Amazon
Category:
Humor
Story of how the world could possibly end, given the fierceness of the planet's religious strife.
Excerpt
In the long, rectangular room known as the “Large Conference Room” located on the first floor of the National Biodefense Analysis and Countermeasures Center’s (NBACC’s) office building, Virginia Soderberg had another urgent duty. She had to rustle up a presentation at Detrick, so that she could address the concerns and questions of a mixed group of curious citizens and journalists. Over the last several weeks, traffic and general activity in the normally self-contained, inconspicuous office building had noticeably increased, with scientists and lawyers scrambling to and from several offices within the new complex. It was 2006, and NBACC was just getting itself on its collective feet to begin operations with a new public relations campaign. The campaign was triggered by having moved a controversial research from a BSL-3 space within the laboratory facilities to the highest security and safety level at BSL-4 space, which normally deals with the testing of deadly microbes that have no available treatment, such as the Ebola and Marburg viruses. The move leaked out into the local press, and the job of tackling the inevitable inquiry fell to NBACC’s spokesperson, Virginia Soderberg.
Undaunted, she waded into the pounding waves of the curious with complete confidence, even though she was expecting to take heavy fire. “Our mission today is to explain the decision by the Department of Homeland Security to upgrade biogenetic research on an innocent soil-enriching microbe called the b. subtilis bacterium,” Virginia began. “Not surprisingly, critics of the administration are saying our actions indicate that we’re operating in a gray zone and we’re skirting the edges of the Biological Weapons Convention.” Virginia threw her voice out in all corners of conference room with that spectacular grin she’d been complimented for all her life. “They argue we need an even higher degree of transparency to reassure Americans (and the rest of the world) of the U.S. government's good intentions. Well, you know what? That’s precisely what we are doing today,” she added, scanning the room for her first challenger. “But in a more realistic sense, when the rest of the world assures Americans about their intentions, we here at NBACC will ratchet up efforts even further to assure them in kind. In that context, some work must remain classified.” She grinned again amicably and made a point in her last statement of pronouncing her agency’s name in its more sociable and innocuous two syllables (enbac). “Now I’m not supposed to say that, but I want your trust. And it’s an honest statement. And that’s what I want you to think when you hear me answer your questions and concerns.” The audience laughed a little uncomfortably, but admired Virginia’s brassy frankness. “I’m not here to defend or apologize for what goes on at NBACC. But I am here to say, I have three kids and I want to give them a future.”
Virginia held up a small government pamphlet on NBACC, then read from it reverentially as though it were signed by the president himself. “The facility’s work is also aimed at investigating DNA-altered single celled organisms for strategic purposes. I won’t mislead anybody. But it’s in this little booklet describing the mission here. We’re not hiding anything. Nor are we doing anything underhanded or detrimental to the common good.”
“If you can find one of those,” a reporter wise-cracked from a seat not far away.
Virginia wasted no time. She scooped up a handful of the pamphlets from the speaker’s table and waved them over her head for all to see. “Anyone want one,” she said politely, “They’re up here on the table. We even talk about that Operation Whitecoat you keep bringing up. Nothing’s been swept under the rug. But that was another time, another battle, another lesson. Also, there’s plenty of contact information besides. I even agreed to give out my email address. Tweeting no,” she added to a smattering of laughter.
On the white concrete wall behind the speaker’s table was a large video screen with a photo display of Fort Detrick facilities and its staff at work, many in haz-mat suits and enclosed within high-security laboratory sectors. “Here are our people at work. Can’t be any more open than all this. They’re fellow Americans just like you and me, who are committed to protecting the security of their country.”
“You know you all have a rep for bad behavior. People still call this place Fort Doom,” another reporter heckled.
“Hey, Los Alamos,” Virginia replied, as though she were ad-libbing. “Scary place too, if you don’t put it all into historical perspective.” Virginia had some great pat answers. And for the most part, they worked. The crowd quieted down.
Fort Detrick, where NBACC was based, had been a little-known sixty year old army garrison with a notoriously checkered history. Hailed for its groundbreaking work on containing and combating biological weapons on the one hand, and excoriated by critics for testing pathogens as biological weapons on innocent citizens on the other. The entire complex had existed for decades under a cloud of suspicion. Virginia, a Harvard-trained microbiologist, made it her business to take on the job of cleaning up its image. She also felt she had the polished sensibility and self-confidence to spot and manage troublemakers and scandal-mongers. At one of her employment interviews at NBACC, she explained bluntly, “Men listen to me.’ The comment was annotated in her folder along with a translation, “God’s gift to men.” The Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security was so impressed with the notation that he overrode his subordinate’s choice for the position and insisted on hiring Virginia, a recruitment twist only her superior, a former financial whiz at the State Department, Pete Rafferty, would ever be privy to.
“We didn’t have an NBACC before 9/11,” Virginia said, prancing a bit around the conference, confident that she’d found common cause with her guests. “Together with our sister agencies, and the whole National Interagency Biodefense Campus, we’re here just to make sure we don’t get sucker-punched again. With even deadlier stuff.”
Seated at the back of the Large Conference Room leaning forward from his chair like an indignant sports fan was Bruno Turchi. He listened to Virginia with great interest and found himself fascinated by her cock-sure directness. She was tall and walked even taller shaped nicely in a dark, tailored jacket and pants. Bruno hoped to snag some statement he might challenge. But so far, his yellow notepad recorded only a few odd doodles around the name, Virginia Soderberg and the notation, Patriot or Idiot? Intrigued by her brashness, Bruno wondered how she got a job that normally would have gone to a spokesperson as buttoned-down as a monk and as slippery as a trout. Raising his hand guardedly, Bruno caught Virginia’s attention.
“Yes, sir. In the back,” Virginia noticed Bruno for the first time.
Bruno spoke up without getting up: “Your mandate is clearly not to engage in the development of offensive biological material…” he started saying.
“Can you please speak up,” Virginia pressed, grinning with authority.
Bruno, his thick dark hair cut back to stubble length matched a day old beard, listened to himself get the words right as he raised his voice: “Your mandate is clearly not to engage in the development of offensive biological material. To that end, can you tell us with regard to classified research something about your oversight?”
Virginia glided confidently into her audience, closer to where Bruno was seated. “I’m not going to debate the defensive and offensive nature of the work carried out here, because you all know much of it is subject to interpretation. But I will say that all our work is carefully monitored by the scientific oversight team from the Department of Homeland Security. And it has been deemed in compliance with the Bioweapons Convention guidelines.”
“Is that not like the fox guarding the henhouse?” Bruno piped up again, earning some polite laughter.
Virginia carried herself as if she knew and expected that she was being watched. “Sir, we have a conventional peer-review process involving groups of scientists who are independent of NBACC and the research conducted here - albeit with government security clearances.” Virginia gestured with academic off-handedness when she used words like albeit. She learned long ago how gesturing made prepared words sound spontaneous.
Bruno hesitated then braved through his own hesitation: “Bioweapons experts in the scientific community have called for additional forms of oversight, possibly from international scientists and outside observers from other countries. Is that going to happen?”
Virginia’s dozy, sensual hazel eyes suddenly fired up to the challenge. “We’re considering it. But who and when has to be decided with care! Surely you can understand that?” Most of the audience absorbed in the sparring turned to Bruno for another verbal clinch. But there was none.
“Stop worrying about America cheating. We don’t cheat… unless we’re playing against cheaters. I’m sorry to be so blunt. But for God’s sake, wake up, we have enemies out there.” Virginia’s patriotic zeal raised her appeal another octave and drew a smattering of applause. “The trick is to be sure we know who and where our enemies are,” Virginia added. She walked out among her guests and chided them with a final shrug, “I talk fast. I try to cut to the chase. If that’s too much for you, there’s a tea later this evening with some of the staff and members of DHS. They will be happy to feed you politically correct glop. “
Her audience rollicked into a round of amicable laughter. Bruno sat quietly hoping for another chance to rattle his hostess. Virginia hadn’t retreated either. She came to the back wall not far from where Bruno was sitting and stood brazenly, her head cocked and her arms folded against her breasts as if tossing out a challenge. She scrutinized Bruno a few moments while he scribbled on his notepad: What if they DON’T KNOW who the enemy is? Right-winger. But smart.
“I have one other little gift for you,” Virginia went on. “I’ve been told I must say to you, ‘if there is something I don’t know, I will be happy to find out for you.’ My orders are to be as transparent as possible.” Virginia scanned her audience for a reaction. Without turning to face her, Bruno surprised Virginia and everyone in the audience with his next question. “Do you believe everything you’re told.”
“Does anyone have a real question?” Virginia shot back.
“That’s a real question. I get asked it all the time,” Bruno said without bothering to look at her. “People don’t believe anymore.”
“And who may you be?”
“Bruno Turchi.”
“Just Bruno Turchi?”
“Dr. Bruno Turchi if you’re impressed by titles.” The audience boosted Bruno’s riposte with eager laughter. “I have a Ph.D. in anthropology. I also have a license to give driving lessons. It was summer work at University.” The jesting drew a tide of laughter Virginia didn’t like.
“And you’re here because…?”
“I’m a free-lance writer.”
“That’s a shame.” The quip was quick and the audience loved it.
“My work in cultural anthropology took me into Soteriology.”
“And that is?”
“Study of salvation.”
“Salvation?”
“Yeah, aren’t we all looking for it? Remember when they used to sell it. I still think that’s the best way to get it. A few ducats and you go to heaven.”
Virginia waited for a few chuckles to subside. “What’s your story about?”
“Don’t have one yet.”
“Never heard of Soteriology. I think you made it up for laughs.”
“Every religious faith has some kind of salvation, their own soteriology. You might know it as eschatology.”
Virginia didn’t know it as eschatology, never heard of eschatology but nodded that she did, and made a mental note that Bruno may have been a pompous ass.
“Some soteriologies are concerned with relationships to gods; others are about cultivation of knowledge or virtue. Soteriologies are all different, but you can’t have a religion without one.”
“Very interesting, Mr. Turchi. But we’re just a research facility here. For apocalypses, you’ll want to talk to that guy on the corner with the ‘Repent’ sign.” The audience fell to laughing before Bruno could respond.
“Is that why they call this place Fort Doom?” he cracked.
Ribald audience laughter felt like a strafing to Virginia. It prompted another quip. “If you’re stuck on sixty year old history that might explain why you don’t have a story.” There was another spritz of audience appreciation while Virginia returned to the front of the conference room. Bruno did the chivalrous thing and let her have the last word. He turned to review what he had written into his notepad and found himself underscoring the words What a body.
More cautiously now, Virginia took one or two other questions from the group, then abruptly announced that her time was up. She reminded everyone of the tea party with executives of the Department of Homeland Security later in the afternoon outside the NBACC building, then began to pack her laptop and note papers.
As her audience rose and scattered to the two conference room exits, she spied Bruno sidling out the back. Before she left for home that afternoon, she snapped open her cell phone, hit a single digit, and there was Beam, an investigative analyst with the impressive title of Operations Coordination Assistant Director. Carla Beam was Virginia’s main contact with DHS. Carla had an impossible job, that of keeping everyone who mattered at NBACC in the loop with activities among DHS sister agencies. Carla was smart and fast-talking, and, aside from her half-hourly smoke break tucked away at the back door of her office building, she never moved from her console of land and cell phones, each assigned to a different team. To keep conscientious track of everything, Carla had an invisible staff of over twenty assistants. “Carla, look. I just finished up a transparency conference down here. And there was a guy bugging me. Don’t know what his agenda is, but he sounded like he had one. Name he gave was Bruno Turchi. Claims he’s a writer or an anthropologist or something that sounded academic… with a specialty called – I’ll spell it. s-o-t-e-r-i-o-l-o-g-y. Soteriology. Can you have the bureau do a background check? Thanks. And what did you find out about that van sitting in the shadows?”
“Security has been up to their eyeballs with stuff like this lately.”
“Carla, what did you find out? I know security thinks I’m a nutcase.”
“Pizza truck.”
“Pizza truck? And they’re pissed, right. That’s why they didn’t get back to me. You know what? It’s their job,” Virginia barked into her cell, annoyed that security would complain about her suspicions. “And if they bitch to you again about me, let me know. I’ll rattle a few cages and get their asses reamed out. They have a job. And I’m part of their job, damn it. If I suspect a pizza truck, then so what! I’m looking out for people.”
When people said of Virginia that she was “overly-cautious,” everyone knew it was a respectful euphemism for “paranoid.” She seemed ill-at-ease in the most comfortable of circumstances, but with high security issues involved, she tended to “err on the side of panic,” was how one co-worker put it, a pleasantry that circulated and stuck. Virginia snapped her phone shut angrily and flew out of the Large Conference Room. She hurried back to her office for her coat, and ducked down the corridor and out without a nod to another soul.
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