by Harold Coyle
Hazrat Sial, age twenty, transitioned to full-fledged martyrdom on the floor of a women’s restroom far from Baluchistan.
36
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Cabinet members seldom bother reading press releases, but Secretary Bruce Burridge wanted to screen this one. He adjusted his reading glasses and read the draft press release. It was the product of two deputy undersecretaries in his outer office.
The Department of Homeland Security has completed its investigation of the alleged terrorist incident at Phoenix International Airport two weeks ago. After consulting with other federal, state, and local agencies, DHS has concluded that original reports about terrorist activities were issued before a thorough evaluation was concluded.
Following dozens of interviews with airport officials, security officers, and air travelers, DHS determined what actually occurred during a brief but confusing disturbance at Sky Harbor Airport on the nineteenth. The incident was limited to one terminal, and passengers on other airlines were not subjected to unusual delays.
The only fatality was a foreign national who apparently was carrying forged documents. His identity has not been positively established, though competent observers testified that he exhibited signs of mental instability. Federal investigators concluded that the man, reportedly in his twenties, was not an airline passenger and never breached the security gates for any of the airlines in that terminal.
The only confirmed injuries were inflicted on six people who sustained knife wounds. Most were treated and released from area hospitals that evening, though one woman was being held following surgery. All are expected to recover.
Homeland Security Secretary Bruce Burridge praised alert travelers and the quick response of security personnel in limiting the potentially deadly effects of the apparently deranged man’s attack.
Media reports about chemical or toxic sprays wielded by the assailant are not sustained by available evidence, Burridge added.
Burridge grasped his trademark green pen and made a notation. “OK for release. BB.” He dropped the sheet in his out basket.
The secretary plopped his spectacles onto the desk and leaned back in his overstuffed chair. According to the medicos, the Marburg incubation period had passed, and then some. Fortunately, none of the exposed individuals had come down with the disease, largely because nothing was found on the assailant’s knife blade. The spray with diluted blood was ineffective, but penetrating wounds could have carried the filovirus deep into living tissue. Like that gallant British lady — something Smith.
Burridge briefly mused about the late Hazrat Sial. That name would never be made public, nor would the body ever be claimed. It could not be — the infected corpse had been incinerated within hours and the ashes given a proper burial.
The U.S. Government occasionally had need of patriotic Muslim clerics.
SSI OFFICES
“That’s quite a list,” Wolf muttered.
“It keeps growing,” Derringer replied. “I guess it always will.”
“Well, at least we don’t have to use anonymous stars like the memorial at Langley.”
Derringer nodded, making no comment. Both men had conducted professional dealings with the CIA. The gray stars precisely carved into the marble wall bore silent tribute to the casualties the agency sustained in the shadow world of the Cold War.
The two friends looked again at SSI’s honor roll, newly updated in the briefing room: seventeen men and two women killed in the company’s employ. Five had died in accidents — three in an Iraqi helicopter crash — proving that combat often involved the lesser risk.
Wolf knew that one name was missing. He looked at his friend and boss. “Emily’s family still won’t let her name go up?”
Derringer shrugged. “I guess not. Her brother said they’d let us know if her mother changed her mind.”
“I thought they’d be glad that somebody wants to remember her.”
“Yeah, you’d think so, Joe. I mean, she was doing a really fine job in Mexico, beyond the translator work. But…”
“I know. We have to honor the family’s preferences.” Wolf caught the scowl on Derringer’s face, knew what was behind it, and risked a question. “Mike, I never knew. Did the police ever catch the guys who took her?”
Derringer shot a sideways glance. “No.” After a pause he added, “Not the federales, that is.”
Wolf was satisfied with the partial answer. He had heard reports, and he could read between the lines of expense vouchers. There were thinly disguised entries from Mexico and Guatemala for three months after Emily Castillo-Beltran had disappeared on assignment. Michael Derringer had a long memory — and SSI had a long reach.
Derringer stepped back a few feet and regarded the plaque, arms folded. “You know, some board members didn’t want us to put this up. They said it could be a security risk but I don’t buy that. I think they just didn’t want it known that we lose people.”
“Well, it’s no secret that PMCs take casualties. But I don’t think the public has any idea how many have been killed in Iraq alone. Must be hundreds by now.”
Derringer turned toward his colleague. “I’ll tell you something, Joe. I damn well want people to know our losses. Everyone who walks into this building needs to look at that list and consider what it means — what’s behind it.” He stopped for a few seconds, focusing his thoughts. “I don’t know about you, but I think it’s part of our responsibility to the people we hire.”
The retired admiral turned on a heel and marched away, his purposeful steps echoing off the polished tile.
LONDON
“She certainly looks better,” Charles Padgett-Smith said.
Margaret Keene, Doctor of Naturopathic Medicine, almost smiled. Carolyn’s husband was a dear man, but still steeped in the stiff-upper-lip tradition. Or maybe he’s afraid of being let doum after weathering such a terrible siege. We almost lost her. “Yes, she’s much improved.” She gestured toward the cafeteria, just down the hallway. With a sideways glance, Keene assessed the man’s mental state. In that regard he was more at risk than Carolyn.
“Charles, it’s a complex situation, as you know. But I’ll try to summarize. Generally, Marburg is twenty-five percent fatal. As filoviruses go, that is not bad odds. But Carolyn’s case was compounded by the means of exposure. The deep injection of a particularly strong strain ensured rapid dispersal throughout her body. She really was quite foolish to remain at home those extra two days.” Dr. Keene’s expressive eyebrows furrowed in a mild rebuke toward an indulgent husband.
He inhaled, exhaled, and nodded. “Yes, I know that now. She seemed to prefer dying at home rather than entering hospital, even if it meant risking exposure throughout the house. If she hadn’t called you when she landed…”
Keene permitted herself a rare pat on the man’s arm. “When she got off the aeroplane she was still thinking clearly. But when the virus went active, she lost some of her reasoning ability. I can’t blame her entirely. We have both seen people die of hemorrhagic fever. It’s terrible — just terrible.”
“Well, your snake blend must have done the trick.”
Keene shook her head slightly. “I like to think so, but as I say, this was a complex case. Carolyn may have survived without the Crotalus, but she also might have suffered more debilitating effects — possibly permanent. In any case, I suspect she’s going to be a case study for quite some time.”
Charles realized that he knew little about Keene’s medicine. “Doctor, just what is this Crotalus? I mean, other than it’s derived from venom.”
“Crotalus horridus is a homeopathic remedy for disorganization of the blood. That includes hemorrhages plus tropical and semi-tropical diseases such as jaundice, yellow fever, plague, and cholera.”
“My lord, does it cure the common cold, too?” He grinned. “How does it work?”
“Well, many of those symptoms are similar to rattlesnake or viper bites, so some of my colleagues and I realized that Crotalus
might help fight Ebola. Logic said that if it could work against Ebola, Marburg must be worth a try. So we proceeded accordingly.”
“Thank God that you did.” He shrugged. “Honestly, I never gave much thought to naturopathy. I was only vaguely aware of it, though Carolyn used to mention it.”
“Well, the medical establishment is slow to accept new thinking. Doctors are trained in the allopathic way, and frequently they treat symptoms rather than causes. My friends and I believe there’s room for both methods.” She paused, ordering her thoughts, then looked at her friend’s husband. “Charles, let me ask you a question. Once she’s recovered her health, how are you going to deal with Carolyn’s emotional trauma?”
“I’ve wondered about that. She’s a strong woman but she’s been through so much — a war zone, really. Professional soldiers aren’t immune, you know: post-traumatic stress and all that.” He raised his hands. “If we need professional counseling, we’ll get it. Meanwhile, I think it best for me just to be available. I’ll listen as long as she wants to talk. If she doesn’t want to talk, I’ll encourage her to do so.”
“Good. That’s what she needs. It also might be helpful for her to see some of the people she worked with over there. I know that travel is inconvenient, but when she’s ready, you might suggest a week or two in America. She really is quite fond of some of those chaps.”
“I’ve had calls once and twice a week from Dr. Catterly in Virginia. Carolyn respects him, and that chap Omar Mohammed, too. But there seems a real affection for some of the others, though they’re just names to me. Blokes like Frank and J. J. and Jeffrey.” He grinned despite himself. “Then there’s a rare pair called Bosco and Breezy.”
Dr. Margaret Keene arched her eyebrows. “Americans!”
37
SSI OFFICES
Derringer plopped the morning paper onto Joe Wolf’s desk. “Read all about it. Not only were we not involved, it wasn’t even a terrorist act.” The admiral’s gray eyes held a trace of a gleam.
Wolf barely registered the page-two story below the fold. “Hell, Mike, your pal Burridge wouldn’t want to draw undue attention, would he?”
“I suppose not. But he might wait till later. You know — budget hearings and jockeying for position in the counterterror hierarchy. Bruce is a good guy, but that doesn’t mean he can’t play the game.”
Wolf was philosophical. “Well, he does have Homeland Security to look out for. Besides, at St. Mary’s I learned from Sister Agatha that there is no limit to the good we can do if we don’t care who gets the credit.”
Derringer, an occasional Lutheran, grinned despite himself. “Sister Agatha? Seems that every other nun I ever heard of was Sister Mary Margaret.”
“Oh, we had a couple of those. MM1 was deadly accurate with an eraser, clear to the back of the room, and MM2 was hellacious with a ruler. Sometimes we used to debate if it was a sin to duck a nun’s punch.” He gave a thin, tight-lipped smile at the recollection. “But you know — I got a hell of a good education.”
A knock on the open door interrupted the discussion. Derringer and Wolf turned to see Terry Keegan’s crew-cut head. “Uh, sorry if I interrupted something. I just wanted to let you know the Jurassic Jet is up and running again. We’re caught up with the deferred maintenance.”
Derringer motioned the aviator in. “No, you didn’t interrupt much. Joe was just explaining the benefits of parochial schools.”
“Hoo-boy. I still have scars on my knuckles. Sister Teresa caught me reading unauthorized material in class.”
Wolf swiveled in his chair. “Let me guess: Catcher in the Rye.”
Keegan chuckled at the thought. “God Is My Co-Pilot. I figured it was okay because General Scott was, you know, religious.”
“The good sister did not share your ecclesiastical assessment?”
“Not only no but hell no.”
Derringer decided to leave his colleagues to their Catholic esoterica. “Well, excuse me, gentlemen. I’m going to take my paper and read between the lines about the bioterror threat.” He paced to the door, then stopped and turned. “You know, without getting denominational about it, we have a lot to be grateful for. I don’t want to minimize the losses we sustained, but things could have been awfully damn worse.”
Wolf nodded solemnly, staring at the carpeted floor. “I think I’ll go to midnight mass and light some candles.”
Terrence John Keegan, who decades ago had shunned the Church of Rome, thought of the deliverance he had sustained on the restroom floor. He heard himself say, “I’ll go with you.”
Michael Derringer and Joseph Wolf traded glances, knowing the full meaning of those four simple words. Forgive me, Father. It has been twenty-six years since my last confession. The retired admiral walked out of the room, a buoyancy in his step that matched the gratitude he felt about one man’s return to the fold, and one woman’s return from the edge of the grave.
On the way to his office, Derringer passed Sallie Ann Kline. “Hi Mike!” she exclaimed. “Hey, Frank’s already putting together another contingency team for the next contract. He says that J. J. Johnson should be back in a couple weeks.” She regarded her uncle and mentor. “What are you going to do now that the excitement is over for a while?”
The less-than-retired admiral patted his niece’s elbow. “Honey, I’m going to call Cap’n Bob. I have some unfinished business with a blue marlin.”
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