Whispering — ?
Whispering in English, he thought. Why did that matter? What else would they talk in…?
He had once known the answer to that question, had known the alternative, strange, indecipherable language they might have spoken… but not in a hospital room.
In a bamboo cage -
They poked him with long sticks like goads. Then the little girl had burned, dissolved in napalm fire…
He shuddered and groaned. He remembered. Remembered, too, why he was in hospital. His body remembered resentment, even hatred, and he tried to move. His arms were restrained. Or too tired and heavy to lift.
A face appeared above him, floating below the ceiling. A starched cap on dark hair. A nurse. She examined his eyes — a man did, too — and there was more murmuring…
He tried to listen. It seemed to concern him. American — ? His mind formed the word very slowly, as if he were in class, learning to spell a new and difficult word. American…
A strong face floated above him. It wobbled — no, someone was shaking his head. He heard the American voice again as soon as the head whisked out of sight.
'Poor bastard. What the hell did he go through, Aubrey?' He heard the words quite distinctly now, though the effort of eavesdropping made him sweat. 'My God, those injuries — !'
Injuries? Heavy unmoving arms, the answer came back. Legs he could not feel… yes, they prickled with sweat, but he could not move them. He did not try to move his head. Perhaps it did not move. He was stretched out -
He listened, terrified. 'The doctors are doing their best for him,' the English voice replied. 'We have the best surgeons for him…'
'And?'
'Who can say? He may walk again — '
Gant gagged on self-pity. It enveloped him, filled his mouth as though he were drowning.
'And he never told them anything… not a damn word. Even when they started to break him to pieces, he never told them a damn thing!'
'He's a very brave man,' Aubrey replied. Aubrey — yes, it was Aubrey… the self-pity welled in his eyes, bubbled in his throat as soon as he opened his mouth. He was drowning in it; only the unwilled and even unwanted pride kept him afloat, like a life-jacket.
His eyes were wet. The ceiling was pale and unclear, the glow of the lamp fuzzy, like a light shining down through deep, clear water. The voices appeared to have stopped, as if they wished him to hear no more. Aubrey and an American…
He had been asleep. Or they had given him something. Chillingly, he remembered himself screaming. It was the nightmare. The litle girl erupting in flame, her form dissolving. Yes, that was it. Yet he remembered water, too, as his mind tried to understand what he had overheard. He remembered water, and drowning — ? It was hard to think of it, difficult to concentrate, but he made the effort because he could not bear to allow any other thoughts to return. Deep water, dark… fire down there, too-? Water, drowning, his left hand trapped, but his right hand moving…
A shape retreating into the dark water, like a huge fish. Black. Airframe…
He shouted then. Just once.
'No-!'
Two faces hovered over him. He did not recognise them. The nurse mopped his forehead soothed him with clucking noises. He was injured, yes…'
No.
Yes…
Someone was speaking now. To him.
Explaining.
He listened avidly and in terror. 'You ejected, Mitchell.' It was the American voice. 'You ejected from the MiG-31 when it was on fire… at least, that's what we conclude from your — your burns…' He gasped and swallowed. Burns — ? 'It exploded — '
He moved his head very slowly, wondering whether they would realise it was a negative sign. He did not trust himself to speak. His throat and mouth were full of water which he could not swallow. His father would hit him if he spat in the house…
No one seemed to have noticed. The American voice continued.
'On the ball to the last…' He must have been addressing Aubrey again. Gant strained to hear, holding his breath. 'They must have found him unconscious and airlifted him direct to Moscow.' Gant tried to remember. He could not remember the ejection from the aircraft or the explosion. Then he could. But that was — was Vietnam, where the cage and the little girl had been… he shook his head very slowly. Someone quickly held his face, checked his eyes, and vanished. The voice continued. 'And in that condition, they beat up on him until he couldn't take any more. Christ, those people over there — !'
Gant drifted. His father was walking towards a huge golden spire that narrowed towards the top, like the exhaust of a rocket leaving its launch platform. Gant could not explain the fleeting image. He let himself drift. It was better than listening. It was better than the creeping sensations of pain that possessed him in legs and trunk and head and arms -
Pinprick.
He stopped drifting almost at once and the American voice seemed louder. He did not dare turn his head. His father disappeared behind a tall dark hedge; vanished.
'We'd better ask him — '
'We must be certain.' That was Aubrey. 'Yes, we must make certain.'
'The problem is — the real problem,' the American said, 'is to make him believe he's safe now. He can stop being brave and silent.'
'I agree.'
A face overhead. The strong sandy-haired man. Smiling. The collar tabs of a uniform, model ribbons. Shoulder boards. USAF. An Air Force general. Blue dress uniform. Comforting. He opened his mouth. A bubbling noise came out. He clenched it shut again. The general smiled at him. The American general smiled.
'Mitch — Major Gant… Mitch-listen to me, boy. You're safe-now. We're going to make you well again. I promise you that. We just need to know one thing-you're certain the aircraft exploded? You are certain? They can't get their hands on it again, can they?' Gant realised the bed near his shoulder was being patted, slowly and gently; reassuringly. 'We need to be sure of that.'
'We're not tiring him too much, are we, doctor — in his condition?' That was Aubrey, speaking somewhere out of sight.
'Quiet, Aubrey,' the general said, then looked back at Gant. 'Now, Mitch, how much can you remember? Are you certain the Firefox exploded?'
Gant swallowed. He listened. Aubrey was talking, still talking, to the doctor. Concern — ? A tongue clicking like a grasshopper, a low sombre tone.
Then he heard it.
'He's dying, I'm afraid… I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do about it — '
'Shut up!' the general snapped.
'Hurry!' Aubrey replied. 'We must be sure!'
Gant was shaking his head more quickly, with a huge and desperate effort of will and muscle. 'No,' he said.
The general looked very sad. 'I'm afraid so, Mitch. It — Christ, it wasn't what they did so much as the burns. When you ejected, boy, it was already too late — but help us now. Tell us the airplane exploded. That's what we need to know. Tell us. Please.'
'No-it didn't… didn't…'Gant sobbed. 'I'm not burned. It's not-I couldn't be… didn't…'
'Didn't what, Mitch? What didn't happen?'
'I — didn't eject — ' If he told them, explained to them, they would realise their mistake. They wouldn't say he was dying from burns, not then. They'd realise they'd made a mistake, an awful mistake, if he could prove he landed the airplane…
'What? Mitch, what are you Saying?'
'I landed-landed…'
'Oh my God — ! Aubrey, did you hear that? He landed the airplane!'
'No-!'
'Yes!' Gant cried out. 'Yes!'
The general leaned over him. Gant could smell a violet-scented breath-sweetener. The face was concerned. The eyes pleaded. He suddenly looked like the general who had decorated Gant on the flight-deck of the aircraft carrier in the South China Sea — looked just like him or his twin-brother. The resemblance comforted Gant, made him want to speak. He smiled. Just as on that previous occasion, he smiled at the general. He had wished he had been able to send the official photographs to his mother — but she was dead…