The Terminals

by Michael F Stewart

  Then I was sliding across the rough concrete and being carried bodily to lie again on the helicopter floor. Other children were being offloaded, all limp and listless. I took their place, still confused.

  “She’s my passenger,” I heard Sabo scream, but it was from the radio and not the pilot seat.

  “She goes with you and she won’t make it. And she’ll die on the drive to the hospital—we have the antidote. It’s not your choice.” The screeching voice resounded again.

  I began to sense that I was being kidnapped.

  Chapter 37

  I came to in the helicopter, but it wasn’t Sabo’s. Smaller. I shivered, lying not on a gurney but the fuselage. The cold metal pressed against my legs. Dimly, I wondered why my pants were off, but I had no time to ask, as a microphone was thrust beneath my nose, and I blinked under the glare of a news camera lamp.

  When I tried to bring my hand up to swat the microphone away, I found an IV plugged into my forearm.

  Leica Takers loomed over me, holding both camera and microphone. I looked up at the IV bag.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not drugs. Vitamins,” Leica said. “Your buddy told me you overdosed on Coumadin. Vitamin K is the antidote.”

  Attila, I groaned—I’d told him to give Takers the tip and she had come through. “Antidote? How’d he—” Then I remembered Deeth on the way out, asking Attila for a word. I shuddered uncontrollably and suspected I was going into shock. “I gave you the story, why are you torturing me?”

  “I left my crew behind to take care of one story.” Leica hunched down, bringing the camera with her. “Five of the kids were dead. Everyone else is critical.”

  “Six,” I said, the light swimming. “Six made it.”

  “Huh?” She shrugged the camera. “Didn’t take you for an optimist, but, yeah, six might make it.”

  “You said one story?” I was confused as to why she wasn’t back at the story sure to generate national headlines.

  “Anyone can cover that shit,” she said. “I want to know why you OD’d.” Her voice dropped, just barely audible over the chop of rotors. “I want to know how you knew where the kids were.”

  “Handso knew.” But even my dulled wit had figured out that Leica had tipped him off, and then Handso, the governor.

  “Right.” She laughed. “But I know how he knew. How did you figure it out?”

  My head thundered with a headache, and I could barely shift it from side to side, let alone lift it. I didn’t think I had the strength to lie to a professional reporter. Under her piercing eyes and feeling the white heat of the camera’s light, I had the good sense to feign passing out.

  Leica swore and the light, which made my eyelids shine red, went dark.

  “Fucking hell,” she said. “What’s the ETA on New York?” I listened as she spoke with the pilot, unable to hear his answers. “Tell them we’re bringing her in, they’ll let us land if they know who we’ve got … I want a chance to look around the place.”

  I tried to determine if I cared and couldn’t decide. I’d done something good today. Six kids. Half good. Although letting Hillar reincarnate had to count against me somehow. I wondered at that thought, almost opening my eyes in surprise. With the end of the mission, notwithstanding its dubious success, I had to admit that something was going on in the upper floor of the Veteran’s Hospital. That Attila had reached Charlie and that Charlie had somehow probed inside Hillar’s head was difficult to dispute. Whether the reality lay within the laws of physics wasn’t something I might ever be able to determine. But the reality was, the reality was—Attila talked to the dead, the dead talked back, and the dead even talked to one another. Which brought me to deeper questions that hurt my head to think about. Could I agree that some form of afterlife existed? Did I really believe that Hillar would reincarnate?

  “What’d you say?”

  My eyelids blazed red again. I must have been thinking aloud.

  “What’s this about reincarnating?” Leica’s voice wasn’t full of disbelief or confusion, rather interest. “What’s the name of your military unit, Colonel?”

  Her fingertips pried my eyelids apart, and she swore again.

  “Gives new meaning to bloodshot,” she muttered, and my wrist lifted as she checked my pulse and a heavy blanket draped over me. “You better hustle her there before we lose our reason to land. I don’t think they grant priority to the dead. Give me a minute without radio chatter, all right? I want to do the preamble for this news piece. No sudden movements or the camera will fall.”

  A scuffle, the unrolling of duct tape, and more swearing suggested Leica wasn’t used to working without her crew. I felt the light back on me again and heard Leica draw a deep breath.

  “This is Leica Takers reporting for TTV. I’m in transit with a great American mystery. Following her daring rescue, Colonel Christine Kurzow is dying of internal injuries.” She paused, then with an aside continued, “Voice over with the shot of the water tower from the helicopter.” She left another pause to help the editors. “Two hours ago, the colonel entered the top of this water tower and killed the accomplice of the serial killer known as Hillar the Killer … Shot of Hillar please … Six of the eleven children are alive and at time of reporting listed as critically injured, including the daughter of Iowa State Governor Jian Kim … I want footage from the crew here, a statement from the governor … But questions remain. How did this secret military unit discover the location of the children? What is the story behind one of the Army’s most decorated female officers? And why did she show up before the FBI and local police forces arrived on the scene … give me shots of badges … whatever you’ve got … And why, why are quite possibly the last words of a self-professed atheist about reincarnation? This is Leica Takers reporting.”

  I didn’t remember us landing, but the low whump of the helicopter blades signaled we were on the ground. The doors opened and hands slipped beneath my armpits as Leica Takers filmed.

  “Hey, no cameras,” someone shouted, but Leica ignored the voice and kept filming. Something crashed to the concrete, followed by Leica cursing. From somewhere came the scent of coffee.

  “Attila,” I said, the name lost in the cacophony of orders.

  Onto a gurney, through a heavy mist, and into the elevator I was transported. Buckles to my body armor unsnapped. The helicopter whined back into action, but I saw the distinct white of Leica’s camera light dancing across the concrete walls of the stairwell. Even in my haze, I admired her perseverance. The harsh light didn’t enter the elevator car, retreating instead down the steps as the doors shut.

  “Blood type O negative,” someone answered a question I hadn’t heard.

  “Laceration, right thigh. Superficial injuries to right side of head.”

  “Stat trauma blood work, prothrombin levels, and toxicology,” someone ordered. And I was poked with a needle.

  I coughed up dark ruby blood and the talking around me grew louder and more rapid. Darkness settled in on me. It crowded out the ceiling lights that shot past as the gurney wheels squeaked and wobbled along the corridor. And then it suffocated me.

  All was darkness. No white light, or tunnel, none of anything from the thousands of so-called documented near-death experiences. It was enough to make an atheist righteous. I did not float above myself. I was nothing. Except of course, my awareness of being nothing, which I decided as I clawed my way out of nothing, meant I wasn’t going to die. And for the first time in nearly two months, I wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea of living. Six kids survived. Six kids who would otherwise be dead. And I remained swaddled in the dark, happy for a time while the world beyond fought to save me.

  “Unstable … can’t.” From outside of nothing drifted an argument.

  “Now.” Terse, familiar voice.

  “What kind of mission can this patient possibly—” Someone whined, and I knew by the
subservient tone she had already lost the dispute.

  “None of your business.” A wheeze followed by a cough and the hiss of oxygen.

  “Except to ensure I first do no harm, sir.” The woman surprised me, and my eyes fluttered open.

  The general pointed a turgid finger into the face of a dark-skinned doctor; although the general wheeled his oxygen tank behind him, its presence failed to diminish his malice. “You’ve got two hours, then she’s leaving.”

  Deeth was beside me. “Guess I was wrong about you,” he said.

  I couldn’t answer; I didn’t have the strength to try.

  “I didn’t think you were terminal.” He shrugged. “Thought you’d come around.” He sniffed and shook his head. “Convinced me otherwise, might as well put you to good use before you finish yourself off.”

  I didn’t understand what he was saying, but I felt ashamed of myself, a familiar feeling.

  “Before you, I would have said your depression wasn’t really a terminal disease. It’s treatable.” He shook his heavy head. “But you’re not depressed. You proved me wrong.” His lips thinned as he pursed them together. The female doctor stomped out of the room. When she was gone, Deeth continued. “In euthanasia debates, no one ever considers the role of the doctor. That someone has to pull the plug or make the injection.”

  I swallowed and wet my lips with my tongue.

  “If you hate it so much, why do you do it?” I managed to ask in a series of halting croaks.

  He leaned in close and fixed me with a dark eye. “To ensure it’s done right.”

  My shame spread to my cheeks. “Where’s Attila?”

  Deeth looked at me strangely before leaning back and answering.

  “Out.”

  Attila was about as deep in Spanish Harlem as he liked to risk, especially with what he suspected was stashed in his pocket. On the way he’d had to resist the urge to pawn the contents of the envelope and visit some of the more reputable bookies in the area. Attila loved his mamma, his cards, and his horses, but all three had him in hock deeper than he knew how to escape. Most of the money he earned from the Terminals paid for his mother’s care, and the five grand Christine had paid him so far had covered interest alone on his debts with the Russians. But Attila knew that if he failed to deliver the package, he’d be breaking a fragile trust he wished to keep, especially after he’d made the calls she’d requested. Besides, enough treasure was secreted in Christine’s room to repay his debts many times over. It was very tempting.

  He stood opposite a squat apartment block, encircled by a low, black fence. Despite the fence, graffiti artists had tagged the walls with enough vigor and density that the whole of it became a mural and the effect was not displeasing to look at.

  Between the passing delivery trucks, Attila watched a boy and his father play cards through a first-floor window. The clarity was remarkable, in that the pollution created a film on street-level windows so quickly that it had obviously recently been washed. The reason was tucked into one corner of the glass pane: a For Rent sign.

  Attila’s hands stuffed into his vest and felt Christine’s envelope. He didn’t know what was inside for certain, and didn’t really care—likely a pearl pendant or some diamond rings. He had little natural curiosity. Perhaps solving life’s greatest mystery raised the bar on everything else. What bothered him of late was Christine’s unearthing of the Terminals’ underbelly.

  In his one and only conversation with his grandmother, she’d said: Never leave one of God’s gifts unused. But never use your gift against God for that is the greatest insult, to use the gift one has given you against them. It kept him from going commercial. It kept him in the Terminals.

  Attila had always walked a fine line, and Christine had made the line even finer, turning the unit on its head. He drew a deep breath, remembering her on top of him, still confused by her invitation, but encouraged by it. But was it too late?

  He threaded through the traffic and climbed the apartment building’s short flight of cracked concrete steps. When he was at the top, a woman burst through the doors in curlers, letting the doors swing closed behind her as she hurried off. Attila caught the door before the lock could snap back into place and ducked into a small atrium. A placard pointed in the direction of the unit he needed, and he strode down a plain hallway. The metal door’s paint flaked around jagged scrapes. Attila rapped on it with his knuckles.

  “Getting late,” someone said inside as they approached.

  After a moment, the door opened, spilling a wedge of light across the corridor. From beneath a latched security chain two sets of dark eyes regarded him, one at armpit height, the other even with him.

  “Mr. Alphonso?” Attila asked.

  The man nodded but didn’t move to release the chain. The smell of alcohol saturated the air. A cat with brown and yellow markings wove figure eights through the legs of the boy, delivering a throaty purr.

  “My friend was your wife’s commanding officer.”

  The door shut; the chain danced over the frame, and then the door drew back wide to reveal boxes and bare walls.

  Attila held out the envelope, a large brown manila that he’d folded upon itself to fit in his vest.

  The man took it and cocked his head at the boy.

  “It’s okay,” Attila said. “Nothing he can’t see. I don’t think.”

  Alphonso pulled out a long necklace and dropped the envelope with a clank. Christine’s note fluttered to the floor and the boy caught it between his palms. The man frowned at the diamond pendant.

  “The diamonds are real,” Attila explained in a hush. “Colonel Kurzow is … she’s … she’s presumed dead.” Attila held enough superstition that to say so was enough to make it so. “It’s inheritance.”

  Alphonso glanced at the For Rent sign as if trying to make a split decision. The boy squinted at the note.

  “My wife hated the colonel,” Alphonso said, letting the diamonds blaze as the chain swung from his fingers.

  “On behalf of the U.S. Army, I hereby …” the boy trailed off and dove for the envelope and dumped its contents into his hand. At the end of a pale blue ribbon was the Army’s highest tribute, the Medal of Honor. Attila grunted in surprise.

  “Mommy’s a hero,” the boy whispered and dug into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. His father went to his knee and held the phone as his son began to text.

  “No, son,” he turned and looked at Attila. “I think this is just for us.”

  The boy swallowed and nodded. Tears of pride hung in his eyes, and Attila saw how right Christine was, and his chest tightened.

  “Bless you,” the man said. For a moment, his eyes brightened and their focus returned. “We needed this.”

  Attila shut the door behind him and walked out, still bothered by his having pronounced Christine dead.

  “Classified,” I said.

  An interview where you can consistently say, “That’s classified,” and have nothing invested in the interviewer is worth everyone trying once. I owed Leica an interview, but clearly I wasn’t meeting her expectations.

  “I saved your life!” Leica’s hands jutted out toward the IV line and the various monitors that beeped. It was a private room, and the deal had been no cameras and no recording equipment.

  “I am an Army officer, Leica,” I replied. “I have a duty.”

  Over the course of the questioning, Leica’s complexion had steadily darkened.

  “Who commands this,” her hand fluttered, “whatever it is?”

  “The unit commander is a general,” I gave her.

  “I know that,” she snapped. “But who does he take orders from?”

  “The president.”

  She brightened, perhaps thinking she was getting somewhere, but then her shoulders hunched and her eyes narrowed. “But we all take orders from him, don�
�t we?”

  I smiled. “One way or another.”

  “How many people are in the unit?”

  I wasn’t really sure. Did one include even those who didn’t know what the unit was, the Euths? Everyone terminally ill? “Millions,” I said.

  She didn’t answer; she only regarded me coolly, with a smile on her face. “And what is the unit’s prime directive?”

  “To retrieve information vital to the nation’s security.”

  “How?” Leica demanded. “How do you do this?”

  “That’s classified.” A second blood transfusion had restored much of my energy.

  “Riddle me this,” Leica said while writing on a legal pad. “What does a unit, under the direct command of a president, with millions of soldiers, do in order to retrieve information? And let’s assume you don’t overlap with Homeland, the FBI, or the CIA, right?”

  I realized that I was disclosing to her more than I had thought and bit my lip.

  “Are your methods legal?” she asked.

  “Interview over,” the general said, looming in the doorway with one hand gripping his oxygen tank.

  “I have ten more minutes!” Leica said.

  “Says who?” the general replied.

  Leica paused, eyes drifting to the oxygen tank, back to my wrists. I could see the wheels turning in her brain. She nodded slowly, revenge flashing in her eyes. After brushing past the general, she turned.

  “Oh, and General?” she asked, tapping her cheek with her pen.

  “What is it?” he demanded.

  “Thank you,” she replied, and I knew she’d made him. “Nice to put a face to a name.”

  Doctor Deeth arrived with a male nurse, together moving me onto the gurney under the glare of the attending doctor. I had already been moved once out of intensive care to a step-down unit, and now I was heading to Purgatory, although the doctor had only been told it was a secure floor.

  They wheeled me out of the room and down the hall.

  “So what is it?” I asked Deeth. “Worried I’m talking too much?”