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FRIDAY EVENING OF THE following week, he had dined on a handful of crackers while he wrote a report for Atlanta. He was done with that and was clearing his email inbox when his cell rang. Nydia. She had checked in with him every workday this week, twice by tablet, twice by phone.
“No secure line this time?” he said.
“Have you seen the news?”
“No. What is it?”
“Turn on CNN. Or your news channel of choice.”
“Hang on.” It took him a full minute to find the remote and he switched channels until he had some news—he didn’t care what brand. The TV was muted and he kept it that way.
The screen had talking heads, looking serious. He waited a few seconds to see if they gave way to something else.
“Got it?”
“I have—wait. Here it is.” The heads went away, replaced by cell phone footage. There were people in a dark street, in a city. A fire blazed in the background. Someone threw a burning trash can through a plate glass window, illuminating a dozen faces, angry, shouting. “I need closed caption here. Or give me the basics, if you would.”
“African Americans in New York are rioting because white people are getting vaccines and better drugs.”
“But that’s not true.” He was genuinely shocked anyone would even think that.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. That’s the perception, so it’s true to them.”
“This—the rioting—is not helpful.”
“Really?” she said in a flat tone.
“I meant not the obvious, but that they’re infecting each other out there. Someone needs to make them go home. Stay inside. Complain all they wish, but do it from home. Otherwise, the infection rate will soar.”
“I suspect it feels less satisfying to riot alone at home.”
“What’s—I—well, shit,” he said, unable to come up with anything sensible to say. “Are there troops? Riot police? What’s being done to keep people at home?”
“I’m sure something is. I saw it and thought you should know. You didn’t seem like much of a news addict.”
“I wish I could do something. I’m sure someone is.” He imagined the Surgeon General would be on news shows tomorrow, trying to reassure people that everything that could be done was being done, and that race had no part in decisions about who to treat or vaccinate and who not to. “You know, as public gatherings will spread the disease faster, there will be a higher rate of infection among whatever groups riot. So in a sense, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Infection rates and death rates will increase among the populations that riot. Someone should tell them they’re hurting themselves by doing this.”
“They won’t listen, you know.”
“Someone needs to scare them. Good God, do you think they’ll imprison them?”
“For committing crimes, yes, of course.”
“Oh man. The New Jersey prison that had it is infected top to bottom now. Guards, inmates, everyone but a few lucky people with strong immune systems. Guards’ families. The inmate deaths were over five hundred last time I looked. Jails are the very worst places to put people during a pandemic.”
“Not my call. Nor yours. But I wanted you to know anyway. Because you could be at risk as well. If people understand who you’re with, and citizens begin to blame the CDC, there you are, not too difficult to find, and in a strange town.”
Good thing his uniform didn’t suggest to the common person what his agency was. “Is DC rioting too?”
“No. But it could come when more people are sick.”
“This is terrible.”
“Okay, now you know. Any other brainstorms since the other day for me?”
“No.” The television screen was back to talking heads. He saw a caption as a new person came on, someone from the National Black Justice Coalition.
Nydia said, “We’re following up on the population control idea, adding to the search terms. And I’m doing some digging personally on it.”
Glenn turned from the television to focus on what Nydia was saying. “What do you think about it? As a profiler?”
“It’s not impossible. He could see himself as doing good for the world—a noble outlaw, fixing what people have not had the will to fix themselves.”
“It’s true we haven’t fixed it, but of course population control is not that simple. Families desperate for a cup of rice to eat tonight tend not to spend their last few pennies on a condom.”
“In a way, then, it’s good news to lose half of a population to the flu?”
Glenn hesitated. From a historical perspective, looking back, no doubt that would be said in a hundred years, that this was a blessing in disguise, that an overpopulated planet had experienced an involuntary reduction of overcrowding. That could be said by people who hadn’t met the dying. Not by him. What he said to Nydia was, “It’s not good news when you’re in bed, struggling to breathe with lungs filled with water and pus, or watching your toddler being intubated.”
“Maybe our terrorist didn’t think of it that way. If the population control motivation ends up being right, maybe he thought of the big picture only and didn’t allow himself to focus in on the human-scale picture.”
“Or, if it was another sort of terrorist, maybe he did think about that and reveled in it. Isn’t that what terror is? Creating scenes like the parent at the toddler’s bedside? Counting on the media to report on that? Making everyone else terrified that could happen to them?” When she didn’t answer for a long moment, he said, “Nydia? Have I lost you?”
“No, I’m still here. This is interesting. You’re right, of course. Terrorism is often about creating public fear, changing behavior through that fear, and thus harming the target group or nation. Or it can be basically a child’s emotional reaction, making a nation or group stand in for people who rejected the terrorist. But if this were about population control, fear would have no place on his list of goals. It would be less like terror and more like.... Like making a policy decision, and then coldly implementing that.”
“A unilateral decision.”
“Yes. By a megalomaniac.”
“It was just a random thought, the population-control motivator.”
“I know. But it’s an idea worth pursuing, and we are. Again, thanks. Talk to you soon.”
“Goodnight,” he said. Glenn stared at the television for another minute but turned it off when they switched to shots he knew well, from the Tuskegee syphilis experiments. A terrible thing it had been, but it was well in the past. Today was not 1948. And making the comparison between the real racism of 1948 and the fair-handed distribution of drugs today would only inflame protestors more.
And it was true: there was discrimination in treatment right now. People with more power, more importance to the survival of the nation, were getting what little help they had to offer. Maybe the protestors had a point—or would have one, if they were protesting that.
Riots. Doubt about the fairness of treatment. Social breakdown had begun, and sooner than he’d have guessed. Wait until there were bodies at home not being removed immediately, or for days, the whole funeral industry overwhelmed, and people catching glimpses of the bodies in stacks. He would not want to live in a city like New York when that happened.
Though life in DC or Atlanta would be no better, no safer. The virus spreading meant that you’d be better off living on a large farm or ranch, far away from your nearest neighbor, or in a remote cabin in Alaska.
Nothing to be done about that though. Not for the people he loved, and not for Glenn. It was his fate to be in the thick of things. His fate, and his job, and his calling.
He returned to his emails and read that the first stockpiles of antivirals were being sent out to Philadelphia and New York tomorrow. No, wait, that was from yesterday, so it had happened today. At only ten percent efficacy, this was almost a waste of them. Although not a waste to that parent watching the toddler being intubated, yes? Ten percent of a chance would sound much better than no chance. And it was. He was just feeling overburdened, and the dark cloud wanted to overwhelm the narrow rays of hope that were out there.
By the time he was done clearing out most of the inbox, five more messages had appeared. One was a daily stats update, and one from Lorraine was marked urgent.
He glanced at the new numbers first. Deaths had jumped, hitting five figures for the first time, and cases were catching up to the projections. That was probably partly attributable to the public awareness of the disease and so reporting was better, but it also reflected how quickly this disease spread. He was curious to look at the breakdown by ethnicity after seeing the riots, but he put aside the urge. Nydia had been right: the reality of the situation didn’t matter. Perception did.
Lorraine’s email said only, “Would you like to be reassigned? I have a request for your presence.”
Glenn’s emotions swung, in a moment, from excitement to disappointment. The taskforce wasn’t awful yet, though he sensed it would become more and more frustrating as time went on. And he’d usually rather be on the ground, somewhere, anywhere, helping medical workers. But things had changed for him. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but he was looking forward to his daily conversation with Nydia and he hoped she kept needing him to answer questions for her.
“Bad time to try and start a relationship, buddy,” he said aloud.
But he didn’t just like her—he liked the work she was doing. His favorite part of being sent out on outbreaks was playing detective, tracing the contacts, finding the host, and even digging through death and hospital records to see what clues had been missed. For this disease, that work had been accomplished or had moved on to newer EIS people.
And then the thought hit him that there was an outside chance he was being offered the assignment he most dreaded, one that involved the none-too-bright President. He wrote back to Lorraine, “It depends. On what assignment, first. And second, on if this is really a choice, or you’re just being polite with your phrasing.” He thought it might well be an order, and the only correct response to an order was, “Yes, ma’am.”
A knock came on his door. He thought at first it was a response to his outgoing email, but that was ridiculous. Nobody moved that quickly.
He peered through the peephole. It was Jackson. He swung open the door. “Good to see you!” he said. “How was Korea?”
“It wasn’t bad. But it was definitely MERS.”
“Damn. They can’t seem to shake it.”
“I’m sure that’ll be the least of their worries in a few months. What the heck have you gotten us into, Glenn?”
“I take no credit—or blame—for the flu. By the way, do we have a name yet, do you know?”
“On television, they’re calling it the New Flu. I suppose they like the rhyme.”
“So when did you get back? How up to date are you? How are you? And Jeannie, how’s she?”
“In order, three days ago, almost caught up, fine, and pregnant.”
“That’s great! Congratulations.”
“Maybe not the best time to get pregnant.” His expression grew worried.
“It’ll be fine, I’m sure. At least she knows what to do.”
“She’s at her mother’s, and under strict instructions not to leave the house for eight months, if then. I told her I want her to forget what outdoor air smells like.”
“Sit, sit. Let me clear a space. Sorry, I’ve been working all evening.”
They had just settled down to talk when Glenn’s phone rang. It was the Director. “Lorraine. You got my email.”
“That’s why I’m calling. Look, this is your choice. It’s not an order, just a request.”
“Okay. But you’ll have to tell me the request first before I can say yea or nay.”
“The FBI wants you temporarily assigned to them, as a consultant. I don’t know how you feel about that.”
“I’ve been talking with one of the agents for a few days.”
“Then I guess this is based on that. They want to find who did it, if indeed it was a purposeful act we’re talking about. So that’s problem number one you need to think about, that they might be chasing a phantom and you’d be wasting your time. And problem number two is, I know you’d rather be on the ground, working with hospitals or public health departments. This is not a step closer to that. It’s a lateral move into more administrative stuff.”
“I see that.” It wasn’t closer to the work he most wanted to be doing, but it was interesting and new. It would challenge him. “Can I sleep on it?”
“Yeah, sure. Too late to do anything about it today in any case. Though at least you’re in DC already.”
“Jackson is here now, from EIS. I was just getting started telling him about the taskforce.”
“I guess if you say yes to the FBI, we’ll hand that over to him. I don’t know who else we can spare at this point. It was hard enough to give up Jackson,” she said.
“Okay. I’ll warn him it’s a possibility.” He glanced over at Jackson, who was staring, frankly curious. “I’ll phone or email you tomorrow with my answer, first thing. I promise.”
“Okay. Gotta go. The dogs need to go potty.” She hung up.
“The Director of the CDC just used the phrase ‘go potty,’” Glenn said to Jackson.
“I suppose with the kid I’ll be using it myself before too long.” Jackson knocked on the table.
“You didn’t just knock wood to avert bad luck, did you?”
“A little?” Jackson said, grinning.
“My agency is falling apart. ‘Potty.’ Knocking wood. Some bunch of scientists we are.” Glenn shook his head in mock disappointment.
“What is it you’re supposed to warn me about?”
“That you’re probably about to become me.”
“Old, white, and single? No thanks.”
Glenn laughed. “It’s not that bad. I need you to replace me on the taskforce. I’ve been asked to transfer, and I suspect I’ll say yes.”
“You’d better get me up to speed then.”
“It’s a pretty slow saunter at this point.” It only took twenty minutes to summarize everything important that had gone on. “I’ll forward all the relevant emails. My experience so far is that the important interaction is happening at lunch and in the hallways. Non-structured brainstorming, and I think some of it might be getting something done. I don’t know how much real effect the official sessions will have, if policies or actions can change because of them, but at least so far people are listening to each other. Let’s hope it lasts into the subcommittee phase—no, work groups, that’s what they’re calling them. That happens on Monday, splitting people out into those.”
“Not a total ACF yet, eh?”
“A what?”
“Don’t you remember? Who came up with that? From alphabet soup agencies, to Alphabet Cluster Fuck. The ACF.”
“Oh, right. Who was that?” Glenn couldn’t place the source of the quip, but he remembered a week of meetings about—he couldn’t exactly remember that either, but whatever it was had been nonsense. That one had been an ACF, for sure. “You’re right. I am old—and growing forgetful.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“Let me give you some specific names, the people I’ve talked to. Maybe one to avoid if possible, and a few at different agencies who seemed to have something on the ball.” He scrolled through his phone list. “Hang on, I have to check my notes. I’ll tell you the names when I see them, and you write them down.” He had tried to jot notes a few times a day. He found three names of people who had particularly impressed him: one of the Transportation people, the woman economist, and the FAA person, who he hadn’t talked with much in private but whose presentation had been good.
When Jackson had made a note of them, he said, “I have a question for you.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“It’s a bit delicate.”
“Okay. Go on.”
“You aren’t—Lorraine isn’t—picking me for this because I’m black?”
“What? No!” Glenn was frankly shocked. And then he got it. “Oh, you think because of the riots up in New York.”
“I was thinking that, yes.”
“No. I asked for you back at the beginning, when it was just Trenton. And—” he held up a hand to forestall any possible comment—“not because you’re black and Trenton is mostly black too. I didn’t even know that when my plane landed there. Because you’re good and I trust you. That’s all.”
“It did dawn on me, when I saw the news today, that the CDC could certainly use an African-American face, for interviews or whatever.”
“You’re too valuable to waste on television,” Glenn said, without thinking. “I mean, hell. Now I’m entirely self-conscious about this topic. Do you want to be on TV?”
“I’m sure my mom would like it. But no, I want to work. Not thrilled about this bit of it, of course. I’d rather be out there in the field than stuck in an ACF.”
“I sympathize entirely. Any investigator worth the name would rather be.”
“So it’s not about race.”
“No. It’s not. Honestly. I wanted someone personable to make up for my less than adept people skills, and when Emile said he’d freed you up from Korea, I jumped at the chance. Gillens was my other choice, but he can....” Glenn didn’t finish the thought.
“Be a bit glib. Or flippant. I know.”
“He’s good though. He was great in Trenton,” Glenn said. “You know, I don’t think Emile or Lorraine thought about your being black either, but Lorraine may eventually come around to that. Emile—well, hell, he’s French. Nuff said. I guess if it does dawn on her, there’s a possibility that Lorraine will pull you out of here in a few days to do interviews or be a more public face. In fact, I could mention it to her, if you want me to. If you want to do that. Or I can mention to her that you’re concerned.” He was babbling.
“I don’t want you to do that. I can fight my own battles.”
Glenn nodded, thinking. “Perception,” he said.
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s all about perception, isn’t it? You know as well as I do that black people aren’t getting inferior drugs in New York, but as someone pointed out to me an hour ago, that’s the perception. So it may as well be true. A lot of people will go forward assuming it is true. And Lorraine’s no idiot when it comes to politics, and what is politics but perception?”
“Power.”
“That too. Power plus perception. So anyway, you okay with this assignment?”
“As okay as I ever am, sure. I mean, I was just black in Korea for a month. I think I can tolerate being me in Washington, DC for a few weeks.”
Glenn had no idea what that was like for him—in Korea or Washington or being black at all, for that matter—and figured anything he said would be the wrong thing, so he said nothing.
“And the perception that drugs aren’t working isn’t entirely wrong,” Jackson said.
Glenn was happy to be back on solid ground, talking about something he did understand. “That’s true, though so far we see no difference in efficacy between any demographic with the antivirals. Not age, BMI, sex, or anything. They aren’t working very well across the board.”
“Did you take the prophylaxis?”
“I opted out. I took the ten pills to keep on hand, in case I get sick. But it seems a waste to do more.”
“I am on it. I wouldn’t, but Jeannie being pregnant and all.”
“Sure. I understand that. You having any side-effects?”
“Maybe a slight headache, but that could be from anything. Dry air on the plane, end of the jet lag. Worrying about Jeannie and the baby.”
“I hope it passes. So anyway, tomorrow I’ll introduce you around a bit at the taskforce, which is meeting in the morning before taking Sunday off. I might be out of there by noon Monday though. We’re also all working the Monday holiday, which shows you how serious it is. Is that okay?”
“Perfectly fine. I’ll manage. Where are you going?”
Glenn didn’t know if he should say. “Another agency wants me for a while. I could be back from that in no time at all.”
Jackson didn’t press it. “You’re appearing in uniform, I hear?”
Glenn was currently in shorts and a T-shirt, having intended to go for a run earlier but failing to. “Grapevine working as well as ever.”
“It’s humming right along. So I brought mine too.”
“I think that’s a good idea. It lends authority. It might speed you up at security stations. You get cute young female officers noticing you.”
Jackson laughed. “I already have one more cute female than I can manage.”
“Seriously, though, I’ve started to see it differently since this all began. I feel more—something. Patriotic, I suppose. Proud of what we do, certainly. We’re the best chance the country has against this. I’m a soldier in this war, so it no longer feels in any sense like I’m playing dress-up by donning the uniform. I am Commander Stevens. I suppose I always was, but I’ve grown into the role this past month. The uniform fits now, you might say.”
Jackson nodded, though his expression was mildly perplexed. “I’ll go settle in then. Want to have a meal?”
“Sorry, I had something already. Did you get a rental car?”
“I did.” He moved to the door and waited.
“Well, hell’s bells. I wonder when I’ll get mine.”
“So I guess this means I’m driving tomorrow.”
“Yeah, and I want to have a good breakfast for once, so let’s meet in the lobby tomorrow at 7:00.”
“Will do.” He left.
I hope I didn’t mishandle that situation too terribly.
By noon on Monday, he had handed over responsibility for the taskforce to Jackson. Lorraine had communicated with the Director of the FBI and emailed Glenn a location to report to on Tuesday morning. He took the afternoon off on Monday to get his uniforms cleaned and pressed and to light a fire under car rental agencies. Finally, after his cajoling, flattering, and begging the clerks, one of them guaranteed him a car for the day after tomorrow. He completely emptied his inbox and voicemail for the first time in a month, and by the time he went to bed on Monday, he was ready to start his new work, which he had started thinking of as a phrase he remembered from Gramps, his mom’s dad, who had explained it to him when Glenn was just a kid: “Junior G-man.”
