Her own children—Michael and Annie—played with Millie, the daughter of the
ill-fated Jenkins couple. She smiled at the word—what did "Ill-fated?" mean? Was
she ill-fated? The children played with the Mulliner dog, they laughed and ran.
Ill-fated.
John—
She squeezed her thighs tight together, feeling self-conscious suddenly sitting
there on the porch steps, smoothing the borrowed blue skirt over her knees and
then hugging her knees up against her chest, almost but not quite resting her
chin on them.
She studied her hands—the nails were short, shorter than she'd ever kept them.
But cycling the slide of a .45—she seemed to remember cycling was the correct
word—was hard on the nails. Hers had all but broken and she had filed them down.
But at least underneath the nails she was clean—it had been a long time before
she'd been able to keep them clean.
She heard the humming of a song, realizing almost absently that she herself was
humming it—a song she had danced to with John. At their wedding. The photo was
waterstained, bent, almost unrecognizable. But it was smoothed now inside a
Bible in Mary Mulliner's house, in the bedroom Sarah used. And Sarah opened the
Bible
36
frequently—not for the words there which Mary Mulliner had told her would
comfort her, but for the picture being pressed there. John in his tuxedo,
herself in her wedding dress. She smiled—trying to remember how many yards of
material had been in the skirt.
She hugged her knees again. It was still early enough in the day—perhaps Mary's
son would return with news of successfully contacting U.S. II and finding her
husband. How many days had she told herself that? '
Again, she contemplated the word "ill-fated"—she had thought of it a great deal.
37
Chapter 8
Varakov stood beyond the abandoned astronomy museum, on the spot of land, the
rocks beyond it separating him from Lake Michigan. For once it was not too cold,
though he had yet to find himself able to describe the lake wind as warm.
"Comrade general?"
General Ishmael Varakov recognized the voice—warm, athletic, resonating—somehow
just the thought of Colonel Nehemiah Rozhdestvenskiy made his feet hurt all the
more.
"Yes, colonel." He still did not turn around.
"Have there been any private communiques from your niece, Major Tiemerovna,
Comrade general?"
"No—she is involved in an operation of the most delicate nature even as we
speak."
"The Eden Project, Comrade general? For this is the prerogative of the KGB and a
KGB agent involved in research on this matter should be under my direct control
rather than that of the Army—"
"I have put her on detached duty to my specific command, colonel—she is
responsible only to me. As is the nature of her sensitive mission."
"Infiltrating the American resistance perhaps?"
"Colonel—you can make as many lateral references as you wish—but I will divulge
no further information at this time. Suffice it to say, her mission is on behalf
of the
38
welfare of all."
"Comrade general—though such an action would grieve me greatly, if no news of
the major's activities is forthcoming, I shall be left with no other choice than
to contact Moscow."
"I am sure you have already contacted Moscow, colonel—were I in your position,
that is exactly what I should do. If Moscow becomes sufficiently worried, I will
be contacted regarding the matter. In the meantime—"
"Yes, Comrade general?"
"I come here for a few moments of solitude, colonel—" Varakov began to walk, the
wind, he reasoned, drowning out the click of the heels from Rozhdestvenskiy's
spit-shined boots.
Varakov repeated the words he had used to describe Natalia's mission—but this
time to the wind rather than the commander of the North American KGB—"She is
involved in an operation of the most delicate nature." He smiled, his feet
hurting though to the point where he was ready to sit down. "Delicate operation
indeed."
39
Chapter 9
Whole blood—and while hers was being typed, Rourke had coordinated with the
ship's doctor, Rourke already working with transfusions for the injured trooper
who, like Natalia, but less in real danger, had lost too much blood.
He looked at the name tag on the pharmacist mate's white jacket. "Kelly—get the
blood pressure cuff inflated to one hundred millimeters of mercury so I can
distend and locate the vessels."
Rourke began the same procedure with the soldier—there had been no time to
change the man, Rourke for the first time read his name from the sewn tag on the
fatigues. "Henderson—if you can hear me, you son of a bitch, we're gonna save
your life now." Rourke secured the velcro closures on the blood pressure cuff,
then started pumping air. He ran his hand along the inside of the forearm,
selecting a likely looking vein. He pumped up a little more so he wouldn't lose
it.
"You ready, Kelly?"
"Yes, Doctor," the pharmacist's mate answered. "I never did a direct transfusion
before."
"You'll get the hang of it," Rourke nodded. "Got the tube in?" He looked but
didn't wait for an answer. "Secure that with some adhesive tape," then he looked
at the donor. An ordinary seaman—his name was White. "Mr. White, I'd be lying if
I said this won't hurt at
40
all—kind of a numbing sensation. We're just gonna get a pint or so from you.
Afterward, in case I forget—go He down, get some orange juice into you. And
thanks for volunteering."
"Yes, sir," the seaman nodded, not looking at the tube now extending from his
arm.
Rourke cranked down the table on which the injured man—Henderson—was lying, to
get a better flow. He made the veinapuncture on Henderson's forearm, readying
the tube—it was already filling, nearing the end. As it did, Rourke attached the
tubing to the needle, his left hand already starting to deflate the blood
pressure cuff on Henderson's arm.
"Losing a little pressure in White's blood pressure cuff, Doctor," Kelly
murmured.
"Mr. Kelly—then get it back up—I need pressure until we're completed. Sing out
and have that next donor ready."
Rourke heard a door opening behind him, glanced over his shoulder—it was the
ship's doctor—He tried to remember the name. Milton, he thought.
"Doctor Rourke—we typed her at 0 positive—lucky for her it wasn't a negative RH
factor. I'm getting as many five hundred millih'ter size transfusion bags made
up as I can."
"You've got filters for clot removal?" Rourke asked automatically.
"Yes—we're getting the tubing ready now as soon as we wheel her in."
Kelly again. "Doctor—Doctor Rourke I mean—we're at twenty drops per minute—"
"Hold the rate of transfusion there for ten minutes." There was more noise
behind him, then he noticed Doctor Milton was gone.
Rourke glanced at the clock on the wall—he gave Natalia another fifteen minutes
at best. "Doctor Mil
ton,"
41
he shouted- "She ready yet?"
He heard the door open behind him into the smalter~of-the two surgery rooms.
"Yes—just now, Doctor Rourke."
"Why don't you finish up this man—Kelly's set for the next donor." Rourke moved
aside, letting Milton take over for him, walking toward the swinging door,
another pharmacist's mate there, scrubbed, helping Rourke as he degloved, then
regtoved.
"I'm getting started stitching this man's lips," Milton called out.
and larger surgery. Two men with medical training attended the table, neither of
them a surgical nurse, neither really a pharmacist's mate either. "Get that
pharmacist's mate—Kelly—get him in here quick," Rourke called out, again not
looking—his eyes were riveted on Natalia. He knew it was anesthesia working on
her now—that she wasn't dead—not yet.
He approached the operating table, hearing the door swing to behind him.
"It's Kelly, Doctor."
Rourke nodded. "Let's start those transfusion bags." He glanced at the chart
Milton had begun, then at Natalia's blood pressure—it was falling too fast.
42
Chapter 10
"What's the name of this boat anyway?"
"Well, Mr. Rubenstein—you've got the terminology right. We call her a boat. I
guess calling her a "her" is kinda dumb—but it's tradition. She's the U.S.S.
John Paul Jones."
"How'd you know my name?" Rubenstein asked the older man sitting across from him
at the officer's mess table. Rubenstein looked at the radiation badge he'd been
given as soon as he'd come aboard. No name appeared on it.
"My business to know everything that goes on aboard this boat—" The man smiled,
extending his hand. "I'm Bob Gundersen—Commander Gundersen, sort of an
affectionate title the men use with me. Sometimes they just call me Captain,
though."
Rubenstein took the hand—it was warm, dry—solid.
"My friends call me Paul, Commander."
"Paul it is then—"
Rubenstein wished again he'd not given up smoking years earlier. "If you know
everything that goes on on this ship, then tell me how Natalia's doing?"
"Major Tiemerovna?" He glanced at his watch—Rubenstein noticed it was a Rolex
like Rourke wore. "Dr. Rourke started transfusing blood into her about ten
minutes ago. He may be operating by now—I don't know that."
43
"I wish John weren't—"
"Doctor Rourke?"
"Yeah—John. I wish he weren't. I remember reading something once that doctors
aren't supposed to operate on family members—or people they're close to. Too
much of a stress situation."
"I asked Doctor Rourke the same thing myself," Gundersen nodded, sipping at his
coffee. "He said he'd checked with our doctor—Harvey Milton. Doctor Milton told
Rourke he'd never worked on a gunshot wound before. He hadn't. He's fresh out of
medical school two years ago and before the Night of The War at least, we didn't
have many gunshot wounds in the Navy. Now, of course, we don't really have a
Navy at all. All the surface ships are gone or at least gone out of contact. Not
many of us in the pigboat fleet left either."
"Pigboats?"
"Old submariner's term—real old. But I'm an old submariner," Gundersen smiled.
"Guess that's why it doesn't bother me to use it. Naw, but—ahh—anyway, Dr.
Milton never had worked on gunshot wounds before and your friend Doctor Rourke
said he had. Guess there wasn't much choice. Bumped into Milton outside the sick
bay just before Rourke began transfusing Major Tiemer-ovna—Milton seemed to
think Rourke was good. Only hope Harvey was right."
"Harvey?"
"Doctor Milton's first name—"
"Ohh—oh, yeah," Rubenstein nodded.
"Brought this along—figured you might be needing it. Sometimes the waiting gets
harder than the doing." From the seat beside him Gundersen produced a small
slab-sided bottle. "Medicinal liquor—I've drunk smoother. But there's more where
it comes from," and Gundersen handed Rubenstein the bottle. Rubenstein downed
his coffee, twisted open the bottle and poured two fingers
44
into the cup. He offered the bottle to Gundersen. "Never touch the stuff when
we're underway."
"What's that mean?"
"Fifty-eight minutes. They don't really need me up there until we get near the
icepack—and that'll be a while yet. Should be tricky—imagine there's been a lot
of shifting in the pack since the Night of The War."
"Ice pack?" Rubenstein coughed—the medicinal liquor was strong, burning as he
felt it in the pit of his stomach.
"As to the running of the submarine here and the welfare of my crew, I give the
orders. But for the actual operation it's Captain Cole's say so. He ordered us
underway before they put him out to take out the two slugs in his left arm."
"Ohh, shit," Rubenstein muttered, taking another swallow of the liquor. It
burned less this time.
45
Chapter 11
A long mid-line incision was made in order to expose the internal organs. Rourke
began exploring the stomach.
Dr. Milton's voice sounded nearly as labored as the respirator. "Why are you
going through the gastrocolic omentum, Doctor Rourke?"
Mechanically, his mind on his hands and not his words, Rourke answered. "To open
the lesser sac of the stomach." The membrane was a loose fold. "Suction" he
called, Milton himself assisting. The greater omentum covered the anterior
stomach surface and intestines like a drape, Rourke stopping, noting a hematoma
at the mesenteric attachment. "We have to evacuate this hematoma." Evacuating,
Rourke inspected the stomach wall between the leaves of the greater and lesser
omentum. There was damage, a whole bullet, not a fragment, partially severing
the connection to the rear wall of the abdomen. "Gotta get that sucker out,"
Rourke remarked, exhaling hard, feeling ready to collapse. As each bullet or
fragment was removed, Rourke carefully repaired the organ damage with continuous
locking chromic sutures.
According to the clock on the surgery wall—he supposed bulkhead would be more
appropriate since they were on a naval vessel and—likely—already underway, he
had spent more than an hour and a half sorting through the mess that was
Natalia's stomach, finding bullet fragments and piecing them meticulously
together—if he
46
left even the smallest fragment, the complications could be legion—could be
mortal.
"Do you have your closing sutures available?"
"You're ready to close her?" Dr. Milton asked.
"No—just thinking ahead—you have what I need?"
"Yes."
"Fine."
"Are you sure there were seven bullets?"
"Yes," Rourke nodded. "Somebody gimme a wipe, huh?"
A hand reached out—he didn't see who it belonged to, his eyes bothering him with
the light as well, the glare—he needed a smoke, needed sleep—but Natalia needed
&nb
sp; life. "Damnit—" Rourke almost spat the word. In the fat of the greater omentum
he found what he had not wanted to find. The sixth bullet had been intact—he had
hoped that the seventh would be.
It was not.
He had the jacket, the gilding metal—but the core of the bullet—the core had
separated and was still somewhere inside her.
As Rourke held it up, trying to determine if anything other than the core itself
were missing, Milton asked, "Is that it?"
"Unless a bullet is made of lead alone, it usually has a whole or partial jacket
surrounding it. These should be full metal jacketed if they were standard G.I.
Ball—and all the others have been. Somehow the jacket peeled away from the lead
core and the lead core is missing in there still—and you can see the way the
jacket peeled back that it was ripped—a lot of force bearing on it. Looks like
there are pinhead-sized fragments of the jacket missing as well. Pll need
someone standing by with a microscope so we can piece this thing back together