Francesco Mazzotta - Cellular Activity

“A greenhouse…”, echoes her.

Macready keeps talking with a touch of pride. “The base must be self-sufficient and capable of withstanding for an indefinite time. The structure is experimental, so it may appear… atypical. As I mentioned, we aren’t many here. We deal mainly with surveillance and tracking technologies. External specialized teams come, do their tests, and go back quickly to where they came from. With the temperatures we have out there… well I can’t blame them at all.”

Moore throws a quick glance at Ironside, who shrugs. In front of the guard cabin the Major nods to the two soldiers on duty, one of which gives a badge for visitors to both Moore and Ironside.

The elevator sliding doors glide inside the walls. The interior is even larger and more spacious than it appeared at first sight. The three begin a descent that lasts a few moments, the time it takes Major Macready to conclude his introduction to the base, explaining that the first of the three underground floors, the upper one, has a laboratory, the TLC room, and some generic rooms, the use of which varies according to the needs.

“About the containment of a pathogen such as Ebola, what means and equipment do we have?”, asks Moore.

“We have a well-equipped laboratory, bio hazard suits, gas masks, basic medicines. An officer and a sergeant, both doctors, and a small infirmary. Everything is at your disposal. Please understand that having to contain a biological hazard in the desert along with a plane crash is quite a rare event.”

“That’s true, Major”, replies Ironside. “But unfortunately that event occurred. Having to operate on foreign soil limits us tremendously, but we must prepare ourselves to face the worst scenario with what we have available. Once the situation is clarified, Washington will find a way to send us all the support we need.”

The elevator door opens onto a white corridor, on whose walls are windows that overlook corresponding side rooms, plus other sliding doors.

“Let’s meet Dr. Ivanov.”

Simon Brody is on top of a high dune, and observes the expanse of debris, large and small, scattered on the sandy plain, covering a large area. The soldiers have placed light spots that partially illuminate the site, while the perimeter is indicated by trail markers mounted on poles, placed every ten meters. “Holy Jesus, it’s really a mess down there”, he exclaims looking at the JLTV behind him. He makes his voice louder, to be heard. “Greg! Come out and see!”

The reply of the other soldier is damped, from inside the vehicle. “I can see it in the camera. I have also an infrared view here. It detects just hot aircraft parts that are still burning, in addition to our own men. I don’t think there is any survivor.”

Brody turns back to observe the scene with binoculars, sliding his gaze from one scrap to another.

In the distance, as if they were Martians landed on the moon, he can see several soldiers in yellow suits, who wander with slow movements, inspecting the area.

“All those people… what a mess…”, he murmurs softly.

The man crouches, rummaging with one hand in a back pack to pull out a pack of cigarettes half crushed. With usual gestures and without thinking, he triggers the opening of his Zippo lighter. He lits the wick while approaching his hands to his face. The tip of the cigarette is about to touch the flame when suddenly he feels like having heard a noise.

Brody stands still for a moment, eavesdropping.

The desert’s silence is absolute.

No, just my imagination…

Maybe it was the noise of the lighter…

The marine lights his cigarette and takes a long puff, watching the sky and forgetting for a moment the devastation seen below. The magnificence of the starry night sky in the desert is something that one can never get used to.

The noise bites again, to his right, like a sneeze.

The man turns to look, but he can only see the undulations of small and large dunes, whose profiles fade in the dark after a few tens of meters. Brody lingers for a moment with his eyes.

Shit, I heard it well this time…

The marine looks around, but he can’t find out what’s the source of the sound, and he can’t see anything, apart from the ubiquitous sand. He is going to say something to his colleague inside the armored vehicle, when the sound repeats once again. A brief hiss, like the one issued normally when someone has a cold and sniffles.

The noise seems to come from behind a small sandy relief, about thirty meters away.

What the hell…

“Hey Greg, did you hear?”

“If this is one of your usual jokes it won’t work, Simon. We are in the middle of the desert, I can’t hear anything except your voice.”

I can’t have imagined it…

“I’m going to take a look, okay?”

“Yes, yes, all right. Don’t get lost out there.”

Brody brings a hand to his holster, while starting cautiously in the direction where the sound came from.

Two tall soldiers, armed and grim-looking, guard a door on the second basement floor of the base. Inside the room the atmosphere is tense. A line of screens and equipment runs along the walls. High up in a corner, the rhythmic pulsing of a red LED reveals the presence of a surveillance camera.

A large metal square table is set in the middle of the room, with a water bottle and four glasses in the center. The same number of people sit at the table. The eyes of Ironside, Moore and Macready focus on the fourth face.

Alexander Ivanov is nervous, sitting slightly away from the table, his arms folded. His gaze jumps quickly from one person to another, such as to control the slightest movement, revealing some inner turmoil. Ironside watches him, seeing in his eyes that he is scared to death, but his instinct suggests that the real cause of that state of mind is beyond the common mistrust between strangers from different countries whose relations were not always idyllic.

Concluded the ritual presentations, it’s Ironside to speak. “Dr. Ivanov, let’s go straight to the point. I suppose we all have to consider you some way involved in the events that brought us here in this room…”

“Somewhat… yes”, confirms the other. His voice is flat and toneless, as if he is describing the autopsy of a lab rat. Ivanov expresses in an impeccable English, although his way of talking has the typical inflection of the Russian language.

Macready looks at him without blinking, he doesn’t like Ivanov, and he doesn’t bother to hide it that much. Something about the man gives him a certain distrust.

“In that case, what could you advise us to better manage the situation at the crash site?”

At these words the scientist’s eyes widen dramatically, but it’s only a moment before he regains control. “Are you saying that the plane crashed?”

“Exactly. It crashed to the ground for no apparent reason, about fifteen kilometers south-east of our current position. It should have made an emergency landing at this base, but apparently something happened on board…”

Ironside blurs deliberately the phrase, as if to imply something and push the Russian to speak.

“Are there any survivors?”

The skin of Ivanov’s face, naturally very clear, is now visibly pale.

“We have a team that intervened on the spot, at the moment they are setting up a level three containment perimeter”, is Macready’s reply.

“You must get in touch with your men, immediately!”, Ivanov’s altered tone. “Warn them to not get close to any survivors or their remnants.”

“Dr. Ivanov, please, calm down”, continues Ironside, pouring water into one of the glasses, and then bringing it closer to him. “Why don’t you tell us what we have to expect?”