James Tabor: The Deep Zone

“So you came all this way to give me a message?”

“Fifteen minutes, Dr. Leland. Please. But not here.”

“I’m the blue Tundra outside. Follow me to my house.”

“Nice place.”

The first time Agent Whittle had spoken and his voice wavered. The oppressive, soggy, boiling heat. He had the fishy, white-lipped look people got before they fainted. Hallie saw it, but she was not feeling charitable. If he can’t take the heat, screw him .

“Thanks,” she said. The rented house wasn’t really nice. Some shutters were missing, the faded blue paint was alligatoring, and the small screened porch listed. But inside it was neat and clean, with white-painted floors and walls, and smelled of fresh oranges. There was, however, no air-conditioning.

“ Warm down here,” Whittle said. He was a sizable man who appeared to be in good shape, but his voice sounded weak and thin. They were sitting in chairs at her chrome-and-Formica kitchen table, original equipment with the house.

“You get used to it. No worse than D.C. in August.”

“It’s February, though. How hot is it, exactly?”

“About ninety in here. Ninety-eight outside. So, not too bad. High humidity today, though.”

“Lord God.” Whittle loosened his blue-and-green tie, unbuttoned his collar. Mopped sweat from his face with a damp handkerchief. “I’m from North Dakota. It doesn’t get like this.”

Hallie was afraid he might actually keel off the chair. If there was one thing she did not need this day, it was a heat-stroked Fed flopping around on her kitchen floor.

“Hold on.” She took a fluted pitcher from the refrigerator and poured three tall glasses of cold, homemade lemonade. Condensation filmed the glasses in a second. She added sprigs of mint from her backyard herb garden and brought the glasses to the table. Hallie sipped hers, studying the agents. Whittle gulped half of his lemonade, then held the glass against his forehead.

“ Thank you.” There was serious gratitude in his voice.

“About Don?”

“Yes. Just a second.” Fortier put his briefcase on the table and begin working through its three combination locks.

Agent Whittle took another long drink of lemonade, then looked at Hallie in an odd way. “Could I ask you a question, Dr. Leland? It’ll take Agent Fortier a minute here.”

“Shoot.”

“Well, I was wondering what happened to your friend back there.”

“You mean Mary? The shop owner?”

“Yes.”

“She was an Apache pilot in Iraq. Patrolling her sector one day when she monitored a combat patrol screaming for air support. Insurgents had them surrounded. Command denied their request. The fighters were known to have Stingers and the brass probably figured soldiers were easier to replace than choppers. Mary went in anyway. She saved the team, but the bad guys brought her down with a Stinger. Her copilot was killed. Mary survived the crash but… well, you saw. She should have gotten the Medal of Honor.”

“What medal did she get?”

“None. ‘Lieutenant Stilwell is dishonorably discharged for willful disobeyance of orders from a superior officer and wanton disregard for the safety of her copilot, her actions resulting in destruction of Army assets and the death of said copilot,’ is how the court-martial finding read, if I recall right.”

Agent Whittle blinked, looked out the window. “I’m sorry to hear that. You get a feeling sometimes. I lost a son in Iraq.”

The words stung. At least Mary was alive. “I’m sorry, Agent Whittle. I have a soft spot in my heart for soldiers. My father was career Army.” She reached forward and touched his arm, realizing that her eyes had teared up.

“Thank you.” He continued to look out the window. Hallie hadn’t added all her history with Mary, how they had been best friends at Georgetown University and she had gone on to graduate school at Hopkins while Mary abandoned plans for medical school and joined the Army instead. Mary had been chasing her Big Sister the Doctor’s achievements all her life, and going to med school would have been just another step in her shadow. But flying an Apache— that would be something. Mary graduated from flight school at Fort Rucker second in her class and asked for the hottest region of operation, which at the time was around Fallujah in Iraq.

Agent Fortier set on the table what looked like an oversized BlackBerry, unfolded two side panels, pressed a button. One soft tone, then a cone of rose-colored light blossomed, and Don Barnard was there on her table. His head and chest, anyway.

The hologram spoke: “Hello, Hallie! Can you see me okay?”

It took her a moment to respond. “I… can see you fine, Don.” The image was unbelievably real. Every hair of his big white mustache was clearly visible, his bushy eyebrows and sharp blue eyes and his weekend sailor’s sunburn.

“I can see you, too. Amazing, isn’t it?”

“This is you I’m talking to? Not some CG thing?”

“It’s me. I just couldn’t get away right now.”

She smiled at the sight of him for another moment, then decided it was time to drive the conversation forward.

“What’s going on, Don?”

His smile faded. “We have a problem, Hallie, and time is of the essence. I— we —need your help.”

She actually laughed. “My help? Come on, they ran me out of there on a rail.”

“You know how I felt about that. It was a rotten deal.”

“I know that you were the only one in my corner.”

“And I would be there again. Look, Hallie, can you come up here?”

“You mean, like now ?”

“Yes.”

“In a day or two, I guess. I work for a friend, Don. She’ll need some—”

“Can’t wait, Hallie. We need you now. Someone will speak to Mary.”

“How did you know—Never mind. But you won’t tell me why?”

“ Can’t . Even these things can be hacked. I’m sure the agents have mentioned national security.”

“Was I supposed to take that seriously?”

“Indeed.”

“This has nothing to do with the other business?”

“No. Nothing. My word on that.”

“Okay.” Hallie believed him, but wanted to be clear. “Those bastards can piss in their hats for all I care.”

“I think we agree on that.”

“I’ll come. What happens now?”

“Agents Fortier and Whittle will take it from here. Thank you, Hallie. We’ll speak soon.”

His image dissolved.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” she asked Whittle, who was drinking the last of his lemonade and looking better.

Her hospitality had softened their official crust. He smiled and shook his head. “For this mission we’re just high-end errand boys, Dr. Leland.”

“Do I have time to pack?”

“They’ll have things for you on the other end.”

“Jesus. Well, then I’m ready when you are, gentlemen.”

They walked out. She locked the door and followed the agents to their black Expedition with tinted windows, where Whittle held a rear door for her. They had left the engine running to keep the air-conditioning on. She got in and it was like sitting down in a meat locker. When he saw that she was settled, he said, “Thank you, Dr. Leland,” before gently closing the door.

This, she had to admit, was more like it.

“HALLIE!”

Donald Barnard, MD, PhD, had started at tight end for the University of Virginia in 1968 and ’69. He was now twenty pounds heavier and decades older, but still solid. He hauled around his desk like a bear rolling out of its den, big hand extended, looking happy and relieved and exhausted all at once. Hallie brushed his proffered hand aside and gave him a long, hard hug, then held him at arm’s length. She frowned.