“My gun ran dry.”
“And you felt helpless?”
“Impotent was the word.”
“To us psychiatrists, impotent has many meanings, but let’s just say unable to respond appropriately. The bayonet was about to enter your flesh and there was nothing you could do about it.”
“Yes.”
“And did—in the actual event—It was a real event?” He nodded, matching my bobbing head, “did—the man stab you with the bayonet?”
“Yes.”
“You survived.”
“Of course.”
He smiled. “How?”
“I pulled my knife, a Randall, and killed him. Then I pulled out his blade, reloaded, went back to the business of killing people.”
He thought a moment. “How did that battle end?”
“We had a break in the weather. Fast movers napalmed the perimeter for six hours. At first light we had reinforcements. It was a very close thing.”
He nodded, deep in thought.
“Was that your first time?”
“Yes.”
“And there have been many times after that?”
“Yes.”
He scribbled on his notepad and then looked at me with a kind of compassion I had not seen in a long time. “Sherman said that war is hell. After more than thirty years in this business, I’ve found that war is pain. Some pain can last a long, long time. You understand, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“We have found that PTSD can be accounted for by chemical and physical changes in the limbic circuitry in the brain, the amygdala, the locus ceruleus, the hippocampus and the hypothalamus, extending into the cortex of the brain. After a stress such as the one you described, the limbic system physically changes the way it works. The locus ceruleus is a structure that regulates the brain’s secretion of catecholamines, adrenaline and noradrenaline, our fight-or-flight chemicals. One can actually mobilize the body for bursts of super strength, such as you have described in your own life. In PTSD, the limbic system becomes hyperactive. A superabundance of catecholamines is secreted to what would to other people be an ordinary stimulus. A backfire of a car, the popping of a balloon, the smell of rain. Anything that is associated with the experience tends to release this superabundance of chemicals.
“In one study of Vietnam veterans with PTSD, we found that they had forty percent fewer catecholomine-stopping receptors than men without the PTSD symptoms. This suggested to us that their brains had undergone a lasting chemical change. Are you still with me?”
“So far. You’re saying that the fright that I had that night on that hill so many years ago changed the structure of my brain?”
“You would make a good student. That is exactly what I am saying.”
“So how does that help me?”
“There are many ways people cope with PTSD. Some become withdrawn from society. There are groups of Vietnam vets living in the jungles of the Big Island convinced that that is the only way they can live. I see them come in here, when they’re ill and need medical attention, dressed in fatigues and tiger stripes. They are unable to get over the war. So they cope by withdrawing from society. There are others who make the leap into chemical salvation: heroin, crack, cocaine, methamphetamines, and alcohol. And then there are those who appear to lead what a politician would describe as normal lives. They just suffer through it. They have their dreams, as you have had your dream, and they flinch and they wail at night, and they divorce and they remarry, always seeking something that they don’t understand. But they are not a burden on society in general. To their families, certainly, but they suffer in silence. They were maimed by the war, but some of them didn’t even receive a medal.”
“I have met some like that.”
“We all have, whether we know it or not. And sometimes we read about them in the newspapers. And then there are others, men like you, who spent their lives going after the adrenaline rush. We saw it after World War II and we didn’t know what we were seeing. We were not prepared for the Vietnam veterans in the seventies. They had a double burden to overcome. Their father’s generation, at least, had won that war. Their war, they perceived, was something to be ashamed of. But that’s another issue.”
I could see the flare of anger in his cheeks. “So you’re saying that I’ve got this PTSD. Sounds like a gasoline additive.”
“You may joke, but it’s serious. It’s not just in your head, it’s in the wiring in your head. It’s a physical ailment, not just a mental processing one.”
“Someone recently told me that we’re just chemicals.”
“That someone was correct. We’re learning that more and more. Your body physically craves the adrenaline rush.”
“I used to describe myself as an adrenaline junkie.”
“You were right and didn’t know it.”
“Knowing something does not necessarily tell you how to get over it.”
“Your experience on that hill determined the remainder of your life, John. You became addicted to the seeking of those chemicals. Your adaptation to PTSD has been your continued campaigning against what you see as evil in the world. In your narrative to me you described yourself as bad, but not evil. I don’t see you as bad. I see you as a good man who deals with his personal demons by attacking—and I mean that quite literally—the evil that he sees in the world. And if you can’t find it, you go looking for it. That’s how you have dealt with the problem. And that’s why you continue to suffer from this dream.”
I stared at the clock in the bookshelf, jammed haphazardly between two volumes of Gray’s Anatomy. I had come seeking answers, but had found answers that I did not expect. If what the good Dr. Goldman was saying was correct, I had not been the master of my fate or the captain of my soul. I had been the mere response to a chemical addiction. John Caine, PTSD, limbic-disordered veteran, attacker of evil; if I can’t find it, I’ll go looking for it. I could put that on a business card.
“So what do I do?”
“Fortunately, medicine has come a long way since the seventies and we now understand that if the brain can be trained to react to certain stimuli, then it can be retrained not to react. The body is an amazing organism. It heals itself most of the time. Sometimes it cannot, for whatever reason, and it needs help. People like me are here to help.” He smiled, and I could see the warmth and the tiredness in his eyes. “In PTSD, spontaneous relearning does not occur. We don’t know why it doesn’t, but it doesn’t. You can get over it. But it is going to require your active involvement in the learning process.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“We’ve got a group … what?”
“I don’t like groups.”
He smiled. “You just said, ‘What can I do?’ and the first thing I suggest you tell me you don’t like. What is it to be?”
“I’m sorry.”
“We have a group that meets Thursday evenings here in the hospital. Could you fit that into your schedule? It would help if you heard the others’ stories. Just once, at least. You need to know that you’re not alone.”
“Yes.”
“The strong emotional memories that trigger the patterns of thought caused by PTSD can change. It is cortical. You’re got to learn how to actively suppress the amygdala’s command to react with fear. There are ways we do that, and it is easier if we work with a group of people, rather than one at a time. It has to do with funding.” His smile was weary.
“I’ll be there.”
“Fine. Your hour’s up. Was up a long time ago, but I thought it was worth the investment of the taxpayers’ money. And I had no other patients scheduled, so it worked out. You’re a hard man, John Caine, but I think you’re worth rescuing.”
“Rescuing for what?”
“We’ll get into that. You ever have a lasting and meaningful relationship?”
“No.”
“Well, there’s a goal.”
I smiled. “You?”
“Mrs. Goldman a
nd I celebrated our thirtieth wedding anniversary two weeks ago. We are, as Paul Harvey would say, on our way to forever together.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. It’s at seven o’clock. Be in the lobby. Someone from mental health will meet you and take you up there.”
“Mental health?”
“What did you expect, OB-GYN?”
I smiled, liking the man. “Thank you.”
“Thank you. If you hadn’t been on that particular hill on that particular night, there would be some other fellow sitting here. Or not. I will not debate the evils of that time, or the fact that America sent its young men and women to a faraway land mainly because the President of the United States, a being who picked up dogs by the ears, feared that he would be seen as a man with small cojones. Seems like a trivial reason to order young men to death and maiming. But that may just be me. I’m a lowly captain of the United States Navy, and I never get to see the Big Picture, you know?”
He patted me on the shoulder.
“I’ll look forward to seeing you Thursday evening. We will begin with what Freud described as the Primary Process.”
“Oh?”
“We’ll talk about it Thursday.”
I strolled out of the hospital and looked to the hills and was rewarded by another rainbow. I had much to contemplate, and much to learn. If I was a man at war with myself I never knew it. Maybe it was something I had merely suspected. The cause had even been hinted at by my small joke about being an adrenaline junkie. That had been closer to the truth than I had ever known.
I got into my old Jeep and started the motor and took one more look at the rainbow. The colors seemed to brighten and change as I stared at it. Elusive and beautiful, they filled my sensations. I could never get enough of rainbows. They had always fascinated me. They were a bonus for living here, an added attraction.
If I were honest, the real reason I had come to this rock to live in the middle of the largest body of water in the world had been simply to hide. Like those men in the hills, I hid out from the rest of the world. I ventured forth only reluctantly. Here my soul felt as if it belonged to the rocks and the trees and the crystal aquamarine waters. It was peaceful here, and it was just small enough to be manageable.
To compensate for my affliction that I didn’t even know I had, I had scaled down my life, confining myself to this one rock, the rest of the world be damned.
I wondered what the world would be like if I changed. I wondered what I would be like.
I wondered if I wanted to change.
As damaged as I was, I was still John Caine. I wondered if I had the courage to challenge myself as I had challenged the volcano and the sea, as I had challenged those whom I had labeled as “evil,” as I had challenged life itself.
I wondered if I would have the fortitude to challenge the deeper darkness within me, to oppose it, and to eject it.
I put the Jeep into gear and slowly drove from the parking lot, reluctant to leave the rainbow.
But there would be other rainbows on other hills on other afternoons. And there would be sunsets and sunrises to be savored, the occasional pelagic fish to be slain, beaches to be walked, and waterfalls deep in the jungles to surprise me. And there was the hunt for The One. I wondered where she had gone while I had lusted only for the continuing adrenaline rush. I wondered where she was now, and if she would ever come into my life.
Of if I would continue to savor my rainbows alone.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In the words of my great and good friend Alan Patricio, this book was a bear to birth. That it took twice as long to produce as any of the three previous John Caine novels is testimony to its level of difficulty. And once again, it was more than merely a matter of sitting alone in my writer’s corner and slugging it out with my Compaq. While the task of the novelist always comes down to the mano a mano contest with the blank page, so much more is needed prior to that event to make whatever happens possible. Silversword is no exception.
For personal and medical reasons, and for pointing out when I have nearly made irredeemable errors in matters of sailing, I am obligated and delighted to thank J. E. Hartley Turpin, M.D., of Newport Beach, California. A true friend, a real family doctor, and one hell of a sailor, Hartley was also a valuable resource for the medical references in this story. Thank you, Hartley.
In matters of the Glock, Robert Gorgone, who carries one for the Portland Police Department, was without parallel in providing me with accurate information, and for correcting where I went wrong in Emerald Flash. Your timing helped us change the paperback. Thanks, Bob. I have always been a fair pistolero myself, but you’re the pro.
For suggesting the Lua, and being the best bodyworker and Lomi Lomi teacher in the State of Hawaii, Penny Prior of Kauai will always have my undying gratitude and affection. Who else would I go searching for after a hurricane?
This book could not have been written without Robert Decker, formerly Scientist in Charge of the Hawaiian Volcano Observatory, for his guidance in all things volcanic, especially the Hawaiian kind.
As a founding member of the Ruthsters, which means I am an extremely fortunate writer, I owe my editor, Ruth Cavin, a great debt of gratitude. This is not supposed to be so much fun, is it? Since this is our fourth book together, having fun seems to be the St. Martin’s Press standard operating procedure. With you, Ruth, it never seems like work.
Of course there’s my wife, Ildiko, who has made my life so gratifying and abundant. It’s as good as it gets when the love of your life is also your best friend. Every day is a new adventure. Every day is amazing. She has gentled and civilized me. I would not be the man I am without her.
Finally, as both an acknowledgment and a dedication, many veterans owe a debt to the men and women of the National Center for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, based at veterans hospitals around the country. As a fictional John Caine begins to rebuild his life using their good facilities, the NCPTSD helps real veterans of Vietnam and other armed conflicts of the last century. A statement of gratitude is in order for their assistance in helping veterans see that their nightmares, both sleeping and waking, are commonplace among those who have touched the tiger.
And there are no words sufficient for those whose lives were touched in the service of their nation. In no small sense, this novel is dedicated to all members, past and present, of all the armed services of the United States of America for your dedication, for your abilities, and for your steadfast faithfulness in time of need. The soldier, sailor, marine and airman of the United States military wears the only uniform in the history of the world that oppressed people are relieved to see coming. I am truly grateful that you have been there, and sleep well at night knowing you are there now. If prayers could be answered, I would pray that your might may never again be needed, that you would not experience the hell that is warfare, that your presence alone would impose a peace upon the world. As a realist, however, I know well that you will be needed because, in the inerrant words of Robert K. Brown, “the world never runs out of assholes.”
As usual, Shakespeare says it best: “In faint slumbers I by thee have watch’d, and heard thee murmur tales of iron wars …
ALSO BY CHARLES KNIEF
Emerald Flash
Sand Dollars
Diamond Head
SILVERSWORD. Copyright © 2001 by ILDI Co. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Thomas Dunne Books.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
www.minotaurbooks.com
eISBN 9781466810433
First eBook Edition : February 2012
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Knief, Charles.
Silversword / Charles Knief.—1st ed.
p. c
m.
ISBN 0-312-27302-9
1. Caine, John (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Antiquities—Collection and preservation—Fiction. 3. Private investigators—Hawaii—Fiction. 4. Teacher-student relationships—Fiction. 5. Women archaeologists—Fiction. 6. Hawaii—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3561.N426 S5 2001
813’.54—dc21
2001019175
First Edition: June 2001
Silversword Page 36