“Colonel . . .
The ear again in front of my face even as we move. “Don’t. . . don’t leave me, Colonel. Stay with me …” There’s a loud noise. Something spinning above me. Voices talking. Faces looking at me. I snuggle closer in his arms and hear his voice . . . very husky.
“I won’t leave you, sir. You’re my man. I won’t leave you.”
It’s all right. Everything’s all right. I let myself slide into the peace of senselessness.
* * *
I’m conscious again. I see a white coat, a stethoscope, a syringe. The scream tears at my throat, echoing in my ears. A startled face receding. A furious voice. “You stupid bastard! Wait!”
Black Slocum again bending over me, holding my hands. Eyes full of care.
“Don’t worry, sir. It’s not the other one. He’s dead, sir. Dead, dead. I killed him myself. This is a doctor. He’s going to give you an injection. Make you feel better.” He turns his head and mutters something. I hear it faintly. “Get that white coat off! All of you get ‘em off. Signal Walter Reed. No one’s to be around him with a white coat. I’ll kill the bastard who wears a white coat near him- tell ‘em that.”
He turns back to me and smiles. “We’re gonna fly you Statesside, sir, to Washington; Walter Reed Army Hospital. You’re gonna be fine. Just fine. But first you gotta have this little injection.”
I nod and he moves away slightly; still holding on to my hands. Another figure is next to me. Dark clothes. Soft voice. “Won’t take a second, sir.” I feel something cool on my arm’, then a slight prick. A moment later he’s gone. Slocum smiles.
“It’s gonna make you sleepy. Then we load you up and head for home.”
“You’re coming too?”
“I sure am. I’ll be there all the way.”
His face is becoming indistinct. I drift away.
The room is light and airy. Sunlight filters through mesh curtains. I have woken from a long sleep. How long? Days? No. Years and years and years. I feel a wonderful clarity of mind; of purpose. My mind feels clean. I am looking at a very white ceiling. I turn my head and now I’m looking at the very black Slocum. I am not at all surprised. He is sitting on a big soft chair with his head back and mouth open, snoring gently. I roll my head to the other side. There’s a tube snaking down to a bandage around my right wrist. I’ve hardly ever been sick in my life. I guess it’s a saline drip or something. I’m hungry and thirsty. I swallow. My throat is still a little sore. I crane my neck looking both sides for water. There is none. Softly I call, “Slocum.”
He jerks erect, his eyes widen and then his mouth splits in an enormous grin. He climbs to his feet and ambles over. “Jesus, sir. I thought you were gonna sleep for ever.”
“How long has it been?”
“Six days since we left ‘Nimitz’.”
I’m not surprised. I feel like I’ve slept a lifetime.
“Could you find some water?”
“Sure, sir. But first I got to buzz for the Head Nurse.”
He reaches for a bell beside the bed.
“Can’t that wait a while?”
He grins and shakes his head.
“No, sir. She told me to call her the instant you woke up. Now those doctors are one thing, but Nurse Clay’s tougher than an angry buffalo.”
He pushes the button. I say seriously, “You have the right to call me by my first name.”
He smiles. “Okay, Jason. I’m Silas.”
“Silas, if you were me how would you go about thanking a man for what you did?”
He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t waste the breath. I’m a soldier. I was doing my job. I’d be real glad if you’d keep that in mind and not embarrass me. I mean it.”
I’m trying to think of an answer to that when the door opens. A short, plump, middle-aged woman with blonde hair bustles in.
“Move yourself, Colonel.”
He backs away down the bed. She leans over and gives me a critical once-over.
“How do you feel?”
“Very well. A little weak I guess. I’d like some water.”
Her eyes dart to the metal bedside table and her mouth tightens in irritation. She picks up the bell and gives it two sharp presses.
“Major Calper will be here in a moment.”
“Major Calper?”
“Your doctor.”
I’d forgotten I was in a military hospital. She turns to Slocum and says tardy,
“You may leave now Colonel.”
“Aw, maam . . . “
“Colonel Slocum. You gave me your solemn-promise that you would leave as soon as the Ambassador was awake and feeling well. You heard him. He said: ‘Very well.’ Besides, you have things to do . . . important things.”
Reluctantly he nods his head. “Okay, maam. Jason, I’ll see you later this evenin’. Anything you need?”
I shake my head. What the hell can I say to this man? I mutter, “Thanks, Silas . . . for everything.”
A pretty young nurse opens the door.
“Water,” Nurse Clay says succinctly.
She’s back in less than a minute with a flask and a glass. She gets a look that says: “I’ll be talking to you later.” I’m embarrassed by her expression as she looks at me. I’ve never been the object of hero-worship and I find it disconcerting.
Slocum follows her out and as Nurse Clay fusses around straightening the bedsheets I ask, “He’s been here all the time?”
She sighs. “Yes. Colonel Slocum arrived in the ambulance with you and simply refused to leave. In thirty years in the profession I’ve never seen anything like it. . .”
The severe lines of her face abruptly soften into a smile.
“He told the doctors that if you died he’d come through this hospital with a sub-machine-gun. I think some of them believed him. You were in a very bad way. Your condition was complicated by severe pneumonia. He even wanted to go into the intensive care unit with you and was only dissuaded by Major Calper explaining about the risks of him passing on germs. When you were moved in here two days ago he slept on the couch over there or in the chair. General Mallory, C.O. of the hospital, just about went out of his mind. His position was impossible. Only force could have moved the Colonel. It’s even rumoured that the General asked the President to intervene and he replied: ‘I’m not about to order Colonel Slocum to do anything.’”
I’m not surprised. “I guess Colonel Slocum is a big hero now.”
“You both are, Mr Ambassador.”
I’m wondering how to handle the situation when the door opens and a fair-haired man with a cheerful face comes in. He’s in army uniform. Nurse Clay says, “This is Major Calper.”
He shakes my hand and says heartily, “So the sleeping Ambassador has woken. Were you kissed by a princess?”
“No, Major. Not even a frog.”
“And how do you feel?”
“Really fine. A bit weak but I feel surprisingly well.”
He nods. “You surprised all of us. You were four days in intensive care. For the first two you were in an extremely agitated mental state; your subconscious in turmoil. Then quite abruptly you passed into a very deep and serene sleep.
The pneumonia cleared up and all vital signs became normal. It’s astonishing but you slept for four more days. I was getting a little worried.”
He’s been examining me rapidly but thoroughly while talking. Now he stands back and says, “Mr Ambassador, I’m going to listen to your heart which means I’m going to have to take a stethoscope out of my pocket.”
I smile at the memory of Slocum’s fiercely whispered words back on the “Nimitz”.
“It’s okay, Major. And white coats are not going to bother me either.”
He smiles back. “That’s a relief. Yesterday one of our young interns walked in here wearing one. The Colonel literally ripped it off his back.”
He listens to my heart and nods in satisfaction.
“Do you know how long the abuse went on, sir?”
/> “What time was I rescued?”
“Shortly after midnight.”
“Then, continuously for about twelve hours.”
His face turns sombre and he mutters, “Animals.” Then it clears. “You’ve made a wonderful recovery, not easily understood within medical parameters. Nevertheless such treatment often affects the mind . . . sometimes it’s a delayed reaction. I’m going to ask Colonel Elliot to pass by and visit you tomorrow. He’s our senior psychiatrist.”
I shake my head. “No thank you, Major. I could have used him a long time ago, but not now. Whatever effect that torture had on my mind, believe me, was beneficial.” I smile at him. “Shock treatment is used in mental hospitals to try to bring insane people back to sanity. I guess something like that happened to me.”
He’s looking very puzzled. He shrugs.
“Well, okay, sir. If that’s your decision. But if at some future time you experience any difficulties be sure to call us. Immediately.”
“I will, thank you. Can I eat something, doctor?”
“Sure.” To Nurse Clay he says, “That drip can come out.
Put him on a light diet and he’s to have no visitors until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.”
“Yes, doctor. But Colonel Slocum said he was coming back this evening.”
He shrugs resignedly. “Well, you can classify the Colonel as a fixture rather than a visitor.”
I ask him, “How long will I have to be here, Major?”
He purses his lips, thinks for a moment and says, “I want to keep you under observation for at least another week. Besides you need time to build up your strength, and it’s better that you do it here where no one will bother you- especially the press. I’ll see you this evening.”
He leaves and Nurse Clay says, “I’m going to send you some fresh chicken soup and minced beef with vegetables. Is there anything else you’d like?”
My reply is prompted by the Major’s mention of the press.
“Would you have any newspapers? I’d like to catch up on what’s been happening.”
“Yes. I’ve kept you the Washington Post for the last six days.”
I read the papers in sequence while I eat. The first is full of the rescue; and outrage at my treatment. I feel a pang of guilt as I learn about the casualties suffered by the rescue team. I also learn that Slocum has been wounded. A bullet had taken a chunk of flesh out of his right side. My condition is reported as being critical. The editorial called for the immediate invasion of San Carlo.
I’m still critical on the second day. There’s a clamour for Slocum to be interviewed but a bulletin from Walter Reed Hospital states that he is still recovering from his wound. Again the editorial calls for the invasion of San Carlo.
The headlines on the third day proclaim the invasion of San Carlo. After a brief but bloody battle the capital was taken and the Chamarristas had fled to the mountains. An interim Government was to be formed and a constitution drawn up leading to free and fair elections. My condition was stable. Slocum’s wound was still being treated and in the meantime the President had announced that he was to be awarded the Congressional Medal of Honour, and all his men were to receive high decorations. Meanwhile the State Department had protested to Cuba in the strongest terms about my being abused and interrogated by a senior member of the Cuban Intelligence organization. I was now stable and improving. I push aside the other papers. My eyelids are heavy, sleep has become such a warm companion.
I wake at the sound of the door. Slocum is standing there, his arms cradling packages. He manages to raise a finger to his lips, and winks. He deposits the packages on the couch, goes back to the open door and peers first one way down the corridor and then the other. Carefully he closes the door and gives me a conspiratorial grin.
“I came in through the service entrance, eluding Nurse Clay’s spies.”
From the packages he produces two Big Macs, French fries, packets of cookies, a bottle of Black Label Scotch, and an aerosol can of air freshener. I’ve never had a Big Mac; always considered fast food plebeian. I chomp into it like an errant schoolboy. He pours two slugs of whisky and adds a few drops of water. It’s the first drink I’ve had for more than three weeks. It tastes like nectar. I remember something. I raise my glass and say solemnly, “Silas, let’s drink to your Congressional Medal of Honour . . . richly deserved.”
He’s sitting on the end of the bed. He sips at his whisky and says, “I got it because I was in command. It’s a pity that all my guys couldn’t get it.”
I’m suddenly conscious of the casualties. I’ve been feeling relaxed and happy. Now I feel guilty. I tell him that and he shakes his head vigorously.
“Jason, considering the conditions, we were damned lucky. We only had one man killed in the compound. Those wounded are recovering well with no permanent disability. They’re right here in this hospital. I’d be glad if, when you’re on your feet, you’d go visit them for a while. It would give them a real charge. Two men crashed on take-off right on the deck of the ‘Nimitz’. One walked away and the other had a broken ankle. Eleven others went into the sea. Eight were rescued due to some brilliant work by the navy. Three drowned. In all we had four fatalities . . . a lot less than had been projected.”
Quietly I remind him, “Four lives lost on my behalf. I hate to think about that.”
He stands up and gives me a very straight look.
“I knew those guys well. Let me tell you this. They joined the army to fight. They were all veterans. They’d done a lot of fighting and they knew what it was all about and what the risks were. They all volunteered for that mission. Right now they might be warming their asses in hell or up in heaven ogling the angels. Wherever they are they sure as hell don’t blame you. They’d rather have died that way than of senility . . . believe me.”
I do. He said it simply and sincerely. He pours more whisky into our glasses. I ask, “When are you getting your medal?”
He grimaces. “Tomorrow morning at the White House. My men are all gonna be there. Big ceremony, TV, Congressional leaders. The whole damn works.”
There’s no false modesty about him. He’s genuinely not looking forward to it. Quietly I remark, “Well, Silas, it looks like you’re going to end up the most senior black officer in the entire history of the United States Armed Forces.”
He swallows some whisky and says grimly, “I don’t know that I want to end up the highest black anything. I’m thinking of retiring.”
“Retiring?”
“Sure. I’ve got a ranch in Wyoming . . . and Jason, if you ask where I’ll find a horse big enough to carry me I’m gonna get mad . . .”
“A ranch?”
He grins. “Yeah. An’ I’m not even gonna look for a horse.
I’m gonna be the first cowboy in the West to round up his cattle from an Ultralight!”
“So tell me about it.”
He does. But first he pours more Scotch, saying, “Doctors tell you not to drink alcohol while taking medication like antibiotics. I got a little secret for you. It’s not dangerous. It just reduces the effect of the drug. The secret, ol’ buddy, is not to forsake alcohol, but double the dose of the drug. Don’t tell nurse I told you that. The little lady is already calculating which way to castrate me. She just hasn’t found a knife blunt enough yet.”
He refills our glasses, tucks the whisky bottle out of sight behind my pillows, sprays the room and dumps the empty paper bags in a trash can in the bathroom. Then he perches on the end of the bed and tells me all about his plans. His enthusiasm comes through. And also his trepidation. It’s like he’s starting a new life, and it reminds me that I’m doing the same. I ask a few questions. They come easily . . . personal questions. An intimacy grows between us as he talks of his life. His early broken marriage, his dedication to his “tough or bull” image. I marvel that I, with all my latent prejudices, can feel so close to this man. I see parallels in his life and mine. Suddenly he leans forward and says earnestly, “Jason, why d
on’t you come down and visit me in Wyoming? Damn it, man, you’re gonna need a good period of recuperating. The air out there is real fresh . . .” His enthusiasm suddenly fades. “But hell, it’s not much of a place I got. I mean, just a pineboard cabin . . . with an outhouse an’ all that . . . I guess it’s not the kind of place you’d . . . ”
Quickly, passionately, I cut in. “Silas, you invite me and I’ll come. You just talked about changing directions in your life. I’m about to do the same. Some things were important to me before; now they’re trivial. I don’t mind roughing it a bit. I think I might enjoy it.”
He grins. “I’ll teach you to fly an Ultralight. We’ll punch cows together.”
“At my age?”
“Hell, why not? You’re fit enough an’ it’s damned easy . . . but I promise you one thing. We ain’t ever goin’ up if the wind is more than ten knots.”
My eyes are drowsy. There’s a silence and I doze off.
I don’t know how long I slept. A few minutes, maybe an hour. I open my eyes and he’s still sitting there nursing his drink, at the end of the bed, gazing far beyond the enclosing walls.
“What are you thinking, Silas?”
His head snaps round in surprise, and then he relaxes.
“I was thinking about a little talk I had with a guy just a few days ago. About how sometimes it’s possible to communicate without words . . . about exceptions that prove rules . . . “
The words don’t make a lot of literal sense but in a strange way they’re comforting.
I drift back into sleep.
Late morning and shit hitting the fan. Nurse Clay came in and sniffed the air: “Lemon scented air freshener, Mr Ambassador? Not regulation issue.”
In seconds she located the empty paper bags in the waste bin; lowered her nose into one and pronounced ominously, “Onions . . . ketchup. You’ve been eating hamburgers!” She sniffed at the empty glass on the bedside table. How could I have been so stupid?
“Whisky!”
Now the tirade is washing over me. Silas, what have you got me into? I feel like a schoolboy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Thankfully she shifts her attack.
Siege of Silence Page 24
