Having asked herself the tough questions, the answers came easy. Elliott wanted DreamStar back because a goddamn mole stole it, because his people got killed. He was willing to fight to get it back, even if his own government disowned him or worse.
She dialed a number on a private phone that could not be picked up or used by her outer office. “Marty, this is your racquetball partner … yes, I know it’s been awhile since we’ve played. It’s been busy … give me a break. I was appointed by your President, remember? Listen, can we meet for a game? Today, if we can get a court … better make it early. You may have a late evening … you heard me. Can you make it? Good. See you at seven, then … no, we can’t count this one. That’s right … you’ll find out why. See you.”
Brooks Medical Facility, San Antonio
“Edema in her right lung, possibly from inhaling fire or burning debris. We didn’t catch it right away …” the doctor was saying as McLanahan and Powell entered the intensive care unit.
Wendy Tork’s parents were on either side of her. Her hands were heavily bandaged. She had been on a respirator ever since she was found in the crash area, but now there was a different one in place, one to keep her lungs clear of fluid and help her keep breathing. Most of her facial bandages had been removed, exposing ugly burn marks and cuts. Intravenous tubes were feeding glucose and whole blood into her arms. One small vase of flowers rested on a nightstand — ICU would tolerate no more — but Wendy had not yet been conscious to see them or her parents.
Betty and Joseph Tork glanced at Patrick and J.C. as they came into the room, quickly turned their eyes back to their daughter.
“Doctor?” McLanahan couldn’t get out the obvious question.
“She’s a strong woman, Colonel, but her injuries are massive …” He paused, moved closer to Patrick and lowered his voice. “Did you know she was pregnant?” Wendy’s parents heard the words anyway. “Oh, my God,” Betty Tork said, turned away from Wendy’s bedside and gave in to the tears she’d been fighting back.
McLanahan could only nod and clench his fists.
“She suffered severe abdominal injuries …”
Powell stepped firmly between McLanahan and the doctor. “I think that’s enough, doctor. I think we ought to leave,” and he took the doctor’s arm and led him out of the room.
Patrick, Wendy’s parents and an ICU nurse stood in silence for a long time watching Wendy, listening to the beeps of the body function monitor and the hissing of the respirator. Several times Patrick could see muscles in Wendy’s face or shoulders twitch, and for a brief instant thought that she might be about to wake up.
Betty Tork noticed her daughter’s movements too. “I wish they’d give her something … something to help her relax. It’s so awful seeing her suffer. My daughter is in pain, Colonel. Can’t anybody around here do something for her? What kind of hospital is this, anyway?”
Should he tell her it happened to be the best bum-and-trauma facility in the country? That as long as Wendy kept fighting for her life there was at least hope …? He said nothing.
“How did this happen, Patrick?” Joe Tork asked. “She was flying the B-52, I know, but how did the crash happen?”
“I’m sorry, Joe, I can’t—”
“Don’t give me that crap, McLanahan.” He stood up suddenly, filling the room with his size, but Patrick was immediately drawn to the lines of dried tears in the corners of his eyes. “For the past ten years, Colonel, that’s all I’ve been hearing from her, from you, from everyone at that damn place. When she moved to Vegas it was as if she’d moved to Mars. Now she’d lying in a hospital in Texas probably dying from these horrible injuries and you’re still playing hush-hush games with me? Goddamn, I want some answers—”
“For God’s sake, Joe, that’s my wife lying there—”
“She’s your wife? Where’s your ring? Where’s her ring? You got a marriage certificate? We weren’t invited to any wedding …”
“Joe, please …”
“The last we heard, you two weren’t hitting it off all that well. You know what I think? I think you didn’t marry my daughter. I think you’re saying you’re married so we can’t sue the damned Air Force for the accident. The spouse of a military member can’t sue the government, right?”
Betty Tork was staring at her husband.
“This is a rip-off. I was in the Marine Corps for six years, I know about this crap.” Joe Tork moved closer and wrapped his big hands around the lapel of McLanahan’s flight suit. “Answer me, you lying sack of mick shit. Answer me …”
Patrick held Joe’s wrists gently as he could. The big ex-Marine could have taken his frustrations out on Patrick, and for a moment it looked like he might actually swing on him. But at the very moment Patrick thought he might do it, Tork’s big shoulders began to shake. His narrow, angry eyes closed, and his grip began to loosen.
“Damn it, goddamn it all to hell … Wendy … she’s been so all-fired independent ever since she was a kid. I’d get letters from Betty when I was in Vietnam telling me how smart and grown up she was. When I got back she wasn’t a kid any more. I never saw her that way … Now she’s lying there helpless as a baby and I still can’t do anything for her …”
Patrick, feeling the same sense of anger and helplessness, could say nothing. It was Betty who broke the silence. “Patrick, when were you married?”.
“What? Oh, the day before yesterday.” He looked up. “Did they bring in Wendy’s things?”
“In the closet.”
He went to the closet and retrieved a cardboard box, took something from the box and returned to Wendy’s bedside. “We’re not allowed to wear rings on the flight line,” he said. “Too dangerous, they say. So we started keeping each other’s ring until we saw each other again.” He opened his hand and revealed a tiny purple velvet bag, loosened a thin gold drawstring, dropped a hammered gold band into his palm, then slipped the ring on his left ring-finger. He then got an identical bag from a flight-suit pocket and took out another hammered-gold band, this one with a gold engagement ring fused to it. He slipped it on Wendy’s finger.
The three were silent for a while. The ICU nurse came by, checked and recorded the monitor readings and left. Finally, Joe said, “Patrick, I have to know what happened out them. Can’t you tell us anything?”
“Joe, you know I can’t.”
“But I’m a vet. I wouldn’t tell anyone …”
“I know, but I still can’t.”
Tork ran his hands through what little hair was left on his head. “All right. But tell me this, just this one thing, because I’m Wendy’s father. Just promise me you’re going to nail whoever’s responsible for doing this to my daughter.”
Patrick’s eyes were fixed on Wendy’s scars and burns, he saw her muscles convulse, heard the sucking sounds as machines drew fluid from her lungs to keep her from drowning.
“Yes, Joe,” he said in a low voice. “That I can promise you …”
The Kremlin, Moscow, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics