“I don’t know. Ask Gruber, I’m sure he’ll tell you more than you want to know.”
“I’ll check with him later. Heading to the hospital in a few. I want to personally meet this demon, Fogner. See if I can get some information from him. I’m sure he’ll be in isolation, if they let him in at all.”
“Well, good luck, Poole. You know what you’re doing. Make sure he’s locked up tight.”
“Oh, sir?
“Yes?”
“What happened to that fire?” asked Poole.
“Burned to the ground. Funny thing, only the chimneys are still standing. Ironic.”
“Radiation leaks?”
“It’s all in the soil. We’ll bulldoze it in a few days and cart it off. Hope it doesn’t rain.”
“Um-hmm. Fat chance in this God-forsaken drought, take your time.” The storms, unseen by them, were moving from the Trident Tine toward the coast.
“You want to see who?” the E.R. receptionist asked. Orderlies pushed gurneys past her, heading for the elevators. Visitors waited, reading old magazines in red plastic chairs lining the barren room. The room smelled medicinal, of alcohol and sharp disinfectants.
“Simon Fogner. Should have been brought in by EMS with a Sheriff’s escort. Seen him yet?”
Paging through a logbook, then the computer display, she looked up and answered, “Yes ma’am, he’s in O.R. right now. Bullet excision. He should be out in thirty minutes, then into Room 425, fourth floor, last room on the right. It’s an isolation room.”
“I’ll wait.” Time Magazine, she picked from the rack. Dated June 5, 2012. Good, only three years old. I love history books. She took it to a red plastic chair, sat, and stared at the pages, thinking of other things.
“Ma’am? Ma’am?” the voice said. A gentle hand on her shoulder woke her.
She looked around, then up at the receptionist. “Sorry, I must have dozed off.”
“That’s all right, ma’am. Mr. Fogner has been taken to his room. There’s a deputy with him.”
“Oh, thank you. I’m going up.”
As she approached Room 425, the deputy outside the door stood from his chair and greeted her. The sign on the door warned:
ANTHRAX — DANGER
BIOHAZARD SUITS MUST BE WORN AT ALL TIMES
She peered through the window at the large clear plastic tent over the bed, a frail shell of a man lay inside. His thinning hair was missing in patches, showing open red spots. His face was distorted, pulled in all directions by hardening scabs. The little skin that remained there clung to his facial bones, creating a skeletal effect. Hollowed-out eyes, closed, drawn together, gave him a gaunt, almost alien appearance. Suddenly, she empathized. She felt his pain.
She turned back. “Deputy, who’s his doctor? Have you seen him yet?”
“No, Lieutenant. An orderly brought him from surgery. That’s all.”
Minutes later, she knocked on Dr. Akers’ office door. She had tracked him from the work-up sheet hanging by Fogner’s door.
“Come in,” Akers said.
“Dr. Akers, I’m Lieutenant Sherry Poole, here about of Fogner. He’s my case. He’s murdered two of my best men.”
He sat up in his chair, stacks of papers before him. Fogner’s was on top. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been wanting to talk to you. How did he contract anthrax?”
Pausing, she said, “It’s not anthrax, it’s radiation poisoning.”
“What? Well, we’ve been using the wrong protocol here. Good thing I operated in a biohazard suit. Still I’ll have to get checked out. How in God’s name did you miss that diagnosis?”
“I didn’t doctor. It was intentional. We have a very sensitive national security issue in existence here. It’s best if we keep the anthrax ruse while he’s under your care. Can you do that?”
“Worse than an anthrax scare? Really?”
“Unfortunately, yes. We’re working with the FBI, DHS and others. I can’t really tell you more.”
“Hmm. That’s highly unusual. Puts me at a bit of a disadvantage”
“It’s for national security, sir.”
“Well, I’ll have to switch him from antibiotics to chelators, although the Cipro will help infections from the open sores.”
“I know… call this number at our Nuclear Forensics Lab. Ask for Dr. Gruber. He’s a nuclear physicist and medical doctor, too. A double doc. He knows the case in and out, and can help you with medications.” She wrote a number on a small slip of paper from her satchel and handed it to him.
“Orange County?”
“Yes. Right down the street.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Oh, doctor, one more thing. When can I talk to Fogner? I have a lot of questions to ask.”
“Probably tomorrow, if he awakens. His vitals are very weak. Not a good prognosis at all. Especially now that I know the antibiotics aren’t helping. I’d be surprised if he makes it through the night.”
“Well, thank you for seeing me, doctor. Sorry to bother you. Here’s my card. Please call me if there are any changes.”
He smiled, nodded and clipped her card to Fogner’s sheet. Over the speakers, a voice called, “Dr. Akers, report to E.R. Akers to E.R.” He rose from the chair, excused himself and rushed down the hallway to another emergency. Poole followed him as far as the lobby, broke off, and headed to her car.
“Mr. Cross report topside. Mr. Cross report topside,” the 1MC requested. Reading the Adam report, he had fallen asleep in his chair, resting his head on the small desk. The ship was steady now; the rocking had stopped. He raced down the hall, then up the stairs into the bright sunlight. The air smelled of wet metal. Wisps of steam rose from the deck around him; the Osprey was gone, its helipad vacant. Below, the sea was calm; waves, no longer white-capped, reflected the mid-afternoon sun in frenzied glints.
From the port side, he heard a commotion: crewmen yelling, hauling a long gleaming black cylinder towards the Glider. That will work, he thought. Atop the shoulders of six men, shuffling forward, it neared the sub. The front man yelled, “Heave on my command.”
“Need some help, guys?” Cross asked, approaching them.
The leader straining at the weight, snapped, “Yeah, adjust the arms so we can drop it in. You’ll want it pointing forward.”
He rushed up the sub’s hull, popped back the hatch, and slid through into cockpit. Throwing switches instinctively, he moved the joysticks; articulation motors whirred his commands, rotating the arms into view out the forward viewport. Then a twist brought them into position, like waiting cradles. Another switch opened the claws, perfectly aligned to accept the probe.
“Heave!” said the leader. The probe dropped snugly into its grasp. From inside, Cross closed the claws around it. A cheer erupted outside; the crewmen were high-fiving the task. He smiled, glanced around the cockpit ready for a dive. He knew that tomorrow he would start.
“Thanks, guys. Excellent job. Now, how do I work it?” He stood by the probe admiring it.
A senior crewman came forward and placed his hand over a circular sleeve around the probe’s body. “There is a magnetic switch, inside, under this sleeve. Twist it here to activate the probe, then watch the stern light panel through your forward viewport. It’s small enough it shouldn’t block your view.” He pointed back toward the panel. “That panel will flash blue when it senses radiation. The faster the flash, the higher the danger. A periodic green flash, every ten seconds, just means it’s working. That’s normal. Flashing red indicates a low battery; time to recharge. No flashing at all means you forgot to turn it on. Any questions?”