by Don Brown
“What pictures are you talking about?” Milk snapped.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Sal was clearly enjoying the moment. “Maybe some you should ask your buddy Senator Rodino about. See what he thinks about it all.”
Milk glared at Rodino. “What’s he talking about, Chuckie?”
“They’ve got pictures of us.”
“Pictures of us?” Milk’s face reddened. Veins bulged in his neck.
“Yes. Private pictures. Last summer at Martha’s Vineyard.”
“What?”
“I saw the photos yesterday.”
“That’s blackmail!” Milk raised his voice.
“Blackmail?” Big Sal grinned. “What makes you think such a thing, Milkey? You haven’t even seen the pictures.”
“Nobody was supposed to know about Martha’s Vineyard!”
Phil spoke up. “Well, it seems to me, Congressman, that if you didn’t want to be spotted on a romantic weekend with your boyfriend here, then you should have picked someplace a little less public than Martha’s Vineyard. Like, maybe Alaska or something!”
Milk shot back, “Still, I resent having my privacy violated!”
“Hey, Congressman,” Sal said. “Ain’t nobody violated your privacy. Not yet, anyway.”
“Well, it sounds to me like you’re threatening to run these embarrassing photos in the Post!”
“Let me ask you this, Milkey.”
“It’s Milk. Congressman William O. Milk. And my nickname, for only a select few in my inner circle, is Mackey. Not Milkey.”
“All right, Congressman. Let me ask you this. Do you want to see your boyfriend here have a shot at being the vice president of the United States? Maybe even president?”
Milk looked over at Rodino, his eyes wide and his mouth open, as if coming to the realization that his lover from the U.S. Senate might actually have a shot at becoming the next president of the United States.
“Of course I would love to see Chuck become our next president. He has a certain strength and virtue about him that would make him one of the greatest ever to hold the office.” An adoring dreaminess appeared in his eyes as he gazed at his senatorial lover with a look that made Phil want to vomit.
“Well, if these pictures got out, the irony is that they might help you get reelected in Massachusetts. Not that you would need any help getting reelected. The word’s already out on you, and that lifestyle has always flown pretty well in Boston.
“But they don’t know about you and Senator Lover Boy here, and I’ve got a feeling that won’t fly too well down south, even in the Democrat primaries down there. And those pictures will kill his chances in a general election. And as far as vice president goes, if Eleanor Claxton gets the Democrat nomination, and she might, there’s no way in hell Eleanor puts Chuckie here on the ticket.” Sal leaned back and crossed his arms over his belly. “So it seems to me that keeping those pictures out of the paper would be a good thing for your friend’s political chances.”
“He’s got a point, Mackey.” Rodino reached over and touched his hand.
“So,” Sal continued, “if you want Senator Lover Boy to have a shot at the presidency, then get on board with what we need. Milk, you’re on the Armed Services Committee. I need you to spearhead opposition to this drone bill in the house and kill it.” He looked at Rodino. “And same for you in the senate. I want to know this bill is dead on arrival! Do you hear me?”
“You have my cooperation,” Milk said. He turned and nodded lovingly at Rodino. “But I’m doing this for him. Not you. You’re not my constituent.”
“I don’t care who you’re doing it for. You’ve got three days, or it’s going to be a shark-feeding frenzy and you’ll wish you had it as easy as Talmadge had it. Now get out of my office!”
CHAPTER 34
WALTER REED NATIONAL MILITARY MEDICAL CENTER
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
TUESDAY, 12:30 P.M.
He walked into the room and, as he always had done, filled every corner of it with his charismatic presence. Women dropped what they were doing and turned their heads at the sight of his broad shoulders and muscular chest nicely filling out his summer white Navy uniform shirt. That hadn’t changed. And neither had his broad, white smile and that jutting, rock-solid chin.
A golden glow surrounded his head, and over each of his black-and-gold shoulder boards appeared a strange golden light, almost like little golden clouds hovering behind him.
Her heart soared at the sight of him walking into the room; joy overcame her. She pushed herself up on her bed.
“Thank God! I thought I’d never see you again.”
“You knew you’d see me again. How could I leave my running buddy behind?”
“I—”
“Shhh.” He held his finger up to his lips. “Save your energy. Try not to talk.”
His smile melted her heart, and when he stepped over to her and touched her arm with his hand, her soul started to burst from her chest.
The last time she had been with him, she had felt such ecstatic exhilaration, eager for a new beginning, only to have her hopes dashed forever in a cold, cruel moment on a heartless hot day.
She had always known it. At least, conceptually she had known. And her faith taught her that there was life after death for those who trusted in the Son of God.
But now . . . now she knew heaven was for real. Seeing him come in, feeling his touch, knowing he would take her with him as they walked out of this place into the afterlife . . . She was about to cross chasms of time and space to a promised land of milk and honey, whose streets were paved with gold, where holy light always shone, with no more tears, no more pain . . .
“I need you to take care of yourself.” His voice was gentle and loving.
“I—”
“No, don’t talk,” he said. “Stay strong.” She caught a whiff of his cologne. But it was like nothing she had ever experienced before. Like a fragrant, tranquilizing smell from another world. “Your work isn’t done, Caroline. Not yet, anyway. I’m proud of you, and I’ll be back for you. Know that I love you.” He turned and started to walk away.
“P.J.! No! Don’t leave me! P.J.! P.J.!”
The room went into a spin, and everything turned into a whirling, twisting blur as if she suddenly were in the midst of a funnel cloud.
“P.J.!”
“Are you all right?”
Caroline did not recognize the man’s voice.
She opened her eyes to bright lights and saw a middle-aged man with curly hair and a receding hairline speaking in a warm, compassionate voice. “I’m Dr. Berman. You’re in the recovery room at Walter Reed. Can you hear me?”
“Doctor?” She pushed herself up and looked around. “P.J.! Where is he? He was just here.”
“You’ve been under some powerful medications, but you’re going to be fine.”
She laid her head back down on the pillow and let her heart pound for a second. She looked for him again. She knew he was there. She saw him. He was so real. She still smelled his cologne. Yet no one was there except the doctor and two nurses. Nothing was in the room except sterile medical equipment.
“What happened?”
“You took a bullet in the shoulder. Then you hit the asphalt and took a blow to the head and went lights out. You’ve been out for a couple of hours, but we removed the bullet and you’re going to be fine.”
She rubbed her eyes. “Was . . . Did I have a visitor?”
“A visitor?”
“Yes.” She didn’t say his name. They might think she was delusional and hold her longer. “A JAG officer?”
Dr. Berman, who wore on his collar the gold oak leaf of a lieutenant commander in the Navy Medical Corps, smiled. “No. Not in here. Just the medical staff. You do have some visitors from your command in the waiting area. Your commanding officer and another captain, and some officers from your command. You can see them if you’d like.”
“But I . . .”
“It’s okay,”
Berman said. “You’re not the first patient who has had a visitor the rest of us couldn’t see.” He gave her a knowing wink.
“When can I get out of this place?”
“Oh, I think sooner rather than later. Let’s see . . .” He turned away and looked at a computer screen. “Checking your chart here. I just want to monitor that concussion overnight, and I don’t see why we couldn’t let you go home sometime tomorrow.”
“Doc, I’m okay. I need to go home now. I’ve got work to do.”
He turned and looked at her. “Commander, with respect, you seem determined for a lady who’s just taken a bullet in the shoulder.”
“You don’t know how determined I am.” She winced as a sharp pain that felt like a hot knife shot through her shoulder.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re going to feel some discomfort for a few days from that entry wound. We’ve closed it with dissolving sutures, so the good news is that you won’t need to have stitches removed. But you may have some painful flare-ups for the next few days, which is another reason I’d like to keep you overnight for observation. If it flares overnight, we can treat you with painkillers.”
“Thank you, Doctor, but I’ll be just fine.”
“Suit yourself.” He shook his head. “Do you feel like company?”
“Sure,” she said. “Send them in.”
“Be right back.”
Berman stepped out of the room, and so did the two nurses, leaving her alone and conscious.
She knew it hadn’t been an illusion. He was so real. And the fragrance of his sweet cologne . . .
Or was her mind playing tricks on her? Like the doc said, she was under powerful medications and had been in surgery. Maybe she wanted to see him so badly that, combined with the drugs, it was all a dream, a hopeful figment of her imagination.
A tear came to her eye.
But then again, she had read accounts of near-death experiences when loved ones who had long ago passed away—a spouse, maybe a parent—returned, in some cases perhaps to tell their loved one it wasn’t their time. Maybe in other cases they came to take their dying loved one to heaven to see Jesus. At least that’s what the articles she had read claimed.
Illusion or not, she would choose to believe, and she would stay strong because of what P.J. had told her.
The door opened.
A naval officer in summer whites, wearing black shoulder boards with the four gold bars of a U.S. Navy captain, stepped in.
“Captain Guy?”
“Mind if I come in?”
“Please do.”
“Glad to see you’re alert.”
“I feel great,” she said, lying about the fact that her head felt like it was being squeezed in a vice and that her shoulder had started throbbing with a hot, wrenching pain. “Just ready to get back to my duty station, sir.”
Her commanding officer, a tall, lanky man with thinning hair, nodded and smiled like an uncle determined to bite his tongue to avoid saying what was really on his mind.
“Do you feel up to a little more company?”
“Who’s here?”
She asked the question, hoping against all hope that somehow the last week had been a horrible nightmare from which she had just awakened, and that Captain Guy would include in his answer the name of Lieutenant Commander P.J. MacDonald among the list of guests. For she had just seen him. He had been so real that she could at least hope once more. Couldn’t she?
“Captain Kriete and Lieutenant Fladager, and you also have a surprise guest.”
“A surprise guest?” Yes! She knew he hadn’t been an illusion. He had come in to see her earlier, and now he was back again. She pushed herself up again, enduring the knifing in her shoulder. Her heart raced with excitement.
“You bet. Somebody close to you. I think you’ll be glad to see him.” The captain smiled. “Shall I bring them all in?”
“Oh, yes, sir!” Caroline could not contain her own smile, and the sharp shoulder pain was suddenly gone.
Captain Guy stepped out of the room and a second later returned with Captain Kriete. “How are you, kiddo?” Paul asked.
As soon as she said, “Doing great, sir,” Victoria walked in, also in her summer white uniform. “You had us worried, Commander.”
“I’m fine and I’m ready to get back to work. Thanks for coming.”
“So are you ready for your surprise visitor?” Captain Guy asked.
“Can’t wait.”
Captain Guy stepped into the hallway. “Commander. She’s ready for you.”
She heard steps in the hallway, and her heart pounded because she now knew it was true. It hadn’t been an illusion after all. He was alive. This had all been a bad dream! Praise God!
Her commanding officer stepped back into the hospital room, and with him there appeared a handsome lieutenant commander in summer whites, strong and broad chested, and smiling from ear to ear.
Her heart jumped.
And then . . .
“Gunner?”
“How’s my favorite cousin?”
How could she tell him that she would be delighted to see him, except that he wasn’t P.J.?
She knew at that moment that if P.J. had actually been there, or even if it had been a dream, he wasn’t coming back.
“What are you doing here?”
“We finished our ops off Point Loma. George Washington pulled into North Island for a few days. Then they called a meeting of all the carrier Intel officers at Suitland, so I happened to be in the area for a few days anyway. Then Captain Rudy called me and told me what happened.”
Caroline smiled. Despite her disappointment that Gunner wasn’t P.J., she loved her cousin like no other man except P.J. himself. “Gunner, you’re too good to me.”
“Hey. You know what they say. Blood’s thicker than water. You know nothing would keep me away. But”—he walked over to her and put his hand on her good shoulder—“you still didn’t answer my question. How are you doing?”
“I’m doing great. I’m ready to get the heck out of here.”
Gunner smiled. “You look great, cuz. But you don’t look like you’re ready to get out of here.”
“What are you?” she snapped. “A medical officer now? Just because you’re a super action hero doesn’t mean you know jack about medicine.”
“Well now.” Gunner turned and shrugged at the others. “She seems to have that little trial lawyer bite of hers.” He chuckled. “I guess convincing her is above my pay grade. You want to try, sir?”
Paul stepped over to the other side of her bed. “Look, Caroline. We’re worried about you.”
“There’s nothing to worry about, sir.” She saw instant irritation on his face that she had called him sir instead of Paul. “I feel absolutely fine.”
“Well,” he said, “for someone who’s been through what you’ve been through, you look fine. In fact, you look great. But frankly, I’m . . .” He paused and looked over toward Victoria, who apparently took his glance as her cue to chime in.
Victoria also stepped toward the bed and like Gunner and Paul gave one of those well-meaning but sympathetic smiles that made Caroline want to scream at the moment.
“The captain’s right, Caroline. Even in a hospital gown after some nut’s shot you, you still look like a movie star. Gosh, I wish I had your looks and charisma.” Another smile.
“Most guys I know wouldn’t throw you off the turnip truck, Victoria.”
That brought chuckles from the three officers, and then Victoria continued.
“I’m glad to see you’ve not lost your sense of humor after all this. But, Caroline, we’re more worried about your safety than your physical condition.”
Caroline glanced at Paul and Captain Guy, then looked at Victoria. “My physical condition is fine. My safety is fine. Thank you all for your concern. Where’s Mark?”
Her three visitors glanced at one another, all looking surprised at her sudden change
of subject.
“Mark,” Victoria said, “sends his best. Right now he’s doing his best to try to figure out who took this shot at you.”
“He’s a good man, Victoria. Don’t let him go. Cherish every minute you have.”
Victoria nodded. “He is a good man.”
Paul spoke again. “Caroline, we’re concerned about you being out in public. Frankly, what happened this morning was too close for comfort.”
“I appreciate your concern, Captain, but I’m not concerned in the least,” she said. “I knew this could be dangerous when I spoke to Mark about it. We need to stop this guy.” Her blood boiled, igniting another hot, sharp pain where the bullet had entered her shoulder. “And we need to stop him dead in his tracks.”
“But I don’t—” Paul caught himself. “We don’t want you dead in your tracks.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“How can we know that?” Victoria asked.
“I just will be. I’m not afraid of dying. This is the right thing to do.” Silence.
“Caroline.” Paul again. “I’m thinking about talking with Special Agent Romanov.”
“About what?”
Captain Guy. “This might be too dangerous, Commander.”
“Sir, this is nothing compared to what our guys have faced in Iraq and Afghanistan. It’s nothing compared to what our SEALs face every day. We had seventeen Navy SEALs go down on Extortion 17. Thirty Americans were sacrificed in that flight alone, and for their sake, and for others who have given their all, I’m not backing down.”
“I’m thinking about asking Captain Guy to take you off the case,” Paul said. “If the captain won’t agree, I may go to Admiral Brewer.”
“You can’t do that! You’re not in my chain of command.”
“I know I’m not in your chain of command. But I can still ask him.”
“You do that and I’ll never speak to you again.” A menacing glare. “Sir.”
The tension in the room thickened like the early-morning fog on San Francisco Bay.