“Petty Officer Third Class Bill Dunham,” said Connelly. “He was an A-Ganger from Bakersfield, California. Smart, hardworking, but recently a bit of a screw up. Had been AWOL a few days before, reported back to the boat after being gone three days, a former shipmate thinks it had something to do with a girl. We think the captain was getting ready to take him to mast when he got sick. They brought him here, to Tripler, right before deploying.
“What was wrong with him?”
“We’re really not sure. Something fast, and obviously virulent. We’ve identified similar strains in east Asia but we can’t figure out exactly what he got or where he got it.”
“Had the boat been to Asia?”
“Not in four years, and the entire crew has turned over since then.”
“Contagious?”
“By the time you saw him, it obviously was not. Or you and I would be having this conversation through a wall. We’ll continue to keep an eye on you and your coworkers, but so far no one is symptomatic at all. We haven’t figured out the method of transmittal. We’re not even sure how deadly it is — so far we have only one victim, and for all we know his immune system might have been compromised.”
“One of the reasons you keep talking to me, and the others.”
“Correct.”
“What else?”
“We’re trying to figure out exactly where he caught this and how,” said Connelly. “That’s the most important thing. Obviously this is a deadly illness of some kind and we need to know more. The rate of transmission. The fatality rate. To do that, we need to keep track of everyone who could have come into contact with him during the contagious phase, whatever that was, if there was one. The only thing worse than a mystery illness is a mystery pandemic. So far, we haven’t identified any other victims, but it’s imperative that we find them if they’re out there. That’s why we need to know if you hear from any of Dunham’s friends or family.”
“Why don’t you start with his boat?” said Cote. “Isn’t that a logical place to start? See if his shipmates are sick?”
The NIS agent looked up at that, and he and Connelly made eye contact.
“Master Chief, you’ve finally asked me a question I can’t answer.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
King stood. “Thank you for your time, master chief. You have our cards, please let us know if you remember anything additional. Or if you start to display any symptoms. Especially coughing.”
“Will do.”
Cote stayed in the conference room a few minutes after they left and ruminated. He tried to think of how many men he knew aboard
Seven floors below, a young woman timidly approached the welcome desk. She wore low-cut jeans and a loose top that exposed a sliver of her taut, tanned stomach. Like every young woman on the island, she felt constant pressure to stay fit, because swimsuit season ran year-round. But while her body was young and beautiful, her eyes were red from crying, and she looked exhausted. The receptionist, a kindly older woman with a natural sympathy that suited her work, looked up from her Sudoku book to greet her.
“Hi, um, I’m looking for a patient,” she said. “I mean, I want to see if he’s here?”
“Are you family, sweetheart?” asked the receptionist.
“Um, no, I’m his… girlfriend.”
“And you’re not sure he’s here?”
“No, I’m not…” she choked on the words a little bit, trying not to cry. “It’s just — his boat pulled out, and he promised he would send me a letter on that last mail call. I haven’t gotten anything yet… so I thought maybe he was sick and I should check here.”
Sympathy welled up in the receptionist — could anyone possibly be this innocent? The poor girl was so in love that she thought the only reason for a missed letter was a hospitalization. She considered carefully what to say next. She decided on the spot that she would not be the one to dump an ice cold bucket of reality all over this poor thing.
“How long ago did he pull out, dear?”
“Four days ago.”
“Well that’s not very long is it? Maybe you just need to give the mail a couple of days!”
The sad girl nodded, and pulled a strand of blonde hair from her face. “Maybe.”
The receptionist briefly considered asking for a name and actually checking to see if he was in the hospital, but decided against it. She knew what the result would be. The boy wasn’t sick: he was just an asshole.
“I’m really not supposed to tell you if he’s here or not, if you’re not family,” she said.
“Ok.”
“But why don’t you wait a couple of days, come back and check again, okay?”
The girl sighed, defeated, but grateful for the older woman’s kindness. “Okay,” she said, walking back to the front door and into the unending tropical sunshine that always seemed cruel to the heartbroken.
