Order of the Black Sun Box Set 5

by Preston William Child

  Switching off his sense of smell, his ears were perked for any normally inaudible disturbance while he was asleep. Blissfully, after more than two full days awake, the old man closed his eyes – his wonderfully normal eyes. Far away, he could hear the squeak of trolley wheels under the weight of Ward B’s dinner just before visiting hours. Fading from consciousness rendered him blind and restful, hoping for a dreamless sleep until his task would prompt him to perk up and perform once again.

  “I am so tired,” Nina told Nurse Marx. The young nurse was on night duty. Since she had become acquainted with Dr. Nina Gould over the past two days, she had slightly abandoned her girl-crush mannerism and adapted a more professional geniality towards the ailing historian.

  “Fatigue is part of the illness, Dr. Gould,” she told Nina, sympathetically while adjusting her pillows.

  “I know, but I haven’t felt this tired since I was admitted. Did they give me a sedative?”

  “Let me see,” Nurse Marx offered. She slid Nina’s medical chart from the slot at the foot of her bed and flipped slowly through the pages. Her blue eyes scanned administered drugs of the last twelve hours and then slowly shook her head. “No, Dr. Gould. I see nothing here other than the topical medication in your drip. Certainly no sedatives. Are you feeling sleepy?”

  Marlene Marx gently took Nina’s arm and checked her vitals. “Your pulse is quite weak. Let me have a look at your BP.”

  “My God, I feel like I cannot lift my arms, Nurse Marx,” Nina sighed heavily. “It feels like…” She had no good way to ask, but in light of the symptoms she was feeling she had to. “Have you ever been Roofie’d?”

  Looking a little worried that Nina knew what it was like to be under the influence of Rohypnol, the nurse again shook her head. “No, but I have a good idea what a drug like that does to the central nervous system. Is that how you feel?”

  Nina nodded, now barely able to open her eyes. Nurse Marx was alarmed to see that Nina’s blood pressure was extremely low, crashing in a way that totally belied her previous prognosis. “My body feels like an anvil, Marlene,” Nina slurred softly.

  “Hang on, Dr. Gould,” the nurse said urgently, keeping her voice sharp and loud to wake Nina’s mind while she ran to summon her colleagues. Among them was Dr. Eduard Fritz, the physician who had treated the young man who had come in two nights go with the second-degree burns.

  “Dr. Fritz!” Nurse Marx called in a tone that would not alarm the other patients, but would relay a level of urgency to the medical staff. “Dr. Gould’s BP is dropping rapidly and I’m struggling to keep her conscious!”

  The team hastened to Nina’s side and pulled the curtains. Onlookers stood stunned at the response of the staff to the small woman who singly occupied the double room. Visiting hours had not seen such action in a long while and a lot of visitors and patients waited to see if the patient would be alright.

  “It’s like something out of Grey’s Anatomy,” Nurse Marx heard a visitor tell her husband as she ran past with the meds Dr. Fritz had asked for. But all Marx cared about was getting Dr. Gould back before she crashed completely. They opened the curtains again twenty minutes later, conversing in smiling whispers. From the looks on their faces the bystanders knew the patient had been stabilized and returned to the bustling atmosphere usually associated with this time of night at the hospital.

  “Thank God we managed to save her,” Nurse Marx exhaled as she leaned on the reception desk to sip a cup of coffee. Little by little visitors started to vacate the ward, saying goodbye to their confined loved ones until the morrow. Gradually the hallways grew quieter as footsteps and subdued tones died down into nothingness. It was a relief to most of the staff members to catch a quick breather before the final rounds of the night.

  “Well done, Nurse Marx,” Dr. Fritz smiled. It was rare for the man to smile, even at the best of times. As a result, she knew that his words would have to be savored.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” she replied modestly.

  “Really, had you not reacted immediately we may have lost Dr. Gould tonight. I’m afraid her condition is more serious than her biology indicates. I must confess to being confounded by it. You say that her vision had been impaired?”

  “Yes, Doctor. She had been complaining that her vision was blurry until last night when she used the words ‘going blind’ outright. But I was in no position to give her any advise, as I don’t have a clue what could be causing it, other than the obvious immune deficiency,” Nurse Marx speculated.

  “That is what I like about you, Marlene,” he said. He was not smiling, but his statement was respectful nonetheless. “You know your place. You do not pretend to be a doctor or presume to tell patients what you think is plaguing them. You leave it to the professionals and that is good. You will go far under my supervision with that attitude.”

  Hoping that Dr. Hilt did not relay her previous behavior, Marlene only smiled, but her heart went wild with pride at Dr. Fritz’s approval. He was one of the foremost authorities in the field of wide spectrum diagnostics ranging from various medical avenues, yet he remained a modest physician and advisor. Considering his career achievements, Dr. Fritz was relatively young. In his late forties, he had already authored several award-winning papers and lectured all over the world during his sabbaticals. His opinion was highly regarded by most medical academics, especially mere nurses like the fresh-from-internship Marlene Marx.

  It was true. Marlene knew her place around him. No matter how chauvinist or sexist Dr. Fritz’s statement might have sounded, she knew what he meant. However, of the other female staff, there were many who would not have understood his meaning so well. To them, his authority was egotistical, whether he had earned the throne of not. They saw him as a misogynist both in the workplace as well as socially, often speculating about his sexuality. But he paid them no attention. He was only stating the obvious. He knew better and they were not qualified to diagnose out of hand. Therefore, they had no right to give their opinion, least of all when he was on duty to do it properly.

  “Look alive, Marx,” one of the orderlies said in passing.

  “Why? What’s happening?” she asked, wide-eyed. She usually prayed for a bit of action during the night shift, but Marlene had had quite enough nervous tension for one night.

  “We’re moving Freddy Krueger in with the Chernobyl lady,” he answered, as he motioned for her to get started on preparing the bed for the transfer.

  “Hey, have some bloody respect for the poor man, you asshole,” she told the orderly, who just laughed off her reprimand. “He is someone’s son, you know!”

  She opened the bed for the new occupant in the faint, lonely light above the bed. Pulling aside the blankets and top sheet to form a neat triangle, if only for the moment, Marlene contemplated the fate of the poor, young man who had lost most of his features, not to mention his abilities from the onslaught of nerve damage. Dr. Gould moved in the shadowy side of the room a few feet away, appearing to be resting well for a change.

  They brought in the new patient with a minimum of disruption and transferred him to his new bed, grateful that he was not awake for what would certainly have been unbearable pain during their handling of him. They left quietly once he was settled in, while in the basement slept equally soundly, an imminent menace.

  6

  Dilemma in the Luftwaffe

  “My God, Schmidt! I am the commander, the Inspector of the Kommando Luftwaffe!” Harold Meier shrieked in a rare moment of lost control. “These journalists are going to want to know why the missing airman used one of our combat fighters without permission from my office or the Joint Operations Command of the Bundeswehr! And I find out only now that the fuselage has been recovered by our own people – and hidden?”

  Gerhard Schmidt, second in command, shrugged and looked at his superior’s flushing face. Lieutenant General Harold Meier was not a man to lose control of his emotions. The scene playing before Schmidt was highly unusual, but he understood fully why Me
ier would react this way. This was a very serious matter, and it would not be long before some snooping journalist got their eye on the truth of the escaped airman, a man who had single-handedly made off with one of their million-Euro planes.

  “Has Airman Löwenhagen been found yet?” he asked Schmidt, the officer unfortunate enough to be designated to bring him the shocking news.

  “No. There no body was found at the scene, which leads us to believe that he is still alive,” Schmidt responded thoughtfully. “But you must also take into account that he may very well have died in the crash. The explosion could have disintegrated his body, Harold.”

  “All this ‘could have’ and ‘may have’ talk of yours is what bothers me most. The uncertainty of what ensued from the whole affair is what makes me restless, not to mention that some of our squadrons have men on short leave. For the first time in my career I’m feeling anxious,” Meier admitted, finally sitting down for a moment to give it some thought. He looked up suddenly, staring into Schmidt’s eyes with his own steely gaze, but he was looking further than his subordinate’s face. A moment passed before Meier made his eventual decision. “Schmidt…”

  “Yes, sir?” Schmidt replied quickly, eager to know how the commander would save them all from embarrassment.

  “Take three men you trust. I need sharp men, in brains and brawn, my friend. Men like you. They must understand the trouble we are in. This is a PR nightmare waiting to happen. I – and probably you as well – will most likely be dismissed if what this little shit managed to do under our noses comes out,” said Meier, going off on his tangent again.

  “And you need us to track him down?” Schmidt asked.

  “Yes. And you know what to do if you find him. Use your own discretion. If you wish, interrogate him to find out what madness steered him to this stupid bravery – you know, what his intention was,” Meier suggested. He leaned forward with his chin on his folded hands. “But Schmidt, if he even breathes wrong, put him out. We are soldiers after all, not babysitters or psychologists. The collective well being of the Luftwaffe is far more important that one maniacal pissant with something to prove, understand?”

  “Completely,” Schmidt agreed. He was not just appeasing his superior, but was genuinely of the same mind. The two of them did not come through years of tribulation and training in the German air corps to be undone by some snot nosed airman. As a result, Schmidt was secretly excited about the mission he was being given. He slammed his palms down on his thighs and stood up. “Done. Give me three days to assemble my trio and from there we’ll report to you on a daily basis.”

  Meier nodded, suddenly looking a bit more relieved at the cooperation of a like-minded man. Schmidt replaced his cap and saluted with ceremony, smiling. “That is, if we take that long to resolve this dilemma.”

  “Let’s hope the first report is the last,” replied Meier.

  “We’ll keep in touch,” Schmidt promised as he left the office, leaving Meier feeling considerably lighter.

  Once Schmidt had chosen his three men, he briefed them under the guise of a covert operation. They must keep knowledge of this mission from all others, including their families and colleagues. In a very tactful manner the officer made sure his men understood that extreme prejudice was the way of the mission. He chose three mild-mannered, intelligent men of differing ranks from different combat units. That was all he needed. He did not bother with details.

  “So, gentlemen, do you accept or decline?” he finally asked from atop his makeshift podium, perched on a cement elevation in the on-base repair bay. His stern expression and subsequent silence conveyed the weighty nature of the assignment. “Come on, boys, it’s not a marriage proposal! Yes or no! It’s a simple mission to find and exterminate a mouse in our wheat silo, boys.”

  “I’m in.”

  “Ah, danke Himmelfarb! I knew I chose the right man when I chose you,” Schmidt said, bullshitting his way through reverse psychology to push the other two. Thanks to the prevalence of peer pressure, he was eventually successful. Soon after, the red-haired imp called Kohl clicked his heels in his typical ostentatious manner. Naturally the last man, Werner, had to yield. He was reluctant, but only because he had plans to do a bit of gambling in Dillenburg during the next three days and Schmidt’s little excursion cock-blocked his plans.

  “Let’s go get this little prick,” he said indifferently. “I beat him twice at Blackjack last month and he owes me 137 Euros anyway.”

  His two colleagues chuckled. Schmidt was pleased.

  “Thank you for volunteering your expertise and time, boys. Let me get my intel tonight and I will have your first orders ready on Tuesday. Dismissed.”

  7

  Meeting the Murderer

  A cold, black stare of fixed and beady eyes met Nina’s as she gradually emerged from her blissful sleep. No nightmares had plagued her this time, yet she’d awoken to this horrid sight nonetheless. She gasped when the dark pupils embedded in bloodshot eyes became a reality she thought she had shed in her slumber.

  Oh God, she mouthed at the sight of him.

  He responded with what would have been a smile if there had been anything left of his facial muscles, but all she could perceive was the narrowing wrinkle of his eyes in a friendly acknowledgement. He nodded courteously.

  “Hello,” Nina forced herself to utter, although she was in no mood for conversation. She hated herself for silently hoping the patient had lost his ability for speech, just so she could be left alone. After all, she’d only greeted him in a show of propriety. To her dismay, he answered in a hoarse whisper. “Hello. Sorry I frightened you. It’s just that I thought I wouldn’t ever wake up again.”

  Nina smiled without moral coercion this time. “I’m Nina.”

  “Good to meet you, Nina. I’m sorry…it is difficult to speak,” he apologized.

  “No worries. Don’t speak if it hurts.”

  “I wish it hurt. But my face is just – numb. It feels…”

  He took a deep breath and Nina could see great sorrow in his dark eyes. Suddenly her heart ached for the man with the molten skin, but she dared not speak now. She wanted to let him finish what he wanted to say.

  “It feels as though I’m wearing someone else’s face.” He wrestled with his words, his emotions in turmoil. “Just this dead skin. Just this numbness, like when you touch someone else’s face, you know? It feels like – a mask.”

  As he spoke, Nina imagined his anguish and it made her shun her previous wickedness of wishing him mute for her own comfort. She imagined everything he had told her and put herself in his place. How horrible it must be! But regardless of the reality of his suffering and inevitable handicap, she wanted to keep a positive tone.

  “I’m sure it will get better, especially with the drugs they give us,” she sighed. “I’m surprised I can feel my ass on the toilet seat.”

  His eyes narrowed and wrinkled once more, and his gullet expelled a rhythmic gallop that she knew now to be laughter, although the rest of his face showed no sign of it. “Like when you fall asleep on your arm,” he added.

  Nina pointed at him with a determined concession. “Right on.”

  Around the two new acquaintances the hospital ward bustled with the morning rounds and delivery of breakfast trays. Nina wondered where Sister Barken was, but said nothing when Dr. Fritz entered the room with two strangers in professional attire and Nurse Marx at their heel. The strangers appeared to be hospital administrators, one male and one female.

  “Good morning, Dr. Gould,” Dr. Fritz smiled, but he lead his team to the other patient. Nurse Marx gave Nina a quick smile before turning her attention back to her work. They drew the thick green curtains and she heard the staff members chat with the new patient in relatively hushed tones, probably for her sake.

  Nina frowned in vexation at their incessant questioning. The poor man could hardly articulate his words properly! Still, she was able to overhear enough to know that the patient could not remember his own name
and that the only thing he remembered before he caught fire was flying.

  “But you came running in here, still on fire!” Dr. Fritz informed him.

  “I don’t remember that,” the man replied.

  Nina closed her failing eyes to heighten her hearing. She heard the doctor say, “My nurse retrieved your wallet when they sedated you. From what we can decipher from the charred remains, you’re twenty-seven years old and from Dillenburg. Unfortunately, your name has been destroyed on the card, so we’re unable to ascertain who you are or who we should contact about your treatment and such.”Oh my God! she thought, enraged. They barely save his life and the first conversation they have with him is about financial trivialities! Typical!

  “I— I have no idea what my name is, doctor. I know even less about what happened to me.” There was a long pause and Nina could hear nothing until the curtains were parted again and the two bureaucrats walked out. As they passed, Nina was appalled to hear one tell the other, “It’s not like we can put an identikit out on the news either. He has no bloody face to recognize.”

  She could not resist defending him. “Oi!”

  Like good sycophants they stopped and smiled sweetly at the well-known academic, but what she said wiped the fake smiles from their faces. “At least that man has one face, not two. Savvy?”

  Without a word the two embarrassed pen pushers left, while Nina eyed them viciously with one raised eyebrow. Proudly she pouted, adding softly, “And in flawless German too, bitches.”