Adams’ Apples
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.
Once the Adams family was securely back in the locked wing of the maternity ward, it took another hour to calm them down enough to be coherent.
“Where are we going to go, Jack?” Evelyn asked plaintively. “They’re going to be staked out all around our house.”
“Oh, no. Ramsey, what can we do?” For some reason unknown to me, interviewing the couple and handling the news conference had vaulted me to the esteemed role of adviser and confidante in the eyes of the Adamses. I turned away from the window I was videoing through.
“Mmm. Yes, you shouldn’t go back there right away. Do you have friends or relatives you can stay with? Maybe we can get you into a hotel.” I returned to looking out the window.
“We can’t afford a long hotel stay. I need to make sure Evelyn and Lily have enough to live on while I’m deployed again,” Jack sighed. “Can’t we just tell the news people to go away?”
“I’m afraid it’s not just the news people we need to worry about.” I motioned Jack over to the window. Jack groaned as he looked out.
The front lawn of the hospital was filled with women carrying hastily made signs. “Give me a baby!” “I ♥ Jack!” “I want a carrot-top!” And the most prevalent, “Do me!”
“See anyone down there you want to get pregnant?” I asked. “You’re their only hope, Obi Wan Kenobi.”
“I can’t… They can’t… Where are we going to go?” Jack moaned.
“Freeze!” a voice shouted as ten men in black body armor, toting automatic rifles, burst into the room. Lily chose that moment to start crying. “Which of you is John F. Adams?” the leader demanded.
“Um… me,” Jack said.
“You’re under arrest.”
“For what?”
“Suspicion of being an illegal alien,” the agent declared.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “What is ICE doing here? Don’t you guys actually have real jobs? Jack is an American citizen. By birth, and yes, we have the records to prove it. Go back to the border and protect us from the children there.”
“And who are you?”
“Ramsey Smith, AP reporter for the Orlando News. And you are being recorded and sent out live,” I said as I held up my phone.
“We were tipped off that this man is a space alien who wasn’t even on earth at the time the virus was released,” maintained the leader.
“Look. Let’s just sit down and talk about this for a minute. You really shouldn’t be here. I know you aren’t accustomed to dealing with facts, but Jack is a new father. You don’t want to go splitting up his family, too, do you? Very bad publicity. What would you do if people started thinking those refugee prisons you keep full are really full of fertile men and that Jack just happened to escape? It could get very nasty down there.” I was still recording, but had cut the stream. I really didn’t want all of this going out unedited.
“Who’s in charge here?” another voice broke in. The Men in Black had arrived. All we’d need now is… I didn’t want to think about who else might get interested in this. Several people spoke up, including all three doctors in the room and two of the men from ICE.
“Mr. Smith and Ms. Smith,” I called out. “How nice to see you again. It appears that no one is actually in charge. We’re just all trying to welcome a baby into the world and would rather not do it at gunpoint.”
“You again!” snarled Mr. Smith MIB. “Agent, remove your ICE agents from the room. Homeland Security has responsibility for this and you are not to interfere.”
“That’s not fair,” the ICE agent shouted back. “We got him fair and square. You weren’t even here.”
“We had to stop and chain the doors, you so conveniently broke through, so there wouldn’t be a riot in the halls. If you want to be useful, sweep the halls and rooms in this wing to be sure no crazed mommy-wannabe is running loose,” Ms. Smith MIB said. I reminded myself that despite all appearances, that one was a woman. Maybe she was just clearing out the competition. Regardless, ICE left.
“Now that’s out of the way, we’re in charge of moving you to secure quarters where you will not be accosted by fringe lunatics,” Mr. Smith MIB said.
“Who are you?” Jack asked.
“Smith,” they responded in unison.
“Now, who are you in all this menagerie?” Ms. Smith asked turning to me.
“Smith. You know that. That’s my wife over there. Dr. Smith. Oh, and this is Dr. Smith,” I plowed on, pointing first at Dr. Simpson, then at each of the others. “And Dr. Smith, Dr. Smith, and Dr. Smith. I think you’ve already met Mr. and Mrs. Smith and their new daughter, Miss Smith.” All right. I was a little more than irritated at their ‘alias Smith.’
“Very funny, Raaammsey,” said Ms. Smith MIB, drawing my name out as long as she could. “We’ll just call everyone by first names, then.” She rattled off everyone’s first name, indicating she knew very well who was who in the room.
“Wait. What about you?” Jack asked innocently.
“Smith.”
Late at night, under cover of darkness, a stealthy line of an ambulance and four black Suburbans, all with flashing emergency lights and sirens, left the hospital as a crowd of frustrated women pounded on doors and windows and tried to climb on the roof of the ambulance. The caravan was followed by two television trucks, a news helicopter, and about thirty other vehicles with their lights on and horns blaring. All-in-all, a very stealthy exit.
Police reinforcements joined the little parade periodically, cutting off following vehicles and allowing the caravan to gain time and distance, but it seemed that at every freeway entrance, another batch joined us. When we reached Tampa, the caravan resembled the Buccaneers getting home after their Superbowl win, which everyone still remembered with great pride thirty-some years later.
The followers were finally stopped at the gates of MacDill Air Force Base and the Homeland Security vehicles drove directly to a waiting plane.
“Uh, where are you taking us, exactly,” I ventured when the original two MIB boarded and sat in jump seats facing the rest of the passengers. The female agent chuckled.
“You get to go 30,000 feet up and 30,000 feet back down without a parachute. Everyone else is on a need to know basis and no one here needs to know.”
“Could I get a martini?”
Remarkably, I did get a martini once we were airborne. As did Jack, Elizabeth, and the four doctors. Evelyn passed on the alcohol and just asked to go to sleep with her baby. Lily probably would have preferred the alcohol, based on the noises she made as her ears popped in flight. Even the MIB had a drink.
Just after five in the morning, we landed.
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