Amanda's Story (5 page)

It wasn't unusual for Larry Ryan to work around armed men. Despite being a civilian, he still worked for the military, but to have a platoon of heavily armed soldiers—all dressed in the same isolation suits—watching his every move was unnerving.

“Have any of you ever read
1984
?”
No response.

“I figured,” he answered himself. “Well if we're not going to discuss literature, can someone please tell me something about these bodies?” Two body bags, both currently occupied, lay in shallow tubs beneath bright theater lights.

“I'm sorry, Doctor, but you have already been told everything that we can tell you.” A disembodied voice answered him from a wall speaker.

“Well, Colonel, good evening. I thought you had gone and left us. Although I'm not sure where you would go,” Dr. Ryan said to himself. Medical Facility 104 was somewhere in the deserts of Nevada; at least that's what he surmised. He had never actually seen the facility from the outside. Each time he received that very special phone call or tap on the shoulder that told him that he had 30 minutes to drop what he was doing and disappear for the next several days, it had been at night. Then, just to be absolutely certain, he was flown in a plane without windows that taxied directly into the facility—a facility that as far as he knew consisted only of a single changing room, a single small bedroom, a single pathology laboratory, and a single autopsy room. Even his meals had been brought to him.

“While I appreciate the need for secrecy and security, don't you think you're taking it a little too far? I am seventy-one years old and walk with a cane, and I'm sure neither of these two fellows is going anywhere.”

He unzipped the first bag and recoiled. “Okay, seriously, what the hell is this?” The body was a putrid, liquefied mess, and any jocularity Ryan had had was lost.

“Colonel, I'm going to need a good deal more information before I do anything, and that is non-negotiable.” He was the former Chairman of Forensic Pathology at the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology, which carried a civilian rank equal to a two-star general and a security clearance beyond Top-Secret. Those facts alone should have insulated him from taking orders from a mere colonel and working in the dark, especially in a situation as unusual as this. He adjusted the overhead light and examined what was left of the face closely and then zipped the bag closed.

“Did you hear me, Colonel?” He walked to the far corner of the autopsy theater and looked up into the observation room above. Colonel Nerring had his back to the glass and a phone to his ear. Ryan pulled up a rolling stool and carefully sat down. He was recovering from hip surgery, and the last thing he needed was to fall in this cumbersome and slippery isolation suit.

“I charge by the hour,” he said after several minutes.

“Doctor,” Colonel Nerring's voice finally echoed through the sterile room. “General Kane has asked me to relay a message. He would view this as a personal favor if you could examine the bodies, take tissue samples, and determine cause of death without any more information that could possibly color your findings. Once you are done he will personally answer any questions that you may have.”

Ryan pondered this for a moment and then stood. “Two things. First, he's going to owe me a case of double malt scotch, and second, I need an honest answer from you. What is the risk?”

“Extreme,” Nerring answered immediately.

“At least you're being honest. I suppose that's why I have no lab assistants?” He walked to the second body and unzipped the bag completely. The condition of this corpse was only slightly better than the first. “I'm going to leave them in the bags for now. This will reduce the possibility of contamination. He pulled an overhanging microphone close, dictated his name and date, and then began to work.

It took him nearly two hours to finish with the first body, but less than an hour with the second. He zipped what was left of the two men back into the black bags, which would serve as the only coffins they would ever know. “Okay, fellas, let's go,” he said to the platoon of soldiers who had silently watched him dissect two bodies. He opened the door to the airlock and began the cumbersome process of extricating himself from the contaminated isolation suit.

He emerged into the cool air of the control room to find both Colonel Nerring and one of his oldest friends, Major General Ralph Kane. Ryan nodded to his friend and said, “I need a drink.”

“Come with me; I know just the place,” Kane said. He led them through a maze of corridors, none of which Ryan had never seen.

“So Ralph, can you confirm or deny the existence of Area 51, because by my reckoning this could be the very place.” Ryan hobbled after the two soldiers, who had politely matched his speed.

“Come on Larry, you know that if I told you the truth Colonel Nerring would shoot us both. Isn't that right, Colonel?” Kane had led the trio into a small conference room.

“Without hesitation, sir.” Nerring retrieved three plastic bottles of water from a small refrigerator and passed them to the two older men.

“Not the drink I had in mind, but for now it will do.” Ryan took a quick gulp and turned to Kane. “Okay, I did what you asked, now fill me in. Something nasty happened to those two poor bastards.”

“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.”

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.