by John Hunt
The dessert was apple pie and vanilla ice cream. This was a favorite of his father’s, who considered it a tribute to the gringos up north who had been such good customers for years.
“Father,” Enrico queried, “is she really yours?”
Juan Marcos looked at his son for a long moment while he chewed and swallowed a great mouthful of pie. “You are not to have her, Enrico. I am earnest in this statement. Any such attempt on your part will meet with my displeasure.”
There was nothing short of murder that Enrico could safely do in this situation. For a moment, he thought about murder. There were many advantages he would gain from the death of his father. But he shoved the thought away. He had to accept his father’s dictum.
That night, too tired after his long walk through town to go back out and find a woman, Enrico decided to stay home and take a cold shower. Despite that effort, he fell asleep thinking lasciviously of Maria.
27. Search and Destroy
THEY HAD JUST received a flash message from CINCPAC regarding the OTEC. Lieutenant Epps ran the message over to Commander Grover, who was resting in the small airport lounge while reviewing some minor maintenance action on the planes, and Tommy “Gun-Gun” Thompson, who was reviewing the electronic message traffic that they had received.
“We missed it! Damn!”
“What are you talking about, Mike?” the pilot demanded.
“It looks like the OTEC has been torpedoed.” He handed the scrap of paper with the hastily penned note transcribing the classified message just received on the UHF satcomm frequency that CINCPAC had told them to monitor. Commander Grover read the message quickly. He shook his head faintly as he finished.
“This doesn’t tell us much. Could have been a bomb. Or maybe something went awry when they pulled the starter cord on that thing. Who can tell from this? Let’s get the crew back and take a look.”
It took ten minutes for Epps to gather the eleven men from around the air terminal. Two had walked down the road toward the harbor, following the sounds of music and laughter. The people were celebrating the arrival of their heralded machine. Grover sent Epps not just to find the crew but also to chastise them, in a gentle way, for being so far away when they had been told to stick very near. At this time, what little crew rest they might squeeze in was a lot more important than liberty.
“What were you men thinking? Hell, I hope Commander Grover doesn’t find out. He’ll chew you two new assholes.”
“Sorry, Lieutenant. Won’t happen again.”
“Better not. At least not tonight. Now get your asses back up the hill and into that plane!”
The airmen dumped fuel into their afterburners, high-tailed it up the hill and across the runway, and scrambled up the ladder through the main cabin door.
Epps walked rapidly back up the dimly lit road. The frequent sound of women laughing mixed with happy beach music that came from the houses near the road was enticing. He could expect nothing different from ship-deployed US Navy sailors. Nor should anyone expect anything different from any self-respecting US Navy airedale, the moniker that the surface and subsurface communities gave to the flyers. Lieutenant Epps himself had trouble shutting out these siren sounds to reenter their loud, and less-than-pleasantly scented, aircraft. But at least he could log some more flight hours. Besides, there was, perhaps, something out there underwater after all.
It took only minutes to finish their preflight check.
“That sure was fast. The guys are really turning to back there, aren’t they?” Grover commented to his copilot.
“They are doubly motivated. They might actually get to hunt and kill a sub. That’s a thrill for them. But even more, these guys want to get back to the island and find some drunken girls. They’re pretty eager, Commander. They already put ‘small-island rules’ into effect.”
“Which small island rules this time?”
“You know. What happens on the island stays on the island, and no fair laughing at another guy’s date. Things like that.”
“Yeah, I know. After we’re done with this job, maybe we’ll develop some engine trouble. I am sure it will take a couple of days to fix. These islanders will owe us some good hospitality.”
Epps smiled. “You’re a good crew leader, sir. A couple of extra days away from squadron life on deployment will go even further to cement the crews.” The two planes were fortunate to have men who worked hard and partied hard. That was the way it was supposed to be.
A short time later, the P-3 was taxiing toward the runway. The second crew would stay behind, to act as a ready backup and to stay rested to relieve Grover’s crew if they were needed for extended coverage. Grover turned the plane onto the long airstrip and instructed Chief Austin to set normal rated power and the plane immediately started to accelerate down the runway. At close to 130 knots, Epps called “Rotate” and the Orion was airborne. Even at 135,000 pounds the plane was climbing at nearly 3,000 feet per minute. Because the crew’s tasking had them working right off the coast of the island, they were soon at their operating altitude. Grover settled in to fly level.
“Sure is a helluva dark night,” commented Epps.
Grover replied, “Yeah, that’s why we’re up here. Can’t see a damn thing, and I don’t trust the charts of this area.” He pressed his ICS button, “Radar, Flight, as soon as you get your Condition 4 checks done, take some sweeps to ensure we’re clear. Nav, back him up.”
“Flight, Radar we’re clear at this altitude.”
“Roger. TACCO, please update the operation area CINCPAC assigned on our scope. I’m still not sure what our tasking will be. Whatever the guys on the surface need will dictate where we really need to be, and that’s just the way it is. And Nav, keep us away from that damn island. We don’t need to be dropping sonobuoys through the roof of some hotel.”
Lieutenant Commander Thompson now started coordinating the crew’s efforts, although their tasking had been less than precise. “Nav, make contact with the Elijah Lewis. We’ve been assigned the tactical call sign Two Lima Juliet. Once you’ve established that, I’ll talk to them.”
While Grover settled the plane into an orbit over the datum, Thompson got caught up with the surface picture. After just a moment, Grover heard, “Flight, TC, Elijah Lewis reports that two bombs exploded on the OTEC. Damaged but taking no water. The Elijah Lewis is damaged minimally but is fully capable.”
Since communication was plain voice VHF, Grover jumped on the net in time to hear his TACCO talking to what they both assumed was the surface operations officer in charge.
“Captain Stouffer, Two Lima Juliet, you’ve got both the plane commander and TACCO on freq. What can we do for you? Over.”
“Good of you to stop by again. It was a bomb, we have learned. Two, actually. No torpedoes. Sorry for the incomplete info before. Over.”
“No problem. Can we provide assistance?” Grover repeated his offer.
“Two Lima Juliet, standby.” Several minutes passed and the Orion continued in a gentle orbit. The radio crackled briefly. Then Grover heard another voice that was clearly from a weaker transmitter. “Two Lima Juliet, this is Baddori. There are two terrorists on a pleasure boat somewhere near here. My bet is that they will head out to sea to make contact with a larger vessel of some sort. Possibly that sub we were expecting. Over.”
“Two Lima Juliet, copy. Unless you see it differently, we’ll establish a surface search pattern while also planting sonobuoys. We’ve got some interesting onboard equipment that just might give us a little advantage.”
“Actually, anything you have beats what we’re geared for. We’d be in your debt if you could find them both. And if you find a sub, I would be obliged if you would sink it.”
“Roger. That’s why we were sent here. Out.”
Commander Grover pressed his ICS switch to communicate throughout the plane. “Crew, flight. We are hunting again. And it looks like something might really be out there. This is most certainly not a drill. If we find
it, I promise a big party. And Commander Thompson will supply all the liquor.” A cheer arose in the plane, audible even above the loud and constant hum of the engines.
“TC, flight, I need an expanding-square search pattern on the screen, biased away from the island. We’ve got to descend a bit, so keep us well clear of the rocks.”
“Flight, TC, I’ve nearly got it and will have it to you in a bit.”
“Sensor 3, TACCO, let’s get the FLIR deployed. And I want the aft window stations manned. I know it’s dark, but any sign at all of surface activity gets called ASAP. If they’re smart, and I’m guessing they know what they’re doing, they’ll know to keep any lighting to a minimum. However, a small surface boat with two guys in it needs something to help them find their mother ship.”
“Sensors 1 and 2, TC. I’ve also got a four-by-four search pattern laid out with difar buoys. Flight, I’m also sending you that pattern. See what you can do to get that pattern dropped while flying the visual search pattern. We’ll go with active sonobuoys as soon as we get subsurface contact, so Sensors 1 and 2, get ready to be real busy.”
“In-flight tech, TACCO, let’s ensure we have those Mark 46s ready.” Due to manpower cuts, P-3s no longer flew with an integrated ordnanceman on the crew. The responsibility to ensure weapons and sonobuoys were loaded and ready usually fell to the crew’s inflight technician.
Grover was speaking out loud with the cockpit crew again. “I’m not too excited about what those terrorists will do when they find out their bombs didn’t quite do the trick. We may not have much time. If they long for an early trip to meet Allah and their seventy-two virgins, or whatever in the afterlife motivates them, staying alive is not priority number one. And if they have a sub, they have torpedoes. They could choose to fire them, ram the OTEC, or both.”
Soon thereafter, the passive sonobuoys started firing out of their external chutes. Next it would be the two acoustic operators’ turn to see what sounds in the water might tell the crew what was going on.
“I’ll be damned if that big floating penis gets sunk!” Grover said to no one in particular.
28. Medic
OVER THE PAST two years, Thomas Standall provided all the money he had promised, and much more. Soon after meeting Petur, he acquired a position as a resident in Family Practice at a large hospital-based clinic in Massachusetts. His aim was to regain the clinical knowledge required of a solitary provider of healthcare in a remote location — far from any other medical support. This billionaire began working one hundred hours per week, taking calls every third night, sleeping rarely. He undertook a year of hell, something he had already done before: the third year of residency in medical school.
His training schedule was flexible, and he chose to spend much of his time in the intensive care environments. Neonatal resuscitations and transport was of particular interest, because he wanted to be fully prepared in the event a baby went sour after delivery on Paradise 1. He also relearned how to remove an appendix, how to relieve the pressure in the cranium after head trauma, and how to perform basic radiological studies. He dedicated several months to orthopedics, though he knew it well, as he wished to perfect his knowledge of it. Minor fractures, he expected, would be common.
He obtained an impressive library of the most recent resources covering all aspects of medicine. Somehow, he even found time to read many of these texts. He was likely to be the only provider of healthcare on the island, and that made him very nervous. He finished this intensive year-long refresher shortly before moving to the island, and it renewed his confidence.
Several months before Standall took up residence, he gave Petur a long list of requests for medical equipment. Included in this list was an impressive piece of equipment for telemedicine and teleradiology. With this apparatus, x-ray film was irrelevant, for it directly digitized all x-ray images, which could then be transferred electronically to radiologists in the States, or Australia, or anywhere else. Dr. Standall could also transfer high-definition pictures of skin rashes and moles to dermatologists, and images of the retina to ophthalmologists. He also helped design the clinic-and-hospital building, and hired a nurse and a technician to help him. The nurse he chose, Moira, was highly competent, experienced, and dedicated to her patients as much as Petur was to the Island Project. Petur only met her once, but he was impressed. The technician was a retired Navy Chief Petty Officer, a corpsman who was short, broad, and bright. Standall found it hard to recruit him initially, because he had not known about the plans for Paradise to have a golf course. But the Chief found out about the golf course, called Standall up, and consummated the deal that day. Between these three healthcare practitioners, all of whom had by now settled in, the Island’s colonists would be in safe hands.
Dr. Standall worked on the torn and beaten body of Jeff Baddori with gusto.
“You smell pretty awful, Mr. Baddori. A shower, even once a week, can do so much for a man.”
“Thanks for the advice, doc,” Jeff replied. “It isn’t my body odor, you know. It’s ammonia.”
Standall was irrigating the exit side of the bullet wound in Jeff’s arm. Sterile saline went in; a bloody mess poured out, dripping down his chest. Idly, the doctor asked “You sure? Smells like you peed yourself — ten times.”
“Yeah. I know. Petur smells like the lowest level of the New York City subway system. He reeks worse than me!”
“Hmmm. Not really.” The doctor moved his arm around in an arc and blasted a steady stream of fluid deep into the wound.
“Ouch! Damn, that stings. Can you take it easy, doc?”
Bill, the corpsman, had been fiddling with a suction device attached to the wall nearby. “Hey, you talking to me?”
Jeff turned toward the man. “Nope, talking to the doc here.”
Standall interjected. “Bill is known as ‘Doc’ here, Mr. Baddori. He’s been called that for years.”
Jeff nodded in understanding. “Oh. No, Doc, I was talking to Dr. Standall. He’s squirting some awful stuff into me!” He squirmed as another bolus of fluid permeated the muscles of his arm. “Dammit, you trying to kill me?”
Standall replied, “Hey, pal. It ain’t me who got you shot. I’m just fixing you. How about some appreciation here?” He squirted some more sterile salt water into the wound, carefully collecting into a yellow basin the pink fluid that returned.
Jeff shrugged, in apology, but the motion caused a shock of pain to course through his neck.
“This sucks.”
Standall shook his head, held up his irrigation syringe, and said, “No, this just shoots it in. It doesn’t suck. Suction machine is broken.”
Jeff shook his head in pretend irritation. “Where is Petur, anyway?” he asked.
“He’s getting an x-ray of his chest. Just like what you had. I hope his looks a little more normal than yours, though. When I saw yours, it looked like the chest film of a kangaroo. You’re a mess.”
“Life has taken its toll on me lately.”
“Nothing that a good shot of brandy won’t fix.”
“I would have to drink the stuff hourly.”
“Hmmm. Your point?”
Jeff laughed. “You are a piece of work, aren’t you?”
“Better than being a piece of shit, I suppose.”
Jeff shook his head. “Where did you come from, Doc? Oops, I mean, Dr. Standall?”
Standall reached down to the small metal table beside him, lifting a pair of pointed scissors off of a blue sterile towel. He began snipping carefully at some fatty tissue that was hanging loosely from the wound.
“What’s that?” asked the doctor.
“I was asking you where you hail from.”
“Oh. Boston. More or less.”
“How did you come to work on Paradise? Did you get kicked out of the Massachusetts Medical Society? Get sued by a college cheerleading squad for indecent behavior?”
“No. Petur will tell you. It’s a long story.”
“Can you tell me any
of it? I wouldn’t mind some distraction from the thumbscrews you are driving into my shoulder.”
Standall grunted, as if irritated, and said, “Well, I had been a lot of places, and done a lot of things, but I had never been here before.”
“Is that it?” probed Jeff. “That’s not much of a long story.”
“I’m frustrated. Most people don’t realize it, for I’ve been reasonably successful. But, I am frustrated. I had begun to look at the members of my own profession with distaste for their lack of foresight, and worse, their lack of courage.”
“What courage is that?”
“The courage to stand up for what is right.”
“I’ve always thought of doctors as very self-sacrificing,” Jeff intervened. “I would not have thought that there was cause for this concern.” A pause. “Now, for lawyers or journalists, I could see your point.”
“What I mean is the big-picture items. The economy of medicine. Free markets work to make everybody richer. Free markets in medicine will make everybody healthier. But my profession has not stood up and fought against insurance companies. Health-insurance companies in America are small versions of socialist economies. They cause stagnation, and they are inefficient. And they don’t give a crap about any individual’s health.”
“So, this is the source of your frustration?”
“Yes, exactly. I want to practice medicine and get paid for what I do. I don’t care if I get paid in chickens. But I do not want to fill out any more insurance forms. I did not hire the insurance company, yet they won’t pay me unless I fill out the form. That’s criminal. Here, on Paradise, things are perfect. People pay for what they get, and if I start charging too much, you can bet someone will start competing with me in no time.”
Jeff nodded his assent. “Paradise seems aptly named for you. You share a great many economic and political beliefs with Petur. Did he hire you?”
“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.”