Chapter 10: Flight to Egypt

AT SIX O’CLOCK, Elizabeth returned with steak dinners for everyone on duty—especially Jack and Evelyn. She also began shaking martinis for us. It was my favorite interview technique. We sat at the little table between the chairs playing gin until food and drinks had been pushed between us. Jack was nearly catatonic with fear over the coming press conference.

“I never talk to people,” he said. “That’s why I like my job, except for being away from Evelyn. Maybe I can get Indira to let her go with me next time I’m on deployment.”

“Deployment?” I asked. “What kind of work do you do?”

“I’m a repairman. I spend six months in space and then twelve months dirtside while the next guy in the rotation goes up,” Jack said, draining his martini. Elizabeth had another mixed in a flash.

“In space? You mean up there?” I pointed heavenward.

“Yeah. It’s a little lonely, but Evelyn and I talk several times a day when my orbit crosses her location. But six months of not having to see anyone or talk to anyone except my team if they have a correction to make for my rounds.” Jack tipped the next martini back and I held a hand to stop Elizabeth from pouring another. I didn’t want him so incoherent he couldn’t answer questions.

“When were you last up?”

“I got back from my last mission on November tenth. I should be heading back in a week. We wanted to have the baby while I was still down here,” Jack rolled his martini glass in his fingers and when it didn’t magically refill, he took a bite of steak.

This was bad. Very bad. I nearly turned off my recorder.

“What is it you do down here during your year dirtside?” I asked.

“Oh, I monitor systems in the shuttle and upload data on satellites that need repair.”

“So, you were up there for six months ... say from April to November, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t like to tell people to lie,” I sighed. “But I’m going to tell you to lie. Where is your company based?”

“India.”

“Okay, so somebody is going to ask either what you do for a living or where you were on September 15 last year. You can’t tell people you were in space repairing satellites. You tell them you’re a data analyst. Don’t even tell them what company you work for.”

“They don’t like us to mention them anyway,” Jack agreed. “And data analyst is a good description of what I do right now.”

“And if they ask you where you were, you can try just saying you were traveling. If they dig deeper, say India. That will keep the heat off for a while. Not long. We’ll be talking to the media and they dig around in other people’s business for a living. You just can’t let anyone know you were in space fixing satellites on that date,” I said. I liked Jack. I didn’t want to see him or his family hurt.

“I ... uh ... why?”

“Jack ... It was that satellite war that caused male sterility on earth. You remember that little kerfuffle?”

“Yeah. I had a great view of it from about a hundred miles farther up.”

“If they connect you with being up there when the war started, they’ll automatically blame you for starting it. In other words, for causing the whole thing. Right now, you’ll be seen as a hope for the future. When that news breaks, they could consider you a criminal.”

“Oh, no. No. It wasn’t like that. All I did was turn on its warning beacon so the next guy up would know where it was. I didn’t do anything wrong. Honest!” Jack was panicking again and Elizabeth brought another martini.

There was a lot of head-shaking in the morning. We stayed the night in the hospital room next to Jack and Evelyn and little Lily. I didn’t want him out of reach. My story hit the wires Saturday night, but for some mysterious reason only the Orlando News had enough time to get a full story and photos on the front page of the Sunday edition. After being administered a round of aspirin and water, to combat the hangovers, we straightened ourselves to go face the press.

“Good morning,” I said addressing the gathering. So, this is what it’s like to be the press secretary. “I’ve been asked by the hospital to function as spokesperson and to direct your questions. Let’s start with the basics. Yesterday morning at eleven-fourteen a.m. a child was born to Mr. and Mrs. Jack and Evelyn Adams. Weighing in at a healthy seven pounds four ounces, the little girl, named Lily Adams, is nineteen inches long and has a hearty appetite. Attending physicians Dr. Bill Gardner and Dr. Sandra Reynolds, assisted by Dr. John Simpson and Hospital Administrator Dr. Levi Ulman, with nurses Dee Anderson, Leah Ambrose, and Susie Lechleiter, delivered the child less than an hour after the mother was admitted. It was a natural childbirth.” I looked at the press vultures in the room. I certainly wasn’t a vulture like these people.

“Let me introduce the parties involved here and then we will have a brief question and answer. You received a briefing packet when you came in this morning that has more background.” I introduced each of the doctors and nurses and then Jack, Evelyn, and little Lily. There was a scattered round of applause for the family, led by an enthusiastic Elizabeth—still in her bunny slippers—and the doctors. “Okay, questions. When I call on you, please state your name and news outlet. I’ll try to get to each of you for a question, but please don’t repeat questions that have already been asked. First?” Hands went up all over the room and I pointed to a woman from Miami whom I recognized from other press briefings.

“Rachel Anders, WFMI Television, Miami. Mr. Adams, have you been taking drugs or supplements to restore your fertility?” Everyone stared at Adams, the redheaded scarecrow. I motioned him to the microphone at the podium.

“Um ... No. I don’t think so. We just try to eat a healthy diet,” Jack said. More hands flew up.

“John Tollefson, WHOO Radio in Orlando. Dr. Ulman, has a genetic test been done to determine the paternity for certain? Is Jack Adams actually the father?” I waved Dr. Ulman to the microphone.

“As you undoubtedly know, complete genetic testing can’t be done on Saturday night. Samples have been taken and sent to a lab for confirmation. Blood tests, while not final evidence, are consistent with paternity. As soon as DNA test results are in, we will release them to the media. We are confident that Jack Adams is the father.” More hands. And so it went. Each reporter wanted at least one thing unique to report. An hour later, the television and radio crews had moved to the side to let other reporters get pictures of the new family. Someone was so rude as to ask Evelyn if she’d had an affair and another speculated she’d visited a fertility clinic that had escaped the government roundup of all sperm specimens.

“Do you consider yourself immune to the virus or recovered?” one reporter asked. Of course, Jack didn’t know how to answer that and Dr. Simpson indicated that they had not yet had time to run tests to see if Jack had natural antibodies or if a cure could be extracted from his blood. That sounded ominous and I called the conference to a close.