The Cloud Atlas

“There is a possibility,” the major said, “that this was not some dastardly plot, that plague-carrying rats just happened to be aboard their vessel already-this, after all, is how the plague has traveled the world for years-and that they were merely bitten by the infected fleas the rats hosted.” The major shook his head. “We'll know more once we've opened them up; secondary pneumonia is supposedly a sign of… manufactured plague, if you want to call it that.” He drew himself up. “But frankly, gentlemen, with the way the war is going, with the desperate, bizarre reports we are hearing from Okinawa, with the sickening intelligence that continues to come in about this Unit 731's medical ‘experiments’ in Manchuria-”

“Yeah, sure,” said Swift, undeterred. “Experiments are one thing. Figuring out how to bomb people with it is another. Which, given the experience of those two”-he couldn't help but pause-“doesn't look like they've figured out yet.”

“Nineteen forty,” said the major crisply. “October. China. Chekiang Province, Jap plane flies over city of Ningpo dropping rice, some paper. Two days later, first plague cases ever to appear in that city.”

“But-” Swift began again, but he was already ceding the point.

“Nineteen forty-one, Hunan province. Plane flies over Changteh-”

“All right,” said Swift.

“Believe what you want,” said the major. “I believe it was Doubting Thomas who needed to probe Christ's wounds with his own hand before he'd believe. You're welcome to stick a finger in…”

Swift waved a hand in surrender.

“Gentlemen,” the major said, obviously satisfied he'd managed to salvage some of his theater, “I don't need much more evidence to know what I believe.”

Neither did Gurley: the cages had been for the rats, the rats had been for the balloons, the balloons had been for Alaska, for America, for him, and he could hardly contain himself. He stole looks at me the entire meeting- Pay attention! How about that? Isn't this something? Isn't this wonderful? I was right! I told you so!-looks that I found hard to bear, not because of their content, but because his eye had started bleeding again. I pointed to it, and he dabbed at it with a handkerchief, annoyed.

The meeting broke up with plans to reconvene in five days. Gurley was incredulous at the hiatus and said so, but he was brushed aside. It would take at least that long, if not longer, to decode the materials found on board. And as much as the major had enjoyed the little bit of fear-mongering that he'd done, he was clearheaded enough to know that, in the near term, there was relatively little they could do. The Navy ship that had made the discovery had been quarantined and sprayed with insecticide. The crew, all of whom had been vaccinated previously, were being monitored; nothing yet.

Moreover, it had simply been a stroke of luck that the vessel had drifted so far north. There was almost no chance the plague would somehow have found its way from the boat to the mainland, and even if it had, it would have encountered one of America's most unpopulated regions-the western coast of Alaska. The suspect fishermen presumably had been making for much farther south- Vancouver, or Seattle, possibly San Francisco -when something had gone wrong.

So, then: five days. Authorities across the region would be notified, discreetly, and told to keep watch-for mysterious illnesses or deaths among animals or people, and, of course, for spies. And at the end of those five days, if all agreed it was necessary, a search of the region would be mounted. Though the arrangements for this, too, would take time; the Army had few resources in the area and knowledge of the terrain was scant.

“We do have a base in Nome, and another at Bethel, primarily occupied with lend-lease planes,” the major said in closing. “And ATG- Alaska Territorial Guard-volunteer Eskimo units in a number of remote locations. I suppose we could call on them.” The officers, all white, hardly even registered the comment. “But given the sensitivity of the task and what's at stake, well-five days, gentlemen?” Heads nodded, save Gurley's: five days.

The meeting broke up and the men dispersed. I saw Swift look toward Gurley and mutter something to a companion on the way out. But Gurley didn't catch it. He was busy buttonholing the major, asking for a final favor before heading back to Anchorage. I kept a discreet distance while they spoke. I could see that, while the major was reluctant, Gurley had earned his respect, even gratitude for his performance at the postmortem.

Sure enough, when the room was clear and it was just three of us, the major gave Gurley a quick nod and ducked through the door. Gurley waved me over.

“What time's the flight back?” he asked.

“Wheels up at 1600,” I said, looking at my watch. “Less than ten minutes.”

Gurley looked at the door the major went through. “Well, I told him we'd only look at it for a minute.”