The War Cloud

22

Inside the Nightwatch infirmary, Sachs recoiled as Nordquist flicked the long needle of a syringe with his finger until some clear liquid spurted out. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” he said as he approached her with the hypodermic. “You’ll feel a lot better after this.”

She braced herself against the edge of the surgical table. “Lieutenant, there is no way in hell that you’re going to drug me with whatever is in that thing.”

“Propofol,” he said, reaching for her arm. “A sedative-hypnotic drug to put you to sleep. It’s terrific. No side effects like hangover or nausea. Trust me, you’ll feel a lot better when you wake up.”

She leaned against the surgical table, trying to escape his grasp.

“This is for your own good, ma’am,” he said, trying to jab her.

She arched over the table until she was almost on her back. But before he could take another swipe, she leaned back in a rocking motion, lifting her legs and then shoving both feet into his gut, pushing him back against the opposite wall. His head slammed against a cabinet and he dropped to the floor, writhing in pain.

She jumped off the table and grabbed the hypodermic he had dropped on the floor. He was trying to get back on his feet, and she couldn’t let him or he’d overpower her. With a quick thrust she plunged the needle into his arm before he slapped her away.

He began to sway back and forth, even as he shook his head at her.

“That wasn’t nice,” he said and then collapsed into her arms.

“Your medicine, doc,” she said, barely able to hold up his weight. She eas down to the floor, where he lay unconscious.

As she stood up, she felt a terrific pain in her shoulder. The regional anesthetic was starting to wear off. Somehow she managed to put her bloody blouse back on and surveyed the room: three first-class seats, two bunk beds, a sink, a refrigerator for blood and medicines and a closet full of medical equipment.

Outside the compartment, beyond locked doors, were more of Koz’s crew. So she was going nowhere. Not at thirty thousand feet.

She had a hard time believing Kozlowski could be in on this. He was a uniform like General Marshall and Colonel Kyle. But the way he touched her face with his hand — it was warm and caring, like Richard’s. His actions, however, seemed to have proven otherwise.

Perhaps he would say the same of her, what with the chopper landing and now knocking out the good doctor. But this was self-defense, she determined as she looked down at the medic. And the odds were horribly uneven — one woman in a plane filled with trained soldiers. All she had on her side were two weeks dropping in on Jennifer’s Wing-Chun Kung-Fu class. She picked up no moves, only the idea to use anything available to strike back at your enemy, even his own weapons.

In this case, it was the doc’s own hypodermic.

She checked Nordquist on the floor. He was completely out, but the angle of his body seemed uncomfortable. The least she could do was slip a pillow under his head.

She began to search for one and then saw her purse on a counter. Her cell phone was still inside. She wondered if it would actually work, and, if it did, if anyone would answer. She desperately wanted to talk to Jennifer and her sister Dina, find out if they were OK, tell them she was fine. Which she wasn’t.

She picked up the purse, pulled out her phone and pressed the #2 key to dial Jennifer’s mobile number.