sometimes untenable. Their schedules constantly conflicted. Especially the last three to four months.
So 'friends' was a comfortable place to be for now, though decided by default rather than consensus. Still, she caught herself checking her cell phone: waiting, expecting, hoping for a message from him. She hadn't seen him since he'd spent two weeks in Afghanistan. Only short phone conversations or text messages.
Now he was gone again. Somewhere in Florida. She wasn't used to them not being able to share. That was one of the things that had brought them closer, talking about their various cases: hers usually profiling a killer; his identifying or controlling some infectious disease. A couple of times they had worked on a case together when the FBI and USAMRIID (United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases--pronounced U-SAM- RID) were both involved. But Afghanistan and this trip were, in Ben's words, 'classified missions' in 'undisclosed locations.' In Maggie's mind, she added 'dangerous.'
She fed Harvey while tossing a salad for herself and listening to 'breaking news' at the top of the hour:
'Gas prices are up and will continue to soar because of the tropical storms and hurricanes that have ravaged the Gulf this summer. And another one, Hurricane Isaac is predicted to sweep across Jamaica tonight. The category-4 storm with sustained winds of 145 miles per hour is expected to pick up steam when it enters the Gulf in the next couple of days.'
Her cell phone rang and she jumped, startled enough to spill salad dressing on the counter. Okay, so having a killer's blood and brains splattered all over her had unnerved her more than she was willing to admit.
She grabbed for the phone. Checked the number, disappointed that she didn't recognize it.
'This is Maggie O'Dell.'
'Hey, cherie,' a smooth, baritone voice said.
There was only one person who got away with using that New Orleans charm on her.
'Hello, Charlie. And to what do I owe this pleasure?'
Maggie and Charlie Wurth had spent last Thanksgiving weekend sorting through a bombing at Mall of America and trying to prevent another before the weekend was over. In a case where she couldn't even trust her new boss, AD Raymond Kunze, Charlie Wurth had been a godsend. For six months now the deputy director of the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) had been trying to woo her over to his side of the fence at the Justice Department.
'I'm headed on a road trip,' Charlie continued. 'And I know you won't be able to say no to joining me. Think sunny Florida. Emerald-green waters. Sugar-white sands.'
Every once in a while Charlie Wurth called just to dangle another of his outrageous proposals. It had become a game with them. She couldn't remember why she hadn't entertained the idea of leaving the FBI and working for DHS. She swiped her fingers through her hair, thinking about the blood and brain matter from earlier. Maybe she should consider a switch.
'Sounds wonderful.' Maggie played along. 'What's the catch?'
'Just a small one. It appears we most likely will be in the projected path of Hurricane Isaac.'
'Tell me again why I'd be interested in going along?'
'Actually you'd be doing me a big favor.' Charlie's voice turned serious. 'I was already on my way down because of the hurricane. Got a bit of a distraction, though. Coast Guard found a fishing cooler in the Gulf.'
He left a pause inviting her to finish.
'Let me guess. It wasn't filled with fish.'
'Exactly. Local law enforcement has its hands full with hurricane preps. Coast Guard makes it DHS, but I'm thinking the assortment of body parts throws it over to FBI. I just checked with AD Kunze to see if I can borrow you.'
'You talked to Kunze? Today?'
'Yep. Just a few minutes ago. He seemed to think it'd be a good idea.'
She wasn't surprised that her boss wanted to send her into the eye of a hurricane.
CHAPTER 3
NAVAL AIR STATION (NAS)
PENSACOLA, FLORIDA
Colonel Benjamin Platt didn't recognize this part of the base, though he'd been here once before. Usually he was in and out of these places too quickly to become familiar with any of them.
'It's gorgeous,' he said, looking out at Pensacola Bay.
His escort, Captain Carl Ganz, seemed caught off guard by the comment, turning around to see just what Platt was pointing out. Their driver slowed as if to assist his captain's view.
'Oh yes, definitely. Guess we take it for granted,' Captain Ganz said. 'Pensacola is one of the prettiest places I've been stationed. Just getting back from Kabul, I'm sure this looks especially gorgeous.'
'You're right about that.'
'How was it?'
'The trip?'
'Afghanistan.'
'The dust never lets up. Still feel like my lungs haven't cleared.'
'I remember. I was part of a medevac team in 2005,' Captain Ganz told Platt.
'I didn't realize that.'
'Summer 2005. We lost one of our SEALs. A four-member reconnaissance contingent came under attack. Then a helicopter carrying sixteen soldiers flew in as a reinforcement but was shot down.' Ganz kept his eyes on the water in the bay. 'All aboard died. As did the ground crew.'
Platt let out a breath and shook his head. 'That's not a good day.'
'You were there back then, too, weren't you?'
'Earlier. Actually the first months of the war,' Platt said. 'I was part of the team trying to protect our guys from biological or chemical weapons. Ended up cutting and suturing more than anything else.'
'So has it changed?'
'The war?'
'Afghanistan.'
Platt paused and studied Captain Ganz. He was a little older than Platt, maybe forty, with a boyish face, although his hair had already prematurely turned gray. This was the first time the two men had met in person. Past correspondences had been via e-mail and phone calls. Platt was a medical doctor and director of infectious diseases at Fort Detrick's USAMRIID and charged with preventing, inoculating, and containing some of the deadliest diseases ever known. Ganz, also a physician, ran a medical program for the navy that oversaw the surgical needs of wounded soldiers.
'Sadly, no,' Platt finally answered, deciding he could be honest with Ganz. 'Reminded me too much of those early days. Seems like we're chasing our tails. Only now we're doing it with our hands tied behind our backs.'
Platt rubbed a thumb and forefinger over his eyes, trying to wipe out the fatigue. He still felt jet-lagged from his flight. He hadn't been back home even forty-eight hours when he got the call from Captain Ganz.
'Tell me about this mystery virus.' Platt decided he'd just as well cut to the chase.
'We've isolated and quarantined every soldier we think may have come in contact with the first cases, the ones that are now breaking. Until we know what it is, I figured it's better to be safe than sorry.'
'Absolutely. What are the symptoms?'
'That's just it. There are very few. At least, in the beginning. Initially there's excruciating pain at the surgical site, which is not unusual with most of these surgeries. We're talking multiple fractures, deep-tissue wounds with bone exposed.' He paused as several planes took off overhead, drowning out all sound. 'We're starting to move aircraft out of the path of this next hurricane.'
'I thought it's predicted to hit farther west, maybe New Orleans.'
'Media is always looking at New Orleans,' Ganz shrugged. 'Better story I guess. But some of the best in the weather business are telling us it's coming here. Just hope we're on the left side of it and not the right. That's why
