Hammerhead Resurrection

by Jason Andrew Bond

  She screamed and thrashed for ten minutes. In the past, some had lost consciousness, but with microscopic machines eating away at every nerve fiber, no one stayed out long. Whitetip though, stayed with it. Her pulse had spiked to 200 several times, and her blood pressure was moving above 230. If she had any vascular weakness in the brain, stroke was a real possibility.

  After ten minutes, the screaming faded to groaning gasps of air. She lay drenched in sweat with her eyes clamped shut and chest heaving. Jeffrey soaked a towel with cool water and pressed it to her forehead so the water squeezed from it, running down her temples and the sides of her nose.

  As Jeffrey draped the towel across her forehead, her eyes came open—blood shot and weary. She blinked at him as though she couldn’t quite focus.

  “Are you okay?” Jeffrey asked her. “The worst is over. You’re going to be sore for days, but the burning will only get less from here.

  She whispered something through the mouthguard, and Jeffrey unstrapped it and drew it out.

  She whispered again, so quietly he could not make out what she said.

  He put his ear next to her mouth.

  “I hate you,” came just over the sound of her exhaled breath.

  As Jeffrey leaned back, she, despite looking as though she’d nearly died from drowning, winked at him. Her tenacity of spirit overwhelmed Jeffrey. Resting his hand on her belly, he felt the flat muscles rising and falling. She’d passed through the eye of the needle and would lead the way for the next generation of Hammerheads.

  Closing her eyes, she appeared to drift off to sleep.

  The doctor pressed another vial into her IV and said, “This chemical trigger will cause the machines to seek out the bile system. They’ll collect in the liver and break down.”

  Whitetip’s hand flexed as her eyes drew open. She looked up at the draped tarps above, which billowed on a slight breeze as spots of sunlight danced across them. The sound of wind shuffling through leaves filled the air. When she tugged on her restraints, Jeffrey unstrapped her nearest hand. Holding it up, she stared at it for some time, touching her fingertips one at a time to her thumb.

  “Strange isn’t it?” Jeffrey said as he unstrapped her other hand.

  “Yes,” she said as though absorbed in thought. “Incredibly strange.”

  “What do you feel?” Caterina asked.

  “I feel…” Whitetip paused, lifting and staring at her other hand, touching each fingertip to her thumb. Now she pushed her palms together and slid them along, her eyes closing as if in pleasure. “I feel… alive.”

  A quizzical expression came to the doctor’s face, and she turned to Jeffrey as if to seek clarification. Jeffrey shrugged and held his hand out to Whitetip as if to say, ask her.

  In a gentle tone, Doctor Monti asked, “Alive?”

  Whitetip’s eyes came open, and she smiled with a casual easiness as people will after a few drinks. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  Dr. Monti appeared somewhat taken aback by this.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” Jeffrey said, smiling with relief. He drew a deep, freeing breath, let it slowly out, and said, “She’s in the euphoria of it.”

  Leif said, “Euphoria was documented in all successful modifications.”

  The doctor nodded, “Yes of course, as we discussed. I’d forgotten that.”

  Jeffrey said to Whitetip, “You’re in the afterglow of a massive endorphin rush and the new sensation of a nerve shine.”

  Her smile still faint as she continued to feel her own hands, she asked, “How long will this last?”

  “The endorphins should fade shortly,” Leif said, “but reports suggest that the sensation of nerve shine will be with you the rest of your life.”

  “Yeah,” Jeffrey said with a laugh, “Fun isn’t it?”

  With a reverent sincerity she said, “It’s amazing.”

  “Yes, it is and will be.”

  He picked up a roll of medical tape and threw it at her.

  She snatched it out of the air.

  Leaning her head back as if basking in warm sun, she smiled drunkenly. Her chest rose with a deep breath. When she tossed the tape up in the air, Jeffrey caught it. Leif and the doctor unstrapped her legs and waist. She tried to get up right away.

  “Please,” Dr. Monti said, “you must have rest as we give you fluids.”

  “I’m fine,” Whitetip said as she shoved herself up. Her arms trembled, and she tipped sideways.

  Jeffrey caught her, and as he lay her back down, said, “You’re going to do whatever Dr. Monti says. That’s an order. Understood?”

  She nodded, still appearing a bit disoriented.

  Leif said, “I’m going to go see if our next pilot is ready.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Donovan walked up to Stacy, his expression hard. “Commander, did you take Marines off my security detail?”

  With a flush, Stacy realized she’d forgotten to involve him. This wouldn’t go well. “I’m sorry sir, I needed more operatives. My team is only five including me. I—”

  “—thought you could move my resources without my approval.”

  “No sir. Not at all. I had to move quickly, and I became a bit hasty. I apologize.”

  “That seems to be how you operate.”

  Stacy felt her eyes narrowing and squelched the urge to ask him what the hell he meant by such a comment. Guessing he’d make her pay for not asking permission over the Marines, she chided herself for not being more careful.

  “I thought SW teams involved six personnel.”

  Is he going to argue every little detail with me? “I had six.”

  “What happened to the sixth?”

  Seriously? “One was injured. I had to cut her from the team.”

  He nodded as though he could accept the reason as a pittance, which made Stacy’s anger flare again, but she checked herself.

  “I suppose taking the Marines back from you would look bad. Well played Zack.”

  Stacy couldn’t help herself at that. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t have let me have them?”

  His face contracted into a slight smirk. “Do you think they’ll be able to fulfill the shoes of such highly trained Navy personnel?”

  She ignored the veiled insult. “We found more than enough who already had experience in stealth suits and demolitions. They’ve been a natural fit. I’ve selected seventeen to round out the rest of my team, and ten more for backups. We’re checking them out in the suits now, running drills in the forest.”

  “Games,” he said with a flippant wave of his hand as he walked away, leaving Stacy seething.

  …

  Each pilot reacted differently to the nerve shine. The African, Lila, had been the most stoic. She’d kept her dark eyes on the canopy above, her arms trembling against the restraints. Even when tears streamed down her temples, and her body shuddered, she’d remained silent, almost supernaturally so.

  The Norwegian, Kodiak, had yelled, beat his head against the bed, and lost consciousness several times.

  Every pilot approached the process with reverence and respectful fear, all save Soy Bean, the kid from Nebraska. He sauntered into the medical tent and flopped down on the cot so hard Jeffrey thought he might break it.

  “Not too worried?” Jeffrey asked him.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” He put his hands behind his head as if he were at the beach. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  Caterina explained the process, and he had no questions.

  Jeffrey explained the pain.

  He waved away the comments, saying, “It’s no big deal. I got this.”

  Jeffrey shrugged his shoulders and motioned for Caterina to proceed. She pressed the metallic looking liquid into the IV, which flushed down to Soy Bean’s arm along with the saline.

  When Jeffrey took hold of Soy Bean’s wrist, he pulled his hand away. “Whoa there chief. No hand holding.”

  Letting out a frustrat
ed sigh, Jeffrey said, “We need to restrain you, so you don’t get hurt during the process.”

  “Boss,” he held his hands up in a defensive position, “I never let any of my girls tie me down, and I’m not about to let some old man do it.”

  Jeffery’s anger quickened, but he said in a slow, calm voice, “This is no time for kidding around. The process is going to begin in less than a minute, and for your own safety, you have to be restrained.”

  “I’m not messing around with you. No one’s tying me down.”

  Standing, Jeffrey brought his nose a few inches from Soy Bean’s face. “Listen to me you little shit,” his voice a low, quiet growl. “You may think you’re slick, but if you give me even one more breath of flack you’re out, not just out of the program, but out of this camp.”

  Soy Bean’s blasé calmness faltered.

  Jeffrey asked, “Are you on board or are you out?”

  Soy Bean’s expression became somewhat submissive. “I’m in, I’m in. Jesus Christ what’s gotten into your ass?”

  Jeffrey grabbed him by the shirt, lifting him a few inches off the cot.

  “Are you in or are you out?”

  “I’m fucking in! I told you that. What’s wrong with you?”

  Jeffrey was close enough to smell the meal Soy Bean had recently eaten. “Are you in or are you out?”

  The kid looked confused, his expression now sincerely worried. With a sudden flush, he appeared to come to a realization. “I’m in… sir.”

  “Excellent,” Jeffrey said letting Soy Bean drop to the cot. “I’ll strap you down then.”

  As Jeffrey set the straps, Soy Bean’s face tightened, his eyes going to the needle in his arm. “It’s really starting to burn.” He shifted to the left, straightening his arm and tugging at the wrist restraint as though he could pull his shoulder away from his arm.

  “This is the part I was trying to tell you about,” Jeffrey said, as he put his hand on the kid’s arm.

  Soy Bean bared his teeth, sucking in air and scowling at his arm as though it angered him. “I know you said it was going to hurt, but thi—” He shouted out with surprised pain.

  “His heart rate is already close to two hundred beats per minute,” Caterina said.

  Soy Bean glared at her, looking as if he had something smart assed to say.

  She put the palm of her hand on Soy Bean’s chest, and he closed his eyes, his arm trembling.

  “You must relax,” she said. “Try to stay calm.”

  Tiny droplets of perspiration formed across his forehead as his body shook.

  The monitor registered 203 beats per minute. Caterina shook her head subtly to Jeffrey. Jeffrey understood all too well. The records they’d reviewed showed that when it went bad, it looked just like this. Soy Bean had that charmed mixture of lack of pain threshold and excitability. A common thing for those insecure enough to have as big an attitude as he did.

  “We’ve got to get his heart rate down,” Caterina said to Leif.

  “We’ve been over this before we started,” Leif said. “It’s all in their head. If someone can’t handle the pain, they’ll react in this way. The only key we have is to get him to calm down.”

  Jeffrey looked back to Soy Bean, who’s shirt had spots of sweat forming. He had his teeth bared, eyes clamped shut, the veins in his face and neck standing out.

  Caterina put her hand on his forehead, “You have to calm down, your blood pressure and heart rate are too high.”

  He seemed unable to respond to her.

  Somehow, in that moment, Jeffrey knew the kid was going to die. He couldn’t define it, give it a medical reason, but he knew that, in his inability to cope, Soy Bean was a dead man, and Jeffrey felt, correctly or not, that he was at fault. He should have registered the kid’s attitude. Those with a lot of attitude were weak. They are screaming at the world that they are afraid, just like a dog barking. Jeffrey knew all too well that there are two core emotions in the human mind, two drives that all other emotions and reactions stem from—love and fear. Fear drives negative behavior, love drives positive. This kid couldn’t cope, he didn’t have the strength, and Jeffrey should have known it. He should have washed him out.

  He tried to take hold of the kid’s hand, but it was locked into a fist. His face was going red, and Jeffrey smelled something foul.

  “I think he voided his bowels,” Leif said.

  Jeffrey nodded. The heart rate monitor showed 238 now.

  “I need something to get that down,” she said as she reached for a packet.

  The heart registered 247, lofted to 254, and then the numbers blurred. The arcing line of his heartbeat under the monitor fell to nothing, and the monitor began to tone with an alarm. The screen pulsed with a red hue.

  “He’s coding,” Caterina said with that detached tone that only experience with emergencies brings. She ripped open his shirt and took the paddles from the defibulator beside the cot. She squirted a gel onto them, swirled them together, and pressed them on Soy Bean’s chest.

  “Clear.”

  A click sounded, and his body arched. The beat returned but ran so fast it seemed that the monitor must be broken. The number showed 301 and the short pulses on the line looked like the teeth of a saw blade.

  Dr. Monti shook her head and shocked him again. The line went flat. Watching the monitor for a moment, she mouthed a countdown before shocking him a third time. Nothing returned. Setting the paddles aside, she began doing chest compressions on him, her arms rigid, smashing his chest down.

  “Leif,” she said, not looking away, “give me a count every fifteen seconds.”

  Leif picked up a tablet. After a moment, he said, “Fifteen.”

  Caterina kept pumping on Soy Bean’s chest.

  Sweat began forming on her face, and as she huffed with each compression, the kid’s body lurched. Jeffrey moved into her peripheral vision as she huffed and compressed.

  Leif continued to call out fifteen second intervals. When two and a half minutes had passed, she stopped the compressions, took up the paddles, and pressed them to his chest. His body jolted. Lifting the paddles an inch off, she watched the monitor. The alarm tone continued as the line remained flat. The spike the paddles had created shifted off to the left.

  Pressing the paddles to his chest again, she hit the thumb triggers. Soy Bean’s body arched. The line twitched, and went flat again.

  “Dammit,” she said. For a moment Jeffrey believed she was going to throw the paddles. She set them on their case. She began compressions again. “Give me fifteen second marks.”

  Leif kept his eyes on the monitor’s clock, and said “Fifteen…” and again… “fifteen.”

  “Tell me when we’ve hit three minutes,” she said. Strands of sweat-soaked hair stuck to her forehead and cheek. She continued the compressions.

  After what seemed too long to Jeffrey, Leif said, “There’s three minutes.”

  She repeated the procedure with the paddles, having the same result and returned to the chest compressions.

  Jeffrey wondered how long she intended keep going.

  In the spaces surrounding the compressions, she said, “My hope is, as the nanites complete their process, I might be able to revive him.”

  Jeffrey nodded even though her eyes were down.

  “There’s three minutes again,” Leif said.

  She tried two shocks. The spike on the monitor went flat. She returned to her chest compressions saying one word with each compression, “Get… beating… you… son… of… a…bitch. Come on!” she yelled, and then louder, “Come ON!”

  She continued the chest compressions, and Jeffrey could see her arms trembling as the pressure lifted from them at the top of each compression.

  “Dammit,” she yelled, “Get going!”

  Jeffrey reached over and took hold of her wrist gently, not interfering with the motion of her arms. His voice low, he said, “Caterina… it’s okay.”

  Her eyes met his, furious. “It’s not
fucking okay.” Taking up the paddles, she shocked Soy Bean’s body twice. It lifted and went still each time.

  She stared at it. Her expression hardened, lips narrowing. She threw the paddles into the side of the tent.

  Sitting on the case beside Soy Bean, she put her face in her hands. Her arms trembled. After a moment, her back rose with a deep breath. She looked up. A mask of efficient professionalism had taken her over.

  “Leif, please mark down time of death for…” she looked to the tablet beside the cot, “Lieutenant Brooks.”

  When she stood, Jeffrey reached out to touch her shoulder. She smacked his hand aside. As she walked out of the tent, she said to one of the nurses, “Get the body out of here.”

  Jeffrey looked at Soy Bean’s face, mouth slack, eyes half-open. Right now, the kid should have been sitting on a crate pissed at Jeffrey for cutting him. In his rush to prep pilots as quickly as possible, Jeffrey had ignored his gut. The first dead Hammerhead was on him.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Jeffrey sat beside the river, mesmerized by the fast water catching the moonlight in glittering whorls. Near him, the smoother surface reflected the stars, which spanned the gap in the trees like a cathedral ceiling between the buttressing branches.

  “I heard what happened today.”

  Jeffrey looked behind him to find Samantha standing at the trailhead, as if respecting the space. She held her flashlight down, illuminating a circle at her feet. When he motioned for her to sit next to him, she clicked off the light and approached. Turning back to the water, he watched its dark mass passing and felt its similarity to his heart, black with slight sparks of hope now and again.

  Arms wrapped around him from behind, and cool hair spilled across his neck. Her head came to rest gently on his shoulder.