Diamondhead

by Diamondhead (UK) (retail) (epub)

  Right now, the entire loading process was being conducted mechanically from hoists and lifts inside the cavernous aircraft. The aircrew was Iranian, Henri Foche was pacing like a caged jackal, and time was short.

  With every one of Iran’s new missiles now loaded, Henri Foche signed the airway bill and watched the Russian freighter move swiftly to the head of the runway. The missiles weighed only around 40,000 pounds, half-capacity, and the aircraft would be gone as rapidly as it had arrived.

  Foche and Yves Vincent stood in the rain and watched it screaming forward, climbing steeply away from this rain-swept private runway, accelerating toward its cruising speed of 460 miles per hour. Immediately, the lights went out down the whole length of the blacktop. And spontaneously the two Frenchmen turned and solemnly shook hands before stepping back into the Mercedes for Marcel to deliver them home. It had been an excellent night’s work.

  Back in air traffic control at Tours Airport, they picked up the radar of the Russian freighter once more, but it was headed due east, directly toward the Swiss Alps, passing only over rich French farmland. They sent a short signal to the airport at Dijon, advising that the freighter had not identified itself, but was not transmitting military radar and anyway was headed for Switzerland. Like the night shift at Tours, the Dijon crew decided to pretend it had never been sighted. Let the Swiss deal with it.

  And so the shipment of 864 Diamondhead guided missiles sailed serenely over the high peaks of the Alps and headed for the Balkans, then Bulgaria and the Black Sea. From there they would swerve right along the ridge of the Caucasus Mountains, and on down over Iran to the airport at Ahvaz, which lies a little more than fifty miles from Abadan, down on the Iraqi border.

  The journey was less than 2,500 miles and could be accomplished without refueling. By the time the Ilyushin landed, it would be eight o’clock in France, and a brand-new production line of the deadly tank buster would be coming online. Henri Foche did not anticipate business with Iran drying up. Not at all. And for the next few months he resolved to concentrate on his political career and leave the high-tech end of the missile manufacture to the heroically greedy Yves Vincent.

  * * *

  Mack Bedford could hear Anne making her way toward the porch, telling Tommy she had a great surprise for him. When he came bursting through the screen door, no one could possibly have dreamed there was anything wrong with him.

  Tommy was a very cute kid, tall for his seven years and well built. He had a shock of dark hair and his mother’s eyes. When he saw Mack he just stood and yelled, “Daddy! Daddy! Where’ve you been? I needed you right here.”

  Mack laughed and grabbed him, holding the little boy high above his head, and then lowering him and wrapping his huge arms around him. “I’m home, Tommy,” he said. “Really home, and I’m not going away again. Jesus, you’ve grown since I saw you. Soon you’ll be bigger than me.”

  “No one’s bigger than you, Daddy. Not even a giant.”

  At this point Anne returned with Mack’s breakfast and placed it on the table. For herself she just brought fruit salad and toast.

  “What does he get?” asked Mack, and Tommy laughed. “I get cereal,” he said. “But not here with you guys. Mom says I can eat it in the kitchen and watch Invasion of the Deadheads on television. I see it every week.”

  “Invasion of the what?” asked Mack, slightly incredulously.

  “The Deadheads,” said Tommy. “They’re so cool. And they do a whole lot of killing if anyone attacks them. Gotta go.”

  “This is unbelievable,” chuckled Mack. “I get back here after fighting a war, my guys are massacred, I’m court martialled, and my own son rejects me for the goddamned Deadheads.”

  Anne laughed and said, “I always let him watch it before the hospital. He gets very excited, and he’s always in a good mood after seeing it. I have to tell you, in the past month or two he’s had a couple of uncontrollable fits of rage. Completely out of character. The doctors say it’s part of it.”

  Mack nodded and chewed luxuriously on a SEAL-sized chunk of sausage. “Are they absolutely sure he’s got this ALD?” he asked.

  “Not quite. But Dr. Ryan says he keeps displaying more and more of the symptoms.”

  “And that uncontrollable rage is one of ’em, right?”

  “Yes. I guess we have to accept it’s a disease of the brain. And it involves the central and peripheral nervous systems. Something about being unable to conduct an impulse. It’s a kid’s disease, boys only, and from somewhere, somehow, Tommy seems to have it.”

  “He won’t die, will he?”

  “I don’t know. We might find out more today.”

  “Anyway, what the hell does ALD stand for?”

  “The actual word is kind of in three parts. It’s adreno-leuko-dystrophy. Very rare, and apparently incurable. At least it is in this country.”

  “Does that leuko’ bit in the middle means it’s something like leukemia?”

  “I suppose so. But we’ll have to wait to speak to the doctor.”

  “Can they arrest the disease? I mean, stop it from getting worse?”

  “I don’t think so. I guess that’s why everyone is so downbeat about it.” Mack finished his breakfast. “Think he’s done with the Deadheads yet?”

  “Just about.”

  “I’ll get the gloves, play a little catch with him.”

  Anne smiled. “I’ll get him. But don’t wear him out. I don’t think he should be asleep when the doctor sees him. He never used to get this tired.”

  Mack pulled two baseball gloves out of the basket in the corner of the porch. He picked up a couple of baseballs and walked out onto the front lawn. Tommy came running out and joined him, pulled on his glove, and walked out to his regular spot, fifteen yards from his dad.

  “Okay, big guy,” said Mack. “Lemme see what you got.”

  Tommy leaned back and threw the ball straight at his father’s right shoulder. Mack whipped his left arm across his chest and snagged it neatly. He threw the ball back to Tommy, nice and easy, on his left side. Tommy caught it in the middle of the glove, and then threw a high one straight at his dad. Mack raised his glove high and snapped the catch.

  “Thought you’d catch me by surprise, eh?” Mack spoke and threw at the same time, sending the baseball low toward Tommy’s left thigh.

  The kid snagged it, looked up, and said, “I’ll get you, Daddy.” And he leaned back and hurled one with all of his strength high and wide. Anne, standing on the porch, heard the ball whack into Mack’s glove.

  “Hey, that’s a pretty good arm you got there,” said Mack. “And you’ve been practicing, waiting to get me.”

  Tommy laughed again. “I’m gonna get you, Daddy,” he said, crouching down, ready to receive. Mack threw one to the right this time, medium height but needing a stretch. Tommy brought his glove over and reached. He caught the ball but fell backward, clumsily, landing on the grass with more of a thump than necessary.

  Anne looked concerned and immediately walked over to him. Tommy climbed to his feet, looked at his father, and said, “I don’t want to play anymore.”

  “I thought you were gonna get me,” said Mack. “C’mon, big guy, you’re tougher than that.”

  For a moment father and son stood and stared at each other, Mack with a quizzical expression on his face. The ball had not been thrown hard, and it was not that wide. He’d seen Tommy catch a baseball a yard farther, with his quick feet and fast glove. But that was six months ago, and this was different.

  “Okay, Daddy,” said Tommy. “I’ll play. Sometimes I’m not as good as I was. Can’t get the wide ones.”

  “You’ll get ’em,” said Mack. “We can get some big practice in, now I’m home.”

  Anne watched them throw the ball back and forth another ten minutes and noticed that Mack never threw the ball wide, always at the glove, and Tommy always caught it.

  Just before they came in, Mack missed the ball altogether, and the little boy jumped in the
air. “Told you I’d get you!” he yelled. “I can always get you, Daddy!”

  Mack picked him up. “You’re my rookie, kid. You’ll always be my rookie.”

  He carried Tommy inside while Anne fetched the car from the garage, ready for the drive to the Maine Coastal Hospital on the outskirts of Bath. Anne said she’d drive and turned the Buick station wagon north toward the shipbuilding city. Tommy fell instantly asleep in the rear passenger seat.

  They reached the hospital at five minutes before noon. The receptionist said Dr. Ryan was waiting and would see them right away in his consulting room down the corridor. When they walked in, there was a nurse waiting with the doctor. She took the little boy’s hand and said, “C’mon, Tommy, I’ve got some things to show you in the playroom.” She led him outside, and Dr. Ryan turned to face Anne and her husband. He offered his hand to Mack, whom he had never met, and said immediately, “I am afraid I have no good news whatsoever. The test results are back, and it is as I had always feared.”

  “ALD?” whispered Anne, her hand flying to her mouth.

  “Almost unmistakable,” he replied. “I’m seeing some visual impairment, and there is some weakness, and numbness, in the limbs, especially on his right side.”

  He turned to Mack and said flatly, “Lieutenant Commander, this is a disease invented in hell. We can’t cure it, and we mostly can’t even slow it down. The whole thing is involved with Tommy’s inability to process long-chain fatty acids in the brain. It nearly always shows up in males between the ages of five and ten.”

  “Is it rare?” asked Mack.

  “Very. It all comes down to some stuff in our bodies called myelin. It’s a complex fatty material that somehow insulates a lot of nerves in the central and peripheral nervous systems. Without myelin the nerves cannot conduct an impulse. Tommy’s myelin is being destroyed, and we can’t do anything about it. We’re trying – God knows we’re trying. The National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Stroke is dedicated to finding a cure. But so far, there has not been a breakthrough.”

  “Will Tommy die?” asked Mack.

  “Yes, he will. As things stand at present he is unlikely to reach his tenth birthday.”

  “You can tell us, Doc. How long has he really got?”

  “At his present rate of degeneration… six months.”

  Anne Bedford finally broke down and wept uncontrollably in her husband’s arms.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Dr. Ryan. “But don’t lose hope just yet. We are on the case, and there is a chance of prolonging Tommy’s life with dietary adjustments. Though the real hope may be in Switzerland, where they are claiming a complete bone marrow transplant may yet be the answer, just as it often is with leukemia.”

  “Can it be done here?” asked Mack.

  “Not yet. There are complications in performing such an operation on someone this young. And we’re not yet ready to undertake that high a risk of mortality. But the Swiss claim to have solved some of the problems.”

  “How much would it cost?”

  “One million dollars. They won’t conduct life-or-death surgery on a child for less. Tommy would be there for at least a month, maybe six weeks.”

  “Does that operation bring back the myelin?” asked Mack.

  “They claim it will stop the destruction of the myelin – if the patient survives.”

  “What kind of a place is it?”

  “It’s a highly specialized children’s clinic, somewhere near Geneva, overlooking the lake. These places normally have a flat rate to include room and board for one parent, and an open-ended treatment center, post-op. Even if they have to re­operate, the price remains all-inclusive.”

  “But the American insurance companies don’t provide coverage for foreign treatment?”

  “Not on that scale. And I’ve only had one patient where the parents were prepared to risk everything to send their son to the clinic. They even sold their house.”

  “What happened?”

  “The kid made it. He was in Switzerland for six months. But he made it.”

  “We couldn’t raise even half the money.”

  “Lieutenant Commander, most people can’t,” replied Dr. Ryan. “But don’t lose heart. We could get a breakthrough at any time. And if we do, I’ll make sure we move very fast. Tommy’s a great kid, and you’re well covered by the navy insurance.”

  Tommy came back into the room, and they said their goodbyes and left. Before they did, Dr. Ryan took Anne aside and said, “I’d like to see him in a week, and I want you to watch for memory loss. That’s very important. And let me know if you see any signs.”

  They drove home almost in silence, unknowingly moving into a very dangerous zone, common to many families that face the onset of a major tragedy. Mack, the breadwinner, was conscious that he was not able to provide the means to take Tommy to Switzerland. He was at once fearful of Anne’s ultimate resentment and assailed by a thousand terrors that she would in the end blame him.

  Anne drove faster than usual. Her normally quiet, logical mind was in turmoil. She had suffered a mortal blow, the pain of which only a mother could possibly understand. Her little boy was dying, and would go on dying because no one could help. And there was no refuge in her family, not even in the arms of her husband. Not even he, the great SEAL commander, everyone’s hero, could save Tommy. Anne Bedford was on the brink.

  Right now, their personal troubles unspoken, one to another, the little family was on the verge of tearing itself apart. Tommy again fell asleep, and Mack could think of no words to comfort his wife. There were no words. If Tommy died, he was not sure his beautiful wife would ever recover.

  They reached home, and while Anne put the car into the garage, Mack carried his son into the house and rested him on a sofa in the living room. When she returned, she quietly awakened him and took him into the kitchen for some lunch, just a grilled hamburger, which he loved, and some chocolate milk, and then she steered him upstairs to take a nap. Tommy never minded being led up to bed in the middle of the afternoon. Not these days. Every step to the second floor almost broke Anne’s heart.

  “I invited your dad around for a cup of coffee later,” she said. “I don’t think we’d better bother him too much about his grandson.”

  “How much does he know?” asked Mack.

  “He knows Tommy has an illness that may be complicated, but no more. I don’t really want to worry him, unless you feel he has to be told everything.”

  “I think we’ll leave it for a bit. The old man’s only just retired, and he and Mom are doing a few things together. Let’s not spoil it all, because you know they are going to take it very badly.”

  And so they waited. Shortly after four o’clock George Bedford turned up, resplendent in a violent blue-and-silver Hawaiian shirt and a white Panama hat. He came straight into the house with the confidence of a man who had put down the initial deposit on the place for a wedding present. George kissed Anne and shook hands with his son. “Welcome back, kid,” he said. “Hear you’ve had kind of a rough time.”

  “Wasn’t too good, Pop. One of those quasi-political things. They never found me guilty of anything, but I wasn’t going anywhere in the navy. Not after a trial like that,”

  “You got a plan, son? New career and all?”

  “Not yet. I’ve only been home for about eight hours.”

  “That’s okay, but you need a plan. Normally I’d say go and see Harry. He’ll fix you up. But I’m hearing some weird things about the shipyard, and ain’t none of ’em good.”

  “Oh?” said Mack. “What’s up?”

  Anne came in and announced she had made iced coffee. She asked if Mack and his dad would like to sit outside on the porch. George said that would be just fine, and they sat on the big wicker chairs, relaxed on the blue-and-white cushions, sipped their coffee, and pondered the fate of Remsons Shipbuilding.

  “It’s only rumors, mind you,” said George. “Nothing but rumors. But when you hear ’em often enough, y
ou start to wonder. The fact is, everyone’s saying the French frigate order is going to be pulled.”

  “Jesus Christ, Dad. After all these years? How come?”

  “I hear it’s all political. There’s a new man running for French president, for the Gaullist Party.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “That’s bad, son, real bad. Because the Gaullists are basically isolationist in terms of the French military. They do not wish to have one item of military hardware made anywhere outside of France. Especially fighter aircraft, tanks and warships. They believe these compulsory military machines should provide jobs for French people, not Americans or anyone else.”

  “Who’s the guy?”

  “I don’t know his name. But he’s supposed to be in the arms business, which in France is massive – multinational outfits all somehow tied up with Aerospatiale. But a lot of people think if he gets elected, the game will be up at Remsons.”

  “Won’t affect your pension, will it?”

  “No. Harry’s been real careful protecting that money. But it will affect the rest of the town, because if there is no further order for those guided missile frigates, Remsons cannot survive.”

  “What happens if the guy doesn’t get elected? Are we still dead?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. It’s this one guy, but apparently he can’t lose, because the French have had it up to their eyeballs with left-wing semi­communist governments. Brought ’em nothing but problems and a virtual static standard of living.”

  “So he’ll win and steer France to glory?”

  “That’s what he says. I just wish I could recall his goddamned name… But I can remember something he said a month ago: A rich nation can survive anything, except for civil war and socialism.’”

  “Sounds like the kind of guy who will get elected. Is everyone sure he’ll freeze Remsons out?”