Francesco Mazzotta - Cellular Activity

“It’s not really a great sight at this hour, isn’t it?”

John Ironside’s voice sneaks into her thoughts, pulling her away from fantasies that she has already forgotten, and setting her back to the present. The woman opens her eyes and turns to look, while the words of the man are assimilated, becoming awareness. Ironside smiles, nodding with a movement of his face to the window in which she was absorbed.

“Well, yes, it’s really pitch dark outside”, she answers, realizing the blush on her cheeks and turning back to the window, to prevent him from noticing. The man doesn’t insist, turning back to read a business magazine. Previous attempts to have a conversation that could alleviate the boredom of the night flight did not give the best results.

“Anyway, it won’t take any much longer, I presume…”

This time she has taken up the speech. John Ironside looks up, happy to talk to someone. The other passengers of the flight, a silent team of marines, dressed in light-colored camouflage tactic suits, are sitting in the tail of the passenger compartment that, if not for the occasional jolts due to the vagaries of air currents, might seem a modern luxury living room.

“No, not really, we should be almost there” is the affable man’s reply. He’s going to add something else, when a beep in his ear-set warns him of an incoming communication. “Sir, an incoming call, Secretary Thompson on line.”

Ironside has no time to reply, for the operator has already switched the communication, and Thompson’s voice breaks into the flight’s monotony.

Emily Moore looks at the man, sitting near one of the windows on the other side. His face hardens, his eyes take on a serious stare, while a veil of concern draws tiny wrinkles on his forehead. The man opens a small laptop, quickly typing his access credentials, then he keeps his eyes on the screen for a long time, looking at a downloading picture that appears slowly, line by line. Ironside’s face takes a veil of disgust, then he lowers the screen with a sharp gesture, putting aside the small computer.

“Roger Richard, I’m gonna update Dr. Moore, right now.”

Hearing her name, the woman has the feeling that an invisible hand is squeezing her stomach, aware that the communication has not brought good news. Her intuition is confirmed when Ironside turns to face her. The man gets up and comes near her, sitting down in the opposite seat. “I’m afraid I don’t have good news, Dr. Moore.”

The man awaits, as if to choose the right words, then continues. “There is the real possibility that Ebola isn’t the subject of our concerns.”

The woman’s look is not affected. She’s no longer a shy nerd, but Dr. Moore, the scientist, in her more congenial environment. “If it’s not Ebola, then what is it?”, she says dryly.

Ironside notices the change in his interlocutor, and this partially mitigates his concerns: in situations like the current one it’s far better to have sharp and determined people around. “We’ll know soon. The Russian government is sending an expert. His plane has already landed at Algiers airport. A helicopter is taking him to the same place where we are heading, in the Algerian Sahara. Have you ever heard the name of Alexander Ivanov?”

Reading the perplexity in the look of the woman, Ironside keeps talking, sharing with her the little information found about the Russian scientist. “In the early 80’s, Alexander Ivanov was absolutely the best Russian researcher in the field of biological warfare. According to our information, at that time he was able to create a modified versions of the smallpox virus that aroused quite a stir and concern, both in Russia and in other countries. A genius like few, a real promise in the scientific world, although his research was towards the production of lethal weapons.”

Ironside changes position in the seat, approaching Moore as to emphasize how important the information is, and he keeps saying how, about Alexander Ivanov, there are no more records since 1983.

The woman listens carefully and after Ironside ends she takes a moment before formulating the questions implied in that revelation. “A Russian biotechnological weapons expert… American intelligence services lose his tracks for about thirty years… After all that time the Russians pull him out of the hat, after someone has stolen a dangerous pathogen, bringing it into other nations. Why Ivanov, except that he is probably the one who has created this weapon? Why risking to deliver his knowledge and his creations to the nation that has always been their main antagonist?”

“Good points, Dr. Moore”, replies Ironside with a half-worried smile. “Perhaps because his creation is so dangerous to put into serious doubt the future existence of the nations themselves. Of all nations… However, I believe that we will have some answers soon. We’ve started a descending loop right now.”

Hearing those words, Moore realizes that the plane is slightly tilted, and has started to fly into a spiral descent to the runway. She turns instinctively to look out the window on her left.

Somewhere below them, there are two barely visible parallel strips of lights placed at regular intervals.

“First time in the field?”

She just nods. Her face seems concerned.

“In the incoming hours we will work together to face this threat, whatever it is. If you notice anything unusual or have just impressions, please, share them with me. Even the smallest detail may be of crucial importance. This matter… well, it’s serious, it’s damn serious. And… please call me John.”

The woman looks at the man sitting in front of her and notices the hand he’s holding out. A little surprised, she hastens to hold it, cursing inwardly the blush that she feels rising on her nerdy cheeks.

“Emily”, is her reply.

A short line of military vehicles moves quickly to the site of the disaster, raising a cloud of sand and dust in its wake. The leading vehicle is a Joint Light Tactical Vehicle, JLTV, whose shape resembles an armored SUV. Its color is designed to blend in easily with the shades of the sand dunes. From the rear of the vehicle sprout two long antennae connected with the communication apparatus inside. Its headlights light up the ground for a few hundred meters.

The inner part of the vehicle is lit by rows of tiny screens. One of them displays the footage taken by an external camera placed on top of the vehicle. The soldiers on board wear bio-hazard suits, but they have their faces uncovered. Their faces look serious and concerned.

They are men hardened by the ups and downs inherent with their job, they know what to expect on the scene of the crash of a plane that was traveling with about two hundred and fifty people on board.

The driver is a muscular and broad-shouldered black. His eyes are moving rapidly to observe carefully the terrain that lies ahead of the car. “Lieutenant, why these suits?”

“I know almost as much as you, Brody. Washington warned us about the possible presence of a contaminant agent on the plane. Our orders are to scout ahead, check the possible presence of survivors and possibly help them. We must secure the area and await for further directives”. These words are spoken by the man sitting beside the driver, Lt. Samuel Bishop. This one has a lean physique and chiseled features. A deep scar furrows his face, sneaking on his left cheekbone and venturing above his ear, drawing a white line through his short black hair.

“Contaminant agent?”, echoes the soldier sitting in front of the screen, a young man with red hair that looks like the twin of one of the protagonists of the old TV series Happy Days. “What kind?”

“Ebola. Brody slow down, we should almost be there.”