“Point taken,” said Drabek. “That doesn’t mean getting them out alive isn’t a priority. It is.”
McCauley nodded. “Just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page.”
“We’re not forgetting them, if that’s what you were thinking.” Parker stood up, signaling the end of the meeting. “Now, I think it’s time we got started. We all have jobs to do. Chief McGrath, I’d like to thank you, for all of us, on your quick work. I’ll need you on stand-by if we need more data from the archives.”
McGrath acknowledged him, then signed off. After his LCD went dark, Parker touched a small keypad in front of him, which lowered the screen back into the tabletop. Then he regarded the others. “Commander Drabek, you can take the V-22 to Portsmouth and assemble your team. Harry, you and I need to conference the brass and the white house. McCauley, I haven’t decided what to do with you, yet.”
“I’d like to be involved, sir.” McCauley stood straight, a determined look on his face.
Drabek’s eyebrows lifted, and he appeared ready to say something negative, so Parker held up a hand. “I know how you feel, Chief. I’ll advise.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“All right, gentleman,” said Parker. “Let’s see if we can save the world.”
Chapter Forty-Three
When he opened his eyes, he felt so oddly disconnected, he had no sense of orientation or touch. It was as if he were a pair eyes, and only eyes. Or less than that — perhaps just a window providing a view. And the view was nothing more than a hazy expanse of gray nothingness.
An unsettling thought pierced him: if this was death, then it was truly horrifying.
But, no… he felt somehow still alive, but in a tenuous fashion. He felt as if he’d come back to consciousness from a totally blank state. No memory of time, sleep, or anything that preceded it.
Erich forced himself to concentrate on the gray smear that comprised his world, and slowly, it changed as his eyes regained the power to focus, to process information.
And he knew he was looking up at the ceiling of a room.
From that simple discovery, he became slowly aware of his body. He lay supine in a bed, and with great effort he moved his head to the left to see a gray wall. Some kind of metal. Something familiar about the feel and color — he was on a ship.
And he’d been given some kind of powerful drug.
As sensation and thought gradually returned to him, like the rising tides on a beach, he compared this experience to coming back to awareness from his series of operations for gall bladder, a hip replacement, and several heart procedures. The numbing effects of anesthesia receded, and he tried to remember what had brought him to this point of disorientation. Was the room moving? There was something familiar about it.
Lifting his arm, he felt alarmed at how difficult a task it had become. His bones felt dense, heavy, and all his muscles screamed. Only great effort of will and strength allowed him to push on the mattress, and turn to face away from the wall. Then as his vision cleared (thank God he’d let Jason talk him into the Lasik operation), he assessed his situation.
The Spartan fixtures of a ship’s sick bay had not changed since his days in the Kriegsmarine. He knew where he was, but he had no idea who had put him here. The nightmare of the assault on his son’s house now fell back on him like the impact of a cresting wave. And he feared for the lives of Margaret and Jason as well. The harsh bark of gunfire, the terrifying ratchet of the helicopter, and being roughly dragged into the aircraft… all had the surreal quality of being like a bad dream that just might be true. He knew he must keep his thoughts rational. If he dwelled on the possible fates of his family — things over which he had no control — he would be useless. He knew he could not blame himself for what happened because he felt as though he were answering to forces much larger than himself.
Strapped to the wheel of fate.
Across the room, on an adjacent hospital bed, lay another person, staring at him with dark eyes.
“You’re awake,” said Tommy. “Man, I was gettin’ worried. You were out for awhile. Longer than me, I mean.”
Erich glanced at his wrist, a lifelong habit to consult time’s passage, but his watch was not there. “How long?” he said. “Where are we?”
“You? About eight hours, I’d guess. Me? I think I’ve been awake for a couple.” Tommy sat up on the edge of the bed. He was dressed in T-shirt and boxers, just as Erich.
“And what kind of boat is this?”
Tommy shrugged. “Not sure. They’ve got us locked in. Can’t see much from the porthole. They took our clothes too.”
Erich tried to lift himself to an elbow, tried to sit up. When Tommy saw how challenging a task it was, he slipped off the bed, moved to help him.
“Thank you. You are a good man.” Erich’s head felt light as he gained an upright position. The effects of the drug were still subsiding. He hated feeling so infirm, so frail.
“You remember anything after they got us into the chopper?” Tommy’s dark, longish hair looked matted from perspiration.
“No. Nothing. Perhaps it will come back to me. What about you?”
“Just bits and pieces. That’s the way it’s comin’ back for me. I got a feelin’ they don’t want us to remember, but I do… some.”
“What did they do to us? Where are they taking us?”
“That motherfucker, the guy with red hair and the mustache… I think he killed old Augie.”
“Your friend…” Erich felt a twinge of anger, and yet also a bit of relief that the poor old fellow was out of pain, out of the discomfort that comes with great age. In one small way, Erich envied him.
“He smacked him in the side of the head. I didn’t like the way he fell… and then he… he just never moved after that.” For Erich, the image of Augie challenging the two intruders returned. The old gentleman had walked up to the stocky, red-haired man, yelling into his face.
“Those bastards,” said Tommy. “I owe those fucks — for Augie.”
“You may get your chance. But patience needs be your ally.”
Tommy looked at him, started to say something, but remained silent. Instead, he patted Erich on the shoulder, then turned to look out the porthole where a brassy sun beat down on the flat sea like a hammer.
“What else do you remember?”
Tommy turned from the porthole. “They hit us with those injection guns as soon as we were all in the helicopter — you know like those things they vaccinate the kids with? And I guess it knocked us out pretty fast.”
“Yes, I would agree.” Erich had no memory of anything other than the roar of the rotors and the open bay door of the aircraft. If they had injected him, the effect of the drug had erased the experience.
“But then, I think when they got us here, or somewhere after the helicopter, I remember being in a chair — like at the dentist, you know?”
There was something familiar at the mention of the chair. Leaning back. A bright light. Erich listened, getting frustrated at the inability to clear his head. “They probably interrogated you. Me as well. But I am having trouble remembering.”
“Man, I wonder what we told them?” said Tommy, who stood again, began pacing from the bed to the porthole and back. He appeared tense, agitated, and ready for trouble. Erich recalled his own youth, and how easy it had been to slip free of society’s conventions, to express anger and outrage.
“The effectiveness of drugs like…” Erich struggled to recall the words, “.… sodium pentothal or scopolamine are overrated.”