Phantoms

the first place.”
    “Stay back,” Underhill insisted.
    The rear door of the first motor home finally opened. The four individuals who came out were also dressed in airtight suits, but they were not soldiers. They moved unhurriedly. They were unarmed. One of them was a woman; Jenny caught a glimpse of a strikingly lovely, female, oriental face. The names on their helmets weren’t preceded by designation of rank: BETTENBY, VALDEZ, NIVEN, YAMAGUCHI. These were the civilian physicians and scientists who, in an extreme chemical-biological warfare emergency, walked away from their private lives in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, and other Western cities, putting themselves at Copperfield’s disposal. According to Bryce, there was one such team in the West, one in the East, and one in the Southern-Gulf states.
    Six men came out of the second motor home. GOLDSTEIN, ROBERTS, COPPERFIELD, HOUK. The last two were in unmarked suits, no names above their faceplates. They moved up the line, staying behind the armed soldiers, and joined up with Bettenby, Valdez, Niven, and Yamaguchi.
    Those ten conducted a brief conversation among themselves, by way of intersuit radio. Jenny could see their lips moving behind their plexiglass visors, but the squawk boxes on their chests did not transmit a word, which meant they had the capability to conduct both public and strictly private discussions. For the time being, they were opting for privacy.
    But why? Jenny wondered. They don’t have anything to hide from us. Do they?
    General Copperfield, the tallest of the twenty, turned away from the group at the rear of the first motor home, stepped onto the sidewalk, and approached Bryce.
    Before Copperfield took the initiative, Bryce stepped up to him, “General, I demand to know why we’re being held at gunpoint.”
    “Sorry,” Copperfield said. He turned to the stone-faced troopers and said, “Okay, men. It’s a no-sweat situation. Parade rest.”
    Because of the air tanks they were carrying, the soldiers couldn’t comfortably assume a classic parade rest position. But, moving with the fluid harmony of a precision drill team, they immediately slung their submachine guns from their shoulders, spread their feet precisely twelve inches apart, put their arms straight down at their sides, and stood motionless, facing forward.
    Bryce had been correct when he’d told Tal that Copperfield sounded like a tough taskmaster. It was obvious to Jenny that there was no discipline problem in the general’s unit.
    Turning to Bryce again, smiling through his faceplate, Copperfield said, “That better?”
    “Better,” Bryce said. “But I still want an explanation.”
    “Just SOP,” Copperfield said. “Standard Operating Procedure. It’s part of the normal drill. We don’t have anything against you or your people, Sheriff. You are Sheriff Hammond, aren’t you? I remember you from the conference in Chicago last year.”
    “Yes, sir, I’m Hammond. But you still haven’t given me a suitable explanation. SOP just isn’t good enough.”
    “No need to raise your voice, Sheriff.” With one gloved hand, Copperfield tapped the squawk box on his chest. “This thing’s not just a speaker. It’s also equipped with an extremely sensitive microphone. You see, going into a place where there might be serious biological or chemical contamination, we’ve got to consider the possibility that we might be overwhelmed by a lot of sick and dying people. Now, we simply aren’t equipped to administer cures or even amelioratives. We’re a research team. Strictly pathology, not treatment. It’s our job to find out all we can about the nature of the contaminant, so that properly equipped medical teams can come in right behind us and deal with the survivors. But dying and desperate people might not understand that we can’t treat them. They might attack the mobile labs out of anger and frustration.”
    “And fear,” Tal Whitman said.
    “Exactly,” the general said, missing the irony. “Our psychological stress simulations indicate that it’s a very real possibility.”
    “And if sick and dying people did try to disrupt your work,” Jenny said, “would you kill them?”
    Copperfield turned to her. The sun flashed off his faceplate, transforming it into a mirror, and for a moment she could not see him. Then he shifted slightly, and his face emerged into view again, but not enough of it for her to see what he really looked like. It was a face