by Scott Blade
Widow stayed quiet.
“I tell you this so that you know not to worry. But you do have a severe concussion, toward the lower end of the spectrum.”
“I’ve seen concussions before. What can I expect?”
“It all depends on each individual case. You’ve experienced a blackout. Very common with this type of injury. You said you remember the events of the train wreck, but you seem to have forgotten some things. You weren’t out the whole time. When the paramedics brought you in, you were conscious and speaking.”
“I was?”
“Yes. So, you don’t remember that. Which is normal. You may never remember it. That’s okay. The rest of your memory doesn’t seem to be affected. What about vision?”
“It’s spotty.”
“You can see the X-ray?”
Widow nodded.
“How was your vision before?”
“Twenty-twenty.”
“Then it will return. No worries there. How does your head feel?”
Widow stopped and, intuitively, tried to reach his forehead with his right hand, clinking the metal of the handcuff again and feeling frustrated by it.
He said, “It’s not that bad. I’ve got a headache.”
Green nodded. She added, “You may not experience many of the symptoms till later on. It is my understanding that this officer is going to explain things to you and take you into custody. So you’ll be active. I’d rather you stay in bed, but I don’t think that’s an option.”
She craned her head, reversed her position and stared back at the guy standing at the opposite side of the room. Widow followed her gaze and saw the guy was coming more into focus.
The guy looked to be about forty years old, probably closer to forty-five. He was one of a thousand guys Widow had seen before. The kind of elite sailor or soldier or Marine, who took extra steps in his fitness and diet regiment to make sure that his body was as young as it could be, for as long as it could be.
The guy stayed where he was. He didn’t give a nod or say a word. He wasn’t going to give out any information, not in front of Green. She was a civilian. Whatever he was there for was for Widow’s ears only. That was obvious.
Green said, “Okay, Mr. Widow. I’m giving you this bottle of extra strength Tylenol. I want you to take them as you need throughout the day. Don’t exceed six in twenty-four hours. No more than two at a time. Try to drink plenty of water.”
“How long will I have the concussion?”
Green shrugged and said, “Could be a few days. Could be several. Depends on you. Try to get plenty of rest. And don’t get into any more train wrecks.”
Green smiled, took up the X-rays, and inserted them back into the folder. She tapped Widow once on the leg, picked up the metal clipboard.
“Take care, Widow,” she said and she walked out of the room.
THE OFFICER WHO came in with her waited a full second after she left, until the door sucked shut behind her, and then he stepped forward.
He looked to be six foot flat. He wore a navy blue blazer over street clothes, a pair of green chinos, a black leather belt exposed only over the buckle, a white polo shirt, untucked, and black oxford shoes. Everything neat. Everything polished, even the leather of the belt.
Widow could make out a very slight bump on the guy’s right hip. A gun, no doubt. It was probably a Beretta M9 or a SIG Sauer P228 M11 pistol. Widow figured that because of what the guy’s official department was, only because Green had said that he came from the “Lakes.” Which meant the Great Lakes. Had to be NAVSTA Great Lakes. NAVSTA just meant Naval Station. He was from the Naval Station Great Lakes, which meant that he was Naval Police, which was officially called Master-At-Arms. The Navy loves to be different.
The guy said, “Commander Jack Widow. My name is Crews. I’m here to transport you.”
He reached down and raised his shirt, which revealed a M9 Beretta, holstered in a paddle holster, nicely concealed. He snatched a badge off his belt, fast like a draw. It clipped off and he approached, put it directly in Widow’s face.
It was a gold badge with an eagle at the top and wings, draped around the outer top edges, connecting with two olive branches, on opposite sides of the bottom of the badge. There was a single, bold black star stamped into the bottom center. An anchor with a rope looped and hooped around it, occupied the middle. Widow knew it was a Master-At-Arms badge because it said so right there on the badge’s surface. It had four letters, spaced slightly apart: C M A A, which meant “Chief Master-At-Arms.”
Widow asked, “You a Chief Warrant Officer?”
Crews nodded, but didn’t give his exact rank.
“Wanna tell me why I’m in handcuffs, Chief?”
Crews rubbed the stubble on a two-day-old shaved head and said, “Mister, not Chief, okay? And you’re only in the cuffs as part of the story.”
Widow had called him Chief, knowing full well that it would irritate him, at the very least. Not as a sign of disrespect, but more along the lines of making himself feel better for being handcuffed in the first place. Since, he had done nothing wrong, nothing that the Navy knew about.
Petty, he knew, but being handcuffed for doing nothing, for a cover that hid some mysterious reason why the Navy wanted him back wasn’t good enough a reason to be handcuffed.
“Part of the story? What story?”
“We need you back, Commander. I wasn’t told why. I was only told what the cover was to prevent the doc and hospital staff or reporters from asking questions.”
“There are reporters here?”
“Yes. There was a major train accident. They love train accidents. A couple of the major networks are outside. All of the local boys and CNN and MSNBC.”
“What? Nothing coming out of the White House to cover today?”
Crews smirked a little. Widow figured he had jabbed at the guy enough. Better to have him on his side. Apparently, he was going somewhere and he had no say in the matter.
Crews added, “Plenty coming out of the White House. Plenty of scandals. You know how it goes.”
Widow nodded and asked, “Wanna tell me what this is all about?”
“My orders are to escort you back to the air base in Minneapolis–Saint Paul and put your butt on a plane.”
“A plane? What the hell is this?”
“I honestly couldn’t tell you, sir. I’m only a messenger.”
“A messenger without a message.”
“You’re the message, Commander.”
Widow said nothing to that. He pulled his head up and adjusted his elbows so that he could rest on them instead of holding his head up by his neck muscles.
“I got a choice in this?”
“Sure. You could resist.”
“I doubt that’ll come out in my favor.”
“Doubt it will too, sir.”
“Guess, I’m coming with you then.”
“Guess you are.”
“Does the concussion make a difference?”
Crews shook his head, said, “I was told if you were walking and talking, then your butt’s flying.”
Widow took a deep breath and asked, “Wanna get me some pants then?”
CHAPTER 5
TURNED OUT THAT CREWS was deadly serious about keeping the cover intact because he rolled Widow out of the hospital in a basic metal wheelchair with Widow’s right hand cuffed to the arm of the chair and his left in a cast in a sling around his neck. The handcuff clinked and clanged all the way down the corridors and to the elevator and back though more corridors because one of the wheels wobbled all the way. Widow figured it was a backup chair because the hospital seemed almost overrun with patients from the train wreck.
The halls echoed the sounds of chattering voices, both from conversations one-on-one and from radio chatter because there were a lot of police around. Probably to keep order.
Crews took Widow down back halls, through a kitchen, and through a laundry. White steam rose from heavy washing machines against the back wall.
“Can you tell me who exactly sent for me?”
“Can’t tell you that. I don’t even know who. I just know it came from Washington.”
“Is that where I’m going?”
“Could be.”
Crews rolled Widow down a ramp and out the service entrance of the hospital. Bright sunlight bathed over Widow’s face and his vision went from getting better to blinding whiteness, which lasted for several moments and then passed.
Crews rolled him out to a navy blue sedan parked in the alley, behind a delivery truck.
Widow said, “You can let me out of this chair now. I think the cover is maintained.”
Crews stopped the chair, just in front of the side of the driver’s side backdoor. He took out a handcuff key and undid Widow’s cuffs, opened the door for him. Then Crews paused for a moment, like he was considering putting the cuffs back on Widow. He didn’t seem to know what the right call was in this situation. Widow wasn’t a prisoner.
Widow saw him working it out in his head. He didn’t let Crews get the chance to put the cuffs back on. He hopped into the backseat and buckled up.
Crews shrugged, returned the cuffs to a holster on his belt and shoved the wheelchair away from the car. He closed Widow’s door and slid into the driver’s seat.
The engine fired up and they were off.
CREWS TOOK WIDOW to exactly where he’d said he was going to take him. They pulled up at the guard gate to Minneapolis–Saint Paul Air Reserve Station. They traversed through the guards at the gate with no problems. Then Crews wound through the streets and buildings until Widow realized he was no longer driving on roads. He was weaving between airplane hangars.
They came to a stop in front of a parked C-20B. It was mostly white, with blue trim along the bottom. It had a designated tail number and two twin engines mounted above and between the wings and the tail.
The plane looked like Air Force One, only one-third the length. That’s when Widow knew he was in deep because the Air Force C-20B is basically a civilian Gulfstream jet that’s been converted, reinforced, and armored to shuttle government officials from place to place. The problem with that was that most government officials flew commercial. The ones who needed an Air Force jet weren’t ordinary government officials. They were DOD people—important DOD people—like the Secretary of Defense, for example. Which meant that whoever was racking up taxpayer dimes to pay for the flight was someone important, someone with clout, someone with a much higher pay grade than Widow was when he discharged.
Crews accompanied Widow to the staircase leading up to the plane’s entrance and stopped. He put his hand out for Widow to shake.
Widow turned back and stared at him.
“You’re not coming?”
“No, Commander. You’re on your own from here.”
Widow took it and shook it.
Before he boarded the plane, Crews saluted Widow and said, “Try to keep yourself from getting any more broken bones, Commander.”
Widow said nothing to that, just climbed the stairs and boarded the plane.
On board, he was greeted by a steward or possibly the pilot. He wasn’t sure. Not until he stepped into the aisle and the guy said, “Have a seat anywhere, sir.”
Steward.
Widow picked a spot in front of the wing, window seat. The interior was all butterscotch leather and walnut veneer and pristine white carpets and white walls. No overhead bins or other clutter. There was a nice-looking kitchenette area in the front, stocked with bourbons and expensive vodkas.
This was a private jet for the rich and famous, only the rich and famous were members of the DOD, the Pentagon, maybe, and whoever else.
The steward said, “Sir, buckle in. We’re taking off right away.”
“Where are we heading?”
“We’re going into the sky, of course.”
“Of course,” Widow said and sat back. The steward stood around for another long second, waiting for Widow to buckle his seatbelt. Which he did.
The steward returned to the front of the cabin and sat in a jump seat near the cockpit hatch and strapped himself in. When the steward had said they were taking off right away, he wasn’t exaggerating. Thirty seconds later, they were on the runway. A minute after that, they were climbing into the clouds.
CHAPTER 6
IT WAS HALFWAY INTO THE FLIGHT that the steward informed Widow that he was Air Force, along with both pilots, whom he never saw, not once. They never came out of the cockpit.
The steward brought Widow a coffee in a foam cup with one sugar packet and one creamer and one stirrer. Widow hadn’t asked for any of it, but was grateful for one part of it. He drank the coffee, black, which was better than nothing, far worse than the coffee on the Sightseer Lounge car of the Empire Builder. Which made his mind wander back to the near two-day trip and back to the blonde train attendant that he’d tried to help. He wondered if she was going to be all right. Within a moment, he forgot whether he had asked Green about her. He also realized that he hadn’t asked anyone how many days or how much time had gone by since the train wreck.
How long had he been out?
Surely, he’d find out, sooner or later. Then he thought about DeGorne for a moment. She’d be in her apartment, thinking, planning her future.
Another thought occurred to him: he’d better call her when he got the chance. Crews had said that there had been a lot of news coverage about the accident. Good chance DeGorne might’ve seen it. She did drop him off at the train station. She knew of his plans to get on a train. She might’ve known about his plans to head east. Then again, he might not have even had plans. He couldn’t remember.
His vision was getting much better by this point. He had stared out the window for one hour and forty minutes, and seen everything below with no problems. He watched a couple Great Lakes, and lots of blue-collar states pass under the plane.
It was clear where they were going. He’d known it way back when they headed over Lake Michigan. They were going to Andrews, which is a joint base for the branches of the military. It’s a major base.
The C-20B adjusted and started decelerating before the pilot came over the intercom and informed the steward that they were landing. Fifteen minutes later, they were on the ground for a total flight time of five minutes less than two hours, twenty-five minutes faster than Widow had calculated in his head. Which was both good and bad. Meant that his calculations were off, although they were usually right on, but it also meant that he was calculating things.
Better than losing that part of his brain, he thought.
As they landed, Widow stuffed his empty coffee cup into a cup holder near the arm of the chair and left it. The plane taxied off the runway and the steward got up off the jump seat.
Widow took this as a sign to get up. He tried to stand, but felt lightheaded, not a severe thing, but annoying enough. He reached into his front pocket and was grateful that Crews had reminded him to take the Extra Strength Tylenol before they left the hospital. He popped the top and pitched a pill down his throat, swallowed it.
Widow hated taking pills, but it was better than forcing an Air Force crew to have to half carry him to wherever he was headed.
He stepped out into the aisle and walked to the front of the plane. He stopped next to the steward, who said nothing until the plane stopped and the hatch opened to blinding sunlight.
Widow stepped out onto a portable airplane staircase on wheels and climbed down, using the rail the whole way. He couldn’t cover his eyes from the sun and use the rail at the same time, so it took him several seconds longer than it should’ve to reach the bottom step.
He was greeted by another CMAA warrant officer with a navy blue sedan, only this one was a WO in uniform blues and the sedan was a military police car. The WO standing in front of it had the light bar going off. Blue lights circled around and around.
No siren.
Widow walked up to him, didn’t bother checking his name patch, partially because he
couldn’t make it out just yet and partially because he didn’t care. Truthfully, he was over meeting new military people, learning their names, and having them keep him in handcuffs.
Luckily, this guy didn’t even offer, and better yet, he didn’t refer to him by his last known rank.
The guy said, “Jack Widow?”
“That’s me.”
“Glad you’re not too beat up.”
Widow stayed quiet.
“Come on. I’m driving you.”
Widow nodded and stepped to the passenger door, but the WO cleared his throat and signaled to the backdoor.
Widow wasn’t surprised. Warrant officers are usually boy scouts. They followed the rules to an insane amount of loyalty. Andrews Base’s official policy for civilians riding in police vehicles was always to ride in the backseat.
Widow didn’t argue and slung himself down onto the rear bench. Twenty seconds later they were off.
Widow stared out the window. His sight adjusted to the sun and he watched the buildings. Long-forgotten memories of countless meetings, conversations, and undercover investigations that involved or happened at or took place at Andrews came flooding back into his mind. Some happened at the very buildings he passed, which promptly triggered the replay of the memories. Then he wondered how many of those actually did happen at Andrews. He wondered if any of them were memories misplaced by his concussion.
Minutes and several turns later, they were parked in front of a low building that Widow didn’t recognize.
“This is your stop,” the WO said.
Widow waited for the WO to get out and open his door because, like civilian police cars, military ones don’t open from the inside of the rear bench. Like civilian police cars, that’s where criminals and suspects go.
Widow climbed out and walked forward and stopped.
“Here. Clip this on. Outside your jacket. Make sure it’s always visible.”
The WO handed him a name badge that had the word VISITOR in all caps, bold across the front of a photograph. The photo was one that Widow hadn’t seen in years. It was the last photo on his official Navy ID. Black and white. His head shaved to the stubble. No smile.
