CONVERGENCE ZONE
Milo sat alone at the long table in the mess tent, trying to ignore the one-woman camera crew scrambling to capture footage of Main Camp. The small, energetic producer with a brunette bob had been at it since the last light of the day started to fade, alternatively asking on-camera questions of cornered team members or hurrying around the camp looking for attractive people with interesting things to say. Now, in the early hours of the night, she’d set up powerful lights at the other end of the table for one-on-one sessions with various expedition members, none of whom Milo recognized. The blonde logistician followed the producer in virtual lockstep, ensuring those attractive people weren’t saying anything they shouldn’t.
Served late, dinner was not yet prepared, but the mess tent was the best-lit area in the camp and a good spot to read. Besides, Milo had to admit that his own tent was a bit claustrophobic, a little concerning if Dale wanted him to accompany the cave expedition once the entrance was reopened.
Tablet in hand, Milo skimmed the six Riley DeWar biographies to re-familiarize himself with the explorer. It all came back to him quickly. Stories about DeWar’s lost loves and noble Scottish heritage were romanticized studies of the era, revealing little of the man himself. As he suspected, Riley’s disappearance remained a question mark, a gap glossed over with various degrees of authorial prerogative and credulity.
Milo then tried to absorb the caving guides, finding them full of geological analysis and practical caving techniques. It was all but impenetrable. Abseiling, colloids, cavernicolous, epiphreatic zones, kernmantle ropes and carabiners, spitzkarren and stromatolite . . . it was like trying to learn a foreign vocabulary in one sitting.
Dale Brunsfield’s digitized DeWar archive held a great deal more promise. Soon Milo found himself lost in Lord Riley’s letters, inspiring pitches to potential financial supporters, correspondence with backers and advisors—and more than a few florid love letters. The lattermost held to a remarkably predictable pattern, and once a new conquest entered Riley’s sphere, the letters would begin as an overwhelming flood of affection and emotion. But his interest in the Rose or Grace or Mary (sometimes several simultaneously) would inevitably peak within a year, then drop off with both frequency and passion until it ceased altogether.
The explorer wasn’t what Milo had expected. Far from the square-jawed picture of unassailable will, DeWar was often vulnerable, even insecure. Though sharp-witted and decisive, many of his letters portrayed a man who desperately wanted to live up to his family name, despondent that his finances (or even his life) might end before he made his mark on history. Themes of irrelevancy and inadequacy were revisited with ever-greater frequency as his supposed Mount Meru expedition approached.
Strangely, Lord DeWar had come to believe that the golden age of exploration had ended. Milo was baffled by this. In 1901, the poles had not been reached, manned powered flight was unachieved, the oceans were largely a mystery. Everest was a half-century from summit, to say nothing of feats of aerospace. Milo pondered the thesis, wondering how much of a similar arrogance might be reflected by his own generation.
“Hey you,” said a warm, familiar voice from behind him. Milo looked up to see a woman sitting across from him on a folding chair, a woman he’d never expected to see again in his entire life. She was as beautiful—no, more so—than when they’d last spoken nearly a decade prior.
Milo smiled, half-baffled and more jolted than he cared to admit. “Hey yourself,” he finally replied.
“I was going to lead with a Doctor Livingstone line,” she said. “Or something out of Casablanca. But I figured seeing me here would be enough of a surprise.”
She wasn’t wrong. In fact, Bridget was rarely wrong at all.
Bridget—no, not Bridget, it was Dr. Bridget McAffee now, wasn’t it? In any case, they’d first met when he was a newly minted undergraduate instructor and she was a premed student at UNC Chapel Hill. It was his first job after completing his master’s. She’d been a tennis prodigy–one ill-timed ankle injury away from going pro—and a brilliant scholar. With her tennis career over, she’d trained as a triathlete before becoming an early adopter of the CrossFit fad; the constant training paid dividends in her strong shoulders, muscled arms, and easy confidence.
Their relationship was volatile and lasted well beyond its natural expiration date, the turmoil made all the more consuming by its semi-secrecy. Despite all odds and good sense, they’d stayed together for nearly three years.
It only took a few incriminating text messages to blow up the floundering relationship. Milo left UNC Chapel Hill and eventually wound up in Georgetown. Bridget became Dr. McAffee, ultimately landing her dream job as a trauma surgeon with Emory University in Atlanta.
Now, the only evidence of their relationship—he’d tossed or deleted all the photos and emails—was the awful pang he still felt in his chest every time her face flashed in his memory. At that precise moment, Milo just wished he didn’t find Bridget so goddamn gorgeous.
“I’m not even sure where to begin,” said Milo as he stared at Bridget, trying not to look like he’d just been smacked in the face. The world was small, but not this small. “Why—when did you get here?”
“Two days ago, when they were first setting up the camp,” answered Bridget with a half-smile. “But it’s my third expedition with Dale. Emory lets me take up to two months a year. Thought I’d spend them on vacations, but traveling solo gets pretty dull after a while. I eventually found out that archaeological and scientific expeditions are always looking for a volunteer doctor on staff.”
“Wow,” said Milo. “How often do you get out into the field?”
“As often as possible,” Bridget replied. “I’ve been to a Polynesian archaeological dig in the South Pacific, helped excavate a lost Buddhist cave temple in Myanmar . . . even cruised to the site of the Titanic with a documentary film team that dove on the wreck. Spent most of that trip sick in my cabin.”
Milo couldn’t help but feel a wave of profound envy wash over him. He remembered the adventures they’d promised each other; it pained him to learn how many she’d had without him. She seemed so maddeningly unaffected as she spoke, as though they could pick right back up as reacquainted friends.
“You always had the best summer vacation stories,” responded Milo, struggling to return her smile. Despite her friendly tone, her words still felt distinctly competitive, a direct shot at his identity and aspirations. Of course she knew his of romantic obsession with exploration, but he couldn’t tell if she had co-opted his dreams to memorialize their relationship or to throw it in his face.
“I really do,” agreed Bridget. “Some of my superiors think it’s a bit much; they hope I’ll eventually outgrow it.”
“I hope you don’t,” said Milo. It was an honest statement—whatever the motivation, she clearly loved the adventure, his irrational jealousy notwithstanding. “And how did you meet Dale?”
“Oh, this is a good story,” said Bridget. “You won’t believe this—we met rappelling into an Incan cliff tomb in the Peruvian Andes. He asked me out immediately; I told him I wasn’t at all interested. Ended up friends anyway, and he always brings me on his expeditions. This is the biggest one by far, of course.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Milo. Part of him really hoped she wouldn’t ask him about himself, force him to reveal how uninteresting a life he’d led since they parted. Meanwhile, she sounded like she’d just stepped out of a glossy National Geographic cover story.
“Still, this one feels a little different,” she added. “Dale had me study up on exotic viruses. Strange, right?”
“That’s a little concerning,” said Milo. “But why? Wouldn’t he be more concerned about falls?”
“Fair question,” sighed Bridget as she absentmindedly ran her hands through her long, dark hair. “I suppose he’s a bit paranoid when it comes to diseases. Caves are classic convergence zones where cross-species viral jumps occur. Bats and their guano, sheltering mammals, human hunters all passing in and out of a confined, humid, temperature-neutral space. Diseases love to make the first big leap from animal to human in caverns. Did you know the first major Ebola outbreak was ultimately traced back to a single cave in central Africa?”
“I didn’t know that,” admitted Milo.
“It’s legitimately scary stuff,” she said. “Emory handled a couple of Ebola-stricken US aid workers after the 2014 outbreak. Still, why not take the invitation? This is a long shot, but I think there’s a chance that we can trace the yellow fever outbreak that devastated Central and Western Africa in 1900 back to this cave. I’ll take some samples and see if anything comes of it. Could make for a hell of a paper. And how cool are supercaves? Some people even call them the eighth continent—that’s how vast and unexplored they are.”
“Seriously? Yellow fever?”
“Like I said, it’s a long shot,” she said. “But still worth checking out. Did you know yellow fever is a hemorrhagic? Same family as Ebola.”
“I didn’t know that,” he said again.
“You manage to get a call out?” Bridget asked, changing the subject. “Tell the family you made it?”
“No,” said Milo. “They said it wasn’t set up yet.”
“Not set up? Fat chance,” she said, laughing. “I left a message with that lurking blonde girl. I can’t even look up without seeing her with that clipboard computer thingy, asking me if I need anything. Your family good?”
“Everybody’s fine,” said Milo. “Mom still asks about you sometimes.”
“Pass along my love. You’ve probably heard enough about me—what have you been up to?”
“Teaching,” said Milo. “Blogging a bit. Get some interesting contract work once in a while.”
“Still studying the great explorers?”
“Yeah.”
“Rich guys do love their historical icons. I know Dale does.”
“Speaking of whom, what can you tell me about Dale?” asked Milo.
“Probably not much more than you already know,” said Bridget.
“Don’t be so sure.”
“I don’t know much more than what’s on his official bio,” said Bridget. “Wall Street tycoon, activist investor. He’s deep into pharma conglomerates, like investing in the development of ADHD meds, neurotransmitter reuptake inhibitors, and the like. Family money has been in it for a generation; they’ve been involved in the launch of a dozen or more extraordinarily lucrative product lines.”
Milo nodded, again chastened by how little he knew about his sponsor.
“Glad it keeps him smart about the cave,” said Bridget. “Like I said—classic viral convergence zone.”
“I suppose the early archaeologists knew it,” reflected Milo. “You know about the mummy’s curse—opening up old tombs and getting sick. Most of those stories are bullshit, of course. But it was known to happen.”
“But if it gets a doctor from Atlanta a free safari, why not?” said Bridget, grinning. “So, are you going to do it?”
“Do what?” asked Milo.
“Join the caving expedition! Go inside with the rest of us!”
“I don’t know,” said Milo. “Maybe Dale wants me to consult from up here—analyze photos, do tabletop historical scenarios, that sort of thing.”
Bridget sat silent for the longest time, considering Milo until he felt uncomfortable.
“You really have no idea what you’re getting into, do you?” she finally said. “Milo, this is a supercave. We could be down there for weeks. There aren’t going to be any photos or tabletop theories going back and forth. We’ll be completely cut off from all contact, entirely on our own. I think you should come—it’s going to be unlike anything you’ve ever done.”