The Deep Zone

“Lady, I don’t think he’s gonna—”

Just then Brewster bucked, convulsed, spewed vomit. She rolled him over onto one side as two EMTs in blue jumpsuits shoved through the crowd.

“What happened?” The EMTs, sweating like laborers from their run in the heat, were breaking out oxygen and defib kits.

Hallie and Brewster knew exactly what had happened. But she said, “Equipment failure. His regs silted up.”

Hallie leaned close, as if to give Brewster a light kiss, and whispered into his ear. “You were lucky.”

Vomit-smeared, eyes stretched wide, he grabbed her hand. Squeezed, pulled her back down. Whispered, “Thank you.”

“No worries.”

She patted his shoulder and left.

FIVE

MARY WAS THERE, RED-EYED, GREEN-FACED, CLUTCHING A mug of black coffee in one hand and a Marlboro in the other when Hallie came in. The paramedics had taken Brewster to their local hospital, worried that he might have aspirated vomit and possibly collapsed a lung as well. Hallie had sat with two state troopers, giving information they needed for their report. It was almost two by the time she made it back to the shop.

“I got a call. What the hell happened?”

Mary’s voice was deeper and rougher than cigarettes could make it. Insurgents in Iraq had done that, bringing her Apache down with a Stinger and filling her lungs with fire.

Hallie told her.

“Jesus Christ. How are you?”

“Trashed. Can I take the afternoon?”

“For sure. Those guys want a word with you, though.”

Mary nodded toward the back of the shop, and Hallie saw the red, wrinkled mat of scar tissue on the left side of her friend’s face, a sight she would never get used to. Then she let her eyes travel farther.

She hadn’t noticed the two men by the racks of masks and fins. Gray business suits, white shirts, and ties with wide, diagonal stripes. One tie was red and gold, the other blue and green. Both had little American flag pins in the right lapels of their suit jackets, short, razor-cut hair, and cheeks shaved so close they gleamed.

“I don’t think they’re looking to dive.” Mary blew smoke toward the men.

Hallie approached them. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Agent Fortier,” said the one with the red-and-gold tie. “This is my partner, Agent Whittle. We’re with the Department of Homeland Security.”

They showed ID folders with gold badges and photos.

Hallie flushed, folded her arms across her chest, pissed off just by the sight of them. “Let me guess. You’re worried we’re diving with terrorists, sowing mines in harbors or some such bullshit. Am I right?”

Fortier’s mouth dropped open. Apparently people usually showed more respect. While Whittle coughed and examined a wet suit’s price tag, Fortier maintained a neutral expression. “Can we speak privately, Dr. Leland?”

That surprised her. Hallie wasn’t called “doctor” around here, where people just knew her as a dive instructor and guide.

“Nope,” she said. “Let’s do this tomorrow. Rough day at the office, gentlemen.” She started to walk away, already tasting an ice-cold Corona, then stopped. “In fact, let’s not do this at all. You want to see me, I have a lawyer you can talk to first.” It wasn’t true, but she thought it might get them off her back.

“Dr. Leland,” Fortier’s eyes flicked from side to side. His voice dropped to a whisper. “This is a matter of national security.”

That did it. She whirled, eyes flashing. “I know exactly what it’s a matter of. What, BARDA didn’t screw up my life enough already?”

The agents exchanged glances. Then Fortier said, “You’re right. We are here because of someone from BARDA.”

“Uh-huh. So you can just—”

“We have a message from Dr. Barnard.”

That stopped her. “Don Barnard?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Donald Barnard had been her boss at the CDC. The only one who had stood with her when her world came crashing down.

“Is Don all right? Why didn’t he just call? Or come down himself? What is—?”

“Dr. Barnard’s presence was required in Washington. He is… very busy.”

Fortier looked truly worried—whether about Barnard or something else, Hallie couldn’t tell.

“So you came all this way to give me a message?”

“Fifteen minutes, Dr. Leland. Please. But not here.”

“I’m the blue Tundra outside. Follow me to my house.”

“Nice place.”

The first time Agent Whittle had spoken and his voice wavered. The oppressive, soggy, boiling heat. He had the fishy, white-lipped look people got before they fainted. Hallie saw it, but she was not feeling charitable. If he can’t take the heat, screw him.

“Thanks,” she said. The rented house wasn’t really nice. Some shutters were missing, the faded blue paint was alligatoring, and the small screened porch listed. But inside it was neat and clean, with white-painted floors and walls, and smelled of fresh oranges. There was, however, no air-conditioning.

“Warm down here,” Whittle said. He was a sizable man who appeared to be in good shape, but his voice sounded weak and thin. They were sitting in chairs at her chrome-and-Formica kitchen table, original equipment with the house.

“You get used to it. No worse than D.C. in August.”

“It’s February, though. How hot is it, exactly?”

“About ninety in here. Ninety-eight outside. So, not too bad. High humidity today, though.”

“Lord God.” Whittle loosened his blue-and-green tie, unbuttoned his collar. Mopped sweat from his face with a damp handkerchief. “I’m from North Dakota. It doesn’t get like this.”

Hallie was afraid he might actually keel off the chair. If there was one thing she did not need this day, it was a heat-stroked Fed flopping around on her kitchen floor.

“Hold on.” She took a fluted pitcher from the refrigerator and poured three tall glasses of cold, homemade lemonade. Condensation filmed the glasses in a second. She added sprigs of mint from her backyard herb garden and brought the glasses to the table. Hallie sipped hers, studying the agents. Whittle gulped half of his lemonade, then held the glass against his forehead.

“Thank you.” There was serious gratitude in his voice.

“About Don?”

“Yes. Just a second.” Fortier put his briefcase on the table and begin working through its three combination locks.

Agent Whittle took another long drink of lemonade, then looked at Hallie in an odd way. “Could I ask you a question, Dr. Leland? It’ll take Agent Fortier a minute here.”

“Shoot.”

“Well, I was wondering what happened to your friend back there.”

“You mean Mary? The shop owner?”

“Yes.”

“She was an Apache pilot in Iraq. Patrolling her sector one day when she monitored a combat patrol screaming for air support. Insurgents had them surrounded. Command denied their request. The fighters were