James Tabor - The Deep Zone

“They don’t want to freak people out, right? I can understand that. But, Doc, if you do talk to her?”

“Yes?”

Dillon had been in more firefights than she could count and seen more horrors than she could imagine. He was one of their best, career Army, a cold-eyed, efficient killer but a sensitive leader of men. Rare combination, that. Now his eyes filled with tears.

“Doc… look. No bull now. I don’t think I’m gonna make it. I know ’bout Wyman and Angel and the others. You’re good at hidin’ it, but… not that good. So, please don’t tell her how bad I am, hear? She got enough on her plate, dealin’ with the kids an’ all. Who knows? Maybe I’ll have one of them miraculous recoveries.”

She looked down. There were no lesions between the elbow and wrist. She gave his arm a long, firm squeeze.

“Marshell Dillon, you listen. There’s no way I think you’re going to die. I don’t want to hear you say that again. Roger that?” She delivered that stern-voiced, like an order, but her eyes were kind.

He smiled up at her, his own eyes still glistening. “Roger that, ma’am.”

Stilwell finished examining the eight cases in Ward B and headed for the four in Ward A. In the hallway between the two wards, a nurse in a Chemturion approached. Stilwell laid a hand on her plastic-covered arm.

“Pam.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“What day is it?”

“What day? Tuesday, ma’am. Evening.”

“Thank you. I sort of lost track.”

“Um… ma’am? Permission to speak?”

Stilwell patted the nurse’s arm, smiled. “You always have that with me, Pam.”

“Yes. Thank you, ma’am. So, we’re worrying about you.”

“About me?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s not only going around without a suit. You’re not taking care of yourself. Ma’am.” Through the hazy plastic hood, Stilwell saw genuine concern in the young nurse’s eyes. “You’re not eating enough or sleeping. We’re worrying.”

“If you didn’t have that suit on I’d give you a hug. I appreciate your concern, Pam. Really. But back in the day, when I was an intern, they called me ‘Superdoc.’ I could do more work than any two of the male doctors.”

Pam looked skeptical, but a bit less worried. “Is it true you used to run marathons, ma’am?”

“That is true. I never broke three hours, but I never ran a race I didn’t finish, either. Born with the stamina of a mule.” Her expression turned serious. “Look, I’ll be careful. I know that if I go down, I’m no use to you or these sick kids. But if you do see me screwing up, say so. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am. Understood.”

Stilwell patted her shoulder and sent the nurse on her way. Now, where was I going? And what was I doing?

“Uh, Major, ma’am, excuse me, there’s a call.” Stilwell turned to see another nurse, a young specialist from Baltimore, Michael Demrock, very thin, corn-silk hair. Not the brightest one she’d ever had, but certainly one of the best-hearted.

“Thanks. I’ll catch it later. I’m going to—”

“It’s a colonel, ma’am. Full bird.”

“What does he want? Is he a fobbit?” Stilwell could feel her impatience heating up. She had never much cared for the fobbits, officers so called because they were denizens of the FOBs, forward operating bases, which were not really forward at all but were a world away to the rear. She disliked them for their tailored uniforms and Baskin-Robbins shops and McDonald’s and Starbucks and bars, all of which FOBs offered. When the fobbits came, it was always about some missing piece of paperwork or with an admonition about her outrageous MPPs—her minutes-per-patient ratio.

“He kind of sounds like one, yes ma’am.”

“What’s his name?”

“Ah, Rubbish, ma’am.”

“Rubbish? His name is Colonel Rubbish ?”

“No, wait. That’s not it. Ribbesh. Or something like that. It’s kind of hard to hear in these suits.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She waited. After a while she realized that Demrock was waiting, too. Patience, Major. He’s just deferring to your rank . “And what was it, Specialist?”

“You, ma’am. He said he wanted to talk to you.”

Round and round we go , she thought. “Of course. You told me that already. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Major.”

In her closet-sized office, she dropped into the wooden chair behind her desk and picked up the phone. “Major Stilwell.”

“Colonel Ribbesh here, Major. They had to go a way to find you, apparently. I apprised them almost ten minutes ago of my need to speak with you.”

A fobbit for sure. And he wants an apology for keeping him waiting . They were easy to spot when you could see them. Their uniforms were too clean, they had too much fat on them, and their skin was always too white. They were almost as easy to identify just from their voices. They never swore, didn’t drop g ’s, sounded prissy, used words like ‘apprised.’ Lenora Stilwell detested them.

“How can I help you, Colonel?”

A beat, then another. He’s surprised. Waiting for it . She let him wait, glanced at her watch. She was overdue in Ward A. Those four soldiers would be waiting for her. Medicine was about drugs and scalpels and X-rays for sure, but healing was about heart; she had understood that long ago.

Finally he cleared his throat. “I’m battalion NBC liaison. I will be coming up to Terok. An inspection visit, orders from regiment. I wanted to apprise you of my ETA.”

Regiment. That meant from the one-star, an alcoholic martinet named Gremble. “Your ETA. I see. What is it, sir?”

“Day after tomorrow, zero eight thirty hours.”

Day after tomorrow. Fine. Great. From where she sat now, with a hundred things needing to be done in the next hour, that felt like a century away.

“Very well, Colonel. Thanks for letting me know.”

When the fobbit spoke again, his voice was different. “Major, can you apprise me of the conditions up there at Terok?”

“The conditions, sir?” What the hell did he mean? The weather? The four-star accommodations?

He coughed again. “Yes.” Pause. “I gather this pathogen is quite deadly.”

He’s scared . She could hear it in his voice. Just tell him the truth .

“It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen, Colonel. You’ve heard of Ebola Zaire?”

“Of course.”

“Worse than that. More contagious, shorter incubation period, higher mortality rate.”

“My God.”

“Are you sure you need to make this trip, Colonel? We’ve got things under control here.”

“Orders, Major.” Ribbesh sounded like a miserable child who was being punished. She wondered what he had done to get on the one-star’s bad side. “So… would you recommend full Biosafety Level Four protection?”

She laughed before she could stop herself, but cut it off quickly. No need to insult the man. “Not if you remain outside the hospital confines, sir. If you want to come in, then definitely.”

Too late. He sounded very insulted. “All right, then. Thank you, Major . I will see you soon.” He emphasized her rank just enough to let her know that he was pissed.

“I’ll be here, sir.”

“I’m sure you will.” The line went dead.

She replaced the receiver and scrubbed her hands over her face, trying to push away the fatigue, the heaviness in her eyes and muscles and brain. In the drawer of her desk she found half a Butterfinger bar in its crumpled yellow wrapper. It might have been left over from the day before, or from some other, more distant time. She wasn’t sure. She gobbled it anyway and washed it down with a cup of the mud that passed for coffee here.