Eric smiled. “It’s what we do, John. I’m a little concerned that you’re still having flashbacks, though. Doc Barnwell said you’d be getting better by now. How’s the scar? Feeling okay?” He reached out and lightly touched John’s abdomen, to the right of the solar plexus.
John was baffled. “Scar, sir? What scar?”
Eric frowned. “The scar from the Implant. Don’t you remember?”
“The Implant?” He felt it then, an ache in his belly. He lifted his shirt and looked down at the inch-long scar over his abdomen, held together with butterfly tape. “How’d that get there?”
“It was the first stage of the project. They put in the Implant three days ago. You don’t remember that?” Eric’s voice was filled with concern. “What’s the last thing you remember?” He sat at the desk and motioned for John to sit on the cot.
John sank down on the cot, confused. “I remember you and Master Sergeant Freeman in Iraq. You said my country needed me. Then I remember out-processing. Coming home. My parents. I was at their funeral. I remember Washington. I was in DC?” As he said it, that part did not sound right.
“John, your parents died two years ago. Right after you went back to Iraq, your unit was on patrol you were hit with an IED. You were laid up for a month. We came to you after you recovered. You out-processed months later and we put you up in DC. We picked you up a week ago and brought you here. You’ve been resting since they put in the Implant and reading your briefing material. Doesn’t this sound familiar?”
John thought about it. “Yeah, it sounds familiar,” he lied.
Eric nodded. “I’ll send Doc Oshensker to see you. I’m concerned about your concussion. Now, how about the Implant. It isn’t hurting, is it?”
“Uh, not really sir. It’s just a dull ache. What the hell is it?”
“It’s part of the program. To make you a better soldier. We can inject you with painkillers or stimulants to help you on missions. You really don’t remember?”
They had implanted a device in his abdomen? He felt ill. “Not really.”
“It’s okay, John,” Eric said. “It’ll come back to you. Project StrikeForce, remember? We’re going to turn you into the greatest soldier the world has ever known. That’s why we put the mesh on your skeleton.”
Mesh? “I don’t remember that either.”
“We coated your skeleton in a nano-carbon mesh. Your bones are stronger now. We’ll begin the treatment to enhance your strength and endurance as soon as your abdomen has healed.”
John stumbled over the words. “None of this sounds possible.” He owed Eric his life, but none of it made sense.
Eric grinned. “Don’t worry, son, we’ll have the Doc look you over. You’ll be fine.”
Eric glanced up from his paperwork as Dr. Barnwell entered his office. “How’s he doing, Doc?”
Dr. Barnwell took the empty seat across from Eric’s desk and paused to accept the coffee Eric poured. “Quite well, actually. The confusion is normal given what he’s been through. His body is healing. The Implant is administering small doses of the chemicals into his bloodstream to heal the brain damage. He’s still in a suggestible state, but as his brain repairs itself, the new memories will solidify. When you cover explosives, you can casually mention the Red Cross bombing. Make sure to monitor for any signs of agitation.”
“Good plan, because after the muscle enhancements, I’d hate to get him agitated.”
Barnwell smiled. “Dr. Elliot assures me that it’ll be weeks before the drugs start to take effect.”
“Doc, he’s already gaining muscle mass at an accelerated rate.”
“So try not to agitate him.”
“You’re a world of help.”
Dr. Barnwell’s smiled grew wider. “Glad to be of assistance. How are you dealing with this?”
“Now you’re head shrinking me?”
“Everyone sees me on a regular basis. Even Nancy, though she hates it.”
“What about the Old Man?”
Dr. Barnwell shrugged. “The only confidence that man seeks is his own.” He took a sip of his coffee. “A month ago you were retired, without a job. Now you’re here, in charge of a top-secret organization, working with a mass murderer. How does that make you feel?”
Eric sighed. “I’m just a grunt, doing my job.”
“Fulton thinks more highly of you than that,” Barnwell said. “He hand-picked you for this assignment. I should know, I read your after-action reports for the past eight years. I even listened to the audio of your hot washes.”
“Hot washes aren’t recorded,” Eric noted.
“Yours were. Delta has a unique way of doing after-action reviews. You were brutally honest in your assessment of the things that you did well and the things that needed improvement. Even compared to the other Delta operators, yours stood out.”
Eric shook his head. “You listened in? That’s kinda creepy.”
“Don’t worry, I was the only one who heard them. You had a maturity about you. And, you were a professional, although I’m a little concerned about your tendency to be manipulated.”
Eric glared at him. “What the hell does that mean?”
Dr. Barnwell took a long sip of his coffee. “You have to know, Eric. You find validation in the military. Your father dead, your mother locked up in that home.”
“She’s not locked up, and it’s an assisted care facility.”
“What I’m saying is, don’t you see the similarity between you and Frist? Both soldiers, both dedicated to their country. Both without parents.”
“I didn’t go crazy and kill a bunch of people.”
“To operate at this level, you have to have a certain sense of self awareness. You’re in charge of a very complicated organization,” Barnwell said. “You were an outstanding Operator, but you’ve got to take it to the next level.” He held up his hand as Eric started to interrupt. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t have accepted the job. You have to think like a chess player, except the board has an infinite number of chess pieces and any mistake could get people killed.”
Eric sat back in his chair and pondered that. “Is that how the Old Man sees the world?”
“He thinks things through,” Barnwell said, “layer after layer. He has a contingency plan. For everything. He showed up at your doorstep after you were sidelined and offered you the job. How long did you stew before you said yes? An hour?”
Barnwell was right, he had jumped at the offer. He shrugged. “I’m a soldier. It’s what I do.”
“Working with Frist…that can’t be easy.”
Eric struggled to articulate his feelings. “The IED really messed him up and he’s got PTSD for sure, but bombing the Red Cross crossed the line. What do you think, doc? What makes the measure of a man? His words or his actions?”
“His PTSD might have been a misdiagnosis. The amount of brain damage from the IED was much more severe than we anticipated. Tell me, with all the combat you’ve seen, have you ever experienced any symptoms of PTSD?”
Eric grinned. “Nice try. You think I’d be stupid enough to tell you if I did?”
Barnwell sighed. “I’m not trying to catch you in something, and it’s completely off the record.”
He shook his head. “Doc, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, is that nothing here is off the record.”
“I could make it an order, if you’d prefer.”
He started to speak, then stopped. Finally he said, “Honestly? No, I’ve never had PTSD. I’ve had some stress, but nothing severe. I’ve been keyed up after some missions, but nothing out of the ordinary.”
Barnwell leaned forward. “Does it make you feel guilty?”
“I used to wonder if it meant there was something wrong with me. I don’t know, you’re the doctor. What do you think?”