Chapter 11: New Orleans

It was a straight and long drive from Knoxville to New Orleans. The children were happy in their new station wagon, joining with their parents singing road songs along the six-hundred mile route. With such a late start, they spent a night in Chattanooga before heading out early the next morning. Gadsden, Birmingham, Tuscaloosa, Meridian, Hattiesburg: the towns of colorful names in the deep South swept by. Outside the car were seemingly endless fields of cotton, tobacco, and peanuts. They saw no evidence of “Freedom Riders” that Bill had warned them about.

Once, near Slidell and only an hour from New Orleans, Selby became concerned about a truck following too closely. His hand strayed from the steering wheel to a red lever protruding from under the dash. The children were ignorant of its implications, but Jane had heard the briefing regarding the car’s “goodies”. Her jaws clenched, but she trained her eyes on the road ahead, unwilling to risk even the slightest indication of alarm. The truck pulled off at a Sinclair gas station, however, and John relaxed.

Even so, he found a mom-and-pop motel and decided to stop for the night. He wanted to have his wits about him for the next step. The motel was actually a series of small cottages which delighted the children. Shortly after their arrival, a rusty pickup truck came to pick up their luggage.

________

The SS Aldenburg at Pier 7 was to weigh at ten in the morning. Dunnage stowed the night before gave the children a chance to enjoy sleeping in their clothes instead of pajamas.

Pier 7 was actually a wharf near the French Quarter, and this had given the family a chance to stop at Café du Monde for beignets and coffee. In a nod to his surroundings, John ordered café au lait, but Jane couldn’t deviate from her usual cup of strong, black coffee. Beka was trying to put powdered sugar on Bayne’s nose when a man behind the counter discreetly motioned toward the table.

--“Watch the kids for a minute honey, I need to be excused.”

The man slid from behind the counter and spoke rapidly, in hushed tones.

--“Selby?”

--“Yes. I was told I might be contacted here.”

--“Well, you fit the description. I’ve got an envelope. Unopened of course. Do you need a private place to look at it? The office is open.”

--“Thanks, I’ll only be a minute. And can you refill this please, that’s good coffee.”

--“Milk?”

--“No, just black please.”

Inside the envelope was a small roll of dictaphone tape. It was inserted quickly into a portable recorder. Then, a quick turn away from the noisy patrons; deft placement of an earpiece into position:

“As usual, this will degrade within 4 hours, but please dispose of it carefully. I think you have an inkling of the main mission, but we’ve just learned something else, something we need some extra talent to handle. There is a biochemical element to this and we may need some immediate field analysis from an expert like you. A portable lab with all necessary supplies will be made available. The message we got was garbled, but it appears there is either a new biological weapon in the making, or possibly a cure for a biological weapon. Or maybe something entirely different. Sorry for the limited intel, but that’s all we have. If the target is carrying something and the extraction is successful, we need you to give a quick analysis. Glad you’re along for this mission. Good luck!”

Breathing a deep sigh, Selby glanced back out to the kids and her husband. She allowed herself a private smile: to think this all started with analyzing milk . . . a part time biochemical job at American Smelting and Refining in Baltimore . . . World War II . . . college tuition. She wondered how much John knew.