Drone Command

SEVENTY-SIX

The self-possessed young woman behind the desk wore a nurse’s white coat over a black shirt, and a simple black nun’s veil draped behind her back. A gold-winged caduceus was pinned to one lapel; a humble silver crucifix was pinned to the other. “Only family. He left strict orders. I’m sorry.”

“He doesn’t have any family.” Pearce towered over the diminutive nun.

“He knows that and so do I. Since you do as well, then you must know that he’s a very private man and doesn’t want any visitors.” She was stopping Pearce cold with a disarming smile.

“We go a long way back. We used to work together.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“We used to work for the same… company.”

“You mean the CIA?” Another smile. A smirk, really. “Then you understand his need for security as well.”

Pearce chuckled. “I’m surprised he told you.”

“Confession is good for the soul.”

Pearce took a deep breath. Never realized that stubbornness was a religious virtue. “I’ve brought him something.”

She held out a delicate hand. “I’m happy to take it to him for you.”

“It would be better if I delivered it in person.”

“It would be better for me to give it to him than his not getting it at all, wouldn’t you agree?”

Pearce glanced around. No security. Hardly surprising. Who’d want to break into a hospice? She was all of a hundred pounds soaking wet. He could just walk past her. Decided against it. Played his trump card. Pointed a thumb at the woman standing next to him.

“Do you know who this is?”

The nun shook her head. “Should I?”

“She’s the godda—”

Myers quieted Pearce with a hand on his arm. “We’re friends, and we’ve come a very long way. Perhaps you can tell Will that Troy Pearce needs to see him? There can’t be any harm in that.” She flashed her own charming smile, but the commanding tone in her voice struck home.

“Perhaps not. Please wait here a moment.” She stepped away from the desk.

“Thank you, Sister.” After the nun disappeared around the corner, Myers shot Pearce a withering look. “Seriously? You were going to cuss out a nun?”

The nun led them down the quiet hallway past a number of patients’ doors, some of them open. The suites were furnished like living rooms rather than hospital rooms. Most of the patients they saw were alone or with medical staff. A priest was praying last rites over one.

They arrived at the end of the hall and stopped at the last closed door.

“He’s expecting you,” the nun said. “He has only twenty percent lung capacity. Please don’t be long. He’s very tired.” She instructed them to use the antibacterial hand sanitizer as often as possible to help avoid infection, nodded her condolences, and left.

Pearce laid his hand on the door. “Thanks again for doing this with me.”

Myers smiled. “Of course. But maybe you should go in by yourself.”

“No. I want you to meet him. He’s like a second dad to me.”

“Okay.”

Troy gently opened the door. He nearly lost it.

He’d been around death for most of his adult life, but seeing the shell of a man he’d once known as larger than life was harder than he thought possible. The adjustable bed was upright. Will was nearly skeletal, his flesh translucent and gray. His mouth was wide open, taking in short, shallow breaths. The skin around his mouth was nearly white. A hissing oxygen tube snaked from the wall behind his bed to his nose. Will’s thick silver hair was now blindingly white and wispy thin. The flesh around his eyes had shrunk, making the orbs appear huge in the sockets, but the green irises still radiated his penetrating intellect.

“How… the hell… are you… kid?” He clumped his words together, exhaling them out between breaths. He held up a large but emaciated hand. Pearce touched it gently, afraid to hurt him.

“Doing good. But look at you laying out. Isn’t there a junta you should be organizing somewhere?”

“Working… on… one… now. Gonna… take over… this place. More booze… less bingo.” He turned his head with effort. “Who’s… the pretty… lady?”

She laid a hand on his. “Margaret. It’s an honor to meet you.”

“You… with… him? Or does… a fellah… like me… still have… a chance?”

“Soon as you’re out of here, call me.” She winked and mimed a phone receiver to her ear.

A croak escaped Will’s throat, a laugh. And then a long bout of coughing, phlegmy and painful. He leaned forward, face reddened, choking.

“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry.” Myers snatched up a plastic sputum tray and held it beneath Will’s mouth. He coughed up yellow mucus tinged with blood, his eyes tearing from the effort. It dribbled on his lip and he spit, trying to clear it out of his mouth, and swatted at it clumsily with his hand. Will was a lifelong smoker and the cigarettes were finally killing him in the worst way. COPD was a bitch, like drowning in slow motion in a puddle of his own mucus.

Troy reached for a sanitary wipe and cleaned away the string hanging between his mouth and the tray. When he got it, Myers pulled the tray away and dumped it in the wastebasket, then pulled the basket over for Troy to toss the wipe. Myers grabbed two more wipes and cleaned off Will’s face and hands. Troy had only known a proud man, strong as an ox, but Will was beyond shame at this point. His eyes were grateful for the care.

“Never thought… I’d have… a president… wipe… my ass… for me.”

Myers squirted antibacterial into her hands from a bottle on the table. “So you knew who I was, did you?”

“I’m… a spook… I’m… supposed… to know… these things.”

Myers beamed. “Our country owes you a lot, Will. Thank you for your service.” Pearce had told her some of his storied exploits. Will was an old-school cold warrior and a fierce patriot. She fought back tears as Pearce squirted sanitizer into his hands.

“Just… keep… an eye… on this… guy… and… we’ll… call it… even.”

“That’s a deal.”

Will’s eyes turned toward the far wall, focusing on the large crucifix in front of him. Pearce watched him labor to catch his breath, finally calming down. A few minutes later, he turned back to Pearce.

“How… was… China?”

“How did you know?”

Myers swatted Pearce playfully. “He’s a spy, remember?”

“Everything worked out fine.”

“Then why… do you… look like… shit?” Pearce’s face still hadn’t fully healed from the beatings he’d received.

“You should’ve seen the other guy.”

Will nodded. “That’s… my boy.” His eyes searched Pearce’s face. He gathered his strength. “So why… the visit? Come… to see… an old man… die?”

“Yeah. You know any?” Pearce said.

Will’s eyes misted. “I… missed you… sport.”

“Me, too. Sorry I haven’t been around.”

Will smiled. He lifted his hand, made a weak sign of the cross in Pearce’s direction. “Te… absolvo… the priest… says that… a lot. I think… it means… dinner’s… at five.”

“I brought you something.” Pearce reached carefully into his shirt pocket.

“A new… pair of… lungs… I hope.”

Pearce held out a black-and-white photo, wallet-size and worn. A pretty young Vietnamese woman. ALL MY LOVE, 1965 written in a lovely feminine hand on the back.

Will’s big hands trembled as he took the photo. Brought it close to his face. His eyes widened. Stared at it as if he were looking into the face of God.

“How?”

“I’m a spook, too. Remember?”

Will’s face beamed as if he were a monk witnessing a miracle.

Maybe it was a miracle, Pearce thought. He couldn’t believe it when a package from Hanoi arrived at the embassy just hours before he left for Hawaii. Dr. Pham had promised Pearce she’d pull a few strings to honor his request back on that helicopter. She said it was the least she could do for the man who had saved her brother’s life, as well as her own.

Pearce knew that when Will and his dad were captured by the Viet Cong they would’ve been stripped of all of their personal effects for intel, and then those items would’ve been shipped off to central headquarters for analysis and, later, storage. Communists were mostly evil shits, but they were fanatical about storing and organizing the things they stole from other people. Knowing Will was with the CIA probably gave his Hanoi case file even greater importance. Pearce hoped Dr. Pham could find Will’s case file, along with his dad’s. Apparently, she had.

“Your wife?” Myers asked.

Will smiled with his eyes. Nodded.

“And then there’s this.” Pearce unfolded a piece of tissue paper. A small silver crucifix was inside, heavily tarnished. Will reached for it. Took it in his long fingers. Tried to open the delicate clasp.

“Here.” Myers took the chain and opened it as Pearce helped Will lean forward. She draped it around his withered neck and fastened the clasp. Pearce helped him lie back down. Will fingered the Christ, hardly believing his good fortune.

“Still fits,” Myers said, patting his other hand.

“I… converted… to marry… her. She… insisted. Her father… too.”

Will shut his eyes, mouth open in a loose smile, lost in a memory.

“God bless you,” Myers said. She stroked his weary head and whispered a prayer. She hadn’t been to confession since she was a child or Mass since high school. But old habits die hard.

Moments later, his smile disappeared and his mouth opened wider. His breaths were short and shallow.

“I think he’s asleep. We should go,” Myers said.

“Yeah. We’ll come back tomorrow.” He took her hand in his, and they slipped quietly out of the room.

They returned the next day. Will had died during the night, taking last rites with a priest, clutching his wife’s photo and the crucifix as he prayed. The nun said he went peacefully.

They drove back to the hotel in silence.

At his suggestion, Myers picked up the phone to order room service while Pearce headed for the shower. She worried about him. A lot had happened in the last few days. He’d lost people he’d loved and took the lives of many more. Not many men could handle that.

She wasn’t sure how he liked his steak, so she hung up the phone and stepped into the steaming granite-and-glass bathroom to ask. He was curled up on the shower floor, weeping like a child, scalding water blistering his skin. She rushed in, slammed the shower off, gathered him up in her arms, and lay on the wet stone floor with him, holding him until his sobs gave way to a fitful, trembling sleep.