Authors: Sarah Andrews
Killer Dust (3 page)
Calvin Wheat bent over his apparatus, cussing at the cone-shaped filter that was once again acting up. How in hell was he supposed to get a valid dust sample if the filter kept slipping? He had committed himself to all these days on board in order to get it, and now this. Damned budgetary constraints, how was he supposed to do science with no data? This experiment had just better work, because in order to collect these data, he had begged and fussed his way onto this Caribbean cruise, selling his soul to the tune of giving three dumbed-down lectures to the paying passengers so he could inhabit the so-called free scientist’s berth on this ship—
This over-decorated party tub on steroids,
he mentally grumbled to himself,
this techno-idiot’s equivalent of snake oil; this gold-plated floating spa; this sheltered workshop where Joe and Betty eco-tourist loll about in their carpeted staterooms, gorge on fish that ought to be on the endangered species list, cultivate their tans, never quite make it to the squash courts, swill their rum punches with the little parasols, and feel noble about paying twenty-five dollars for three-dollar “I ‘heart’ sea turtles” T-shirts. I wish they’d all just go on home to New Jersey and get it over with, tell their neighbors what a deep and meaningful time they had learning about the natural splendors of the Caribbean, and leave me to my frigging work!
This over-decorated party tub on steroids,
he mentally grumbled to himself,
this techno-idiot’s equivalent of snake oil; this gold-plated floating spa; this sheltered workshop where Joe and Betty eco-tourist loll about in their carpeted staterooms, gorge on fish that ought to be on the endangered species list, cultivate their tans, never quite make it to the squash courts, swill their rum punches with the little parasols, and feel noble about paying twenty-five dollars for three-dollar “I ‘heart’ sea turtles” T-shirts. I wish they’d all just go on home to New Jersey and get it over with, tell their neighbors what a deep and meaningful time they had learning about the natural splendors of the Caribbean, and leave me to my frigging work!
Calvin bared his teeth at his sampling equipment.
All
this I suffer in the faint hope of catching a midocean dust sample, and now I can’t get the damned filter paper straight. What crap!
All
this I suffer in the faint hope of catching a midocean dust sample, and now I can’t get the damned filter paper straight. What crap!
He stepped over the bright yellow “CAUTION, KEEP OUT!” tape he had strung from rail to rail across the bow of the ship and began jimmying the apparatus from another direction, his head bent close to the intake valve. The caution tape had become an essential bit of equipment, as it seemed that each female aboard—
Each wishful drum of hair spray abuse that’s roaming this ship
—seemed to find it necessary, when they thought he wasn’t looking, to rush into the bow and attempt a Kate-Winslet-aboard-the-
Titanic
pose. More than one of these cows had gotten upwind of the intake valve while the apparatus was collecting—
Offering up her own unique mix of talcum powder, psoriasis, deodorant, dandruff, eyelash mites, and who knows what other bodily flora and effluvia
—to a sample he had been hoping to keep pristine. It had been necessary to run those samples over again, a loss of precious time and opportunity.
Each wishful drum of hair spray abuse that’s roaming this ship
—seemed to find it necessary, when they thought he wasn’t looking, to rush into the bow and attempt a Kate-Winslet-aboard-the-
Titanic
pose. More than one of these cows had gotten upwind of the intake valve while the apparatus was collecting—
Offering up her own unique mix of talcum powder, psoriasis, deodorant, dandruff, eyelash mites, and who knows what other bodily flora and effluvia
—to a sample he had been hoping to keep pristine. It had been necessary to run those samples over again, a loss of precious time and opportunity.
The ship would be putting in at its easternmost port tomorrow, and thereafter would be steaming back westward toward its proprietary island in the Bahamas and thence back to Port Canaveral, snaking its way downwind of one island or another the whole way. What a sap he’d been to think that grabbing a sample of dust blown off Africa would be a simple matter of setting up the equipment, keying the timer, and then wandering off to dinner while the little gizmo swilled the easterly breeze. He’d even bought the tuxedo required for dining at the captain’s table—
I did okay there, found a tail tux auctioned for forty dollars on eBay
, he reminded himself—
but I’ve yet to make it to a single dinner, it being easiest to keep the stampede of fantasy artists off the bow when they’re all off chowing down their grits.
I did okay there, found a tail tux auctioned for forty dollars on eBay
, he reminded himself—
but I’ve yet to make it to a single dinner, it being easiest to keep the stampede of fantasy artists off the bow when they’re all off chowing down their grits.
The filter cone finally slid securely into place. With satisfaction, Calvin decided that this sampling run would be good, and had every chance of staying good, as everyone else on the ship was at dinner or hanging over the stern
toasting the setting sun with a glass of rum.
And
—this he barely dared acknowledge even to himself—
I am a lucky man. The latest storm off Africa is just now arriving, and here’s a nice haze of red smut dusting the whole ship just to prove it. Hell, I could get this sample with a catcher’s mitt!
But four years of undergraduate training in biology, two years to get a Master’s in public health, three more for a Ph.D. in microbiology and two more for post-doctorate fellowships had taught him that it was just plain essential to get his sample onto the sterile filter paper that waited deep inside the little mechanical lung he now set into action.
And with these data, there’s no way in hell Chip Hiller and his band of idiots can claim that my results aren’t valid!
toasting the setting sun with a glass of rum.
And
—this he barely dared acknowledge even to himself—
I am a lucky man. The latest storm off Africa is just now arriving, and here’s a nice haze of red smut dusting the whole ship just to prove it. Hell, I could get this sample with a catcher’s mitt!
But four years of undergraduate training in biology, two years to get a Master’s in public health, three more for a Ph.D. in microbiology and two more for post-doctorate fellowships had taught him that it was just plain essential to get his sample onto the sterile filter paper that waited deep inside the little mechanical lung he now set into action.
And with these data, there’s no way in hell Chip Hiller and his band of idiots can claim that my results aren’t valid!
The machine hissed, its metal lips offering the evening breeze a hungry kiss. Calvin hovered downwind, inhaling the wind as if it were perfume, regardless of the fungi, bacteria, and viruses he knew to be riding it. The ship was now completely upwind of the Windward Islands. The air his canister was sucking had not passed over any land mass—no dalliances over islands, no sojourns over South America—since leaving mother Africa. Life was sweet.
He allowed himself a smug grin.
If this sample doesn’t win funding for the rest of the research, I’ll eat my tuxedo … . No, it looks too good on me. Okay, I’ll kiss the next would-be Winslet who comes near me. Fuck Chip Hiller and his attempts to block this project, because with adequate funding I, Calvin Wheat, will be the man of the hour in microbiological circles, the smart little cracker who will prove beyond the last foolish shreds of malingering doubt that the dust blowing off Africa is carrying live pathogens that threaten every organism on which it lands. Germs. Bacteria and fungi, not to mention the odd virus, all tucked tenderly into the crevices of the mineral dust that spall off that godforsaken continent like rats off a sinking environmental ship!
If this sample doesn’t win funding for the rest of the research, I’ll eat my tuxedo … . No, it looks too good on me. Okay, I’ll kiss the next would-be Winslet who comes near me. Fuck Chip Hiller and his attempts to block this project, because with adequate funding I, Calvin Wheat, will be the man of the hour in microbiological circles, the smart little cracker who will prove beyond the last foolish shreds of malingering doubt that the dust blowing off Africa is carrying live pathogens that threaten every organism on which it lands. Germs. Bacteria and fungi, not to mention the odd virus, all tucked tenderly into the crevices of the mineral dust that spall off that godforsaken continent like rats off a sinking environmental ship!
Finding live germs in the samples collected in Africa itself had been a slam dunk; those little nasties had barely
left the dung heaps they’d blown from. Testing the air over the Caribbean islands and Florida had turned up plenty as well, but the naysayers and critics argued that the “bugs” had originated as the wind swept the islands, and could not have survived three to six days of transit. It was necessary to prove that the little critters could and did survive exposure to ultraviolet light, and survived it for up to 5,000 miles.
left the dung heaps they’d blown from. Testing the air over the Caribbean islands and Florida had turned up plenty as well, but the naysayers and critics argued that the “bugs” had originated as the wind swept the islands, and could not have survived three to six days of transit. It was necessary to prove that the little critters could and did survive exposure to ultraviolet light, and survived it for up to 5,000 miles.
Calvin leaned down over his machinery one more time to retest the offending clips, leaning hard onto the port rail. As he did so, he saw, out of the corner of one eye, the sudden appearance of yet one more idiot rushing at the bow, bearing down on him. Calvin had only enough time to put out one arm to protect his apparatus, and no time at all to choose an epithet before he felt himself being lifted over the side. As shock and fear exploded though his body, he flailed his arms and legs, trying desperately to connect with the outside of the rail. He missed. That hope dashed, he tried instead to propel himself outward, away from the curling bow wake that waited, three stories below, ready to suck him under the length of the ship before spitting him one limb at a time through its immense propellers.
When Tom Latimer returned (his head bowed with some abstract form of repentance), it was too late for him to regain control of his immediate future. Faye and I had already decided to go to Florida.
In the first minutes of the hour that he was gone, Faye dissolved to tears, but that was nothing new. Tears had been flowing down her face with fair regularity ever since she had become pregnant, and she had long since asked me to quit noticing them. The hormonal shifts brought on by her little hitchhiker had wreaked havoc with her usual cool stoicism, and the difficulty of adjusting to the consequent marriage to her very cerebral lover had filled in where the hormones left off. This time she made it additionally clear that she didn’t want my help by locking herself in the bathroom and running water to cover her sobs.
I jumped onto the computer that Tom had left running in the living room and got to work, stopping only to shout over the water when I couldn’t figure out how to get through the security system he had rigged to keep prying eyes out of the business he did through that portal. Security systems of all types were now his stock-in-trade. Since the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, antiterrorist security had been his FBI assignment, and since his so-called retirement, he had become a consultant, again making it his professional pursuit. The retirement was
part of the deal he and Faye had cut to form sufficient common ground on which to build a marriage: His work for the FBI had been dangerous, and she didn’t want to raise a kid with a father who might at any moment get shot. Consulting seemed suitably remote from chasing bad guys down dark alleys, allowing Faye the pleasant fantasy that Tom had settled down.
part of the deal he and Faye had cut to form sufficient common ground on which to build a marriage: His work for the FBI had been dangerous, and she didn’t want to raise a kid with a father who might at any moment get shot. Consulting seemed suitably remote from chasing bad guys down dark alleys, allowing Faye the pleasant fantasy that Tom had settled down.
Faye gave me instructions that would get me into her section of the computer’s hard drive and onto the Internet. Once there, I logged on to a search engine and typed in FLORIDA DUST. I wasn’t trying to kid myself that such a casual action would help me figure out where Jack was in Florida or what he was doing there, but at times like this, I liked to keep my mind busy.
My hands shook slightly as I worked. Jack had originally come to Salt Lake City to work with Tom on antiterrorist security. Did his current assignment mean that there was another wave of terrorism on the horizon? Certainly Florida had been in the news since the September 11 attacks … the first anthrax death had occurred there, and anthrax came in the form of dust. I had pushed specific notions about Jack’s assignment far to the back of my mind since his sudden departure, but now they crowded to the front. Terrorism made my blood run cold; not only did I not want that happening to my country, or in my world, but I didn’t want the man I loved right smack in the middle of it. Call me selfish, but the very thought turned my innards to soup.
So I tried to concentrate on the computer. It, at least, was holding still, just a dumb box. Not a potential source of trouble. Even there, I was wrong.
In the brief moment between hitting the ENTER key and watching the results appear on the screen, I wondered if I should have narrowed the search to U.S. government activities by typing FLORIDA DUST + FBI, but the first entry on the list that came up referenced the feds anyway. It concerned work being done by the U.S. Geological Survey, the federal agency charged with the study of the Earth. It was a news story from a major television network. The headline
read, “Long Distance Dust: African Dust Clouds Bring Fungi, Bacteria to United States,” and the story began like this:
read, “Long Distance Dust: African Dust Clouds Bring Fungi, Bacteria to United States,” and the story began like this:
Scientists have long known that upper-level winds carry particles great distances. But now they’ve found that hazardous bacteria and fungi hitchhike across the Atlantic on North African dust plumes.
“It shows we’re all connected in one way or the other, much more than I would ever have dreamed,” says Miles Guffey, one of the researchers of dust plumes at the U.S. Geological Survey.
The next two stories also referenced investigations of microbes riding dust clouds blowing off North Africa. Both took me to NASA’s Web site and its prodigious publicity machinery. I wondered at first why America’s space agency was involved with a geology story, but then realized that the first
A
in
NASA
stood for
atmospheric,
and the
S
for
space
. So NASA’s interests were not as much in observing geology as in the act of looking down from above.
A
in
NASA
stood for
atmospheric,
and the
S
for
space
. So NASA’s interests were not as much in observing geology as in the act of looking down from above.
The headlines read, “Desert Dust Kills Florida Fish: New Research Links Huge African Dust Clouds with ‘Red Tides,’” and “Dust from Africa Leads to Large Toxic Algae Blooms in Gulf of Mexico, Study Finds.” And sure enough, both articles were illustrated by images beamed down from NASA equipment that was riding through the heavens mounted on satellite steeds, proudly demonstrating what NASA had done for us lately.
I did not for a moment think that dust blowing off African deserts onto Florida and surrounding waters might account for Jack’s sudden departure, especially because it was clear from the articles that the process had been going on for quite some time. In fact, dust had been blowing off Africa for as long as there had been deserts there and wind blowing over them, hardly something that would suddenly rouse the FBI.
The satellite images showed dust blowing far out over
the ocean. Peering into those images got me thinking about water, and water got me thinking about waves, and by now you know where the concept of waves took me. With all that rolling around I relaxed just enough to get an idea: Armed with the smidgeon of information that Faye had divulged, I could call Jack’s office and ask how things were going for him in Florida, sound casual, and hopefully kid someone into telling me what Jack was up to and when he might return. As I punched in the numbers, I decided that my sweet love would be pleased with the elegant simplicity of this ruse: If I presumed to call and sounded like I knew a little, then whoever I talked to would counterpresume that I knew a lot and would speak openly. Or as Tom had taught me, the best way to lie is to attach it to the truth, and in this case all I had to do was artfully leave off the critical detail that I had not heard about Jack’s whereabouts from Jack himself.
the ocean. Peering into those images got me thinking about water, and water got me thinking about waves, and by now you know where the concept of waves took me. With all that rolling around I relaxed just enough to get an idea: Armed with the smidgeon of information that Faye had divulged, I could call Jack’s office and ask how things were going for him in Florida, sound casual, and hopefully kid someone into telling me what Jack was up to and when he might return. As I punched in the numbers, I decided that my sweet love would be pleased with the elegant simplicity of this ruse: If I presumed to call and sounded like I knew a little, then whoever I talked to would counterpresume that I knew a lot and would speak openly. Or as Tom had taught me, the best way to lie is to attach it to the truth, and in this case all I had to do was artfully leave off the critical detail that I had not heard about Jack’s whereabouts from Jack himself.
As luck would have it, an office manager named Tanya, with whom I had a chatty sort of relationship, received my call. “Hi, Em,” she cooed. “Hear anything from Jack?”
“No. But, um, I was hoping you could help me with that. I’ve … been off fishing for the last several days.” Warming to my fabrication, I blustered on, getting girl-to-girl confidential. “You know … I miss him and all, so I thought it easier to pretend that
I
was the one who left.”
I
was the one who left.”
Tanya laughed like she knew this sport.
“Anyway,” I continued, really rolling now, “I got back and there was a message from him on my phone, and I’m supposed to call him, but he didn’t leave the number again, and um, well, I can’t find the piece of paper where he wrote it down, you know, and …” I let it trail off, making room for her to jump in there and give me what I wanted. I was amazed at myself, and in fact wondered why it had taken me so long to think of this.
Tanya laughed. “Em, dear, ol’ Jack-o isn’t in the habit of telling me where he spends his vacation time, much less does he leave a number where he can be reached.”
Vacation?
“Oh. Well, I …”
“Oh. Well, I …”
“So you’re telling me he isn’t back yet?”
This wasn’t going my way at all. “Ah, no …”
“And he didn’t take you?”
“Well, I …”
“Listen, I know how you’re feeling, but calm down, that boy really has it for you. Maybe the fishing was just extra good where
he
is!”
he
is!”
Now I was completely confused. Jack hadn’t told me he was going fishing, and if he had gone without me, it was over between us!
Wham!
So where was he? And what was he doing?
Wham!
So where was he? And what was he doing?
“The other line is ringing,” Tanya said. “Gotta go.”
“Right.”
I sat listening to a dial tone for longer than I care to admit.
Finally, Faye came out of the bathroom. “Get anything out of Tanya?” she inquired, as she dabbed a cold washcloth at her tear-swollen eyes.
My bafflement dissolved into pettishness. I said, “Your ears
are
good! No wonder Tom gets pissed.”
are
good! No wonder Tom gets pissed.”
“Now
you’re
not answering my question.”
you’re
not answering my question.”
I couldn’t work up much volume as I said, “She says he’s on vacation.”
Faye’s eyebrows joined into one straight line. “Oooh, that sounds bad. Something’s up. No wonder Tom’s been wired.” She put her hands on her widening hips and stared out the window toward the high sweep of the Wasatch Range. “So what’s Jack up to, then?”
“You tell me. I looked up ‘Florida dust’ on the search engine, and all I got was a bunch of NASA images and some jive about research some geologists are doing there.”
Faye asked, “Where in Florida?”
“Oh, come on, Faye, I was just keeping myself busy. I—”
“Where?”
I clicked back to that story. “It’s the USGS. Looks like its Florida office is in … let’s see … . St. Petersburg.”
Faye put a hand on my shoulder and peered into the
monitor. “I have an aunt there. Nice town, if you like retired white people. Has a Salvador Dali museum.”
monitor. “I have an aunt there. Nice town, if you like retired white people. Has a Salvador Dali museum.”
“Great,” I mumbled. “A little added surrealism with your monoculturalism. Tell me more about what Jack told Tom, Faye.”
“Just that he was going to Florida, and that Tom would understand about ‘killer dust.’”
“I thought you said
project
dust!”
project
dust!”
Faye twisted her face into a concerned wince. “Yeah. Okay. Thought you might not like the ‘killer’ part.”
I put my head down on the desk. I said, “And Tom would understand
what
about this killer dust thing?”
what
about this killer dust thing?”
“Tom said, ‘If you go there and do that, I can’t help you,’ or something like that.”
I began to moan.
Faye patted my back. Then she reached forward, grasped the computer’s mouse, and started scrolling down through the article. “We can go see my aunt, and you can visit Jack.”
“Are you losing your grip? This is a geology project. The chances are slim to nil that it has anything to do with Jack’s whereabouts.”
“Well, at least according to this article, it’s the fish that are being killed, not wandering FBI agents who’ve gone AWOL from their jobs.”
I lifted my head and glared at her. “Way to calm my nerves, Faye.”
“Just trying for a little levity.”
“Right. Very little. Try this: Jack told me only that he had a job to do. ‘Job’ does not usually mean ‘vacation time.’ And Jack likes to fish, but not so much that he’d run off and do it five minutes after we …”
“Right.”
I closed my eyes. “It was getting so nice.”
“Don’t put it in the past tense, Em. Have a little faith.”
I was on the edge of tears. “Where
is
he? And what’s he
doing
there?”
is
he? And what’s he
doing
there?”
“I’ll get it out of Tom.”
“For once in my life I meet a man who’s smart, good-looking, employed,
sane
, kind, funny … faithful … .”
sane
, kind, funny … faithful … .”
“Yes.” She had a hand on my shoulder.
“He is sane, isn’t he, Faye?”
Faye let her breath out heavily. “Strikes me that way.”
“And faithful?”
She patted my hair. “Follows you around like a dog. “He’ll come back.”
“Sure. The man’s an FBI agent. Carries a loaded weapon. Heads out somewhere on his own to do something he doesn’t want even his ‘lady’ to know about. How long do you think I should wait before I panic?”
“So let’s fly to St. Pete. Didn’t he say his mother lives in Orlando? Two hours’ drive from the airport. We could call her, and—”
“Orlando? I didn’t even know
that
. And with what money? I can’t afford the book-two-weeks-ahead, super-discount kind of plane ticket to Florida, let alone the last-minute, pay-through-the-nose variety!”
that
. And with what money? I can’t afford the book-two-weeks-ahead, super-discount kind of plane ticket to Florida, let alone the last-minute, pay-through-the-nose variety!”
“I seem to remember I have a perfectly good airplane parked out at the airport.”
That was true. Faye was a professional pilot; or at least, she was a commercially rated pilot who had, on occasion, charged money to carry people and small freight. I’d been all over the western states with her. But that was in the before times. Before losing her trust fund. Before marrying Tom. Before growing so pregnant that she did little else but lounge around and sleep. I wasn’t sure she could concentrate long enough to fly us to Florida, or even reach past her belly to the control wheel. I said, “Florida’s a long way from here. And you don’t have a bottomless wallet anymore. And you’re more than a little bit pregnant.”
She turned a shoulder to indicate that she felt affronted. “I can fly just fine, thank you very much. The cabin’s fully pressurized, and you can always take the controls for a while if I need to stretch or barf. And I thought it all through while I was in the bathroom: Tom’s being a pain in the butt. I can use the break from him. And once this
baby comes, I won’t have time for any such adventures. My aunt would love to have us, so much so that she’d probably pay for the gas, and she’d loan us one of her spare Mercedeses. Even if we can’t find Jack, we can run down to the Everglades. I’ll bet you’ve never seen a live alligator, now have you? I mean, have you ever
been
to Florida?”
baby comes, I won’t have time for any such adventures. My aunt would love to have us, so much so that she’d probably pay for the gas, and she’d loan us one of her spare Mercedeses. Even if we can’t find Jack, we can run down to the Everglades. I’ll bet you’ve never seen a live alligator, now have you? I mean, have you ever
been
to Florida?”
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