Cold Silence (14 page)

“Singing?”

She grinned, as if no emergency was going on. “I'll show you. Sing something,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“Anything. Christmas carol. Popular. Come on!”

Eddie cleared his throat. His voice sounded muffled coming from the suit. He had terrible pitch. He could never carry a tune.

“Jingle bells . . . jingle . . .”

The dog rose quickly, tail wagging like crazy, and raised its head. “
Ooooooooooo.
”

Denise Mitterand was up also, faster than I would have thought possible, and she kneeled by the animal, stroking his head. “Are you my boy? My Sinatra? Are you my one? See?” she said. “He does that every time! That's why we named him Sinatra. Like he's the
reincarnation. My nephew said we should bring him on late-night TV to do those pet tricks. You try, Dr. Rush.”

I sang, “
Dashing through the snow . . .”

“Oooooooooooooo.”
The dog hopped around, spinning in circles, panting from happy effort. We burst out laughing. It was nice to know that something could still make us laugh. Sinatra looked sad when I stopped singing. He licked my glove, blessed with ignorance of contagion.

Denise said, “That morning he started making those sounds. He can't walk but he hears pretty good. He'll start up if a car goes by with the radio on. I looked out. Saw the couple walking by. I couldn't hear them but their mouths were moving. I thought they must be singing.”

“Go on.”

“Well! Afternoons, I take a walk in the desert. I can't take Sinatra anymore because the wheels on the roller get stuck in rocks. So I leave him here. I can still do two miles. Exercise helps me sleep.”

“The tourists were in the desert,” I guessed.

“I was coming up a rise. I heard them.”

“Singing.”

“Yes, some religious song. When they saw me, they stopped.”

“Why do you think it was a religious song?”

“Why? Well! I didn't hear all the words. I guess it was the cadence, slow, you know, like Gregorian Chants.
Chanticleer. Adorate Deum
. Beautiful, relaxing music. Calms you right down! I used to have my students listen to it. Not exactly what they were used to.”

“They were singing Gregorian chants?”

“No, it was
like
that but
wasn't
. It was English. But it had that same somber, what's the word?
Repetition!
Like a liturgy. What you'd hear at a mass, not exactly something hikers go around singing.”

“A liturgy,” I said.

“But different. I heard a few words. Something about prophets
smiting evil.” She scrunched up her wizened face, trying to remember. “The first prophet . . . the sixth . . . then they saw me and stopped.”

“Did you talk to them?”

“They seemed nice. I asked what they were singing.”

“What did they say?”

“That's funny! I don't think they answered. They were very enthusiastic, though, asking about the town, the rocks here, the old mine. But they didn't actually answer about the singing. A little spacey but nice. My husband, Al, used to say you get all kinds out West. Dissatisfied people. He called the highway to California the Charles Manson Trail.”

“Did they happen to identify their church group?”

“I didn't ask. I like music, but I'm not big on religions,” she said. “My ancestors were Huguenots. Protestants murdered in France. Music is peaceful, but in the end”—she shuddered—“too much religion makes people fight.”

—

Outside, I turned to Eddie. Our phones were useless in town because of the jamming, so we had no idea if anyone had been trying to reach us while we were here, if Chris was having success reaching Burke.

“Remember those two guys in Somalia, singing?”

“Weren't they singing about prophets, too?”

“All religions sing about prophets.”

“Chris should have been back by now,” he fretted.

She'd been gone for forty-five minutes. And over the next ninety minutes she
still
did not return. But we were occupied, making rounds of houses, talking to a family of six: a postal worker, who looked healthy; a retired uranium miner, healthy; a Vietnamese immigrant, who was coughing; a brother-sister team, who lived together and gave
me the creeps, because of the way they sat, hip to hip. The sister showed deterioration around her nose.

Our notebooks filled with jottings, our recorders with frightened voices; a mélange of facts, figures, and impressions. Nothing in particular stood out.

“Two hours,” Eddie said, yawning. “Where is she?”

“More importantly, where's Broad Street?”

Broad Street
was our shorthand for the London corner where the science of disease tracking began. It was the epicenter of the worst cholera outbreak in that city's history, which ravaged it in 1854.

At the time, the finest medical minds believed that illness came from vapors,
bad air
, which they called miasma. When cholera struck, bringing vomiting, leg cramps, rampant diarrhea, and fatal shock,
bad air
was, as usual, blamed.

But a physician named John Snow wasn't so sure about that, so he went door to door, asking questions, drawing maps of the spread. He asked locals about their eating and drinking habits, travel, hygiene, symptoms.

Eventually he realized that every single victim drank water from the Broad Street public water pump.

Snow's idea about the pump was revolutionary. At first he could not convince authorities that the disease was spread by a well. But finally they grew so desperate that, at Snow's urging, they removed the handle from the Broad Street pump, and the epidemic ground to a stop.

Now Eddie and I sought the modern version of Snow's pump handle. We trudged house to house, asking questions and answering complaints.

—
My kids like Fruit Loops, but all the soldiers are giving us is Cheerios
.

—
My reading glasses broke.

—
No one is collecting our garbage!

An exhausting three hours later, we'd confirmed that
every initial victim
had been in Gazarra's on that Friday night. From there, the pathogen had spread to some people and bypassed others.

“It breaks out in Africa first,” Eddie said, frowning. “Then here. You think there's something in the drones themselves; some component, some chemical they're carrying, maybe a drone crashed . . . what do you think, One? The drones?”

“Something they ate or drank.”

“Why?”

“Two initial outbreaks in groups. But no contact between them, no supplies moving between the groups. In Africa, no air vents, no air-conditioning. But everyone eating the same food at the same time and in the same place every day. Here, people fell ill after a group meal.”

“If it's canned, there will be outbreaks. It could be anywhere.”

I shook my head. “If it was randomly shipped, there would have been more outbreaks by now, I'd think.”

“Who did it, then?”

“Who has access to both places?”

“Plenty of people hate the drone program.”

It should have been a positive moment, an inch of progress at least, a theory. We'd reached the last home on the street. A hand-scrawled sign nailed to the front door read, SICK
.
GONE TO HOSPITAL
.
PRAY FOR US
.
We'd been spared another interview. I felt some relief.

“Where the hell is Chris?”

As if in answer, here came Humvees, three of them. Only one had been needed when we'd been brought into town.

“Too soon for the next medical check,” said Eddie.

“They're coming pretty fast,” I said.

When the Humvees reached us and the first small biosuited figure emerged, I saw it was Chris; but spilling after her from the other
two vehicles came troops made beefier by combat biogear. Their weapons were held ready, and from the stiff, wary way the soldiers eyed us, with a sinking feeling I realized that they were not here for the citizens of Galilee, but for us.

“Burke wants us out of here,” she said.

There was no doubt that something fundamental had changed.

“What's wrong, Chris?”

“Please put your notes and recorders in a ziplock. Hand them over to Sergeant Leachy. We're out,” said Chris. “Me, too.”

Eddie tried to make light of it, voice easy, but body stiffening. “Oh? Something we did?”

Chris stared back, disconsolate. “Yes,” she said. “We're all under
arrest.”

The cell was five by eight and lacked a window. Meals—roast beef, boiled potatoes and milk, eggs and soggy bacon—were inserted through a metal slot but I had little desire to eat. Light came in two varieties, artificial glare and red nightlight. The guards were silent extensions of the cinderblock. No reading material allowed, no television or radio, no explanation of why we'd been flown to Camp Pendleton, California, kept separate, and buried in a brig.

“Give me a hint. Why are we here?”

The air smelled of regulation. Flesh and blood seemed out of place in this steel and concrete world, where rule substituted for reason, and the National Anthem, played over loudspeakers, for talk.

“What the hell happened in Galilee?”

But the only hints I got were buried in the nonstop questions rapped out by two sour-faced FBI agents who refused to let me call Ray Havlicek in D.C. Had anyone in Somalia mentioned Disneyland? Had I visited a certain Internet café in Nairobi? Had I ever experimented with strains of leprosy? Was I a Washington Redskins fan?

Let's go over your records and memories one more time.

I'd locked up men myself over the years. Watched them pacing on closed-circuit TV as I softened them for interrogation. Now, worse than the isolation were the muffled announcements coming through the walls, barely audible and hinting at emergency. Leaves were canceled. Marines were being ordered to pack.

“At least let Chris call her daughter!”

The red light turned white. Was it morning? I heard Chris, out in the hallway, begging someone to, “Let me make one call? For God sake, she's alone! She'll be frantic! What's the matter with you people? She's a kid!”

Did we stumble onto something someone wants hidden? Damnit, if someone would tell us the problem, we could help figure it out.

The light turned red again, so outside, it was night. Or was it? Was it midday, the sun strong, yellow, hot?

I marked time by counting times when I heard the National Anthem, with trips to the bathroom, by beard growth. I did exercises to maintain bodily rhythm. The workouts filled the cell with sweat and testosterone. I avoided the cot unless I wanted to sleep. When I did sleep, I dozed fitfully, and did not recall dreams upon waking. You measure victory in small increments, and in this case, that meant the illusion of some knowledge of time, some sense of control.

Doing crunches, I went over events in Somalia and Galilee. I did push-ups on my fingertips and replayed interviews but nothing special came to mind. The guards refused to give me pen and paper so I filled in imaginary checklists in my head. I reached the story about the tourists in Galilee, singing. I heard boots stop outside my door and the lock clicked open.

“Get up!” the guard barked. “Hands behind your back.”

I blinked at a dazzling California sun as Eddie, Chris, and I were driven to the airport, where lines of Marines boarded a half dozen Galaxy transports, huge jets capable of long-distance flight.
Apparently we were finally permitted to talk. As we stood on the tarmac, a short, exhausted-looking major sauntered close, looked me over with disgust, and said, “So you're the one who started this.”

“Me? What are you talking about?”

He moved off, shaking his head. Chris was staring at me now with something resembling fury.

“What did you do, Joe, when I was making that call?”

“We just talked to the old lady.”

“Sure you did. Those Marines are carrying biogear,” she observed. Her face looked ragged, white, drawn, but her eyes still burned with fierce intelligence and frantic worry for her child.
This is not a drill
, a loudspeaker announced.

I said, “Aya's a smart kid. She'll be okay.”

“I hope so.”

We were strapped by guards into a row of four out-of-place economy class–style airline seats bolted to the fuselage in back, amid chained-down Humvees, netted food crates and med supplies and ammunition. Our seatbelts had locks on them. Our handcuffed wrists lay in our laps. Eddie said, “I can't wait to hear the safety announcement. What to do if we go down?” as the massive rear hatch groaned shut and four powerful jet engines roared to life, so we had to raise our voices to talk. At least we had a porthole, a view of sorts, natural light.

Chris said, “I called Burke to tell him about the tourists. He never even came on the line.”

They'd dressed us in quilted jackets against the chill. She smelled of sweat, cheap shampoo, and prison soap. Eddie smelled like a locker room. I probably did, too. Chris said, “Usually I talk with Aya every night. We've never gone more than four days without talking, and that time I was in Indonesia, in the jungle.”

Eddie asked, “Does Aya have someone to stay with?”

“My sister. In Reston. But Aya's independent. She may stay at
the loft in case I call. She'll barrage Burke's office with calls. She'll be scared.”

“She's a resourceful kid,” I said.

“Don't even go there,” she snapped, and turned away.

“How many days were we in there, Joe?” Eddie said.

“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?