Three of the USAMRIID biologists were going to stay at U.S. Immuno. The rest would work at Fort Detrick. As Zataki set up the logistics, Liz realized with dismay that she was not being included in the plans.
“Hey! Wait a minute! I’m one of only two remaining people on the planet that’s worked with Chimera. What’s going on?”
Halloran said, “You’ve been through enough—”
”Fuck you, Frank. I’m not going home to rest. I helped create this mess. I’ll help fix it.”
An awkward silence settled over the room. She didn’t know if it was just her paranoia creeping in, but she thought they were all looking at her accusingly.
A wiry man from USAMRIID, Captain Jay Beckenstein, said, “I personally feel that there are a number of questions concerning your presence in HL4 during the actual theft and the question of your survival, that hasn’t been answered.” He had a thick New England accent that reminded Liz of Bobby Kennedy.
Liz glared at him. “What are you saying? You’re saying you don’t trust me? That you think I was in on it?”
Beckenstein, who had curly black hair and a lethal five o’clock shadow, nodded his head. “Yeah. That’s what I’m saying.” His dark eyes met hers unflinchingly.
Liz saw that a number of the others were nodding their heads in agreement. She felt her stomach churn and thought she would be sick.
Sharon Jaxon said, “I’ll work with you.”
Liz looked at her in relief and surprise. “Thank you.”
Jaxon nodded. “Okay Ben?”
Zataki nodded. “Frank will be working with my people here. Why don’t you come to Rid with the rest of us. We can use your help. Whatever you’re up to.”
“I’m up to everything,” Liz said.
Zataki nodded. “That’s it, then. Let’s get going.”
Within an hour Liz found herself strapped into the seat of a Huey flying above Interstate 270 toward Fort Detrick, the Catoctin Mountain glimmering in the haze ahead.
11
Derek sat back in the office chair, thinking over the file he had just read on Richard Coffee.
Education: A dual degree in Linguistics and Slavic Languages from the University of Colorado.
Special language abilities: fluent in Russian, Lithuanian, Czech, Yugoslavian, German and Italian. In addition to his startling abilities in Slavic languages, Richard Coffee had been proficient, though probably not fluent, in French, Spanish and Greek.
And probably Sanskrit, Latin and Esperanto, Derek thought.
Derek remembered being stationed in Korea with Richard and how quickly Coffee had picked up the language. Fast enough to get around, talk to the natives, barter in the stores and order at the restaurants. They had only been in Korea for six months.
According to his file, Coffee had been at the very top of his training group and was considered to have “significant leadership potential.” His marksmanship was rated as “excellent,” which was above “sharpshooter.”
He had, like Derek, served in Panama and been stationed throughout the world: Korea, Japan, Germany, England, Italy, Cuba. With his language skills he had been shifted back and forth between liaison and training positions with the locals, and what was probably translating materials used in Psychological Operations or Psyops.
After Coffee had been exposed to an unidentified mix of chemical and biological agents, Derek had rushed him to the nearest medi-vac chopper where he had been whisked away to the 807th M.A.S.H. Derek had been ordered to move with the advancing troops to evaluate the ongoing risk of biological and chemical weapon attacks.
He had not been able to check on his friend until the end of the war. He was informed that “Captain Richard Coffee had died of unexplained lung and neurological damage caused by an unspecified and unidentified combination of biological and chemical agents believed to have been stored at the arms depot at An Nasiriyah.”
His body, Derek had been informed, had been shipped home to Boulder, Colorado for burial.
It was all in the file.
Well, Derek thought, flipping to the end again… not quite all. Under the circumstances he would have expected a complete medical file including an autopsy report. Coffee’s death had been unusual, an anomaly in a war with relatively few casualties. On the other hand, medical records in a war zone were something of a luxury and thousands had been mislaid during the Gulf War. Perhaps that had happened in Coffee’s case.
Given the later controversy over Gulf War Syndrome, the unexplained mix of health syndromes many veterans had complained of, it was slightly odd that the one certifiable American death by Iraqi biowarfare weapons wasn’t more thoroughly documented.
Or was that why it wasn’t?
Gulf War Syndrome had never been satisfactorily explained. Many in the military believed it was all nonsense, just veterans trying to get more money or insurance benefits out of Uncle Sam. The latest “official” explanation was that the wide and varied mix of simultaneous vaccines given to such a large group of people in preparation for desert warfare against a country with a penchant for using bio and chem weapons had overloaded many G.I.’s immune systems, leading to the odd mix of health problems.
Derek had always assumed the reason Coffee’s death had never reached the media was because it would have given ammunition to the Gulf War Syndrome argument.
But now he wondered.
He flipped through the file again, trying to pinpoint what he was missing. What wasn’t there that should have been?
Leaning back in the chair, he closed his eyes and let his mind drift. There was something there, he knew, some odd little factoid that he was trying to remember.
Yi-Ru-Han Kyoung-Wu-E-Neun Seo-Du-Reul Su-Ga Up-Seum-Ni-Da.
You can’t hurry this.
He sat up. Opened his eyes. Flipped through the file again.
When he and Coffee had been stationed in Korea, playing tag with North Koreans along the DMZ, evaluating land mines and North Korea’s biological and chemical weapons potential, they had shared more than a few beers in Seoul bars.
He remembered Coffee, tilting his bottle of Hite beer, a popular Korean brand, and saying he had plans to leave the Army.
“Don’t we all,” Derek had said. “You’re out of your mind, though. We’re lifers. Where else are you going to get your regular adrenaline fix? I tell you, Java, you’re not going to get the same buzz playing golf.”
“CIA,” Coffee said.
Derek rolled his eyes. “What? With your background in languages? They’ll stuff you in an office the size of a telephone booth in Langley, probably in a fucking sub-sub-sub-basement somewhere, and you’ll be translating grocery lists and bureaucratic memos twelve hours a day. Fuck it. I don’t believe you.”
“Nah. I applied, man. I’d make a great field agent.”
“Bullshiiiiittt.”
But now, Derek couldn’t find it. Had it been bullshit? Would it have made it into military records if Coffee had officially applied to the Central Intelligence Agency?
He tried to remember the look on Coffee’s face when he had told him. Had he been serious? With Coffee — Java as he was called by everyone — it was hard to tell. The man had been a world-class poker player and one hell of a liar.
“Fucking CIA cash cow,” Derek said, his voice sounding slightly strained in the empty room. He glanced at his watch. He had to make up his mind soon. Was this a chase of the wild-goose variety, or a long-shot worth pursuing?
His gaze settled on the chair where Colonel Tallifer, the Military Intelligence spook, had sat.