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two good men ! I don’t know how many times I have to e xplain it to you, but my orders are to bring them directly to Fort Bragg for debriefing from the Pentagon! I won’t have my men sit inside a fish tank so you people can feel better about your fuckup !”
    “I understand that , but the risk of–”
    “What risk? None of my men are infected! I told you, there is bra ss waiting to debrief them. Should I tell DC to pack up and come back in forty-eight hours?” Sgt. James mockingly asked.
    Lloyd watched with tired eyes. I wish I could read lips . He watched as another white-suit ra n over to the one arguing with Sgt. James. The new white-suit was holding a satellite phone.
    “Sir, it’s… You should take this,” th e white-suit said, handing the phone to his co-worker.
    He took the phone, annoyed, and pressed it against his ear.
    “Flight Operations, go ahead,” he said into the phone. His face sunk and lost color. “Yes, sir, I understand. . . Yes, sir, thank you. And sir, it’s an honor .”
    He disconnected the call and looked over at Sgt. James , still obviously in disbelief.
    “Apparently, the Secretary of Defense himself i s waiting for you,” he told Sgt. James. “You’re been given your clearance to go.”
    Sgt. James said nothing, turned, and stormed towards the cockpit. 
    The white-suit turned and walked off of the helipad. As he walked away, he gave the control tower a ‘thumb-up’.
    Within minutes, the helicopter was in the air. Lloyd watched the chaos on the compound below as white-suites rushed into the plastic draped building wielding chemical sprayers and flamethrowers. They would have killed me , Lloyd thought. They would have killed me for nothing, just because they are afraid.
    Llo yd coughed, and closed his eyes; it felt good to finally be out of that hazmat suit. He coughed again and drifted into an uneasy sleep, infecting the other soldiers with each breath he took.

5
     
    I n his office on the fifth floor of the Pentagon, Gen eral Falton sat flanked by Lieutenant General Yates and Colonel Mathis. Th ey stared at the laptop in the center of the polished table with pallid expressions.
    Colonel Mathis, head of the 161st Bioterrorism Response Regiment stationed in Fort Bragg, reached a hand across the table and played the digital recording for the fifth time.
    Pilot: “Mayday! Mayday! Eagle One to Hawk Nest [interference] multiple causalities aboard. Request ing emergency landing! [screaming in background]”
    Control: “Hawk Nest to Eagle One what is the nature of your emergency? Are you taking fire?”
    Pilot: “NEGI– [interference] Threat is aboar d! Threat is aboard– [interference] [loud banging in background] they’re trying to get in the– [interference]”
    Control:   “Break, Break, Break, Eagle One , what is the nature of the threat , over ?”
    Pilot: “I don’t fucking know! Sgt. James is dead! He– [interference] Oh God! They’re – [louder banging] [screaming] [gunshots] [heavy interference] [silence]”
    Col. Mathis stopped the recording and looked at General Falton.
    General Falton, a forty-eight year old battle-worn soldier , headed the United States’ s ecretive bioweapon division since the early eighties. His once proud military physique had given way to a plump midsection and sagging should ers. Stress had slowly whittled away at him, raised his blood pressure, elevated his cholesterol, and cost him his hair; serving through Regan’s Cold War tensions, Clinton’s scandals, and both of the Bush eras with each of their respective wars came with a heavy pr ice. However, it was a price he was willing to pay for a legacy and a healthy retirement sum.
    And then along came the worst disaster in the bioweapon program’s history, t hreatening everything that he sacrificed his life for .
    Gen. Falton sighed and contemplated in silence for a moment.
    “That’s it, then,” Gen. Falton finally said. “ It came abo ard, somehow. Fort Detrick ?” He rolled