Greg Bear - Quantico

‘Is that Ohio?’ William asked.

Again, the short nod, followed by a tic-the only grimace he could make now.

SV LIVES

Griff pushed the marker against William’s hand, leaving a black streak, and tried to grab his fingers. Then the good eye closed. His father’s hand spasmed, then relaxed.

William sat with tears dripping down his cheeks, he could not help himself, he felt so much, all of it contradictory, for this broken man with the unbroken spirit.

SAC Keller and Rebecca entered the hospital room. ‘We’re attending an inter-agency pow-wow tomorrow morning,’ Keller said. He handed William a vinyl folder. ‘You’ll team with Rebecca.’

‘You’re completely off the hook,’ Rebecca said. ‘Someone in OPR apparently likes the way you think.’

‘Not even weird enough to become the stuff of legend,’ Keller said dryly. ‘Has our Michelin man decided to say something?’ He waved at the scrawls pinned to the wall.

‘He’s curious,’ William said, and showed them the pad.

Keller flipped through the sheets, both sides. ‘We won’t put these on display, I think,’ he said, and took the pad from William, slipping it into his briefcase. ‘Until we figure out what’s happening, we stay real cozy. Anybody not vetted by headquarters, even fellow agents, are to remain in the dark. And that includes Griff. What in hell is this?’ Keller pointed to the two sheets marked ESIA and the awkwardly slashed OHIO.

‘I don’t know,’ William said. ‘He fell asleep.’

‘Could be “Asia”,’ Keller said.

Nurses and doctors entered and told them they should leave. Griff was being taken away for more scans.

Northern Iraq, near the Turkish Border

Fouad had walked around the Superhawk twenty or thirty times, he had lost count. Each time, he had surveyed the broken clods of dirt in the abandoned farm field, the yellow stalks of old hay mixed in with the clumped, clayey soil, the surrounding mountains-extreme washboard, Master Sergeant had called them. He did not know the names of any of the surrounding peaks, or even if they had names. Despite studying the maps, he knew so little about this part of the world. He was just another ignorant American. He could speak many of the languages but not like a native-he did not know the local phrases, the local traditions-he did not even know whether this field had lain abandoned for years or decades, a poor effort in a high and rugged land. And now hard, icy snow was stinging his cheeks. They had not dressed for such cold. The air was cooling rapidly as the sun dropped closer to the horizon.

What if it has finally come. The fanatics have won, and it is Islam against the West, and the West…that is me, my people now, must bathe the Middle East in a sea of flame. Like a lion stung too many times, ripping up a nest, killing all the silly, stupid hornets.

Where will I stand? Unbelievers all around. Who am I to stand alone among them, when the umma is dying?

Fergus plodded out to where he was standing. They said nothing for a while, just wincing at the hard snow and watching the sun dim behind yellow streaks of clouds blowing away from the nearest peaks like feathery wings.

Fergus said, ‘Master Sergeant tells me the bird’s back up.’

‘Bird?’ Fouad asked.

‘Satellite links. We’re getting our instructions. We’ll be going soon.’ He looked around the clodded furrows. ‘I can’t believe someone wasted a plow. Wonder what they used to pull it? Sherpas?’

Harris joined them. ‘Small talk, gentlemen?’

‘I was just asking Fred here how long he’s been in the FBI.’

‘Not long,’ Fouad said. ‘This is my first assignment.’

‘Wow,’ Harris said. ‘That’s not typical FBI procedure, is it? Diplomatic Service, now, they take their newbies and dump them straight into the worst hellholes. Trial by fire.’

Fergus grinned. ‘Luck of the bid lists, right?’

‘Right. You ask for Paris, you get the stans.’

Fouad looked between them. ‘The stans?’

‘Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, Pakistan,’ Harris said. ‘My wife absolutely adored Pakistan. Our first child was born there. We got divorced six months later, after I bid on Frankfurt and got Tajikistan.’

‘Ah, divorce,’ Fergus said. ‘The patriot’s annulment.’

‘I want to get home and crawl under my blanket and not look out,’ Harris said. ‘Being scared for nine hours straight hurts . My head is pounding, my back and neck are tight as springs, and I have to take a shit but my sphincter is clamped tight as a vice. I keep wondering when the next nuke is going to go off and where, and I don’t want to be caught taking a squat, mid-grunt.’

Fergus laughed and beat his arms together.

‘Screw anthrax,’ Harris said, the wind almost blowing his words away. ‘That’s small-time shit.’

‘I wonder when Beatty’s going to finally leave Iraq?’ Fergus said. ‘Dedication is admirable in a man.’

‘He’s an asshole,’ Harris said. ‘I learned to hate him when I was working here eight years ago.’

‘He seemed to have some humanity,’ Fouad said. ‘He seemed to care.’

‘Did you ever watch Apocalypse Now ?’ Harris asked. They both had, Fergus five or six times. ‘Remember Robert Duvall-what the fuck was his name-going up to the wounded gook begging for water, telling Martin Sheen that any soldier holding in his guts with his bare hands was a hero. Anyway, he gives the gook his own canteen-spills water on him-and then a young jock tells him about some righteous waves. Duvall jerks the canteen away before the gook can take a sip. Right on. That’s America-a boatload of righteous sentiment, then we lose interest and pull out. We fucking go home and leave them to bleed to death.’

‘Beatty did not leave,’ Fouad pointed out.

‘He’s sticking around to prove a stupid point,’ Harris said. ‘Same difference. Screw that.’

‘Where do you want to go, right now?’ Fergus asked, with a wry smile.

‘Home,’ Harris said.

‘Me, too. Fred?’

‘I will bravely vote with the majority,’ Fouad said. Somehow, his turmoil and fear had transformed into lightheadedness, even levity. He did not have a clue what would be happening to them in the next few hours. ‘I am a young agent, lacking all experience, and yet, because I speak a strange language, here I am,’ he said. ‘With you two strapping Yankees, and we are all feeling very mortal. We will have a beer many years from now, in a bar, and laugh. We will be great friends.’

Harris gave Fergus a look. ‘You drink beer, Fred?’

‘I have been known to, to my shame,’ Fouad said. ‘But not at the Academy. My father would hear of it.’

‘Harsh man, your pappy?’

‘Not particularly,’ Fouad said. ‘But not a drinker.’

‘So if the anthrax isn’t from around here, where is it from?’ Harris asked Fergus.

‘Anthrax is everywhere,’ Fergus said. ‘But this particular stuff is special. Current thinking is, it’s our own domestic blend. One secret we’ve kept from John and Jane Q Public for a long time, is how many places in the U.S. used to work with anthrax. Agricultural schools, weapons research during World War 2-hell, back then every pharmaceutical company and university with a war contract worked with anthrax. Just inside the United States, we’ve traced leftovers to abandoned warehouses, old college labs, scientific supply houses. Nothing shocks me any more.’

‘Who in America still wants to kill Jews?’ Fouad asked. ‘Are we after Nazis or American Fascists?’

Harris and Fergus immediately sobered.

‘I am asking, who in America would make an anthrax that kills only Jews?’