by David Poyer
Banging on the wall. “Knock it the fuck off in there!” someone yelled from next door.
“You gotta get a grip, Heck-tor,” Ahoh muttered, getting up slowly, still watching him. He tucked his penis back into his boxers and straightened his shoulders. Punched the air. “Or I’m gonna have to take you apart, put you back together with that fucking head on right.”
Hector started to banter back, but gave up. “Fuck you,” he grunted, and threw himself onto the bunk again. The black depression that had dogged him all day rolled in again, like storm-tossed surf. He reached for another Upgrade, but there were no more left.
A double rap at the hooch door. “Yeah!” Ahoh yelled.
One of the sergeants from next door. “You guys okay in here?”
“Just fucking Heck-tor up the dirt road,” Ahoh said. “Want some?”
“Huh-uh. Hey, hear the scuttlebutt?”
“What you got?”
“Fobbit heard it from his girlfriend, she works in the head shed. We’re prepping for a landing. Something called Causeway.”
“She say when?”
“Don’t know.”
“So that’s it, you don’t know nothing else?”
The NCO shrugged. “All I got is what I got.”
Hector lay motionless, digging his fingers into the seams of the mattress. Face deep in his pillow. No use. Eyes closed tight. But still. Can’t stop it.
Seeing it all again.
Fleshy pink paste, in the treads of a tank.
A severed head, still in its helmet.
His own hands, hanging the birds one after the other.
The Line, steel chains chiming and swaying as it jolted into motion.
Taking the pinned and helpless birds, fallen silent now, as if they knew what lay through the slot in the wall, on into the Kill Room.
6
Tripler Army Medical Center, Honolulu, Hawaii
IT took two days before Dan realized he was in an Army hospital. The plain green scrubs gave no clue, and as far as he could tell, most of the other patients in his wing were Navy or Marine. Also, he’d been unconscious most of the time, and in a private room to boot.
He was on the fifth floor, to judge from his room number. Just now, the first morning he actually felt like sitting at the window, he was gazing down on what seemed all of Honolulu. The sea flashed scarlet beyond the towers of the oceanfront hotels. Violet mountains rose to his left. The sun was ballooning up like a nuclear detonation over Ford Island and the Pearl Harbor basin. He couldn’t quite see which ships were in at the moment, just the distant upperworks of a Burke-class, and maybe one of the new jeep carriers.
The funny thing was that for the first time in his life, he didn’t really like looking at the sea.
The fishing craft he’d spotted east of the island had never approached. But it had obviously seen their smoke. They’d built the rescue pyre piece by piece over their weeks on the island. A fifteen-foot stack of driftwood, plastic trash, tires, and coconut boles, set atop the highest point of the volcanic rocks. The rolling black billows it produced must have been visible for many miles. The hydrocarbon stench had set the castaways coughing and retching.
But someone had radioed it in. Because the next day a recon drone buzzed over. Dan and Hwang had waved and capered like the desperate, starving strandees they were. Pointing to the letters they’d scraped in the sand with a driftwood plow. USN HERE. The aircraft had darted around the island, obviously searching for other survivors, then departed, shrinking into a humming dot before disappearing eastward.
The day after that, the Self-Defense Forces had shown up. A Japanese coast guard cutter, not all that big, but easily the most welcome seaborne sight Dan had ever feasted his eyes on. They’d hove to and run a boat in to the spit. Heavily armed troops jumped off and advanced warily, suspicious at first of Hwang, until Dan identified him as Korean and himself as American.
It seemed that while he’d been out of touch, Japan had reentered the war. Which couldn’t help but be good news.
His recollections got spotty after that. A medical bay, then a clinic. An aircraft. A short stay somewhere, then another plane.
And now, Hawaii. He sighed, examining his reflection in the window glass. Thinner, definitely. In fact, pretty fucking gaunt, though they’d been feeding him, first with an IV, then with heaping trays. His doctor was a smart, attractive brunette. Greek by extraction, he guessed. “Exposure, intestinal parasites, et cetera, et cetera,” she’d told him. “What I’d expect from somebody stranded on a desert island in the tropics, and forced to eat pretty much anything he could find.”
The good news: Savo Island had survived. Heavily damaged, but Cheryl and the crew had brought her through. For which he was profoundly grateful.
Phone connections to the mainland were intermittent. He’d managed to leave a message, but Blair hadn’t called yet. Still, the Navy would get the news to her.
After he’d come to, he’d asked where the others were. His nurse said Captain Hwang was next door. Dan could see him whenever he liked. He’d tottered over to find the Korean liaison, head thrown back in a chair, being worked over by a dentist. Actually, of the three, he looked the least affected by their ordeal, smashed teeth aside.
Wilker was in critical condition, in the recovery ward after surgeries on face, jaw, and legs. When Dan visited, the pilot had been asleep, but he’d sat with him for an hour, and left a request that he be kept informed about his condition.
“Admiral? Breakfast.” His server set down the tray. Dan nodded, suddenly ravenous. His stomach growled.
He watched television while he ate, but didn’t learn much. Reportage had been replaced by sanitized “government bulletins.” The various channels, CNN, Fox, MSNBC, did agree on a few salient facts. A full draft was in effect. Everyone had to register, either for the military or for labor. Including women. Every ad trumpeted that company’s contribution to war production. A major battle was under way in Vietnam. The Chinese were suffering heavy losses there, but U.S. forces didn’t seem to be involved. Citizens were warned about impeding the war effort, and asked to report anyone criticizing the government to the Internal Enemies Hotline, phone number 1-800-PATRIOT.
Just as ominously, unrest and shelling were starting again in Latvia, and something called the Visegrad Group was mobilizing. The Germans were debating sending troops.
He clicked from channel to channel, but there was zip about the Pacific. As if every mention of it had been blacked out. Even the fact that the Japanese were back in the war.
Which left him with … not very much. Confused. Out of the loop. In a bubble.
Which was pretty much where he figured he’d be for the rest of the war.
* * *
AFTER breakfast he decided to look in on Wilker again. The staff raised a fuss if he tried to walk. They wanted him to use a wheelchair, but he refused. A cane was bad enough.
He trudged slowly down the hall to the elevator. When he tapped at the pilot’s door, Wilker was awake this time. A brace locked the lower half of his face, but the bruising was fading. An IV dangled, and a complicated apparatus pinioned both legs, which were cast and bandaged. He raised a finger in welcome, then pointed to a chair.
“Feeling better, Strafer?”
A muffled reply from between locked teeth. “Almost human. Thanks, Admiral.”
Dan patted his arm. “Let’s keep it Dan.”
The aviator closed his eyes. Laid his head back on the pillow. Then opened them again. “Don’t think I … actually ever thanked you. For pulling me out of the cockpit. Guess I was … not so happy to be alive. On the island, I mean.”
“Forget it. You don’t need to say anything, if it’s too hard to talk.”
“Not hard. What’s hard is all I get is … fucking smoothies. Can you really understand me?”
“Pretty well. Anyway, you were stove up pretty bad back there. I didn’t take it amiss.”
“If I didn’t say it then, I will no
w. Thanks.”
Dan rearranged the pilot’s covers. “What do they say? About your legs, I mean.”
“Think they can save ’em. But not sure yet, I guess.”
Dan nodded. They rested in companionable silence for a few minutes. Then Wilker’s lids popped open again. “Savo. She make it? Did you hear?”
“Commander Staurulakis brought her back. She’s safe. The ship, I mean.”
“Great. Great. Any word on the det? My maintenance guys?”
Dan said he hadn’t gotten anything firm on casualties, but he would ask.
Wilker sagged back again. Then, as if recollecting something, waved at a newspaper on a tray table. “Uh, saw your name. Didn’t read the story. But it’s in there.”
“My name?” Dan glanced toward it. He didn’t want to read it. But got up at last and picked it up.
The Navy Times. Page 4. A short article about Rear Admiral Daniel V. Lenson’s loss somewhere in the western Pacific. Less an obituary than that he’d been proposed for the Cordon of the Order of Military Merit, First Class, by the acting minister of national defense of the Republic of Korea, Admiral Min Jun Jung. It had been awarded to his widow by the ambassador from South Korea, at a short private ceremony at the Pentagon. Also, at the request of that officer, seconded by the chief of naval operations, Admiral Lenson had been proposed for a Defense Distinguished Service Medal. The latter award had been denied, though, due to objections in Congress. Members had questioned the admiral’s abandonment of his flagship in the middle of the battle.
He folded the paper, face burning. He knew where the objections had come from, but finally just shook his head. Did it matter? Nope. It really didn’t.
“Anything interesting?” Strafer mumbled from the bed.
“Just the usual political bullshit.”
“Can you … uh, you mind…?”
“What do you need?”
“I hate to ask.”
“Hell, Ray, I was wiping your ugly ass with dried seaweed for weeks. What the heck do you want now? At least we have real toilet paper.”
“Yeah, the bathroom—”
“Forget it, Strafer.” Dan hobbled over to the bed and pushed the Call button.
* * *
BACK in his room, he felt dizzy after his excursion, brief though it had been. He was about to lie down for a little nap when someone tapped at his door. Probably the nurse, taking vitals. But she usually just breezed in. “Yeah,” he called.
Then blinked, astonished. Not believing his eyes. Until she set down her briefcase, leaned over, and kissed his forehead.
“Blair?” he whispered, not really sure if he was still awake. But he could smell her perfume.
“It’s me.” She pulled a chair over and plopped down, taking his hand and crossing her legs. Those long long legs … He couldn’t help staring. Until she raised her eyebrows. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Only that you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Keep thinking that.” She looked around the room, then leaned forward and kissed him again. This time, on the lips. “They told me you were dead,” she murmured, closed eyes hovering above his. So near he could feel her warmth. “I am so glad. God, just … so glad.”
He groped for a reply, but words all seemed inadequate. So he just pulled her down, and kissed the misshapen, withered stub of the ear she kept hidden under a lock of blond hair. She flinched. “Don’t do that. Just hold me,” she murmured into his neck. “Hug me. Like that. Yeah.”
When he let her go at last she held him at arm’s length and sighed. “You’re so thin.”
“Yeah, lost that little potbelly you like. What there was, we had to root hard for.”
“What’s your status? What’s the hospital say?”
He shrugged. “They pumped us full of antibiotics, and poison for the parasites. Other than that, I’m not sure I need to be here.”
“But they insisted.”
“Correct.”
She kissed him again, one quick peck.
“Does Nan know I’m okay?”
“Yes. The Navy notifies both primary and secondary next of kin.” She glanced at the window. “They gave you a good view, at least. I’ll check with your doctor when he comes by.”
“She.”
“When she comes by. When is that, usually?”
“After lunch, I think. I’m really surprised to see you here, hon. This is a long way from DC.”
“Ricardo … the chairman gave me a plane. When he heard you were alive, they’d picked you up. I’m supposed to touch base with the cybercommand, too, while I’m here. And have a sit-down with Jim Yangerhans. PACOM. Oh yes. You know him.” She rubbed her brow. “I’ll put in a word for you when I do. About what you can expect, once you’re back on your feet. Or if there’s something specific I can say you want?”
He was about to give her the usual song and dance, about how he didn’t want her trying to advance his career, but remembered the Navy Times article and didn’t. This might be the time to call on a little favoritism, if he had any left. “Uh, well, maybe you could just sort of put out a ping. See if there are any, um, plans.”
“But what do you want? Surely not to go back to sea. Not after what you’ve been through.”
He thought about giving her the old ‘sailors belong on ships, ships belong at sea’, but just now he wasn’t at all sure he did want to go back. Ever. And as for facing battle again, well … he didn’t want that either anymore, to be perfectly frank. Maybe somebody else deserved a shot at glory.
He coughed into a fist, apprehensive and guilty. This wasn’t how Certified Navy Heroes were supposed to feel. “Uh, lemme think about that. Okay? So, what’s going on in DC?”
She glanced at the half-open door. People were passing. Carts rattled past in the corridor. “Not much I can tell you. In a nonsecure environment.”
“Anything? All I have’s the TV.”
“Just … we’re not in good shape. Your operation set the primary enemy back on their heels. But other developments don’t augur well. In the Gulf. Or eastern Europe.”
“There was something on the news about that. What’s the ‘Visegrad Group’?”
“That’s the Czech Republic, Hungary, Slovakia, and Poland. The Russians are taking advantage of our being tied down in the Pacific.”
“Uh-huh. What else? Are we going over to the offensive? That was the idea of Recoil, wasn’t it? A spoiling attack, to set us up for a counterpunch?”
“Like I said, can’t comment.” She smiled apologetically and glanced toward the harbor. “You’ve got a great view.”
He sighed. “You said that already. Don’t change the subject.”
“All I can tell you is, we’re presenting various options to the NCA. Some are more aggressive than others. It’s going to be up to the president.”
“And Ed Szerenci. How are you two getting along?”
She spared a smile. “It’s complicated.”
“I’ll bet. Wish I could be there to watch the two of you butt heads.”
“There’ll be an offensive. At least a limited one. But we’ve got to keep the danger in mind too.”
“That Zhang keeps threatening nuclear war? On the homeland?”
She looked disturbed, as if he was getting too close to something. Time to steer away. “So what’s your part in this?” he added.
“I’m going to Ireland.”
Did he hear that right? “I’m sorry … did you say Ireland?”
“Dublin. There’s a UN meeting on documenting, and thus, they hope, preventing war crimes and atrocities. The administration wants me to go. I’m not sure why, or what they expect me to do. But apparently the president’s asked for me by name.”
Dan gave it exactly two seconds’ thought. “So they can blame it on you when it goes down in flames.”
“That’s what I think too.”
“So why participate?”
“I just might have a chance to make a difference.
The same way you do, when you get orders you don’t much like.”
He sighed and took her hand again. “Wish I could go with you. But I have no idea what happens once I get out of here. When do you leave?”
“In a day or two.”
“And there’s two other commitments. So we might just have now?”
“I’ll try to come again. But … yes. It might only be this visit.” She glanced at the door, then back at him. Her brows lifted. “You’re not feeling like—?”
He nodded. She gave him another close, scrutinizing look, then got up. Surveyed the corridor, then eased the door closed. There wasn’t a lock, so she pushed the visitor’s chair against it.
“Sure you’re up for this? You look like you can barely—”
“Judge for yourself.” He threw the covers back, inviting her in.
A mischievous grin. She began unbuttoning her blouse. “That’s evidentiary, all right. How do you want to approach this?”
He was telling her exactly what he had in mind when the door slammed against the chair. She sat back quickly, rebuttoning, brushing hair out of her face.
“Sorry to intrude,” said the nurse. She examined Blair, then switched her attention to him. “But you have a call, Admiral. Office of the chief of naval operations.”
“Take it,” Blair said, putting her finger over his mouth as he was about to refuse. “He’ll take it,” she said.
“Just lift the receiver by the bed.”
“Mr. Lenson?”
Mister? “Here,” he said warily.
“Can you hold for Admiral Niles?”
Nick Niles, chief of naval operations. His old enemy, and current rabbi … if that relationship still held. “I’ll hold.” He raised his eyebrows. Blair nodded, and he put the phone on speaker.
“Dan. You there?”
“Yes sir.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“Better, sir. I’m at Tripler, in Honolulu.”
“I know where you are. I just called you there, Lenson. I told Blair. She should get there later today.”