Devil's Gate

41

PAUL TROUT WAS SITTING UP in his hospital bed. His wife stood nearby. She’d been hugging and kissing him and squeezing his hand nonstop for an hour. It felt good despite all the other pains in his body.

His back ached. His head hurt and his thoughts came slowly, like he’d been overmedicated or had too many glasses of red wine. Still, he felt surprisingly good, considering what Gamay was telling him.

“I don’t remember any of that,” he said after hearing her explanation of the escape from the Grouper and the fact that he’d been in a coma for the past four days.

“What do you remember?” she asked.

He reached back, clawing at the darkness in his mind. Since he’d awoken, random thoughts had been popping into his head. Like a computer rebooting itself after an unexpected shutdown, it seemed as if his mind was reorganizing things. The smell of food from the commissary brought an odd thought to the forefront.

“I remember that one Thanksgiving in Santa Fe when you burned the turkey and then admitted that I was right about how to cook it.”

“What?” she said, laughing. “That’s what you remember?”

“Well…” he said. “To actually be right about something and have you admit it all in the same day was a pretty rare experience.”

She pursed her lips. “I’ve heard that people with head trauma sometimes come out of it with new skills they never had before. It hasn’t happened with you, my love. You were never a comedian and you’re still not.”

He laughed this time. His head felt as if it was clearing a bit more each second.

“I remember the sun shining off the sea,” he said. “And that we were getting ready to take the Grouper down. And I was thinking we shouldn’t both go.”

As it turned out they had worked together seamlessly and almost made it back to the surface. He didn’t remember it, but Gamay seemed to indicate that if he hadn’t been there she would have died.

“So what do we do now?” he asked.

She filled him in on the rest of the details, finishing with her next duty. “I’m flying out to an antisubmarine frigate in the Atlantic this time tomorrow. We’ll be working on the sonar tapes.”

Paul stared at her. He understood the call of duty and he wasn’t about to interfere. But he could not shake the great sense of almost having lost her even if he couldn’t recall the details.

He threw the sheet back. “I’m going with you,” he said, swinging a leg over the edge.

She put a hand on him. “Paul.”

“I’m out of the woods,” he insisted. “The doctor said so. Besides, I’ve worked with sonar a lot more than you have. Specifically, the GEO sounder unit on the Matador.”

He could tell she was against it and worried. After what had happened, who wouldn’t be? But he wasn’t staying behind.

He forced his way out of bed and stood, a little unsteady. He was so tall, the hospital gown looked like a miniskirt on him.

“Don’t these come in long?” he said.

Gamay continued pouting.

“We’ll be on a warship,” he said. “Armor plating, missiles, guns, torpedoes. We couldn’t be safer.”

She shook her head and then exhaled sharply. “Fine,” she said. “I never could talk sense into you anyway.”

He laughed, pressed the buzzer for the nurse, and started looking for a robe or something to cover himself up with.

“One thing,” she said seriously.

He turned.

“I’m not going back in the water,” she said.

He cocked his head. “What?”

“I’m not going back in the water,” she said. “Not in a submersible, not in a dive suit, or any other way. I’m not ready for that.”

As long as he’d known her, Gamay had never been afraid of anything, but the fear was plain in her voice now.

“You don’t remember it,” she said. “In some ways I think you’re lucky on that count. But it was horrible.”

“We’ll stay on deck,” he said. “Or in our air-conditioned quarters. Hopefully, near the mess and the soft-serve ice-cream machine.”

He grinned, hoping to coax a smile from her, but she didn’t offer one, and Paul began to worry about her in a way he never had before.