Paul McKellips - Jericho 3

“Microbiology.”

“Are you a doctor?” Banks asked as he finished the water.

The smile left Kazi’s face.

“The woman… over there… she is very important to us. She needs surgery.”

“If she’s so important to you, then why is her mouth covered with tape?”

“You can’t see her mouth, Dr. Banks.”

“And I can’t hear her either. You folks seem to like your duct tape.”

Kazi looked back at the woman then down at the mud floor.

“What kind of surgery, Kazi?” Banks finally asked.

Kazi got up and walked over to the table near the woman’s bed. He picked up two small implant devices and caressed them as though he was holding bags of precious diamonds.

“Female surgery, Dr. Banks, female surgery.”

FOB Shank

Regional Command — East, Afghanistan

Camp finally made it to the front of the line at Forward Operating Base Shank’s MILAIR counter. Shank was a large and sprawling base in Regional Command — East and one of the only bases other than Bagram that had a runway long enough for large military aircraft like the C-17.

“Ma’am, this is getting older than dirt.”

“I’m sorry, Captain Campbell, but I have no control over Mother Nature.”

“I understand that, Sergeant Delaney, but seven days in temporary billeting, sharing a bunk room with 14 Air Force individual augmentees gaming on their PlayStations until 0200 is about more than I can handle. Anything going out today?”

“Back to Bagram, yes… over the pass to Lightning… no.”

“Ma’am, the Deputy Commander of ISAF is—”

“Captain Campbell, even if Pope Benedict wants you at Lightning, I can’t do anything about it if the birds aren’t flying. I’m sorry, sir; I know it’s frustrating.”

“No, what’s frustrating is that you make me get out of my rack, pack my gear and my roll, put my full kit on, hump a click down the road and check in here every morning at 0500, so you can tell me the same damn thing. That’s what’s frustrating.”

An older man, African-American with a receding hairline and dressed in civilian tactical 5.11 khakis, overheard the conversation from his vinyl seat in the waiting room. He was reading an old, well-worn and heavily circulated copy of Stars and Stripes.

“You headed to FOB Lightning too, captain?” he asked.

Camp turned and saw the slight man still scanning through the old newspaper.

“Theoretically,” Camp said turning his attention back to Sergeant Delaney.

“A ground convoy came in late last night from Bagram. They’re leaving at 1500 today for Paktya Province, passing right through Lightning,” the man said.

Camp stepped out of line.

“They got room?”

“They’ve always got room. I’m already on the convoy but thought I’d see if anything was going up and over instead of going ground through the pass.”

“How do I get on the manifest? Where do we muster?”

“Muster is at the truck lot right behind your barracks, Captain Campbell.”

Camp dropped his head and raised his eyebrows.

“Do we know each other?”

“Not yet. But Jim Ferguson described you as a confident, border-line arrogant at times, Navy Captain with good looks. I mean, how many of you can there be?”

Camp smiled. “You work for the general?”

“And with you, apparently,” the man said as he stood up. “Billy Finn, Special Agent, FBI, retired agent that is, now Schedule A civilian for this tour.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Billy. Did Ferguson send you to rescue me from FOB Shank?”

“Actually, I was on a bird that got diverted here last night. I was supposed to meet up with you at Lightning, but then again you were supposed to be there seven days ago.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve been in transit from Bagram for more than a week. The weather just doesn’t want to cooperate. What did you do for the bureau?

“Organized crime rings, worked in the Manhattan field office for 17 years, Montreal for a dozen before that.”

“Organized crime? So, I guess that means our kidnapping at Lightning wasn’t the work of the Taliban?”

Finn smiled and gathered up his pack and kit. A well-worn Glock 22 was holstered on his hip.

“Depends. No one knows where the Taliban ends and the Haqqani network or Pakistani intelligence begins out here. Afghanistan is the wild, wild west Captain Campbell, the wild, wild west.”

“Well, if I’m going to be stuck with your sorry ass for a few days you might as well call me Camp.”

National Interagency Biodefense Center

BSL-4 Facility

Fort Detrick, Maryland

Raines walked up the sidewalk to an unusual looking four or five-story brick and glass building. By design, the building was somewhat ambiguous in appearance and its size was unclear. The checkpoint guard reviewed her orders, verified her credentials and gave her the map. The $105 million facility certainly didn’t look like anything else she had ever worked in before.

The atrium was enormous, and sunlight filled the room through expansive glass windows and skylights. Deep leather chairs and couches filled the space where scientists, military veterinarians and infectious disease experts lounged and discussed their work. Raines knew all about Fort Detrick but this was her first tour to actually work in the facility.

She stopped momentarily as her eyes gazed at the ceiling and absorbed the craftsmanship of the building.

“Lieutenant Colonel Raines?”

“Yes, sir,” she managed to say somewhat startled.

“The guard desk called and said you had arrived. I’m Doctor Groenwald,” he said with a faint Dutch accent.

“Yes, Dr. Groenwald, it is a real honor and pleasure to finally meet you, sir. You are a legend in the fields of infectious disease. I hardly think I’m qualified to assist your research work, but I am so honored to be here.”

“Nonsense. I’ve read your folio, and it is I who should be honored to meet the one who uncovered the Malak al-Maut.”

“Yes, well, that was quite an adventure. We were very fortunate only to be dealing with the Black Plague. An Ebola-Plague hybrid would have been catastrophic.”

“Indeed. Well, let’s get a coffee, and I’ll give you the tour and show you where your office will be.”

The atrium coffee bar was buzzing with activity and a line seven deep stood waiting for a caffeine concoction or a freshly baked pastry.

“Well, we have slightly more than 11,000 square feet here. This is an IRF. The atrium looks pretty, but I can assure you that she’s built like a submarine.”

“I’ve never worked in an Integrated Research Facility like this before. How many agencies are under the same roof?”

“The IRF basically holds three agencies. From NIH, we have the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Disease. And, of course, we rolled the Army’s Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases into this facility as well as the National Biodefense Analysis and Countermeasures Center; Homeland Security, Department of Defense and the National Institutes of Health, all under one roof. Ah, pick your poison, colonel.”

“Sir?”

“Your coffee… pick your poison.”

“Sorry, a tall skinny latte, ma’am.”

“And I’ll take a grande mocha, double shot, please,” Groenwald ordered and narrated in the same breath, “so this is the crown jewel of the nation’s biodefense research program, Colonel Raines. Every day we try to understand, treat and hopefully prevent any number of infectious, immunologic, and allergic diseases that threaten hundreds of millions of people worldwide.”