by Bill Yancey
“Got a name?”
“If anyone asks, we never had this conversation,” Gundersen said.
“Just like the old days,” Wolfe said. “Where can I find this resident?”
“Medical ward, third floor. Name is Gadhavi, Amit Gadhavi.”
“Indian?” Wolfe asked.
“Yep.”
CHAPTER 5
Byrnes landed in the water face first, arms flailing. The force of hitting the water after a fifty-foot drop knocked the air from his lungs. The ocean forced its way into his nose, mouth, and sinuses. He surfaced coughing and spitting. Panic raged in his mind.
A ship making headway through the ocean creates a bow wave that travels down both sides of the ship and becomes its wake. 30,000 plus tons of aircraft carrier, air wing, supplies, and crew makes a huge bow wave and wake, even at slow speeds. Byrnes fairly surfed away from the ship and into the path of one of the trailing destroyer escorts. Though not as large as the carrier’s, the bow wave from the destroyer pushed him farther away from the carrier.
He didn’t wait to see if the ship would stop for him. Training at Annapolis took over, pushing aside the panic. Taking a deep breath and holding it, Byrnes doubled over and untied his shoelaces. Cursing the fact that he double knotted them, Byrnes kicked off one shoe, took a second breath, and untied the second. The steel-toed boondockers sank.
Slipping out of his dungarees the third-class petty officer treaded water in his skivvies and T-shirt, while he tied a knot at the end of each pant leg. He held the dungarees behind his neck. Kicking as hard as he could to gain altitude, he flung the open waist of the dungarees over his head and into the air, holding the waist with both hands. As when he had practiced the maneuver in the Olympic-sized pool at the Naval Academy, the dungarees inflated with air. Now he had a temporary life preserver, and time to search for rescue.
By then a mile distant and lit up by red deck lights, the carrier and two destroyer escorts steamed slowly farther away. Knowing it was useless to yell he did so anyway, “Man overboard! Man overboard!” Spinning in place, he searched for other ships. Large swells lifted him and he could see long distances in the moonlight, over the waves. No other ships appeared.
Close by he could see several objects floating on the water. As the air leaked out of his dungarees, Byrnes retrieved three life jackets that had fallen into the ocean during the fight. Using their straps he tied the three together, and slipped his arms through the center one. He secured it around his waist. Carefully, he tried to unknot his dungarees and pull them on, but they slipped away and sank. Great, he thought, they’ll find my body in my underwear. If they find it.
Unable to sleep in the rough water and still hopeful of rescue, Byrnes watched as the sun rose several hours later. He had to pull his T-shirt over his head to keep from being sunburned as the day wore on. Toward evening, dark clouds gathered on the western horizon. As the sun sank in the west, lightning flared all along the horizon in towering black clouds. Thunder boomed; lightning drew near. The wind rose, and with it the amplitude of the waves. Byrnes sank into deep troughs and then found himself flung to the tops of huge waves. He clung to the flotation devices, arms wrapped tightly in front of his chest.
By early the next morning, he was exhausted, hungry, and thirsty. Allowing his arms to float at his sides, he leaned back into the center life jacket, white T-shirt covering his face. Depression set in. He was 60-120 miles from shore, depending upon where Oriskany was at the time he fell overboard. His only hope was that a ship would cruise by before he died of thirst, went crazy, or a shark found him. He wrapped his fist around the jade pendant that hung from his neck and said aloud a Buddhist prayer his mother had taught him, “Hail to the jewel in the lotus. Help me to overcome all obstacles and hindrances.” How long he slept, he could only guess. The sun shone high in the sky when he woke to the sound of voices.
Three Asian men in a sampan floated nearby on the flat, glass-like, calm sea. Byrnes pulled the shirt from his face. His movement startled the men in the boat and they started yammering at each other in an unfamiliar language. Raising a hand, Byrnes waved. “Help. Help.” His yelling excited the men even more. Two of the men paddled the small boat in his direction. The third man put his hand out to grab the life preserver closest to the boat. He pulled Byrnes to the side of the sampan.
Once Byrnes had both hands on the edge of the wooden boat, the three men struggled to pull him into it. He was of almost no help, too weak. Rolling over the gunwale and onto his back on the wooden deck inside the boat, the powerful scent of fish wafted into his nostrils. Byrnes tried to express his gratitude. He gasped for breath. Once his heart stopped pounding, he continually nodded his head and said, “Thank you, thank you,” through parched lips and sunburned face. The men sat him in the shade of the curtain that covered the hatch to the mid-deck wooden shelter. Fishing poles of various lengths and two bamboo poles attached to small fishnets lay on the deck between the shelter and the side of the boat. Along the far side of the boat a large fishing net filled the deck from the bow to the stern.
The men spoke quietly among themselves. Eventually, one offered the American a metal cup of water. Sitting unsteadily at the stern of the boat, Byrnes gulped the warm fresh water. He handed the cup back, pantomiming for them to fill it again.
The oldest of the three men – two looked young enough to be his sons – shook his head. He pointed to the forward section of the ship. Past the small covered shelter amidships, Byrnes saw the stump of a mast and some hemp line lying on the deck. The sail and most of the mast were gone. His rescuers needed rescuing, too. They rationed their water.
For an hour, Byrnes and the older man tried to communicate through sign language and pictures scraped into the wood of the old boat with a metal belt buckle from a life preserver. He finally understood that the men had survived the same storm he had endured. For three days, it had driven them farther out to sea than they had intended to go. The wind had snapped the mast, and blown the sail and mast over the side.
Pointing to the small outboard motor hanging on the stern of the boat, Byrnes made puttering noises like a motorbike. The old man shook his head. He led Byrnes to the engine. Flipping the choke over, he ordered one of the younger men to pull the starter rope. On the third pull, the engine puttered briefly, and then died. It did the same on the fourth pull. The second young man pulled four more times. The engine refused to run.
Byrnes tapped on the gas tank. The old man pointed to the ocean. Seawater had gotten into the fuel during the storm. Byrnes searched for a gas can. There were two 20-liter cans of gas inside the shelter. One was half full, the other almost completely empty. He pointed to those. The old man again pointed at the ocean. Both somehow had been contaminated during the storm, possibly as they tried to fill the gas tank on the outboard.
Reaching behind him, Byrnes fingered the covering to the hatch. It rippled slightly in the gentle breeze. The curtain felt like leather, or at least a waterproofed material of some type, almost the same consistency of suede or the chamois his father had him use to dry the family automobile. Motioning slowly, the American pointed to the knife that hung on one of the younger men’s belt. It had a wooden handle and a razor thin, long, sharp blade. With his other hand, he pointed to the curtain at the opening of the shelter. He held his hand out for the knife. After the older man nodded, the younger one handed the knife to Byrnes, handle first.
While the men watched, Byrnes first poured the entire contents of the nearly empty gas can into the half-full can. Using the knife, Byrnes carved a large square of the leather from the bottom of the curtain. He grabbed one of the fishnets on a short bamboo pole. Fashioning a pouch from the leather-like material, he pushed the piece of curtain into the fishnet. Leaning over the side of the sampan, Byrnes dipped the pouch into the ocean. As he suspected, the covering was waterproof. A puddle of seawater remained in the pouch.
After dumping the seawater back into the ocean, Byrnes wrung the pouch as dry as possi
ble. Changing his mind about using the original square and net, he laid them on the deck and cut another large square from the curtain. He fashioned another pouch in a second fishnet and pantomimed pouring a small amount of gasoline from the half-full can into the pouch. The old man nodded, and one of the young men poured several ounces of gasoline onto the leather. Byrnes squeezed the piece of curtain, forcing gasoline through it. The fuel dripped from the outside of the pouch. He wrung the pouch again between his sunburned hands. When he was convinced the gasoline had soaked through the material and not dissolved it, he nodded. The young man filled the pouch again, while Byrnes held the pole so the pouch hung over the large opening in the empty gas can. From the underside of the material, gasoline dripped into the can.
Byrnes held the can between his legs. When the leather cup was full, he yelled, “Stop!” The startled man stopped pouring. The contaminated liquid in the leather pouch drained slowly into the gasoline can, all except a small amount of water. Byrnes tossed the water over the side and, after repositioning the pouch over the can, he nodded, imploring the man to pour more contaminated gasoline into the pouch. Pouch full again, he yelled, “Stop!”
“Dung lai,” the old man said then and each time the pouch filled. Once they finished filtering the contaminated fuel, Byrnes pointed to the fuel tank on the outboard. The two young men lifted the engine from its mount and poured the gasoline from the tank into Byrnes’s jerry-rigged filter. Then they tightened the engine back onto the stern of the small boat using the two clamp bracket screws that held it in place.
Byrnes pointed to the spark plug. He made a motion of unscrewing it and pulling it out, thinking it might have been fouled with oil when the men turned the engine over. The old man went into the shelter and returned with a spark plug wrench. Carefully, he unscrewed the sparkplug and handed it to Byrnes. The American inspected the plug. He dried it with his now dry T-shirt, noting there was no oil on it. Using the younger man’s knife, he scraped gently at the ground and center electrodes until they appeared silver instead of black. He handed the spark plug back to the old man, who reinserted it into the engine and tightened it in place.
Under the direction of the old man, one of the younger men set the choke and yanked on the starter cord. Nothing happened, except a brief clap from the engine that Byrnes thought promising. The man pulled the rope again. The engine sputtered, ran for thirty seconds longer than it had before and quit. Impatient the old man stepped forward. He repositioned the choke to half open and pulled the rope himself. Byrnes saw the sinews in the old man’s arms, legs, and neck strain when he pulled the rope with both hands. The engine roared to life, making a pleasant buzzing sound.
The old man steered the sampan toward the west and the setting sun. Both younger men clapped Byrnes on the back. One went to the container of fresh water and filled the metal cup with water. He offered the cup to the old man, who refused it. Pointing to Byrnes, the old man said, “Con co,” and smiled. The American drank his second cup of water in two days.
CHAPTER 6
Wolfe thought he had found Amit Gadhavi, MD, on the third floor of the patient tower, in the Medical Intensive Care Unit. An older man, obviously the resident’s mentor and cardiologist, dictated to the doctor-in-training as the young man took notes on his cell phone, swiping on the face of his phone as quickly as the older man spoke.
The two wore long white coats and stood at the counter in front of the nurses’ station. Wolfe observed that the resident’s pockets held only a stethoscope, not the bundle of books, papers, and 3x5 cards that Wolfe remembered from his residency. Everything he had carried in his pockets during internship and residency in the 1970s, this resident had on his phone. Plus, access to almost all knowledge, medical and otherwise, accumulated by the human race over the last 10,000 years. Wolfe waited quietly for the two to finish their discussion.
One of the nurses looked up from her paperwork and spoke to Wolfe, “May I help you, sir?”
Wolfe nodded and spoke in a whisper. “I’m Dr. Wolfe. Is that young man Dr. Gadhavi?” He nodded at the dark skinned man talking with the white haired physician.
“No, that’s Dr. Guerrero,” she said. “Dr. Gadhavi just left for a medical conference at Shands. Not two minutes ago. If you hurry, you can probably catch him in the physicians’ parking lot. It’s to the right as you exit…Oh, you’d already know that.”
By the time she finished speaking, Wolfe was opening the door to the emergency stairway. “Thanks,” he said before the door closed behind him, muting the sound of Wolfe scampering down the stairwell.
A handsome, well-tanned young man with a long white coat slung over one shoulder stopped at the volunteer’s desk before leaving the building. Wolfe strode up behind him, hoping this time he had the correct physician. He heard the man say, “Dr. Roberts will be fielding all calls for me until I come back tomorrow, but if you can’t get a response from him, please text me.”
“Yes, Doctor,” a petite black woman said. She wore the standard pink volunteer’s jacket.
“Doctor Gadhavi?” Wolfe asked quietly from behind the man.
The physician turned and examined Wolfe closely. Seeing nothing to denote Wolfe was a hospital employee or physician, the young man assumed Wolfe to be a patient and responded curtly, “Sorry. I can’t talk right now. I’m late for a conference. Make an appointment in clinic. These ladies can help you.” He spun around and headed toward the revolving door.
“Sorry,” Wolfe said, grasping the young physician’s arm. Gadhavi turned his head and stared at Wolfe while continuing to move in the direction of the parking lot. “I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Dr. Wolfe.”
Not knowing Wolfe’s role at Flagler Hospital, Gadhavi stopped walking. He turned to face Wolfe. It would not behoove him to irritate someone who might have input about his rotation. “I’m sorry, Dr. Wolfe,” he said. “I will be late for medical rounds if I don’t leave right now. Can this wait? I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Wolfe beamed. “No problem,” he said. “We can talk while you drive. I did an internship at Shands about thirty years ago. They called it University Hospital then. I’d like to see how your instructors do medical rounds these days.”
Gadhavi continued to walk toward his car. “I’m not coming back until tomorrow. How will you get back here?”
“Well, let me worry about that. Okay? Sweet ride,” Wolfe said. He pulled open the passenger door to the doctor’s red Audi A5.
“So, Dr. Wolfe, where do you practice? I haven’t seen you around Flagler,” Gadhavi said. The little Audi accelerated through a yellow light at 312 and US 1, switching lanes at the same time.
Wolfe knew the ride to Shands Jacksonville wouldn’t take long if the resident continued to drive like Danica Patrick. He needed to ask his questions about the attempted murder. First, however, he had to make Gadhavi receptive to an interrogation. “I’m retired,” he said. “Did family practice and urgent care stuff until two years ago. What year are you?”
“Third year. I start a pulmonary fellowship in July, in Miami.”
“Looking forward to that, I bet,” Wolfe said.
“Most of my family lives in Ft. Lauderdale. Mother is a lawyer. Father practices Oncology.”
“When did they leave India?” Wolfe asked.
“In the ‘70s. They weren’t fans of Indira Ghandi’s politics,” Gadhavi said. He steered the Audi onto I-95 north, merging between two semis and accelerating into the middle lane. Seconds later he had transitioned to the left lane. To Wolfe it looked like they were going about five miles an hour faster than the other traffic, which he knew generally traveled between 75 and 80 mph. I-95 had the highest accident rate of all roads in St. Johns County. Another vehicle, a purple Porsche 911 whipped past them on their right as if they were at the Burger King drive through. Wolfe noted the wet pavement, a rain shower having apparently ended minutes before. A few thunderstorms hovered over the beach several miles to their right.
Startled, Wolfe said
, “I’d like to ask you some questions before someone kills us on this racetrack. That okay with you?”
Gadhavi turned his head toward Wolfe. He grinned. Even, white teeth filled his mouth. “The answers will do you no good if you are dead,” he said.
“Peace of mind is what I’m after,” Wolfe said.
“Okay,” Gadhavi said. “Shoot.”
“The man who died yesterday and then was found to have received a bolus of potassium –”
“I can’t discuss that,” Gadhavi said, taking a quick glance at Wolfe. The Audi continued to purr along, weaving into the middle lane to pass slower vehicles in the left lane as needed. “The police and the hospital administrator were pretty specific about not talking to anyone but them.”
“I understand that,” Wolfe said nodding. “I don’t want information about the attempted murder investigation, or anything that HIPAA might find inappropriate.”
Confused Gadhavi asked, “What else is there that you could want to know?”
“The man mentioned in the note, Jimmy Byrnes,” Wolfe said. “He might –”
“Beats me,” Gadhavi said, interrupting.
“Alright, try this,” Wolfe said. “I don’t need to know your patient’s name, his diagnosis, his medical condition, or his chart number, phone number, or any of the other dozen identifiers that get administrators’ knickers in a twist. I do need to know if your patient ever mentioned being on an aircraft carrier in Vietnam.”
Silently, the resident stared through the windshield. Wolfe noted the backup of traffic headed in the opposite direction and wished traffic were slow in his direction also. Gadhavi slowed, temporarily stymied by tractor-trailers in every lane. 65 mph seemed slow after the rush to the Duval County line. The smell of diesel exhaust from the three trucks filtered into the Audi.