“Yes. Thank you, ma’am. So, we’re worrying about you.”

“About me?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s not only going around without a suit. You’re not taking care of yourself. Ma’am.” Through the hazy plastic hood, Stilwell saw genuine concern in the young nurse’s eyes. “You’re not eating enough or sleeping. We’re worrying.”

“If you didn’t have that suit on I’d give you a hug. I appreciate your concern, Pam. Really. But back in the day, when I was an intern, they called me ‘Superdoc.’ I could do more work than any two of the male doctors.”

Pam looked skeptical, but a bit less worried. “Is it true you used to run marathons, ma’am?”

“That is true. I never broke three hours, but I never ran a race I didn’t finish, either. Born with the stamina of a mule.” Her expression turned serious. “Look, I’ll be careful. I know that if I go down, I’m no use to you or these sick kids. But if you do see me screwing up, say so. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am. Understood.”

Stilwell patted her shoulder and sent the nurse on her way. Now, where was I going? And what was I doing?

“Uh, Major, ma’am, excuse me, there’s a call.” Stilwell turned to see another nurse, a young specialist from Baltimore, Michael Demrock, very thin, corn-silk hair. Not the brightest one she’d ever had, but certainly one of the best-hearted.

“Thanks. I’ll catch it later. I’m going to—”

“It’s a colonel, ma’am. Full bird.”

“What does he want? Is he a fobbit?” Stilwell could feel her impatience heating up. She had never much cared for the fobbits, officers so called because they were denizens of the FOBs, forward operating bases, which were not really forward at all but were a world away to the rear. She disliked them for their tailored uniforms and Baskin-Robbins shops and McDonald’s and Starbucks and bars, all of which FOBs offered. When the fobbits came, it was always about some missing piece of paperwork or with an admonition about her outrageous MPPs—her minutes-per-patient ratio.

“He kind of sounds like one, yes ma’am.”

“What’s his name?”

“Ah, Rubbish, ma’am.”

“Rubbish? His name is Colonel Rubbish?”

“No, wait. That’s not it. Ribbesh. Or something like that. It’s kind of hard to hear in these suits.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She waited. After a while she realized that Demrock was waiting, too. Patience, Major. He’s just deferring to your rank. “And what was it, Specialist?”

“You, ma’am. He said he wanted to talk to you.”

Round and round we go, she thought. “Of course. You told me that already. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Major.”

In her closet-sized office, she dropped into the wooden chair behind her desk and picked up the phone. “Major Stilwell.”

“Colonel Ribbesh here, Major. They had to go a way to find you, apparently. I apprised them almost ten minutes ago of my need to speak with you.”

A fobbit for sure. And he wants an apology for keeping him waiting. They were easy to spot when you could see them. Their uniforms were too clean, they had too much fat on them, and their skin was always too white. They were almost as easy to identify just from their voices. They never swore, didn’t drop g’s, sounded prissy, used words like ‘apprised.’ Lenora Stilwell detested them.

“How can I help you, Colonel?”

A beat, then another. He’s surprised. Waiting for it. She let him wait, glanced at her watch. She was overdue in Ward A. Those four soldiers would be waiting for her. Medicine was about drugs and scalpels and X-rays for sure, but healing was about heart; she had understood that long ago.

Finally he cleared his throat. “I’m battalion NBC liaison. I will be coming up to Terok. An inspection visit, orders from regiment. I wanted to apprise you of my ETA.”

Regiment. That meant from the one-star, an alcoholic martinet named Gremble. “Your ETA. I see. What is it, sir?”

“Day after tomorrow, zero eight thirty hours.”

Day after tomorrow. Fine. Great. From where she sat now, with a hundred things needing to be done in the next hour, that felt like a century away.

“Very well, Colonel. Thanks for letting me know.”

When the fobbit spoke again, his voice was different. “Major, can you apprise me of the conditions up there at Terok?”

“The conditions, sir?” What the hell did he mean? The weather? The four-star accommodations?

He coughed again. “Yes.” Pause. “I gather this pathogen is quite deadly.”

He’s scared. She could hear it in his voice. Just tell him the truth.

“It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen, Colonel. You’ve heard of Ebola Zaire?”

“Of course.”

“Worse than that. More contagious, shorter incubation period, higher mortality rate.”

“My God.”

“Are you sure you need to make this trip, Colonel? We’ve got things under control here.”

“Orders, Major.” Ribbesh sounded like a miserable child who was being punished. She wondered what he had done to get on the one-star’s bad side. “So… would you recommend full Biosafety Level Four protection?”

She laughed before she could stop herself, but cut it off quickly. No need to insult the man. “Not if you remain outside the hospital confines, sir. If you want to come in, then definitely.”

Too late. He sounded very insulted. “All right, then. Thank you, Major. I will see you soon.” He emphasized her rank just enough to let her know that he was pissed.

“I’ll be here, sir.”

“I’m sure you will.” The line went dead.

She replaced the receiver and scrubbed her hands over her face, trying to push away the fatigue, the heaviness in her eyes and muscles and brain. In the drawer of her desk she found half a Butterfinger bar in its crumpled yellow wrapper. It might have been left over from the day before, or from some other, more distant time. She wasn’t sure. She gobbled it anyway and washed it down with a cup of the mud that passed for coffee here.

“Time to go, Major.” She pushed herself up and headed for Ward A.

• • •

They were no longer sending battle wounded into her hospital, of course, nor was Terok releasing any except under the strictest BSL-4 protocols. They had sent out infected soldiers before they understood what was going on, but there was no point in dwelling on that. Done deal. The four cases in A were the last to come in before ACE was identified. Two spec 4s, Ligety and Mayweather; Corporal Dancerre; and Sergeant Bighawk. All admitted initially with wounds—gunshots, fortunately, rather than blast damage—and all subsequently infected with ACE. She always began with the most serious first, and that was Sergeant Dane Bighawk, a twenty-four-year-old full-blooded Sioux from Nebraska. He had taken two AK rounds, one in the big right quadriceps muscle, the other in the right lower abdomen midway between his navel and his hip joint. Both were clean through-and-throughs. The thigh wound was nothing serious, but the abdominal wound was—or could have been. Passing through Bighawk’s body, the bullet had nicked his colon, cutting a dime-sized opening. That hole should have leaked fecal matter, which would have virtually ensured the onset of peritonitis.

But Bighawk had been lucky—if you could call taking two AK rounds lucky. The squadmate who had tended his wounds had stuffed in two tampons, just as DeAengelo Washington had done for Father Wyman. No one knew which soldier first had the idea of using a tampon that way, but one thing was sure—they worked beautifully, being

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