by Ginger Booth
“You’re to be detained for questioning by Homeland Security,” the Marine answered reluctantly. “Come along now, Ma’am.”
“Like hell she is!” Tom yelled. “Get out of my family’s cabin! I demand to speak to the head of scientific staff, Dr. Wagner, right now!”
I was surprised and touched by Tom’s efforts to protect me. The Marines were less than impressed, and the eventual net effect was that we were both dragged from the room in handcuffs. Beth grabbed the kids and buried their faces in her body, and looked away, tears in her eyes.
“Beth! Call Dr. Wagner!” Tom yelled as his parting shot.
Beth Agrawal didn’t reply.
The aircraft carrier Ark 7 was staffed with an eclectic mix of Navy, Coast Guard, Marine, and probably some Air Force personnel as well. What it didn’t have was Homeland Security. So there would be no questioning right away. At the brig, Tom and I were locked into a barred corner holding pen, devoid of seats, and too small in any direction for even one of us to lie down full-length. We both sat down on the triangular scrap of hard floor, backs to the wall, arms hugging our knees.
A 20-ish Marine, who looked like a high school football linebacker, sat at a desk across from us in the small chamber. He played video games on a handheld device. Tom harassed him until a breakfast of cornflakes and water was supplied.
“You didn’t have to defend me,” I suggested to Tom, once we’d pushed the breakfast tray out under the bars of the pen. “I mean, thank you, Tom. But you hardly know me.”
“I know you fine,” returned Tom. “I’ve seen you for two days with my daughter Charity. You’re no more threat to the U.S. than I am.” This last was louder, and thrust toward ‘Tibbs’, our labelled and indifferent linebacker.
I suggested mildly, “Tom, I don’t think the nice Mr. Tibbs over there is our problem. It’s his job to make sure we’re all comfortable and everything runs smoothly down here in the brig.” I smiled at Tibbs.
Tibbs smirked, but declined to glance up from the video game.
Tom said, “If Adam hadn’t been taken off the ship, he’d be here to help you. I’m standing in, since he can’t be here.” I’d told Tom about Adam’s departure during the morning bathroom shuffle.
Tibbs cocked an eyebrow at that. I wondered if he was quite as dull and uninterested as he appeared.
“I was here as a guest,” I explained in Tibbs’ direction. “Of my fiancé, Adam Lacey. Adam’s an engineer with the ark conversion team. He designed the closed water system we’re depending on now. The Coast Guard requested his help last night, so he was transferred away by helicopter. Is there any way I could get word to my fiancé, Mr. Tibbs?”
Tibbs sighed. “No, Ma’am.”
“Why are you buttering up the Cro-Magnon?” inquired Tom, not nearly sotto voce enough for my taste. Tibbs leveled a glare at him.
I began to see why Beth hadn’t lifted a finger in the man’s defense. Some men are just indefensible. I regretted, though, that I didn’t get a chance to look up ‘dildo’ in a dictionary. The 8-or-9 year old Dennis’ expression had been priceless.
“Tom, I think Mr. Tibbs may be smarter than you, in this context,” I warned him gently. “I keep saying Mr. Tibbs, excuse me. Is it Sergeant, or…?”
“Corporal, Ma’am.”
“Corporal Tibbs,” I acknowledged, and smiled at him winningly. “Behave, Tom. And cheer up. You’re only in here to cool your heels for mouthing off. I get to enjoy Corporal Tibbs and his buddies’ company until tomorrow. When they hand me off to Homeland Security.” I banged my head back on the wall.
“No one ever comes back from Homeland Security,” Tom growled.
Gee, thanks for reminding me. Tibbs and I both scowled at him.
“What did you do, anyway?” Tom asked.
Tibbs stared at him. You call me a Cro-Magnon, when you’re that stupid? I felt I was making progress, if Tibbs was looking daggers at Tom instead of me. Not that Tibbs could do much for me. Probably. Actually, if I could get him to contact Adam for me, that might help as much as anything could.
“I think I’d like to hear what they accuse me of, rather than give them any ideas,” I replied to Tom. “But my conscience is clear as a mountain stream.”
Beguiling thought, that, the whitewater burbling beauty of a mountain stream, versus our tiny tonal grey-on-grey brig, in the bottom of an aircraft carrier. I wondered if we were below the water line of the ship. The only lower levels listed on the final elevator were down in the cargo holds. I’d never been much of one for claustrophobia before. But I thought I might take it up real soon now.
“Tell me about your work, Tom,” I invited. Ask a scientist about his research – that ought to be good for hours of entertainment. I thought I heard Tibbs sigh in resignation. Well, he was welcome to provide us a deck of cards or something if he couldn’t stand my choice of distraction. “What exactly do you do with infectious diseases?”
Fortunately, Tom Aoyama turned out to be one of those rare scientists who had an undergraduate teaching vocation to match his research standing. And with no discernible sense of self-preservation, he liberally sprinkled in examples from the ongoing Ebola epidemic in New York – still denied by the news and authorities – to illustrate his points. Once Tom got going, Tibbs participated too. Several times he looked up specialized terms before asking for Tom to expand on them. He was a smart one, Corporal Tibbs.
“So, just as a hypothetical,” I broke in at one point, “if the ark were free to intervene in the New York situation right now, could the epidemic still be arrested? Or is the situation already so out of control that the disease just has to run its course?”
That earned me a sharp glance from Tibbs. But he wanted to hear the answer, too.
It was just getting good. We had a mental map of Long Island, just a few miles from our starting point in New London harbor, invisibly drawn on the floor. Tom was expounding on a plan for a quarantine cordon gradually moving west along the island. Then a very irritable-looking Dr. Wagner arrived, with a pair of Navy and Marine officers of some sort.
Corporal Tibbs was dragged around the corner by the Marine officer, for what looked like a firm rebuke, and instructions to forget everything he’d heard. The brig had a couple nice convex mirrors mounted in the ceiling corners for ease in watching the whole brig complex from Tibbs’ desk. The cages back there featured bare-mattress bunks and open-air toilets.
“Tom,” Dr. Wagner greeted him, shaking his head in dismay. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Werner! Waiting for you to spring me out of here. It’s been hours!” Tom accused.
“Tom, I don’t think you quite appreciate our position here,” Dr. Wagner attempted.
“We’re here as a resource. To help people. Yeah, I get that the Captain said we’re not free to do that yet. Damn Washington to hell! But what’s the harm in talking about it? Sooner or later, we will be released to help people. Right? I mean, that’s what I signed up for. That’s why I’m here.”
Werner Wagner patted his hand downward on air to suggest Tom take it down a notch. He was a slightly-built and distinguished-looking silver-haired European, in a nice grey cashmere sweater and slacks over good deck-traction athletic shoes. I could picture him as the chairman of a fractious Ivy league biology department meeting, full of lofty credentials matched with planetary-scale egos. “We’re here as guests of the U.S. Navy, Tom,” he explained gently, in a faintly British-trained over Germanic accent.
“To hell with the U.S. Navy!” Tom continued to expand on this theme.
It astonished no one, except perhaps Tom Aoyama, when Dr. Wagner eventually left the brig without him.
Tom was still yelling to his back. “When are we going to relieve New York, Werner? When 20 million are dead? 30? 50? When the epidemic jumps the borders? When?!”
The brig hatch clanged shut. I patted his leg in compassion as Tom collapsed back onto the floor beside me. “I’m sure he’ll tell Beth you’re al
right,” I offered. “I wish someone would tell Adam.”
I really, really wished someone would tell Adam, so he’d tell my people back in Totoket. And so that he’d know himself, that I hadn’t just forgotten about him. So that Zack and Alex and Mangal and Shanti and Shelley would know, that I hadn’t just run out on them. Especially Zack. I thought Mangal would know better, but I wasn’t sure he’d even try to convince Zack. For Zack to think I’d just skated out on Totoket because Adam gave me a better offer, that hurt.
Not that it would do me or Amenac any good if they knew the truth, that HomeSec got me. Amenac was dead in the water unless I could connect Jean-Claude Alarie to Dave of Amen1. I would bet anything Jean-Claude had someone in Canada crack into those sites that powered Amenac by now. But no one in Totoket but me knew that about Jean-Claude, or how to contact him. As for me, I was already as good as disappeared.
A subdued Corporal Tibbs resumed his chair at the desk before us. “We’re all going to enjoy quiet time now until lunch,” he explained patiently.
I closed my eyes meekly and hugged knees to forehead. Tom continued to swear a blue streak – quietly.
20
Interesting fact: It’s hard to tease apart the effects of the earthquakes, versus the tsunamis, versus the drought and the fires, versus the famines and violence. No interior borders were ever established for population control within California, because California flat-out refused, and tied the matter up in federal court. Overall, the population of California was estimated at 9 million by the end of that year, from a high of 41 million.
We docked early on Wednesday, back in Groton, after a long and contemplative night in the brig bunkroom with the open-air toilet.
About the toilet, I decided the best thing to do was simply use it normally, with no attempt to hide. We were all grown-ups. It’s not like anyone would rape me in that all-too-thoroughly-observed brig. A guy would just whip it out to pee in public. Thus to clutch at my modesty would be to paint myself a victim. Screw that.
Likewise, Tom and I shared the 6-bunk cell. We’d shared a berthing cabin outside the brig, after all. The brig version was actually more comfortable. More spacious, with a full-width hall outside the bars, convex mirrors to open up the space, and en suite plumbing. Linens were provided for the two mattresses we used.
Corporal Tibbs was back on duty in the morning to see us off. Yes, us. Tom demanded to be put ashore, and his wish was granted. “Beth knows what I’m doing,” he told me quietly. Thoughts of his family still haunted his eyes, though.
I was glad someone knew what he was doing. It helped me to feel less responsible for getting the man crimed and separated from his family. Not that I’d suggested he do anything of the sort. Still, if I hadn’t been ‘detained’ right in front of him, the man would have gone to breakfast with his wife and kids. He’d have been with his family that evening for Beth’s revenge for making his son look up the word ‘dildo.’
The thought made me smile. There are probably smarter things to hold tight to, to take your mind off the fear, as you’re marched off a ship, hands chained, blinking in the harsh morning sun, to face the people who will disappear you to your probable death. But I had a 9-year-old’s misadventures with the word ‘dildo’ for comfort. It was something.
We stopped in front of the Homeland Security suits. Corporal Tibbs handed over Tom’s footlocker and my overnight bag.
“Wait a minute,” said Tom. “I’m not being held for Homeland Security. Just Dee. I’m just leaving the ship.”
Adam? I mouthed at Tibbs in entreaty, as he turned to go. He closed and reopened his eyes slowly. Maybe it meant yes.
“Tibbs! Tell them!” Tom yelled. “I’m just – I’m not –”
One of the suits grabbed him and started propelling him roughly toward the reception building at the foot of the pier. Another simply waved a hand thataway to invite me to walk under my own power. I had an easier walk.
“Aren’t I entitled to a phone call?” I asked, once I’d established my cooperation.
“No,” the suit replied. These suits didn’t come equipped with name tags. My keeper was a woman of little expression, average shape, and unmemorable plain face under straight dirty-brown hair.
“They weren’t able to tell me on the ship – what am I accused of?”
“Violating the Calm Act,” she replied unhelpfully.
Though I supposed it was a good sign that she hadn’t added ‘and treason.’ Not that it was clear that treason was any worse than insulting the Calm Act. They can only execute you once.
“Mr. Aoyama really was only thrown in the brig for mouthing off,” I attempted. “When I was detained.”
No response.
We were placed in the back seats of separate black electric SUVs. I didn’t bother to look back as we headed onto I-95, and west, back toward New Haven. I doubted Adam was in Groton. Since they flew him off on a chopper, I was pretty sure he was still at sea somewhere. I wondered if the unknown Niedermeyer had yanked Adam off Ark 7 because he knew I was about to get arrested, and didn’t want Adam going down with me. Or maybe he’d expected me to come with Adam, and be safe.
I was pleased to see out the window that deep snow still blanketed the landscape.
“Do you deny your involvement with the subversive website Amenac?” Ms. Humorless demanded for the Nth time. She never did me the courtesy of an introduction.
We were in an anonymous bland office building in Wallingford, Connecticut, a few towns inland of Totoket. The office floor was replete with anonymous cubicles reminiscent of the cubicle maze at UNC Stamford. Their corporate office art wasn’t as good, though. Instead of wistful beach toys and the educational boat-tailed grackle, their walls were mostly dressed with motivational posters on black. Our bland conference room featured one with a kitten hanging from a twig, exhorting me to ‘Hang in There!’ I tried to see it as encouragement rather than a bad joke.
I replied, “I’m a beta tester on the Amenac website, as I’ve said. And I’m proud of my contributions. It’s a great site for farmers and gardeners.” That was my story, and I was sticking with it.
“You are undermining the security of the United States of America in time of crisis.”
“Everyone’s entitled to an opinion. Though of course I have never incited anyone to be rebellious, my purely private opinion is that the American people deserve access to accurate weather reports. And other bits of truth, like where it’s safe to barter for what we need. Like food. As a gardener, who wants to grow enough food to live, I thank God for Amenac.”
“There! You admit it!”
“Admit what,” I said dully.
“Inciting to rebellion!”
“Actually, Ma’am,” said the younger and better looking male suit who manned the assorted recording devices, “she said she didn’t incite anyone to be rebellious.”
“Well, you can edit it,” Ms. Humorless suggested.
The young man looked appalled.
“Why do you care?” I inquired of him gently. “I mean, is there a quality control officer who reviews this? Do you need to make sure you’ve got it just so for your war crimes trial? There will be one, you know. Someday. If anyone survives this climate crisis, there will be. And they’ll have a special place at that war crimes trial for Homeland Security.”
I liked Mr. Secretary. He flinched each time I said ‘war crimes.’ There was a shred of decency left there – good to know.
Ms. Humorless didn’t have that chink. “Are you threatening me? Are you threatening me?”
“Everyone’s entitled to an opinion. Ma’am,” I repeated.
“No, Ms. Baker. You are not entitled to an opinion, according to the Calm Act!”
She seemed to think I was going to flinch at my own name if she hissed it sinisterly enough. Perhaps she just struck me as too stupid to be sinister.
“I don’t believe I’m familiar with that clause of the Calm Act. Ma’am,” I replied. Again. “Of course, most of the Ca
lm Act was never published. So I don’t really know what’s in there. Do I.”
“Note for the record that the subject was completely uncooperative,” she said, for the Nth time. Thankfully her phone buzzed her. “Uh-huh… Uh-huh… On my way. You!” She jabbed a finger at Mr. Secretary. “Keep an eye on her!” She slammed out.
Mr. Secretary took a deep breath of relief, and let it out. I mimicked him exactly. He sat back and crossed his ankles. I sat back and crossed my legs, then stretched the kinks out of my upper back. He stretched, too. We wordlessly relaxed together.
God, I’m grateful for that basics of supervision course. Best five days I ever invested in my career at UNC.
I’d spotted the e-cigarette in his jacket pocket, a real guy-rig with a miniature brass rocket of a battery on one end, and a generous e-liquid tank on the other. I hoped for his sake he wasn’t over-compensating for something.
“Is that an e-cig?” I asked. “Any chance I could have a drag? I’d kill for some nicotine.”
No, I’m not a smoker, or a vaper. But I knew plenty of people who were, and I bet he wanted to vape, right this instant, especially now that I’d brought it up. Ms. Humorless would have that effect on people. Sure enough, he looked guiltily around. Spotting no one watching us, he powered up his device. He surreptitiously inhaled a lungful and blew a thick cloud down under the conference table. He passed it to me.
I mimicked him, careful to keep the vapor out of my lungs so I didn’t give myself a coughing fit. I blew it all out, then took another deep drag, and handed it back. “Thank you. God bless you.”
“I know, right?” He took another drag.
We were complicit now, like teenagers smoking in the lav, partners in a little no-no. “What’s your name?” I asked.
He looked guiltily over his shoulder again, and took another drag. “Mark. But we’re not supposed to say.”
Someone should have taught Mark why it was that he shouldn’t say. Names have power.
“Mark,” I repeated. “I love the design of your e-cig. I’m big on steampunk, myself. At home I have a big brass and silver cogwork one.” My fingers described a chubby steampunk pen I owned, not an e-cig.
