watching Josie and the Pussycats before going out to play in the back. Josie was still on.
“Do you mind if I put on CNN?” Ginny asked. “I’ve been glued to it all morning. We’re all over the news.”
“No, of course not,” Rita said, feeling completely disoriented. She dug the remote out from under a cushion and switched channels to CNN. There was that big blue banner running across the screen that said “Special Report.” In Rita’s experience that always meant “Especially Bad News.” Both women sat down on the worn sofa and saw images of Guantanamo that seemed completely alien.
Men in bright yellow environmental suits were pouring from the rear of C-130s out at Leeward Point field. There were strange vehicles manned by similarly dressed men patrolling the streets, and bomb squad teams who looked like Martians. Somehow, life at Gitmo had turned upside down in the last two hours and Rita Gomez had missed the whole thing.
One of the famous old CNN guys from the Gulf War was standing under a palm tree outside the Gitmo HQ building with a microphone. Rita tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but she kept glancing over her shoulder at Gomer sitting up there on top of the fridge.
“In many cases,” the reporter was saying, “bacon was frying on the stove and the Monday wash was on the line when the order came to evacuate dependent women and children. Already, security guards protect empty houses and patrol now-quiet neighborhoods only yesterday filled with children’s noisy play.”
“What is—what in the world is going on, Ginny?” Rita asked, feeling suddenly frightened.
“Shhh, just listen.”
“The plans for the evacuation were announced and effected immediately. The base was divided into areas, and responsibility for notification and transportation to the awaiting ships and aircraft was given to the various commands.”
“Why are they wearing those suits?” Rita asked, but Ginny ignored her, intent upon the broadcast.
“The Navy Exchange is still open,” the CNN guy continued, “but it stands deserted. A battalion of Marines arrived during the early-morning hours, and their general attitude is one of calm watchfulness. Guantanamo is a changed place this morning. The base golf course is dotted with the temporary tents pitched by Marines who now bivouac on the fairways and greens.”
“Oh, my God,” Rita said.
“Along with the Marines, bomb squads, scientists, and doctors from the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, all in their protective clothing, find no relief from the hot Cuban sun. No one will officially confirm why they’re here, but rumors are rampant.”
Ginny hit the mute button and turned to Rita. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you’ve always seemed one of the few base wives who were nice because of who I was, not because of who my husband was.”
“Tell me, Ginny. The girls and I’ve been over at church since seven. We’ve missed the whole thing. Why in the world are we being evacuated?”
“There’s some kind of bomb hidden on the base. Joe says it’s either a nuclear or a biological weapon. Some kind of new laboratory-created bacteria, they’re guessing most likely. The ‘poor man’s atomic bomb,’ he called it. They haven’t been able to find it to defuse it or whatever they do. So, we’re all clearing out. Women and children, I mean. And civil servants, of course.”
“My God,” Rita said. “Who would do such a thing?”
“The new Cuban government,” Ginny said. “They’re nuts, Joe says. Certifiable looney-toons. Listen, I’ve got to run. We’ve only got a couple of hours before we have to be at the boarding stations. You’re only allowed to pack one suitcase for each family member.”
“Okay,” Rita said, her mind racing. She glanced back at the top of the fridge. There was a family member up there. Did Gomer still count for a suitcase?
“If you’ve got a dog, you’re supposed to tie him up in the backyard. And leave the keys to the house on the dining table.”
“We don’t have a dog.”
“Right. I’m sorry. This is a terrible time for you,” Ginny said. “Listen, you get the kids packed and ready to go. Then drive over to my house and we’ll go—”
“We don’t have a car. The MPs have it impounded.”
“Oh. Yes, that’s right. I forgot. Well, listen, Rita, I’ll pick you and the girls up here then. If you could be out front with your luggage?”
“Okay,” Rita said, looking around at the bravely decorated little rooms she and Gomer and the girls had called home for so long. She couldn’t stop herself from noticing just how dry the dried flowers looked. God, how she’d tried to make this house a home.
“Can you be ready in an hour? The streets are a mess. Packed all the way to Wharf Bravo. That’s where the JFK is berthed.”
“Sure. We, uh—whatever you say. I would think your husband would, you know, fly you and Cindy out? Something?”
“That’s what he wanted us to do. I said no way. I think the commanding officer’s wife’s place is shoulder to shoulder with the sailors’ families aboard the Kennedy.”
“We’ll be ready, Ginny. Right out front on the sidewalk.”
Rita followed Ginny out to her car. The sun was broiling now and she shielded her eyes, waving good-bye as Ginny pulled away from the curb. Just as she was about to turn and go back inside, another car pulled up by the mailbox. One of those gray Navy cars.
Two men, one in civilian clothes and the other in Army fatigues, climbed out of the front, then the back door swung open and one of the yellow-suit guys climbed out.
“Are you Mrs. Gomez?” one of the civilian guys asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“We’d like to talk to you for a minute. Is it possible to step inside out of the sun?”
“Of course,” Rita said. “Please follow me.”
Rita showed them into the living room. The two coat-and-tie guys sat down. One had a large briefcase. The man from Mars guy stayed in the kitchen. Rita saw him reach up to the top of the fridge for Gomer’s urn.
“What is he doing?” she said. “That’s my husband!”
“I’m very sorry, ma’am,” the guy on the couch said. “We’re doing a house-to-house search. It’s his job. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”
“Who are you?” Rita said, remaining on her feet, twisting the folds of her navy blue skirt in her hands.
“I’m Brigadier General Darryl Elliot, and this is Mr. Chynsky,” Elliot said. “I’m from JSOC, the Joint Special Operations Command at Fort Bragg. Mr. Chynsky is counterterrorist director for the NSA. That gentleman in the kitchen is Dr. Ken Beer, a chief investigator from the Center for Disease Control and Prevention. He has presidential authority to search your house, ma’am.”
“Fine,” Rita said. “Let him.”
“Dr. Beer, I’d start upstairs and work down,” the one named Chynsky said. The guy in the spacesuit nodded at him and headed up the stairway.
“Mrs. Gomez,” General Elliot said, “I know this is a tough time for you. I’m sorry. But I have to talk to you regarding some things our investigators have turned up since your late husband’s death and cremation. We don’t have a lot of time here.”
“Whatever I can do to help.”
“Thank you. Did your husband exhibit any unusual behavior in the weeks leading up to his death?”
“He was drunk a lot. Nothing unusual about that.”
“Any strange new habits? Disappearances?”
“If he wasn’t sleeping he was over at the bar at the X pounding Budweisers.”
“Any new friends or associates recently?”
“He only had one friend. He wouldn’t know what an associate was.”
“Friend’s name?”
“Sparky. Sparky Rollins.”
“Yes. The guard posted on what used to be Tower 22.”
“That’s him.”
“Did you ever overhear any unusual conversations between the two of them?”
