Free 12|21|12 by Larry Enright Page B

Mother Earth, thank you very much, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
    “Looks like you’ve got yourselves a hero,” Bowen said. “You others coming or not?”
    The temperature was dropping fast and the city crumbling around them as they took off for Camp David, flying low over the trees in Rock Creek Park.

 
    12|21|12
     
    December 21, 2012. 12:15 p.m. Loeb watched an angry storm building to the north as the helicopter flew low over the trees in Rock Creek Park. He didn’t like flying and he particularly didn’t like flying in helicopters. They made him sick to his stomach for hours afterwards, but he had missed his flight, and it was the only way to get to the conference in time. The world below was a dreary lifeless gray, and the imprint of man had receded behind a thickening drape of snow. The craft thumped over a ridge of high pressure.
    “Looks like we’re in for some weather,” the pilot said over his shoulder.
    “Mr. Bowen, how soon will we be in Philadelphia?”
    “We have to make a stop near Hagerstown, Doc. A couple hours, I’d say.”
    The scent of cinnamon, oranges, and cloves filled the cabin. It made Loeb sick to his stomach.
    “Can’t you do anything about that smell?”
    “Ask them. I’m just the pilot, Doc.”
    Seated next to Loeb was a young clean-cut man in his early twenties. Loeb figured him for a college student or a recent grad. “I’ll be getting off there,” the man said. “I’m spending Christmas at Camp David. Cameron’s the name.” He extended his hand. “I’m one of the president’s speechwriters. You’re Dr. Philip Loeb, aren’t you?”
    Loeb accepted the handshake. “Yes, is it that obvious?”
    “I recognized you from that photo of you with your arm around that three-headed alien.”
    “Presidential speechwriter — you seem a bit young for that kind of work.”
    “And that coming from a man who got his first Ph.D. at eighteen?”
    “Touché.”
    “Are you speaking at the conference in Philadelphia, Dr. Loeb?”
    “Yes, and if you’ll excuse me, I really do need to prepare.” Loeb reopened the folder in his lap containing his notes and slides, and went back to reading through his lecture.
    Another passenger, bundled up in a black overcoat, adjusted himself in his seat. Cameron turned his attention that way: “Are you all right?”
    The man opened his eyes. “I’ll be fine, just a little queasy. It’s the chemo. I just got out of a treatment.”
    “Are you going all the way to Philadelphia, too?”
    “Yes.” He shifted again, and the flap of his coat fell back, exposing his collar.
    “Priest?”
    “Minister… in my better days. I’m Michael. I’d shake your hand, but I was told I should avoid close personal contact until the effects of the drugs wear off, susceptibility to germs and all that.”
    There was one other passenger in the four-seater, a black-haired woman with dark olive complexion and thin angular features. She was curled up in her seat watching the others with curiosity. Cameron waved to her and she smiled.
    “How about you?” he asked. “What’s your story?”
    She nodded.
    “You’re wasting your time. She doesn’t speak a word of English,” Bowen shouted over the engines. “She’s getting off with you, Mr. Cameron. They told me she’s one of the new cooks at Camp David.”
    “Oh, okay. That’s cool,” Cameron smiled at her again: “I’m Cameron,” he gestured. “And you’re?”
    “Maya,” she grinned, pointing to herself. “Camp David,” she nodded.
    “You have six fingers on one hand. That’s different,” Cameron said.
    Loeb looked up: “The condition is called polydactyly. It’s not all that uncommon.”
    “So, where are you from, Maya?”
    She nodded again, “Maya… Camp David…”
    The news came on the nine inch TV mounted on the bulkhead above them. “Did any of you happen to catch the president’s speech last night?” Cameron asked.
    The sky lost definition as the clouds wrapped