by Jack L Knapp
But that's not why I often stayed away from the dining facility after a mission. I just couldn’t face people. Maybe it's part of that social avoidance disorder. But I needed the extra calories this morning; I’d burned off a lot of energy during the night patrol, even though nothing significant had happened.
There was no one around when I closed the door behind me. I stood near the corner of the block of CHU's and just waited for a while, listening and sensing.
I heard sounds off in the distance. A helicopter was coming in to land, probably one of the courier flights, and I could hear the squeak of tracks. Someone was moving an Abrams tank or a Bradley infantry fighting vehicle from its parking spot; then again, it might be a bulldozer or one of the other engineer tracked vehicles. There might be a convoy forming up or perhaps the track was going into one of the shops for maintenance. Good machines, the tracks, but they do need to be kept up. Hulls and power packs are reliable, unless the engines have been exposed to excessive dust, but the Brads and Abrams are stuffed full of electronics. The electronics are protected from the worst of the thumping, but connectors shake loose and sometimes circuit boards crack. Vibration is not a friend to electronic components.
There was nothing I needed to worry about, thought, so I walked over to the dining facility.
Army food provides the energy needed by people who carry heavy loads and occasionally find themselves running on adrenaline. It's also a morale issue, so whenever possible, the Army tries to have a hot meal ready for soldiers. The DF had formerly been open 24-7, but they'd cut back the hours recently. Even so, except for the period between 2100 and 0430, the serving lines would be open. Troops departing on a mission could eat before they left, and those coming back inside the wire could get a hot meal before crashing.
The serving line was open this morning and a few people were having breakfast when I got to the DF. I’d be observing the serving guys and also watching the people around me; someone might try to drug me, after all.
During the night I convinced myself that the implant was there, where Surfer had said it was. I wanted to rub my neck, maybe see if I could feel anything, but the device would be implanted too deep for that. I quickly realized that danger would come from someone with a transmitter, not from servers who might drug my meal.
The headache were back, this time from tension, and I wasn’t thinking very clearly.
I couldn’t pick up thoughts from the people around me, but I could feel emotions, and that would have to do.
Despite my reasoning, I tried to read the guys on the serving line, but nothing seemed suspicious. My food came from the same pan the servers had used for people ahead of me. Nothing unusual had been added to my tray and the serving people were tired but not tense. This was paranoia, I knew that, but I had to be paranoid because any other mind-set could blow my mind. Literally.
I got my food and took my tray to an empty table in back. I put the tray down and took my cup to the coffee urn. I watched my tray while filling the coffee mug and almost burned my hand. The mug was too full by the time I released the handle so I drank a bit of the coffee, enough that it wouldn’t slosh on the way to the table.
No one had approached my tray while I was at the coffee urn.
Yesterday, I had been one among many who were if not friends, at least allies. There had been other Talents that I could contact even though they weren’t nearby; only Surfer remained now, and once I met her there would be the Shezzie woman he’d mentioned. Now, the people around me might be just fellow soldiers I could depend on or they might be someone waiting to fire the explosive charge in my neck.
I had the urge again to run my fingers down my neck, see if I could feel a bump or a scar. But no; that thing had been there for more than a year now, and I’d washed and combed my hair and moved my head around. If there was any external sign of the implant, I’d have felt it, and maybe wondered.
Death waited inside my neck; it was almost impossible to believe, in the same way that people who are told they have terminal cancer can't immediately accept the diagnosis. They have to think about it for a while before they understand that life is almost over. My life might end too, just not with the certainty that those with last-stage cancer have.
I dared not let my suspicions reveal themselves. What if someone was watching? Had the other graduates been killed in order to get rid of them, or had they become aware of the implant, causing someone to press the button before it could be removed?
As for me, my perception might save my life if that someone was watching for any change in my behavior. Fortunately, I could keep my eyes on my food while still continuing to scan around. A few seconds warning from my PreCog Talent might be enough. I kept my expression bland, mind and Talents working overtime even as I ate.
I finished my breakfast and drank a second cup of coffee while watching the people in the dining facility. Two of them caught my attention; everyone else had their own interests, or they were busy talking with the others at their tables. One was a captain sitting two tables away from me, nattily dressed for a dining facility that served mostly combat types; but except for his clothing, there was nothing to set him apart. Still, something about him seemed different. I noticed a woman too, petite, not much obvious shape, pretty nondescript all in all. She was an officer, that much I could tell, but I couldn’t see her insignia. Like the captain, I thought she seemed too interested in me.
I returned their attention but couldn’t read much. They were just two ordinary people that had somehow attracted my notice. I wished for a fleeting moment that I had Surfer's Talent, but I didn't, and there was no use thinking about it. I didn’t know why those two were interested in me, but by now I’d learned to trust my feelings.
I finished my coffee and headed for the door. I had to pass the captain on my way out. He kept his attention on his food, and it was a good thing; as paranoid as I was feeling, if he’d reached into his pocket, I might have killed him. But nothing happened so I exited the door and put distance between us. He remained in the DF, apparently in no hurry to finish his meal and head for work. I decided he was a false alarm.
Like the terminal cancer patient, my mind searched for alternatives. Anything, any way out...I understood now why such people will try any far-fetched, quack cure, spend any amount of money; they were looking for a tiny shred of hope.
The first thing I needed to do was get out of this dustbowl. An enemy had too much control here and my circumstance as a junior officer left me with very little wiggle room.
The decision had been made during the night without my realizing it. I needed someplace to hide, someplace I wasn’t under military control. Since I couldn't protect myself in Afghanistan, I would have to leave the country. But how?
I thought the question through, trying to apply logic to my circumstances. I knew that i'd passed my normal DEROS date, the day I would be expected to depart for the US, and should have been ordered home; people ending their tours are relieved of duty assignments a day or so before departure so they can clear their affairs, turn in property, things of that nature. Someone, probably a clerk following routine, realized my tour was ending so he had taken me off the patrol roster.
But I was still here, waiting. The personnel office had probably asked the Department of the Army for transfer instructions by now, but because of the records flag, DA would need to query the agency before issuing travel orders, and no approval had yet been given by the agency.
The conclusion followed: the same people who had killed all the other graduates, except for Surfer and me, were keeping me here. Even asking to travel would attract unwanted attention. "While I’m waiting, how about I fly back to the States, Major? I’m sure I’ve got enough leave accrued."
Not likely. Maybe I would try that if it was the only choice available, but not yet; just asking to fly out of Afghanistan might trigger an attempt on my life.
Medical help was available here, but not the unquestioning sort I’d need to remove the implant.
"Hey, Doc, there’s this little radio-activated bomb in my neck. Can you take it out?" Yeah, right.
I was as spooky as a kid walking through a cemetery on Halloween.
I needed to contact Surfer, maybe find out about that other Talent he’d mentioned. I left the dining facility and headed back to my CHU, where I could comm him without being interrupted. Or maybe attracting unwanted attention, or losing enough concentration to allow someone to get too close and point a TV controller at me.
I went back to my quarters and took a couple of aspirin; maybe they would help, this time. I put the lights out, lay down on the bunk to wait for the aspirin to kick in, and tried to comm Surfer.
I couldn’t really blend in with the locals, but I might not have a choice. If someone made an attempt on my life but didn't succeed, I would just have to try the desert.
I could do another night patrol if I had time, and this time steal some of the clothing that people left hanging on those second-story lines. They knew better than to leave things unguarded at ground level, but the lines hanging from their second-floor balcony were out of reach for the local pilferers. But they weren't out of reach for me; I could pop the clothespins loose, catch the garment as it fell...
Even so, where would I find shoes? Anyway, an Afghani would spot me instantly because I wouldn't instinctively know how to wear their clothes. Some of them even wear turbans, and I wouldn't know how to wrap one of those.
No; this might be something to try if I got really desperate, but not yet. And I hated the thought of stealing from people who were already as poor as church mice.
My thoughts went round and round, with no solution apparent.
Chapter Seven
She would have noticed, she thought, if she'd seen him before. The differences were obvious now, knowing at least a little of what he was.
He appeared average in most ways, not particularly tall or muscular, nor yet overly thin. Still, there was something about the way he walked; his gait was athletic, almost bouncing, as if there was too much energy inside to be contained, and when she got closer, there were the eyes. They were not blue, not really gray, but something in-between, and his gaze was sharp, as if he could see things other people couldn’t. She would definitely have noticed the eyes.
She had some of that quality too, visible in the mirror; she also saw a lot of things now that she’d not seen before. How much more could he see? Perhaps his vision was different, maybe even better than her own.
He was young for his rank, and his emotions were more guarded than anyone she’d sensed before. Even her paranormal ability barely registered his feelings. She would have wondered what he was hiding, had she met him before; now, she knew.
She had envied the ones Surfer had told her about, the people who attended the School while developing their Talents. They would have had people like themselves to talk to and share experiences with, possibly even extend their abilities by comparing their progress with others. And there was always the stimulation they would have gotten, just from being around people like themselves. She wondered for a moment what she might have done with her own Talent had she had that help or lived in an environment such as those students had known. Maybe there would have been exercises to try, suggestions, or at least advice about dealing with the changes she was experiencing. If nothing else, there’d have been someone to help explain the things that were happening to her. But she'd been alone when the ability first manifested, no one to turn to, no one to share her doubts and fears.
This man had attended the School, according to Surfer; he had completed his course early and been assigned to the Army as a way to evaluate his Talents.
The early manifestations of her own Talent had terrified her, left her fearing that she was no longer sane. She’d had to do what she could by herself to develop the deep feelings of empathy, and learn to depend on them until they became something more. Her ability had grown until now she understood not only emotions but even a little of what people were thinking, just from being around them for a while.
She’d found herself waking up often during that troubling time and wondering if it could all be a fantasy, some unusual kind of PTSD. Could she trust her ow
n judgment, continue to care for patients without knowing whether the things she sensed were real or only delusions? Almost...almost, she'd decided to report her problem to the chief surgeon; but at the last minute, unsure even then, she'd turned away from his office and gone back to her quarters.
Then had come the mental call from a man who called himself Surfer. It was almost like picking up a telephone, except there was no ring, only a tingle. She didn’t understand at the time how she'd been able to hear him with such clarity, but after the call she could say to herself, ‘You’re not crazy after all!’ Even then, there had been that nagging little question in the back of her mind: is this real or only another delusion?
After the first few ‘conversations’ with Surfer, called ‘comming’ as she now knew, she had gotten his phone number and placed a call. Finally, she’d known that if it was a delusion, there was no way she’d ever be able to tell; it was too complete, and there were too many corroborating details.
This meeting was another confirmation; it was impossible to believe this was a delusion.
“Mr Tagliaferro? We have a mutual acquaintance, I believe. He calls himself Surfer. He says I should call you T.”
“Shezzie?” He blinked in recognition. She'd seen him before, this morning in the dining faciiity.
“Surfer calls me that, but it’s not my name. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Sandra Schmidt, Army Nurse Corps.”
After completing introductions, the two made the short walk to her office in the compound's medical complex.
Shezzie controlled the surgical-nurse duty roster, scheduling which nurse would be working with which team of surgeons, while maintaining slack in the schedule for her own preferences as much as possible. They could not do what she did, the other nurses; twice, she’d detected patients who were paralyzed by the drugs but not under the anesthesia, still able to feel but unable to move.
It happened more often during surgery than people realized. She’d be terrified if she ever needed major surgery, knowing what she knew now. She would be afraid the scalpel would begin to cut while she was still able to feel pain, unable to let anyone know because the paralyzing agents left the patient unable to move or even breathe; the anesthesiologist had to keep the patient breathing during the surgery and early post-operative recovery period.