James was likewise moved by his son. He approached the boy, who appeared oblivious to his presence, and shook him. “Hambee, Hambee, it’s me. It’s Dad. How are you doing?” He lifted his son up to a sitting position. “Say something, Hambee. How are you?”
Turbee winced and moaned with pain, turning his face into his father’s chest, but said nothing.
“Hambee,” James repeated, reaching down and hugging his son.
“Hamilton, how are you doing? Talk to me. I need to know what you need.”
After some more gentle shakes, Turbee finally managed to look at his father through glazed and bloodshot eyes. He moaned but said nothing.
“Hamilton. It’s me. It’s your dad. Speak to me, son. Please.”
After a few more attempts, Turbee finally spoke. “I’m bad, Dad. Bad. I’ve messed up TTIC, the Armed Forces, the President, and just about everyone else. I deserved what I got.”
“Don’t think so, kiddo. Here, I have some meds for you.” James reached into his pocket and took out a handful of pills. He had carried extra medication for Turbee ever since the boy had been diagnosed. He never knew when it would be necessary, and James liked to be prepared when it came to his only son. He looked up and motioned to the receptionist. “Water. Now please.” It was not a request, but an order from a man used to giving many orders, and expecting to be obeyed. She went scurrying down the hallway, looking for a washroom.
“You’re hurt, aren’t you, son?” he asked gently. “Tell me where. What have they done to you?”
Turbee was glassy eyed and disoriented. But his father’s voice was a form of medication in itself, and his brain was finally starting to kick in. “Ribs, I think. Bunch of them are broken. My face hurts. Arms, here,” he said, pointing to enormous black, red, and blue marks on his forearms and sides. There was still caked blood in his hair, and he had an enormous black eye from one of Ziggy’s punches. “Burns,” he added, point to the marks from the taser.
The receptionist came running back with a dirty cup filled with water. Turbee gulped down the pills. His father turned to the receptionist.
“You threw him in this cell in this condition?” he almost snarled.
“I’m just the receptionist, sir,” she replied, quavering.
“We’re leaving now. The three of us. Turbee, can you walk? Here, lean on me. It’s a long trip to the parking lot — let me help you.”
James Turbee led his injured son out of the maze that was Saint Elizabeth’s Hospital. The guard started to protest, saying that Turbee had assaulted a police officer, and was due in court. James gave the guard his card, and a cold hard stare. The guard backed off. It was decidedly unusual, but the President of the hospital had called, and whoever this character was, he was obviously not someone to be trifled with. And all things considered, the guard told himself, the kid really didn’t look all that dangerous or menacing. James signed some forms at the front desk, and then he and Khasha gently put Turbee, wrapped in a blanket, in the back of his dad’s SUV.
During the ride, Turbee pulled himself together just long enough to insist that they stop by his apartment to pick up some of his computers. When the hardware was safely ensconced behind the seat, he lapsed once again into his semi-comatose condition, sleeping for the rest of the drive south to the family home.
33
Brambleton Narrows was the huge cliffside manor that served as James Turbee’s home away from the boardrooms and airports. With its beautiful oak-paneled rooms and stunning views of Chesapeake Bay, it was the perfect place for Turbee’s rehabilitation. And it was amazing how much they accomplished in one day. Doctors of all specialties were called in for him — orthopedic surgeons, neurologists, psychiatrists, and psychologists, to start. He was taken to a posh local clinic, where he was x-rayed, MRI’ed, and CAT scanned. The verdict was six broken ribs, a pneumotho-rax, severe contusions to his forearms, concussion, a fractured nose, a large laceration in his right eyebrow, and a total of eight taser burns. Fortunately, there was no brain damage, at least not that any of the neurologists could see. Kathy, Turbee’s teaching assistant, was called out of retirement and brought to the manor to take care of him. An attempt was even made to bring his mother back to Brambleton Narrows, but she was drunk and busy spending the spoils of her 25-year relationship with Turbee’s father.
At the end of the busy day, Kingston came to visit. In Turbee’s absence, he had revisited the issue of the Mankial Star/Haramosh Star transfer. He too felt that the SEAL team had, somehow, missed the Semtex. He too was disquieted by what had happened to Turbee. And, after days of searching, Kingston had found a gem. A second set of satellite photographs.
“How’re you doing, bud?” asked Kingston. Word of Turbee’s scene with Dan, and the following assault, incarceration, and sojourn at Saint Elizabeth’s, had spread rapidly through the Intelligence Community, egged on by Khasha calling almost everyone she knew. Even the President had heard about it. No one liked it.
“I’m feeling better already,” Turbee answered, glad to see his friend. “My chest is still real sore. They told me I have six broken ribs. I’m not allowed to laugh. Can’t watch the Simpsons. And my nose is sore. It’s broken too. The headache’s starting to go away, and I can get around a bit by myself now that I have support. My dad’s got a bunch of people here looking after me. Khash is here too. All in all,” he added, “it’s not so bad.”
“When are you getting back to TTIC?” asked Kingston.
“I’m not sure I’m going back,” Turbee answered. “Dan Alexander fired me, you know.”
“I know,” responded Kingston. “Actually, we’ve all been talking about that.” By ’talking’ Kingston meant the nonstop multi-party multi-mode electronic buzzing that had been going on within the Intelligence Community since the firing incident. Khasha had single-handedly made sure that everyone she talked to knew exactly what Dan had done, and how. “You were appointed to TTIC by a Senate subcommittee,” Kingston continued. “Only they can fire you. Not that politically ambitious and useless blowhard they made the boss over there. This isn’t done yet. And don’t worry, we’ve got some people working on it. Anyway, I’ve got something for you.”
“What?”
“A second set of images.”
“Images?” repeated Turbee.
“Yeah. Satellite images. A second set of images, taken by a KH-12. On one edge of the images you can vaguely see the Mankial Star and Haramosh Star linked together. Nowhere near the clarity of the ORION images, but still, a second set.”
Turbee grasped the significance of the statement immediately. A second set, from a different angle. If the two sets could be combined, theoretically, they should result in more clarity. He started babbling questions and answers about the possibilities, almost before Kingston had finished speaking. The conversation kicked up to a higher speed, and Turbee’s voice rose in his excitement.
“How many images?”
“Another four, but two of them are so distorted as to be almost completely useless,” responded Kingston.
“It’s still additional information.” Turbee’s mind was quickly cataloguing all the different ways they could use this new find. “We should be able to sharpen the images we have. Maybe we’ll get a clearer overall image of what was going on there,” he said.
“I agree. Here they are,” said Kingston, handing a CD over to the young man.
“Thanks. Great,” replied Turbee. “Do you have the canned programs that you use for image sharpening?”
“Yup,” said Kingston, handing Turbee a second CD.
“Thanks.”