Hidden Empire (Empire 2)

But when he started to repeat anecdotes, it dawned on her that he had not personally seen any cases of the disease. He was going on rumors.

Get us out of here to a place where we can be trained by somebody who actually knows what he's talking about!

Then he got onto the topic of safety. "Gloves! Masks! Wash everything! Touch no one!" The same message over and over. The third time he said, "Staying safe is your absolute highest priority!" someone raised his hand and Doctor Miller called on him.

Oh, it was Mark.

"If staying safe was our highest priority, sir, I don't think we'd be here."

The doctor was about to erupt with anger at this insult to his dignity, but many of the adults in the room laughed and some of them even clapped, and he got the message. His lecture was not going over very well.

"We came to help people," said a man. "I'm a doctor back in the States, I'm prepared to train people on antiseptic procedures. What we need are the masks, the gloves, the equipment we're going to be using."

"There is no equipment," said Dr. Miller. Angry now, he had decided on brutal candor. "There is no treatment. Don't you understand that? You get this disease. You sneeze. You cough. It feels like nothing. And then the fever creeps up on you and you feel like you're going to explode out of your skin and you start to bleed in random places and then you either die or you get better—very, very slowly. The whole thing takes about two and a half weeks if you die, two months to get back to full health if you happen not to die. There's no medicine except ibuprofen. What do you think you're going to do for these people?"

There was enough hostility in the room that Cecily decided to speak up, using her we're-all-friends-here voice. "We can wash them. Bring them food and water. Try to keep the fever down. Help them understand that they're not alone, that someone cares whether they live or die. We can pray with them and for them. We can read to them, tell them stories, take their minds off what they're going through. We can give them human company. And we'd like to get started, please. Where are the masks and gloves? Where do we wash? Where are the sick people?"

Her little speech was punctuated by a fair number of amens—something Catholics would never do, but it was actually kind of fun to be part of a vociferously Christian group.

But as the evening wore on, several things became clear. Nobody knew where the patients were, because the hospitals were all closed. There weren't enough beds in Nigerian hospitals to hold even a tiny fraction of the sick—they were told to stay home, keep off the streets, try to stop the disease from spreading. The result was that markets didn't open. Food was running short. Desperate people were breaking into the houses of the sick and stealing what food they had—then getting sick themselves. There was no place to take them.

"This is a university," said Cecily. "There are dormitories? The students aren't here?"

"Correct, ma'am, but Americans would not like Nigerian accommodations."

"What we don't like," said Cecily, "is this very hot and way-too-small room. We'll get used to Nigerian student dorms, and if there aren't enough of them, then find us some empty houses or classrooms and we'll make do. And tomorrow we'll go out and find patients to feed and take care of. We didn't come here for you to entertain us, Doctor Miller. We came to help sick Nigerians."

She got so much applause from the others that Miller apparently felt the need to take her down a peg.

"And what about when you get sick? Do you think we're going to let you back in here with our healthy soldiers?"

"No, we don't!" shouted a man.

Cecily came forward and put a gentle hand on Dr. Miller's shoulder. "It's okay, Doctor Miller," she said. "It's okay. We don't work for you. We're not your responsibility. Almost all of us are adults who are used to running things in our regular jobs. We'll organize ourselves, we'll look after one another. Some of us will probably get sick. Some of us may die. But it won't be your fault. Nobody will blame you. You aren't responsible for us. All we ask is that you get us the basic equipment—the masks, the gloves, sponges, basins, bedpans, ibuprofen, clean water. All of those things were supposed to come on the planes with us, so we aren't even using your supplies. Just point us to the city and let us get started. What we do after that is up to us."

And that speech was how Cecily got herself elected manager of the Calabar Relief Operation. She didn't want the job, but somebody had to be in charge enough to say, Yes, do that, or No, try this instead, so that things could move forward.

What Cecily couldn't understand was why Cole hadn't already arranged for this before they arrived. For that matter, where was he? Surely as the major general in charge of the whole African campaign, he should have put in an appearance. Surely as her friend—even if their last parting had been a little testy—he could show up and …

Something was wrong. If not Cole, then one of Reuben's jeesh, somebody should have been there.

They must be out on an operation.

But why wouldn't somebody just say that? "General Cole would like to be here, but he's out doing his job and he won't be back for a day or two." How hard was that to explain?

All this incompetence, all this disorganization, this is not how the army works. Something is seriously wrong.

Never mind that by the time she thought of this, it was dark and she was lying on top of the most uncomfortable mattress she had ever lain on in her life. Gravel would be more comfortable—smaller lumps.

She got up and put her clothes back on. They were still damp with her sweat from traveling. She had a tiny LED flashlight in her purse and used that to find her way. The three other women in the room didn't even stir as she left.

Cecily thought of looking for Mark in the men's dorm, but that would be disruptive. It was soldiers she wanted right now, and since this was an Army base in a foreign country, there'd be plenty of them awake already.

Sure enough, it took no searching at all—the duty officer found her.

"Excuse me ma'am," he said apologetically. "This city isn't safe at night. Stray bullets, all kinds of things."

"You're just the man I'm looking for," she said, which was true, since any soldier would do. "I'm a good friend of General Coleman. My husband and he served together. I'd really like to see him."