Silver Tower

CHAPTER 29

Jason Saint-Michael woke up to find a warm hand entwined in his. He tried to speak but what he could manage was a rasping croak. He squeezed the hand tight as he could, and after a moment felt a rustling near him. "Jason?" The sound of her voice was life, itself to him. He squeezed her hand again. "Thank God… "

He opened his eyes but found his vision blurry, his eyelids heavy and oily feeling. "What is it?" Another female voice. "He's awake. He squeezed my hand."

"Are you sure?" He felt a movement near him, then a cold hand in place of the warm one. "General Saint-Michael? Can you hear me?"

He still couldn't see anything but could feel her near him. He moved a hand up and out slowly across a warm metal railing and rested it back onto the warm hand that had been pushed out of the way.

"I'll get the doctor." The cold hand went away. He was determined not to let go of the warm one again.

"Don't go."

"I won't. I'm right here."

"My… eyes…"

"Wait." A moment later a dry towel was being wiped across his eyelids and forehead. He blinked a few more times, and the focus began to come back… He was in a small white… what else?… hospital room. Ann was standing over him, his hand in hers. Her small, angular face was surrounded by long, thick hair, the ponytail now wrapped back and looped over her right shoulder. He tried to squeeze her hand again but his strength had seemed to drain away. He did manage a sort of smile. "You look good," he said. "I wish I could say the same of you," she said, smiling too brightly.

He ran a dry tongue across his lips. "Get me some water, will you?"

She poured a cup of water and held it for him as he drank. The water backed up slightly in his throat, but he forced some more down and felt much better. "God," she said, "now I know what it feels like to—"

Ann had lost her smile and was looking past him. He studied her face, realizing it was thinner than before. The tighter she held his hand, the softer her voice sounded, and the more worried he became.

Who knew how many things she was keeping from him, so he picked the easiest, he thought. "How long have I been out?"

Her eyes came to his. "What do you mean…?" As soon as she said it, she realized how evasive it sounded.

He held up one of his hands, touching the palm with the index finger of his other. "Smooth. I had calluses before." He forced a bit of the old steel in his voice, which took more effort than he expected. "Ann, how long?"

"Jason, you've been in a coma for three weeks. Almost four."

It registered in his head, but he found he could dismiss it. It didn't matter how long he had been out — the important thing was, he was awake. He experimented with moving various muscle groups in his legs, arms and shoulders and found them all responsive but weak. "All parts seem to be working. Hey, come on, I'm okay." He put his left hand down on the bed and found he had enough strength to push himself upright a few inches. Even that slight movement cheered him. "Damn, I feel like I've just woken up from a long nap. I feel good, really. Four weeks racked out, huh? What else?"

She didn't get a chance to reply. A white-robed physician had come into the room and put himself between them. "Welcome back, General. I'm Captain Matsui. You're at Bethesda Naval Hospital. How do you feel?"

"A little weak, thirsty, hungry as hell."

"Good, good and good. All good signs. No stiffness, headaches, chest pains?"

"No. Should there be?" Matsui hesitated. "Have a seat, doc. Let's have the gory details." Matsui sat down, the cheerful smile fading a bit. "Give it to me straight. I can take it."

"It's not quite that dramatic, General, although you did give us a few scares. You were suffering from dysbarism on board the Enterprise.

"I suspected it."

"You got hit with the worst form of it," Matsui said. "Cerebral dysbarism. Big bubbles of nitrogen lodged in your cerebral cortex. Lucky for you, Dr. Page here got you into Enterprise's airlock and back to normal atmospheric pressure so fast. You were probably only a few minutes from complete cerebral dysfunction."

Saint-Michael looked at Ann. "How about her, doc? Is she all right?"

"She was in no danger. She used her POS longer, she was in the properly inflated rescue ball long enough and stayed with you in the airlock for nearly thirty hours. She's in good condition. You, however, are not out of the woods. As a matter of fact, it's been touch-and-go until today. You never woke up, and you had seizures, possibly even a heart attack, as your body continued to throw off the nitrogen. You—"

"I think that's about all the gory details I care to hear right now, doc. Thing is I'm alive, I'm up and I'm ready to get out of here. I suppose you're going to say that's impossible."

"On the contrary, General, let's make a few blood tests, an EKG and EEG. You may need some physical therapy — you were in space for several months and in a coma for four weeks, after all. I'd say your heart and other muscles at least need some toning up. If they all check out you'll be clear of here in a few days. Meantime, get some rest." Matsui looked directly at Ann, then left with the nurse.

"Rest, hell," Saint-Michael said after Matsui was out of earshot. "That's their answer for everything. I've been in a damned coma for four weeks, what do I need more rest for?" He took Ann's hands in his again. "I'm glad you're here. When I heard your voice—"

He stopped, looked at her uneasily.

She pretended not to notice. "I've been here every day since we got back, Jason. I—"

He pulled her closer. "This is no sudden conversion or confession, Ann. It's just a chance to say what I've felt and covered up too long. It's as unprofessional as all get-out, but the fact is…"

"Same here, Jason." And she leaned down and kissed him. "Action speaks louder than words for the likes of us. Right?"

"Damn right… but I've got to know about the station. They didn't take it out altogether, did they?"

"It's still up there. But—"

"Good. After Matsui and his buddies finish poking at me I'll get together with Jim Walker and the others and we'll draft a plan to get the station going again. We'll—" He stopped short, she was looking away from him. "What is it, Ann? Come on, level with me."

She thought she'd never get it out. "Walker and Jefferson and—"

"What about them?"

No rep)y. "We got them into the lifeboat, Ann. I ejected them myself. They were all right before the attack…"

"There was an accident… At least they said it was an accident—"

"What the hell kind of an accident? A malfunction? Did the lifeboat—"

"They're dead, Jason. One of the Russian spaceplanes shot it down, destroyed it." He said nothing. "The Russian pilot has claimed he thought it was one of our antisatellite missiles. He said it came out of nowhere, no identification signals, no visible markings. He said it followed him just before he was going to deorbit, so he fired a missile at it… Walker, Marks and Jefferson died right away. Moyer was hurt during the depressurization. He lived long enough to report the attack and try to make repairs, but he couldn't, the damage was too bad and he couldn't get the others into rescue balls fast enough and… Oh, God, Jason, they're all dead, everyone, dead."

He took hold of her by the shoulders and held her close, feeling her body shake as the tears came. A nurse entered the room, left quickly. He just held her while she cried. And this was the woman he'd once thought was so cold and unemotional. Wrong again. Hell, he felt himself close to tears, thinking of those men in the lifeboat, dying in the frigid, airless void of space.

"When were they retrieved?"

She shook her head.

"They're still up there?"

"Shuttle flights have been suspended except for evacuation trips to the industrial space stations. The Soviets keep saying that the attack on the lifeboat was an accident, but their general secretary has also said that attacks on U.S. military manned and unmanned spacecraft will continue—"

Anger was burning inside him, giving him strength to come to a sitting position in bed. "They're just shooting at anything we launch? We can't let them get away with it—"

"You're not going to do anyone any good if you can hardly move, let alone get up and walk out of the hospital. Let the doctors examine you. I'll help with your therapy. Before you'll now it you'll be—"

"We've got to get organized" — He was ignoring her now— "Start holding planning sessions right here. I'll need you to set things up for me. By the time I get out of here—"

"Whoa… " a voice said behind Ann. "I've just arrived, and you're leaving already?"

She turned, and Saint-Michael looked over her shoulder to find U.S. Space Command head Martin Stuart coming through the door. Stuart had been appointed administrative head of Space Command after Saint-Michael had declared a preference for a duty assignment aboard Armstrong Space Station. "How you feeling, General? I just got the word that you're back with us."

"I'm feeling fine. Looks like I'll be checking out of here pretty quickly. Sir, I'd like to meet with you soon as possible about reactivating Armstrong."

"Jason, easy," Stuart said. He looked at Ann without really recognizing her. "What about this man… Just woke up from three weeks in a coma and he's ready to blast off again—"

"I feel this is urgent, I think we—"

"Hold on, stop a minute. The doctors tell me you've got at least two weeks of rehabilitation here before you'll be able to get around the way you used to. After that the procedure is at least a month of convalescent leave. We can't even begin your medical reevaluation for duty until you come back from convalescent leave."

"That can be moved up, sir. With the situation in the Persian Gulf, I know these things can be signed off in no time. I also know I'll be able to pass a flight physical after I get out of here. I guarantee it."

"We can't afford to just 'sign you off,' Jason. You're an astronaut, not in undergraduate pilot training. We'll go through all the channels to make sure there's no doubt in anyone's mind about your fitness for duty. Then we'll see about getting you cleared for flight duty. It may take a few weeks to convene a flight evaluation board, maybe more. Then we—"

"So there's doubt in people's minds about my fitness for duty?"

"I didn't say that." He looked again at Ann standing in the corner and finally recognized her. "Did you tell him about the lifeboat, Page?"

"Yes, sir."

"That should have waited for the debriefing. You —"

"I think it's a disgrace that it hasn't been retrieved yet," Saint-Michael interrupted. "I'd like to know the reason."

Stuart's face tightened. "All manned space flights have been postponed until the Russians' intentions are made clear. We—"

"I know a dozen shuttle and spaceplane pilots who'll volunteer to bring those men home."

"That's really not relevant—"

"What the hell are we waiting for, General?" Saint-Michael was half-rising out of his bed. "Are we waiting for the Russians to retrieve the lifeboat for us?"

"Goddamn it, Jason…" General Stuart looked over his shoulder at the closed door, at Ann, then back at Saint-Michael. "You've been through a lot, General. Do yourself a favor and get some rest." He fidgeted uneasily with his flight cap, nodded to Ann, and left the room.

When the door closed behind Stuart, Saint-Michael let his head fall back onto his pillow, "Nice going, Jas," he muttered to himself.

Ann sat at the edge of the bed. "This has been tough for everyone, Jason. Most people feel like you do — that it's outrageous to have the bodies of thirteen scientists and technicians stranded in space. They're calling for a rescue mission and retaliation if the Russians try to stop them. The Russians are saying that we won't rescue anybody but will put nuclear weapons in orbit to force them to withdraw from the Persian Gulf. They're threatening to escalate the war in the Middle East if we try sending anything up to the space station."

Saint-Michael rubbed his temples. "I never felt so damn powerless before. What, are the Russians doing in the Gulf? Have they occupied Iran yet?"

"Things are still pretty much the same. Iran is divided in two. The Russians control the northern two-thirds of the Persian Gulf. Our rapid deployment force and the navy control the Strait of Hormuz. Each side makes several raids a week trying to get a toehold in the region but they're always pushed back. A stalemate…"

He shook his head. "Something's bound to crack pretty soon. He reached to pour himself another cup of water. "Either we both move to neutral comers pretty damn quick or someone's going to come out swinging. I just hope we can control the escalation when it happens…"

"I haven't been given a full intelligence briefing," Ann said, "but we hear on the news it's getting harder and harder for the Russian naval forces to get fuel from their gulf suppliers. They must be getting pretty desperate for fuel if they—"

She stopped and turned back toward Saint-Michael. He was holding trembling hands tightly over his face, and he was jerking up from the waist as if he was doing short simps, His breath came out in low, guttural grunts.

"Jason? Jason."

"Ann… oh, God, I'm starting to feel it again…"

She sat down on the bed beside him, reached out to him and held his trembling body against hers. He shivered again, she could feel tears on her neck. The last barrier had been broken. She reached for the nurse's call button, pressed it, then wrapped her arms around him as convulsions shook his body.