Crestfallen, Dr. Nassiri realized he’d almost said with Jonah dead. He cleared his throat.
“Tell me what you found,” he continued. “Tell me what you know definitively, and what you surmise.”
“I believe my research represented the final piece of the puzzle,” said Fatima. “I’d suspected dumping of biological and radiological waste from medical facilities throughout Europe. It’s known that elements of organized crime control this practice, and have so for nearly thirty years. Even if legitimate institutions are paid to deal with the waste, it’s cheaper to subcontract the task to criminals and take the difference in straight profit. After all, Somalia is the last coastal region on earth without some type of navy.”
“So this is it? The dumping of medical waste? All of this death, all of this destruction — over that?”
Fatima shook her head. “Hardly,” she answered. “That would only explain a fraction of what I saw.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Ten years ago, a rumor began circulating throughout the halls of oceanographers and marine biologists. It still chills me to think about, a nightmare one hoped some small pang of conscious would have prevented its conception or smothered it at birth.” Fatima sighed and stretched out her fingers, touching her simple cast. “In the mid-1980s, the Soviet Union had a dilemma,” she continued. “American president Ronald Reagan introduced his plan for a missile shield, terrestrial and space-based technologies that would render Soviet missiles useless. It would give the Americans the ability strike first then swat any Soviet retaliation from the sky. Unable to compete with the sudden advancement in American nuclear and missile technology, Soviet strategists discussed other means of ensuring the survival of the communist experiment.”
“What did they do?” asked Dr. Nassiri in a hushed tone.
“They created the Dead Hand,” said Fatima with a wry, sad smile. “The Kremlin called it Mertvaya Ruka, the hand from the grave. It ensured that even upon total destruction of the Soviet state, the military would retain the fully automated ability to strike back with the most virulent plagues and poisons, borne not by missiles, but by sleeper agents and unmanned drones. This was the game, to find some way to rebalance the powers, perhaps even give the Soviets some distinctive edge.”
“Were there not treaties? Something to prevent such horrors?”
“There are always treaties,” said Fatima. “But treaties were broken. Post-collapse, this program became a massive liability. The plagues and poisons necessitated disposal, and it is extraordinarily difficult to dispose of such virulent materials. I believe the waters off Somalia have been designated as a sacrifice zone. By whom, I do not know. When I saw the readings of this region, I felt I saw the fingerprint of the Dead Hand. Evidence indicates this is done under the direct supervision, protection, and profit of Charles Bettencourt and his mercenaries. The entire purpose of Anconia Island may well be to secure, facilitate, and conceal this disposal effort. He will stop at nothing to ensure our silence.”
With Vitaly asleep, his mother cooking in the galley, and Alexis at the tiller, it might be time for a job he’d been putting off, a job he’d been dreading. Jonah’s little science project in the forward compartment had to be nearing its inevitable outcome. Dr. Nassiri shuddered a little just thinking about it. He’d already stacked up a rough equivalent to biohazard gear, mostly amounting to a painter’s mask, gloves, and a pair of slick plastic coveralls. He’d also found a discarded axe, an implement he desperately hoped he wouldn’t need. At least the Scorpion had a few body bags on hand; otherwise the job would be wholly unmanageable.
Sighing, Dr. Nassiri put on his gloves but stopped when he heard footsteps behind him.
“Hey,” said Alexis, leaning up against the wall, hands in the pockets of her cutoff jeans.
“Hello,” said Dr. Nassiri. “Just about to begin the… unpleasantness.”
“Can I help?” she asked.
“It’s no job for a woman,” he stammered. Dr. Nassiri instantly regretted the sexist remark, what little he knew about Alexis should have told him she’d hate hearing that.
“So I’ll just go back to painting my nails,” said Alexis irritably, waving her engine-grease-stained fingers in his face.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He leaned against the wall, took off his gloves and let them fall to the floor. He crossed his arms. “I’ve been really dreading this task. The very thought of what lies beyond this threshold turns my stomach.”
“And you’re trying to spare me from it,” she said. “Thoughtful, but still super sexist and kinda dumb to boot.”
“I don’t want you to help me,” said Dr. Nassiri. “Disposing of burned bodies is a horrible task. If I allow you to help, you’ll look at me differently.”
“How do I look at you now?” she asked.
Was she… blushing? Dr. Nassiri smiled and looked away. He tried to come up with some answer, any answer, but couldn’t. To him each glance they shared, however fleeting, held immense meaning.
“What would you be doing right now if you were home?” asked Alexis, changing the subject and sparing the doctor the painful silence.
“My life in Morocco is very ordinary,” he answered. “I live in one of the smaller cities near the coast. Very beautiful. My flat had a very pleasing sea view. And I have a cat. Had a cat.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No,” laughed Dr. Nassiri. “Despite the best efforts of my extended family. Although I’ve dated some, most women I know are interested in immediate marriage and family life. I suppose I wasn’t ready for that.”
“I hear you there,” said Alexis. “Pretty much all the girls from my high school and college are married and pregnant. My Facebook feed is babies, babies, babies.”
“Truth be told, most of my friends are unattached and incorrigible bachelors. They like the finer things in life — good food, expensive drinks, beautiful cars.”
Alexis absentmindedly tapped her wrench against the bulkhead, thinking.
“I don’t think I’d fit in with your friends,” she finally said. “And your mom already hates me.”
“Perhaps I must find new friends,” said Dr. Nassiri. “And I believe mother will eventually come around.”
Dr. Nassiri coughed and gagged as he scrubbed at the last long, angry tendril of smoke damage. He glanced over at the two bagged bodies, little more than blackened skeletons covered with dry, crepe-paper like fragments of skin.
A burial at sea would have to do; the freezer was already full of dead men from the command compartment. They’d run out of shelving space for the engineer, his clear-plastic unwrapped corpse lay on the freezer floor. The forward compartment was more or less wrecked, but the doctor had cleared it of all the burned-up equipment. At the very least, it could serve for storage at some point in the future. He couldn’t image anyone sleeping here, not after what had happened.
“Doc!” called Alexis from the command compartment, her voice echoing as it came up through the main passageway.
He and Alexis didn’t know how to use the intercom system, and it wasn’t worth waking up Vitaly for something so minor.
Dr. Nassiri glanced around the forward compartment. It was probably good enough; the bodies and the worst of the damage more or less mitigated. Still he closed the heavy hatchway between compartments before stripping off his gloves and making his way back.
“What is it?” he asked, stepping into the command compartment.
“Check out the periscope,” she said.