, but it had always been as a part of a group and strictly professional. “A lot of new things.” She smiled, trying to remain positive despite the spate of dull lectures.

  “Most of which you won’t need,” Bernice smiled back. “You have been assigned to my team.”

  “Good. Great!” Amanda truly was excited. Bernice had proven personable and professional throughout the week, and Amanda was confident that she could lean on the older women as she learned “the ropes.”

  “Before you get too excited, I have some good news and bad news. The good news is that you don’t have to attend any more lectures; the bad news is that we are leaving for Honduras in just about three hours.”

  At first Amanda stared blankly back at her new boss, but in less than a moment realization hit her. “The hurricane in the Caribbean. I was wondering if we were going to be involved.”

  “Despite the fact that we have had people down there for a week, preparing for this very moment, we still have to wait for official permission. The wheels of bureaucracy definitely need some air. Nervous?” Bernice smiled broadly, excitement lighting up her face.

  “Nervous, overwhelmed, excited, unsure—you name it. I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to do,” Amanda answered, a distantly familiar thrill of anticipation racing through her.

  “Whatever I tell you. For the next two weeks you are my Girl-Friday.”

  “Why me?” It was a question Amanda had meant to ask herself, but somehow it gained a voice. Of the seven in her orientation class, six were being assigned to disaster response teams, and Amanda was the youngest by at least a decade.

  “Do you want me to answer that objectively or subjectively?”

  “Both, of course,” and for an instant Amanda was worried that she was coming off as a shallow, teen-age girl.

  “
Objectively, it is policy that the least experienced assistant be paired with the most experienced coordinator, and that just happens to be me.” She nodded her head in a muted salute. “Subjectively, Martha Salazar, a woman I trust, speaks very highly of you, but more importantly, my instincts tell me to snatch you up before anyone else does. So, consider yourself snatched-up.”

  “Okay,” Amanda said simply, finally starting to feel as if she were a part of something beyond a support group. “All right, I need to get back to my hotel, pack, and then get back here ASAP.” Her mind began to race through logistics, both personal and professional. “I’ll need my emergency medical supplies, and …”

  “Slow down. Everything has already been taken care of. I’ll drive you to the hotel and then we’ll catch a ride to the airport.”

  Four hours later Amanda and Bernice were stuck on a Dallas runway, more than an hour past their scheduled departure, waiting for the weather to clear. The pair shared a row of three in an otherwise full flight. “How did we get so lucky?” Amanda asked Bernice after the main cabin door was finally shut.

  “Luck had nothing to do with it. I always buy an extra seat, so don’t think we’re going to share it.” She then awkwardly sprawled across both seats. “This is the way I sleep.” She continued to contort herself until she was bent into the shape of an “L,” with both legs draped over Amanda’s lap. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  Amanda laughed and ignored the stares of their fellow passengers as they gawked at the animated middle-aged woman. “Yes, I can see that you must be very comfortable.”

  “Don’t laugh. One day soon everyone of note will travel like this. I plan to …” Her explanation was interrupted by the flight attendant.

  “Ma’am, if I could ask you to put at least one foot on the floor before takeoff.”

  Bernice obediently disentangled herself and then flopped noisily back into her seat. “For the record, all the great minds in history encountered resistance.”

  “Along those lines, can I ask you a personal question?”

  “He was my great uncle,” Bernice answered automatically as she straightened her blouse.

  “I guess you get asked that a lot, but I had something else in mind.”

  “Really? So you don’t want my opinion on civil rights, or the Viet Nam war, or whether or not Martin Luther King Jr. was influenced by the Communists? How refreshing. It seems as if everyone wants to know if I have any secret insights into the man, or where I stand on social issues, as if by being born into a famous family makes my opinion more relevant.” A serious, almost bitter tone filled Bernice’s voice.

  Amanda crossed her arms and pulled back into her seat, uncomfortable with Bernice’s sudden change in temperament.

  Bernice stopped playing with her seat belt and seemed to realize that she had made her traveling companion uncomfortable. “Oh child, you’re going to need a thicker skin than that if you’re going to survive around me. Let’s get this straight from the beginning—most of what I say should bounce right off of you. You’ll know when I want something to stick.” She stared into Amanda’s eyes and winked. Her face stretched into her usual broad smile. “Now, what did you really want to know?”

  “I want to know how you let things bounce off of you? You’ve survived thirty years in this job, dealing with disasters and human tragedy on an almost daily basis, and it doesn’t seem to have affected you. You’re a lot like my mother-in-law: both of you truly live in the moment. You’re naturally spontaneous, almost impulsive, but when the moment requires it you become completely serious and professional.”

  “Good question; much better than the one I answered. Have you ever asked your mother-in-law?”

  “No.”

  “Some questions are better asked to a stranger than a family member. But if you did ask her I would bet, if I wasn’t a good Christian woman, that she would tell you that she has a clear understanding of what is and what is not important, and everything else is not worth fussing over. Once you learn that, freedom is your reward.” She undid her seat belt and retrieved her large, overflowing purse from beneath the seat in front of her. “My carry-on luggage,” she said, answering Amanda’s quizzical look. “It contains all the wisdom of the world, including the accumulated files of Amanda Flynn.” She withdrew a thin manila folder. “All right, maybe more of a summary of all the accumulated files of Amanda Flynn.” They both stared at the folder as the air around them somehow became still. “We all know what’s happened to you this past year; I won’t insult you by saying that I understand, because I don’t.” Her voice dropped to just above ambient level. “I can guess what was important to you a year ago. Do you know what’s important to you now?”

  Amanda looked out of the window. “Survival,” she finally said.

  “You’ve set the bar pretty low.”

  “Not from where I sit.”

  “Okay, I think I understand. You’re still lost, but at least you’re moving in the right direction.”

  “Can you please fasten your seat belt and stow your purse under the seat in front of you?” The stewardess had reappeared, and shot Bernice a tired, reproachful glare.

  “I think that woman has it out for me,” Bernice said and winked at Amanda.

  CHAPTER 7

  Luis Munoz walked along the waterfront, surveying the damage wrought by a Category Four hurricane on his small barrier island. The sky was finally clear, and the wind had calmed to just a warm breeze. Despite being on the leeward side of the island, the storm had ravaged their wooden dock; fortunately, the majority of the fishing boats had left for the mainland days earlier, where they were pulled from the water and sent far inland. Within days they would be back at work, and maybe within a week they would return home and life would resume, at least until the next storm. Hurricanes were an unpleasant but ever-present fact of life. The same tropical heat that warmed the waters, which drew the fish and American tourist dollars, also spawned the storms, and Luis and his people had learned to live with them.

  He jumped from the concrete seawall to the sugar-white sandy beach below. They had been fortunate not to lose it. Docks could be rebuilt quickly, but the loss of a beach to the scouring winds would have been ruinous to the tourist trade, and therefore to his village. Already he could see a handful of workers using rakes to comb the sand free of the storm’s debris. It would take the morning, and dozens of other workers, but by midday the beach would be clean enough for digital pictures. He would then post them on the internet to reassure the world that Isla Maderas had not only survived Hurricane Michael, it was open for business. He turned and faced the jungle and found the sun was just rising above his island’s small mountain. He snapped several pictures, taking care to exclude the battered village. Most of the brightly-colored shops and restaurants faced the water and the mainland, situated both out of convenience and to take advantage of some of the greatest sunset views in the world. The sunsets would remain, but every structure in the center of town would need at least some degree of repair, and at least two of their restaurants would need to be rebuilt completely. Their two marquee hotels were more modern, built with cement blocks and hurricane shutters. Their biggest problem would be cleaning up the grounds and the swimming pools.

  Luis walked a hundred yards down the beach and idly swept sand off a buried beach chair. To his surprise, he found it mostly intact. He flipped it over, tested its stability, and finally sat in it. There were drenched palm leaves all around him, but from this viewpoint they were the only indications that hours earlier a maelstrom had visited this very spot. A voice called to him from the road and he turned to find a man waving. He was too far for Luis’s poor eyes to make out, but the camera flash identified him as Raul Alvarez, the editor of their local newspaper. He waved back, hoping that Raul was also posting his pictures on the internet.

  “Mayor Munoz enjoys the beach hours after Hurricane Michael,” he laughed
to himself, the anxiety over the massive storm melting away into the glorious morning. His island, city, and people had survived virtually unscathed a storm that would be talked about for decades. He began to mentally catalogue all the things they would need to be up and running. The biggest impediment would be the damaged dock. They had an artificial floating dock that could be used for small boats, but they couldn’t use it for the ferries that shuttled tourists from the mainland and the other Bay Islands. Plus, it was no good for the fishermen. They were going to lose at least a week’s worth of income. He was weighing the possibilities of proposing a temporary tax on sport fishing and diving when he caught sight of a boat’s wake. He fumbled for the set of binoculars beneath his bright peach shirt and found his son’s 25-foot runabout powering through the flat water. Normally the eight-mile channel between Isla Maderas and the mainland would be busy with fishing boats, dive boats, and sailboats, but only Jorge’s powered catamaran was visible today. Jorge had ridden out the storm with his father in the basement of the Catholic Church, while his boat sheltered in their concrete garage. He had left for Tela, the nearest mainland city, more than four hours earlier with the island’s only nurse practitioner and a very pregnant Mayan woman. She had stumbled into the church with her family hours after the winds had started and nearly a day after she should have evacuated.

  Jorge angled his boat for the dock, and after scouting it from the water turned the catamaran towards his father, who was now at the water’s edge. Luis raised his hands in confusion when he saw that Jorge was still accompanied by the nurse, the pregnant woman, and her husband.

  “What happened?” Luis screamed over the revving engines. Jorge was too busy to respond and briefly held up one finger, telling his father to wait. He raised the props until they were just beneath the water line, pointed the boat directly at his father, and gunned the engines. The catamaran lifted its bow and gently slid across the sand, beaching itself. “What happened?” Luis repeated.