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"That's a long drive," said Rusty. "Like crossing the whole United States."
Mrs. Malich was almost talking to herself. "Which means that if they decided on this raid because they heard that our boys were all infected, they had to put this together and hit the road—what, four? Five days ago? Five days ago, most of our boys were still in the coughing stage. Weakening, but still able to fight."
"How did they hear about it?" asked Rusty. "I don't think even MSNBC would have reported that we had a whole base full of soldiers who were too weak to lift a weapon."
"It wasn't the press," she said. "Word got out from the cooking staff, I think. With the best of intentions, I assume—the people here know that the reason the Hausas of the north aren't still coming down and slaughtering whole villages is because of what General Coleman and his men have been doing for them. But once the word gets into the rumor mill in Nigeria, it spreads across country faster than you'd believe—everybody's related to people all over the place and they don't have much public entertainment here, what with electricity being so intermittent."
"So rumors are their soap operas," said Rusty.
"And their NBA," said Mrs. Malich.
"I think this doesn't look very good for our soldiers. Can you fire a gun?"
She shook her head. "Have you seen the kind of kick those things deliver? I could fire it once, and then be hospitalized."
"Not as bad as that!" Rusty wondered if he could shoot at the enemy. He had fired guns many times, but never had to aim one at someone with intent to kill. He knew that once you fired your weapon, you had announced to the enemy where you were—so you really needed to make your shots count for something.
"Remember we came here as Christians and health workers," said Mrs. Malich. "If we take up weapons and shoot at the bad guys, then we're combatants—and combatants out of uniform."
Rusty got the point. "I have a feeling that their version of Guantanamo, if we live to get there, won't be as nice as ours. Tearing up Bibles and flushing them down the toilet would probably be the nicest thing they did. If they have toilets."
They slowed to a stop at the checkpoint, which was manned by four university students with clubs. Mrs. Malich stood up on the back of the truck and the students recognized her as Obufa Mma Slessor and let them through.
Once they were at the headquarters building, Mrs. Malich asked the Haywards and her companion to tell everyone to prepare to evacuate immediately. "We want to be out in the city when they come here."
"Hard to hide the white folks," said Mr. Hayward.
"You aren't as black as anybody from around here, either," said Mrs. Malich.
The Haywards laughed, but they got the point. There would be shooting at the university. The caregivers needed to be somewhere else—nursing the sick, just as they were supposed to.
Mrs. Malich walked briskly to the stairs and up to General Coleman's quarters. Rusty trotted along behind, glad that she hadn't tried to ditch him at the door. Then it occurred to him that he might actually be helpful. If they didn't get the right answers from the Pentagon, he had friends there at the highest levels. He might be able to light some fires.
Oh, wait. Mrs. Malich was a close adviser to President Torrent. That trumped any connection he had.
Mrs. Malich knocked a couple of quick ones but then opened the door without waiting for an answer.
General Coleman lay on his bed looking like a famine victim. He was white as a ghost, his skin hung off him like a Biggest Loser winner, and this was a man who didn't have an ounce of fat on him before he got sick. His body must have been eating away his muscle tissue during his illness. There was a white boy there, and when he greeted Mrs. Malich as "Mom," Rusty was able to make a wild guess as to who he was.
Mrs. Malich made her report crisply, leaving out everything nonessential in the first go-round. Rusty wasn't sure Coleman was even awake, but when she was finished, he feebly said, "Good job. Help me up."
"You're still burning up with fever," said Mrs. Malich. "Just tell me what to do and I'll do it."
"Both," he said. "You do it, and I'll do what I have to do. Mark, can you bring me my bones?"
Rusty had a horrible image of a man with all his bones removed, before he remembered that "Bones" was the unofficial nickname soldiers were giving the exoskeletons that were being prototyped. He had vaguely understood that they were being tested in Africa, but he had some idea of them being experimental. Now he realized that since the exoskeletons augmented a soldier's own strength, they might be able to get somebody in Coleman's shape up to something approaching normal walking ability.
Did the exoskeletons help with balance? Because the way Coleman wobbled just sitting up on the edge of his bed with Mrs. Malich helping support him, Rusty worried that he'd fall over the first time a bullet passed near enough to cause a breeze.
"Send a message to Admiral Sowell. Sign on as me. We need choppers and Marines in hazmat." Just that much seemed to wear him out. But now Mark was helping put on the exoskeleton while his mother went to the desk and started typing a message into the computer.
Fortunately, the artificial intelligence routines in the Bones made them practically assemble themselves—Mark didn't have to do much more than bring the semiattached pieces close to the right position, and they seemed almost to grab each other and lock in place without anyone's help.
Mrs. Malich got up from the desk. "They acknowledge and will comply."
"Any ETA?"
"Less than fifteen minutes after they get into the air. And they're monitoring your Noodles and drones so they'll know where they're needed."
