Predator Ch. 06

"Any way to figure out how much radiation we're soaking up?" he croaked.

"Nope."

"I feel like shit."

"No hard feelings, Ben, but you look like shit. No, make that diarrhea."

"Gee, thanks. I think. You really know how to make a guy..."

"I know. I feel it too, so I'm assuming we've passed 200 rem now. Well past lethal dose."

"So, in pilot-speak, we're past the point of no return?"

"Yup."

"Oh, swell."

"Look, there were troops in here, while you were gone, and some of them looked sicker than shit. We're a month and a little bit out from radiation release, so people close to the blasts are already gone. I'd say that we, as a whole, were not real close but close enough. We have a month, at most. People well away from detonations, say in South Africa, or at bases in Antarctica, will be reaching 100 rem now, so they may have lifetimes expressed in months, but that's it."

"What's your point?"

"You want to die at home, now's the time to go. Some air force type came with the troops, told me to get my patients ready to go on a long flight. I'm assuming that had something to do with you and your walk with that Russian?"

"Yup."

"Will they let us leave?"

"I doubt it. The question is, even if they do, am I well enough to make an eight hour flight?"

"I doubt it, but once we're airborne I can keep fluids running through the line..."

"What about a catheter. I don't feel strong enough to get up every half hour to take a leak."

"Yeah. I can do that." She turned away, shook her head. "Ben, I'm sorry about all this. Not having the stuff on hand to take care of people better than I have..."

"What the devil are you talking about, Jennifer? You've been like an angel sent directly from God...everyone in this room would be dead if not for all you've done."

"It wasn't enough."

"And that's not any fault of yours."

"I just feel so..."

"Nope. Don't go there, doc. Let's get on with the business of living, okay? The rest can wait for another day."

She nodded her head, tried to brighten up. "Yeah. Got it."

Piskov walked in, an Iridium Sat-Phone in hand, and he came to Acheson's bed and sat, beads of perspiration glistening on his forehead. "I think I feel as bad as you now," he said as he handed over the phone. "The phone is about half charged, I think, but we have no charger for it, so talk quickly." He turned to Cullwell, grinned. "Do you still have Coca-Cola here?"

She smiled. "For medicinal purposes only, but yes, we do. Ben, you want one too?"

"Sounds good. Don't suppose you have any crushed ice?"

She laughed again, then walked back to her office. Piskov looked at Ben expectantly, then frowned. "You want privacy, I think?"

"I think, yes."

"I go sit with doctor."

Ben watched him walk away, then powered up the unit and dialed the duty officer's desk at the 628th Air Wing, and someone answered on the second ring. "Duty Officer, Captain Nichols."

"Major Acheson, calling from a Russian POW camp in Portugal."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm calling from a Russian POW camp in Portugal. I've been told they're going to allow us to take a C-17 and try to get a planeload of injured back to the states tomorrow morning."

"Name, rank and full DOD service number, please."

Acheson recited the information.

"Stand-by one, Major."

He looked up, saw several men on the ward staring at him.

"Acheson?"

"Yes, Captain."

"How do you expect to fly across?"

"Refuel at Lajes, direct to Charleston after that."

"What bird?"

"60002."

"You won't have the range, Major."

"What about Bermuda?"

"Unknown."

"No refueling assets?"

"I'm not sure. Doubtful."

"Captain, it looks like I'm going to be able to get about 50 people out of here and home. Is there anything you guys can do to help?"

"Look, buddy, things aren't running real smooth right now. Let me see what I can do, alright?"

"Yeah, understood. This phone has about a half charge, call it an hour or so of talk time."

"Got it, and I have your number. I'll call you in 12 hours."

"Signing off."

"Roger."

He looked at the phone, then called his grandfather's house in Alpine, Texas. No one picked up, and he left a brief message, about where he was and how he was trying to make it home, and maybe being there in a couple of days, then he signed off and powered down the phone.

"What's the C-17s range?" the pilot in the bed next to his asked.

"Call it 2400."

"It's 3000 to from Lajes to the mid-Atlantic coast, but what about Maine? Or St Johns?"

"Around 2000, assuming there are facilities up there. A nuke hit mid-coast Maine, so..."

"Well, that would get us home."

"Yeah. Guess so."

"What about navigation? Without GPS, I mean?"

"Some older aircraft have inertial. I think that one out on the ramp does. Or did."

"And if it doesn't?"

"I hear paper and pencil still works..." Acheson said, grinning.

Cullwell came out with a coke in a red plastic cup, and when she handed it to him he saw three ice cubes floating in the cup and he grinned. "Thanks, Ma'am."

She nodded, smiled. "My secret stash."

And he saw Piskov walk up behind Cullwell, and the Russian was smiling. "You are to leave at 0500, for Lajes. We will start moving out to the aircraft an hour before. I assume you have the code?"

Acheson smiled. "I'll be ready."

"I see. Well, I hope so."

+++++

He sat up in bed when the phone chirped, a little before three, and he listened to the duty officer in South Carolina. He listened to what he had to say, how the Russians had already tried to send Medevac aircraft to Kentucky, where the latest interim government was located, but those efforts had been intercepted, the aircraft shot down. They wouldn't be allowed into US airspace, and the man warned him to look out for anything suspicious being loaded on the aircraft, then he was gone. He shook his head, then dressed carefully, taking care not to disturb the IV shunt dangling from his arm, and then he went went outside. Piskov was out there, still grinning, waiting for him in some sort of Russian jeep; two soldiers saluted when he came out, and he saluted them as he climbed in the front seat.

"You feeling okay?" the Russian asked. "You looking kind of green."

"I feel green."

"Good."

"Good?"

"That means my eyes still working."

"Ah."

"You have the code?"

"Of course."

"Good. Shall we go?"

Piskov drove across to the ramp, and Acheson saw Russian ground crews huddled under the C-17's wings - and three American airmen, hand-cuffed, under armed-guard, by the aft cargo door. There was also a large metal box sitting on the ramp by the door, with two men standing beside it.

'So, that's the bomb?' Acheson said to himself as he looked at the C-17. 'And this is the Trojan Horse.'

And then he saw Rutherford standing by a car in the shadows, watching him as they approached.

'And I'm supposed to lead the horse inside the gate?'

*****

© 2017 adrian leverkühn | abw | just a little fiction to go along with your morning coffee. Part 6 of 7.