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She was not really prepared for him to take them seriously. "That's right," she said. "And talking to you doesn't further that cause."
"I think it does," said Humphries. "And here's why. I have millions of listeners to my radio show every day. You need meds and water bottles and food and that takes money. You also need more volunteers. So we need to show people all over America that you're not a bunch of Christian kooks who went off to Africa to die, like those wacko liberals who went to Baghdad to try to stop us from bombing there. I want to let them hear your voice, hear you talk about what you're doing, let them feel what it's like to experience this disease. Because you know and I know that sooner or later, everybody in the world is going to have to deal with this."
Cecily bent over and picked up the microphone and dropped it into his shoulder bag. "I'm not in charge, Mr. Humphries. I'm just a caregiver who had to tell a family that their eight-year-old firstborn son is going to die, in spite of the best care they and we could give him. I have more houses to visit and more work to do, but I wish you well with your radio show, which is more than I would have said five minutes ago, so I guess you made your point."
"Thank you," said Humphries. "That was great. It will really help me get the message across."
"What, your fifteen-hundred-dollar microphone picked it up, even though it's in your bag?"
"No," said Humphries smiling, "but the five-thousand-dollar microphone did." He pointed to a tiny mike clipped to the front of his shirt. "I know who you are, and who your husband was, and even though I'm not a Catholic and I don't have a vote on who is and isn't made a saint, I sure think you're the kind of American citizen I hope my daughters grow up to be. God bless you, Cecily Malich."
And with that he walked away.
Persistent devil, she thought. The last thing she wanted was publicity for herself personally, and maybe she could make a big stink about it and make him not put it on the air. But then, here he was on the street in Calabar, with a terrifying disease all around him, wearing no face mask, and he didn't seem to be doing anything more than trying to get word back to America about just what this disease was and how to treat it and how important it was to fight it here in Africa. So Humphries was doing exactly what she had asked President Torrent to do—let the world know how to save as many lives as possible.
Later that same day, she was heading for a poor neighborhood not far from the Big Qua River northeast of the university, when a dilapidated flatbed t
ruck came barreling into town along the I.B.B. Road, which became the Ikang highway just beyond the airport. When the driver saw Cecily and her companion, Alice, a young housewife from Lynchburg, he brought the truck to a shuddering stop and leapt out of the cab. He was old enough to have mostly-white hair, but he was still big and strong and both women stepped back a little as he rushed toward them.
"Mma Slessor?" he shouted. "American Christians help monkey sickness?"
"Yes," said Cecily. "That's why we're here. We have medications if your family has the nictovirus—"
"No, no, we have plenty, very good, now you listen: In Aking, I make a delivery, and trucks come in. Army trucks."
"The Nigerian army?" she asked.
He shook his head. "No no no, Arab-looking, Sudan men, Egypt men? They speak language I don't know, they come and scream at people and shoot in the air and take food and fill up gas. They say, Calabar, Calabar, so I know they come here."
"Soldiers coming here?"
"Six trucks," he said. "I go to my truck, I drive slow out of town so they don't care about me, and then come here as fast as I can."
"Do you have room for us in your truck? Can you take us to the university, so I can warn the American soldiers there?"
"American soldiers have monkey sickness, don't let anybody in. But they let you in."
"Yes," said Cecily. "They will indeed."
As they started up the road, Cecily asked him about himself. The language barrier was too great to learn more than the fact that he was a short-haul trucker, his family lived mostly in the countryside but also in Calabar, and the Calabar portion of the family had come through the monkey sickness with only two deaths. Out of fifteen people, Cecily figured that was a merciful total, and certainly so did he. "Other families kaput kpata kpata," he said, pidgin for wiped out. "Others half die. Only two quench in our family because of the Americans. I don't let them kill you!"
Apparently the Americans hadn't taught his family enough, because he hadn't had the disease yet—and wasn't wearing a mask. But she could hardly complain, since his gratitude for their caregiving had prompted him to bring an early warning so the soldiers would not be taken by surprise.
Not that there was much the soldiers could do. Only thirty of them had gotten past the fever and they were still too weak to stand. Only a few others hadn't yet gotten to the fever stage. Most of these special ops soldiers would be lucky if they could hold a pistol and shoot at someone as they entered their rooms. The rest would never even know what they died of.
All Cecily could hope for was to get word to AFRICOM to send in a Marine helicopter strike force. But how long would it take them to scramble the choppers and get to Calabar? How close behind this driver were the Arab troops? Every American soldier in Calabar could be dead before the first Marines arrived.
They were nearing the turnoff to the university when she saw an elderly caregiver couple talking with what's-his-name from the radio. She couldn't leave them behind—they would be the first fatalities if they were still out here when the enemy soldiers arrived.
WAR CORRESPONDENT
A string of unbroken success leads people to expect their leader to be infallible, and when he falls short, they hate him. Complete failures are even worse, for then the leader is seen as weak. He is no longer treated as a factor by his rivals, who immediately move to fill the vacuum.
The successful leader is one who is able to convince his people that they are in desperate straits, and only he has the strength and wisdom to keep them safe. Then the trick is never to put this reputation for strength and wisdom to the test. Glorious but untested reputations last forever.
Rusty Humphries was not offended by Cecily Malich's initial hostility. He knew that conservative radio journalists like him had to deal with public attitudes toward reporters that had built up over two generations of arrogance combined with smug know-it-all political correctness. The kind of newspeople who pretended to be for the common man but disdained and despised everything the "great unwashed" believed in and cared about. And to Mrs. Malich, he would seem to be a jackal, coming to profit from the worst epidemic since the great influenza of 1918.
The fact was he did have to put on an entertaining show every night. He had to chase ratings like anybody else, because without listeners there'd be no advertisers, and without advertisers there'd be no show. Unless you worked for NPR. Ever since he started sending comic songs and bits to Rush Limbaugh, he'd known that a solemn that's-not-funny attitude toward the news would never work for him.
