The man called Porter—who’s missing an arm and a leg—says with a laugh, “That’s when your mom’s doc dropped you on your head when you was born.”
I doze some during the afternoon, dreaming some of Thor, and in a half-awake daze I try to think of a way to track him down, when it seems like supper is approaching. There’s another round of dishes moving around out there and an orderly comes in, but this time, he’s not carrying a meal tray. He’s pushing a wheelchair in front of him, and he’s a beefy-guy wearing light green scrubs and whose thick head is shaved. He calls out, “Knox? Sergeant Knox?”
“Here,” I say.
He wheels the chair up and says, “Let’s go. You’re out of here.”
“What do you mean?”
He tugs my blankets off, and then says, “Sergeant, just don’t know. Just doing what I’m told.”
“Am I being discharged?”
A shake of the head. “Nope. Transfer. C’mon, do you mind?”
Slim says, “Good luck, kid,” and I say the same to him, and I ease myself into the chair. Out in the hallway I’m wheeled past the nurse’s station, and past other rooms and wards, and after going through a couple of sets of double-swinging doors, I come to the first big surprise of the day.
A private room.
I turn and look up at the orderly. “You sure?”
He helps me out. “Sergeant, when I’m home or out raising hell, I’m never quite sure what trouble I might get into. But by God, I know well enough to take a patient from Ward Six to Room Six-Oh-One. So here you go.”
I get up from the chair, weave once or twice, and climb into my new bed. The sheets are crisp and smell clean, and the private room is about a third of the size of the ward, but it’s all mine. I don’t understand and tell the orderly there must be some sort of mistake.
He shrugs, starts out while pushing the chair. “Not my department. Sorry, sergeant.”
All alone now, I look around the room again, settle in among the clean sheets and blankets. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.
A knock at the door. A nurse just a few years older than me come in, shyly, smiling, and is carrying a meal tray. She sets it down on a nearby table and takes off the cover. I stare at my meal. White bread, butter, mashed potatoes, string beans and some slices of roast beef.
I look up. “This is for me?”
She smiles. Her nametag says her name is Doris. “That’s right, Sergeant . . . and can I ask you a favor?”
“A favor? Sure, I guess so.”
She races out of the room and I pick up the knife and fork, start digging in. The meal is so good that I have to slow down so that I don’t get sick. It’s as good as the meal I had back at the farm in Adams, fresh and hot, not freeze-dried or salvaged.
Doris comes back in, a newspaper in her young hands. She’s grinning widely and unfolds it, holds out a pen. “Would you autograph this for me?”
The newspaper is the Times-Union, the Capitol’s daily, and I look at the front page for a long few seconds, not believing what I’m seeing, hoping that this is some elaborate joke, but it’s not. It can’t be.
The front page has stories about the meat ration being expanded, a proposed bond issue to build an aqueduct from the Catskills, and a telegraph story about the young King of England, slightly injured while leading a Coldstream Guards unit against a Creeper attack outside of Canterbury.
But I can only spare those stories a glance, as my eyes are drawn to the lead story and a blurry black-and-white photograph, though while blurred, is clear enough: it shows a Transport Creeper, rearing up, while a young soldier is hanging off the main arthropod, holding a knife in his hand.
Me.
The headline states YOUNG HERO WINS IN HAND-TO-HAND FIGHT WITH ALIEN.
Holy crap. The fine meal and the finer room now all make sense.
I hand the newspaper back
“Can I finish my dinner first?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says, and stands there, staring at me, and then she blushes and races out.
I go back to my dinner. I suppose the noble thing would be to say that I had lost my appetite after seeing the newspaper and photograph, but truth is, I’m hungry and finish it all, wiping the plate clean with the last of the white bread.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
After three days of having my own room and eating good meals, I’m feeling a hell of a lot better. I slowly limp up and down the corridors, sometimes stopping in to see Slim, making sure I’m bringing some of my own better food to share. Doris and a couple of other nurses hang out with me, like I’m some damn hero or something, and I hate to admit it, but I use all of their attention for my own benefit. I ask them all to see if they can locate Thor, and one very young nurse named Carrie—maybe twelve or thirteen—who lives on a nearby farm, comes to me and says, “Found him. He’s at a K-9 station outside of the Capitol, called Hero Kennels.”
I suddenly feel quite warm. “How is he?”
She bites her lower lip, pleased to be passing on good news. “Beat up but getting better.”
I can’t help myself. I kiss her on the cheek and she giggles and says, “I’m so happy for you, Randy.”
“Me, too,” I say, feeling that this is one of the best days ever, and that’s true for just a few more hours.
That afternoon, I’m reading the Times-Union newspaper, thankfully without my photo in it, when an Army officer knocks on the door and strolls in. He’s thin, wearing standard fatigues with the rank of captain and the name CLOUTIER, carrying a soft leather briefcase in his right hand. His left hand is an old-style prosthetic. His brown hair is cut short, and there are old acne scars on his cheeks.
The captain sits down. “Sergeant Knox.”
“Sir.”
He puts the briefcase on his lap, unzips it with his prosthetic hand. “Captain Thomas Cloutier, with the Army Chief of Staff’s office.” He pulls some papers out and says, “You’re far from home, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“According to information received from your commanding officer, Colonel Malcolm Hunter, you were tasked to escort Mister Ezra Manson, an adviser to your state’s governor to this location. What happened?”
“We were on a train from Concord, heading to the Capitol. We were ambushed by a Creeper outside of Adams, in Massachusetts. Mister Manson was killed, sir.”
The captain peers at a sheet of paper. “Mister Manson was carrying a dispatch case that was to be delivered either to the President or his Chief of Staff. Did you remove the case from Mister Manson after he was killed?”
“I did, sir.”
“Where did you go after that?”
“I took shelter and then went to Adams, with the other members of my party. Specialist Serena Coulson and her brother.”
“Why didn’t you wait until the Quick Reaction Force arrived?”
“I thought it made more sense to leave the ambush site, sir.”
Another sheet of paper. “Where’s the dispatch case now?”
“The case is with Specialist Coulson, sir.”
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Why does she have it?”
“Outside of the Capitol we split up, sir. I was responding to a Creeper attack in the vicinity. She was going on to the Capitol and I put the case in her custody. I ordered her to deliver it as requested, sir.”
“But it was your responsibility to personally see that case delivered.”
“Yes, sir, it was. But I was faced with a situation where a Creeper was threatening a nearby relocation camp. I had no choice. Sir.”
“You could have gone on.”
“I didn’t. Sir.”
“Well, that’s a problem, Sergeant.”
“Sir?”
“Specialist Coulson and her brother are missing.”
* * *
I try to keep my expression cool and calm, a hell of a challenge.
“What do you mean, missing?”
“She and her brother were on that Greyhound bus that ar
rived from Adams. They both exited the bus station. From then, she hasn’t been seen. She hasn’t reported into the Army liaison office in the Capitol. She’s . . . gone. Apparently with that very important dispatch case.”
Captain Cloutier looks at me and there’s something in his eyes I can’t quite understand. I don’t say anything and he just keeps on looking at me, and then he clears his throat. “If you have any information on why she was here in the Capitol, feel free to share. But only if you’re certain that it can be of value. Of course, it’s up to you, Sergeant.”
This is odd. Why doesn’t he just come straight out and order me to tell him why Serena was coming to the Capitol? I know what Serena had told me; that she was coming here to visit her father. But what about her brother? He was coming here with an encrypted message about an interrogation of a live Creeper up in Maine.
So what kind of game is the captain playing?
I don’t know.
But I’m sure I don’t want to play with him.
“Sorry, sir,” I say. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
He almost looks relieved, and then goes back to his papers. “Fair enough. Just a couple of more things and then we’ll be done. I know you had nothing to do with that silly newspaper article, but still, what’s right is right.”
From inside his soft leather briefcase he takes out a small blue case, bordered with gold. He snaps the case open and removes a Purple Heart, which he pins to my pillow. “You’ll get the official paperwork later. That was a hell of a thing you did there, son. I’m pretty sure that’s the first case, at least in this country, where a Creeper was killed in a hand-to-hand fight.”
I don’t bother looking at the medal. “I was pretty damn lucky, sir.”
He shakes his head. “Good soldiers make their own luck. And if I can say so, you are going to have to count on that luck over the next few days.”
“Sir?”
He shakes his head again, goes back to his briefcase. “You’re going to get a visitor here in a little while. Be polite, be open, but try not to promise anything you don’t feel comfortable about doing.”
“But I’m ready to be discharged, sir,” I say. “I want to get back to Fort St. Paul.”
“Not happening, Sergeant,” he replies. “There are other plans for you, so be careful. And one more thing. Your assault pack was recovered and should be here shortly. But here’s something of yours that was left back at the swamp.”
His good hand ducks back into the briefcase, comes out with a holster, holding my 9 mm Beretta. Both the holster and the pistol have been cleaned. He passes it over to me and I’m scared now, almost as scared as when I saw that Creeper Transport coming at me back by the bridge.
“Sir?”
“You’re a soldier, and a soldier should be armed. Good luck, Sergeant.”
He leaves and I look at my Beretta, not sure what to do next. What the hell was I going to do with this in a hospital room?
I open up the nearby nightstand drawer, slide it in, and close the drawer. I pick up the newspaper and then toss it across the room.
I get up, a bit woozy, but it’s time to get out of here. What the captain had said just reminded me of Corporal Manning, back at my barracks. Dress and arm yourself accordingly. All right, I’m armed and it’s time to get dressed. I don’t know what’s supposedly planned for me, but I don’t plan to stick around and find out.
Plan? Find some clothes, get out of the hospital and find a way to a local USO office. Show them my Purple Heart and the front page with my photo, and get a transportation chit back to Fort St. Paul. Put all of this behind me, and get back to work and see if I can find out where the hell my dad is.
I get to the door and find it blocked by two large and well-dressed men, looking at me like I was some sort of patient at a mental clinic, and not a V.A. hospital. They’re bulky, well-fed, and have short military-style haircuts. On the left lapel of each man there’s a round little gold pin with a red E inside.
The closer one says, “Sergeant Knox?”
“That’s right,” I say, noticing the tell-tale bulges under their arms.
He says with a smile. “I’m going to have to ask you to wait for a bit. There’s someone important coming who wants to see you.”
“Who’s that?” I ask.
He’s still smiling and walks into my room, as his companion stands outside by the hallway. He doesn’t touch me or force me, but his bulk and presence pushes me back in. I don’t like it. I go to my bed and go past it, taking the only chair in the room. The man stands there, hands clasped in front of him, still smiling.
Some sort of bustle out in the hallway, a woman’s laugh, and then a woman strolls in, about fifty or so years old. She’s sharply dressed, with a dark blue skirt that’s cut just about her knees, with a matching short jacket and white blouse with some sort of gold necklace around her neck. Her blonde hair is coiffed so that it’s puffy, and she wears what looks to be diamond earrings. She’s also wearing black-rimmed reading glasses that are tilted at the end of her prominent nose, and I spot some kind of make-up on her cheeks and eyelids.
She has a polished black briefcase dangling from one hand, and her other hand is held out. “Sergeant Knox?”
Remembering my manners from my dad, I get up and shake her hand. The skin is smooth, cool and soft. I doubt if she’s ever held a weapon or a tool in her life.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “That I am.”
“Mind if I have a few minutes of your time?”
The near bulky guy is looking at me, still smiling, but the smile has an edge to it, like he’s daring me to tell his boss that I’d rather take a nap or get a sponge bath or anything else. Still trying to be polite, I say, “Not a problem, ma’am.”
She seems pleased, but I get the feeling it’s the kind of pleasure she’d express if I were a new puppy, and had just learned not to soil her living room floor. She turns to her man and says, “Riley, if you’d leave us be, that’d be quite nice.”
He gives a practiced nod. “As you wish, ma’am.”
After he steps out he shuts the door, leaving me alone with the woman. I look back to my chair and my bed, and still with my dad in my mind, I say, “Please take the chair, will you? I’ll sit on my bed.”
She smiles and her teeth are perfect, white, and look very, very sharp. She sits down and balances the briefcase on her lap, snaps the cover open. I start to ask her a question and she says, “Sergeant Knox, I’ve gone over your service record and I must say, I’m quite impressed . . . save for a few disciplinary issues over the years . . . but that’s to be expected for a young man like yourself.”
I smile at her and keep my mouth shut. She looks at me and I look back, and I say, “Ma’am, excuse me, I didn’t catch your name. That is, if you said it.”
She laughs for a quick moment, and it’s a laugh with no humor or delight behind it. I suddenly feel quite alone, like the first time out on patrol, no back-up, going out by myself against the enemy
“Sorry, young man,” she says, her voice full of power and confidence. “I’m Tess Conroy, the President’s Chief of Staff.”
Now it all makes sense, and it feels like a harsh spotlight has just been splayed over me. I’m quite conscious I’m sitting on the edge of my unmade bed, with fuzzy slippers, hospital pants and pajama top, unshowered and with hair unwashed, burns and scrapes and a thick bandage on my left shoulder.
“It’s . . . a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
Her smile doesn’t waver. “If you’re telling the truth, then you’re one of the few people who’s ever said that to my face.”
I’m not sure what to say next, and she steps in. “Shall we go on?”
I nod.
She says, “I want to discuss your mission to the Capitol. To escort Mister Manson and his dispatch case. I understand that after a Creeper attack on your train and the subsequent death of Mister Manson, you and other members of your party went to Adams. Following there, you took a Gr
eyhound bus and eventually split with your party, passing the dispatch case onto one Specialist Serena Coulson for delivery. You then engaged a Transport Creeper outside of the Capitol, where you were injured. Specialist Coulson, however, arrived at the Capitol and has not been seen since.”
“Except for the last part, ma’am, that’s a fairly accurate story of what went on.”
Her sharp eyes pierced at me. “Are you disagreeing about the status of Specialist Coulson in the Capitol?”
“Ma’am, I’m afraid I know nothing of what happened to Specialist Coulson after she left. I’m not in a position to add to that.”
Her expression remains unchanged, like she’s evaluating if I’m giving her a hard time or not, and then some hidden switch clicks on and the President’s Chief of Staff smiles at me. “That sounds fair, Sergeant. So let’s return to your escort of Mister Manson. What were you told about your mission and what Mister Manson was carrying?”
I want to take a deep breath before proceeding, but I know better than to show this sharp and dangerous woman how frightened I am. So I give her my best sixteen-year-old boy smile and say, “Ma’am, I’m afraid I can’t answer that question.”
Her smile hasn’t changed position but the warmth contained within has become icy indeed. “And why is that, Sergeant Knox?”
“Because you’re not my commanding officer, ma’am.”
“I’m the Chief of Staff to the President.”
“Ma’am, you’re not in the chain of command. My apologies.”
The smile is gone. “I can get you a ranking officer in here to tell you to cooperate. Would that work?”
I recall Cloutier’s words. “Ma’am, I was tasked by my commanding officer to do a classified mission. I’m operating under his orders and direction. I will need to hear from him before I can discuss my mission with you.”
She looks at me, anger still in her eyes, smile frozen to her face, and I try to keep my gaze focused on hers. Long seconds seems to drag by. She rearranges some of the papers in her lap and says, “Then I guess I’ll have to arrange for your commanding officer to communicate with you.”
Dark Victory: A Novel of the Alien Resistance Page 22
