one-star. Fargo must truly have had some juice to manipulate the system and get a three-star general to hear a complaint like this one.
Four men in dark suits whom Quinn didn’t recognize sat at the back of the room in a double row of wooden chairs.
“Thank you for attending these proceedings, Gunnery Sergeant Thibodaux.” Powers shuffled some papers and put on a pair of skinny reading glasses. He glanced up at Quinn and motioned at the table opposite Fargo. He spoke crisply as if the words tasted bitter in his mouth. “Be seated, Captain. This won’t take long.”
Fargo’s gloat grew bolder with that. Thibodaux sat, ramrod-straight in a wooden chair along the far wall, broad shoulders silhouetted by a row of windows that ran from floor to ceiling.
“Captain Quinn,” General Powers began, “I’ve been reviewing your record…” He scanned the documents in front of him as if he was searching for something in particular.
Fargo shot a smirk across the aisle. Quinn tried to ignore him, since anything less than choking out the miserable excuse for an officer would give him little satisfaction.
The general shut the folder with such obvious finality it was easy to see he’d come to a decision. “You have a stellar background, Captain Quinn. There’s no disputing that. There is, however, this issue regarding following the orders of a senior officer. Do you dispute that Colonel Fargo had tactical command of the operation that led to the charges he’s levied against you?”
“No, sir, I do not.”
“Do you dispute the fact that Lieutenant Colonel Fargo ordered you to wait to mount your rescue until he was able to return to your location?”
“No, sir,” Quinn said, his meager hopes falling fast. The general was merely going through the pre-court martial formalities. Quinn had already made his case for disobeying what he considered to be a foolish order. It was all in his report. He saw no reason to waste effort defending himself now. Fargo would enjoy that too much.
General Powers peeled off his reading glasses and pushed away from his desk.
“Captain Quinn,” he said. “I want to be clear about this-for the record. Have you and I ever met?”
Quinn took a deep breath wondering where this was heading. “I have not had the pleasure, sir.”
“Well, if we had met,” the general went on, “there would be zero doubt in your mind that I am a stickler for obedience.”
“Yes, General,” Quinn said, trying not to slump in defeat.
The general shifted his gaze to Lt. Colonel Fargo. “You would agree, would you not, that obedience to a superior officer is imperative?”
Fargo gave a smug nod. “I would indeed, General Powers.”
“Outstanding. We are all in agreement.” Powers leaned in to the desk microphone, close enough that his voice reverberated around the room. “My orders to you, Lieutenant Colonel Fargo-and I assure you that no matter the military branch in which you serve, the orders of a general officer bearing three stars will hold some sway-my orders to you, are to stand down with these ridiculous charges.”
Fargo blinked as if he was staring into a fan, dumbstruck by the sudden turn of events. “Sir, I must-”
“You must obey my orders,” the general snapped. “I have nineteen letters-not e-mails, mind you, but genuine handwritten letters-including one from a Marine Corps general, and one from your commanding officer in the United States Army-all lauding the efforts and accomplishments of Captain Quinn and Marines Thibodaux and Diaz.”
Powers put on his reading glasses again. “Here’s one that struck me in particular. And I quote: ‘I have no doubt that the Iraqis who held us captive were only seconds away from taking our heads. Were it not for the heroic actions of…’ ”
The general peered across the desk. “Do I need to keep going?”
The sand crab shook his head and snapped to attention, begging to be dismissed. Major Babcock escorted him out and General Powers adjourned the proceeding.
“Quinn,” the general said, almost as an afterthought. He popped a peppermint candy in his mouth and rose from his chair. “Step up-and bring your Marine friend with you.”
Powers put his hand over the microphone as the two men approached. “Just so we’re all clear, if you’d disobeyed one of my orders I’d have kicked your ass from Baghdad to Washington and back. Do you read me?”
“Yes, General,” Quinn said, stifling a grin. “But with all due respect, I don’t believe you’d have given such an order.”
“Damn straight,” Powers said. “But don’t be thanking me yet for the rosy way your day’s turning out.” He gave a somber nod over his shoulder toward a large oak door along the wall behind him. “There’s a man in that office who wants to speak with both of you. He’s wearing a very expensive suit and it’s been my experience that men in uniform should be extremely wary of men in suits.”
CHAPTER 12
1550 hours Centers for Disease Control Atlanta, Georgia
The black telephone on Megan Mahoney’s desk rang for the fifth time, then fell silent. Like a soldier in a garrison, Mahoney found the pressed uniforms, seedy politics, and confines of public health stifling. If she had wanted an office, she’d have been a surgeon or some other kind of specialist.
Even the walls of her posh apartment outside Atlanta threatened to crush her if she stayed inside too long. She belonged in the field.
The phone rang again, more urgently this time, if such a thing was possible. Mahoney picked it up.
“Dr. Mahoney. How may I help you?” She was put off by the interruption but saw no reason to let her Southern manners slip.
“Hallo, Dr. Mahoney. Dr. Alain Leclair here… National Institute of Health.” It was a male voice, slightly nasal and thickly French. He pronounced her name “Mayho-knee” with a heavy accent on the last syllable. “I must to speak with you regarding the shipment of certain culture specimens…”
Mahoney got a half dozen such calls a month, usually from third world countries with no labs of their own.
“The instructions for mailing bio samples are all on-line.” She started to give him the Web address.
“I am familiar with the CDC website,” Leclair said. “In truth, I’m not certain why I was given your name. I have not looked at the samples, myself. My counterparts in the Ministry of Interior had sealed them before they came into my possession.”
Leclair blew his nose, loud enough that Mahoney had to hold the receiver away from her ear. Sniffing, he continued. “These are blood and tissue samples-collected in Roissy.”
Mahoney sat upright, pushing herself away from the computer. She bit her bottom lip.
“Did you say Roissy?”
“ Oui. A small community near the Paris airpor-”
“Tell me, Doctor, exactly how are the samples packaged?” Mahoney felt as if someone heavy was sitting on her chest. “You are positive you didn’t try to examine them yourself-touch them in any way?”
“ Oui, I did not.” Leclair said. “They were packaged when I rec-”
“Okay.” Mahoney felt herself begin to breathe again. “Listen to me very carefully, Dr. Leclair. You must place the Roissy samples in a biosafety level-four containment lab immediately.”
Neither Leclair, nor anyone in the French government, would have been told the whole truth regarding the incident with Northwest 2. They knew only of an Algerian lab with some sort of bioterrorism connections. Mahoney had been told the place was firebombed to ashes or she’d have been on the first flight across the Atlantic. She fumed that no one had seen fit to inform her of any surviving cultures.
The French had no way of knowing that the virus from Roissy was, in all likelihood, responsible for the death of over four hundred people.
“I can assure you, the samples are quite well packaged, Dr. Mahoney,” Leclair protested. “We are professionals here in France. The CDC protocols were followed to the letter. You have no need to-”
Mahoney’s Southern sweetness had its limits.
