Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (24 page)

 
          
No
response. Technicians were still trying to remove the heavy metallic gloves
from Patrick’s hands and undo the suit’s fasteners, so Carmichael bent lower
over Patrick and put his ear to his mouth.

 
          
“He’s
stopped breathing, cut the suit off—” An assistant hesitated, looking first at
Patrick, then Carmichael. “I said cut it off.
Now.
” Carmichael put his face up to Patrick’s. “Patrick, wake
up,
dammit!” He grabbed a pair of steel
cutters from one of the technicians as the medical team removed the oxygen mask
and inserted a breathing tube down Patrick’s throat, then grabbed a wire-laced
seam of the suit and made a twelve-inch cut across Patrick’s chest with the
ultrasonic cutting tool, exposing the thin cotton undergarments soaked with
sweat. “Get a heart monitor over here!” He ripped open the underwear to expose
McLanahan’s chest. He studied Patrick’s face as the airway was opened and the
respirator started. The eyes were fluttering and his facial muscles were contorting
as if he was locked in some nightmare.

 
          
Then
J. C. Powell stepped up on the catwalk opposite Carmichael. As
electrocardiogram leads were taped to McLanahan’s chest, Powell took Patrick’s
head in his hands and bent down to his left ear:

 
          
“Wake
up, boss,” he said in a firm, quiet voice. “Show’s over, Colonel. Wake up.”

 
          
Carmichael
studied the EKG readouts. “No pulse. Straight line. Charge the defibrillator
units. Powell, get out of the way.”

 
          
J.C.
ignored him. “Patrick, this is J.C. I know you can hear me—”

 
          
“He
can’t hear a damn thing,” Carmichael said. “Now stand clear—”

 
          
“He
can hear me, he knows what’s happening. He can feel everything. He just needs a
direction—”

 
          
“What
the hell are you talking about?”

 
          
J.C.
did not answer. Instead, he placed both of Patrick’s hands on his shoulders,
moved as close as he could and said, “Patrick, you
can
hear me. Listen to me. ANTARES isn’t in charge now.
You
are in control.
Wake up.
”

 
          
“He’s
been unconscious too long, Powell,” Carmichael said. A medical technician
handed him two electrode paddles from the heart defibrillator. “He’ll die if we
don’t revive him.”

 
          
“And
you’ll kill him if you shock him with that.” Powell grabbed Patrick by his
flight suit and hauled him up as far out of the ejection seat as he could.
“Patrick!” he yelled. “Dammit, I said
wake
up!”

 
          
Suddenly
McLanahan’s eyes popped open. He grabbed J.C.’s shoulder in a crushing grip
that made Powell wince. He gagged on the resuscitator tube in his throat and
pulled it out, his chest heaving. Powell eased him back into his seat.

 
          
“Sinus
rhythm,” one of the paramedics reported. “Blood pressure high but strong. Heart
rate, respiration okay.”

 
          
“Are
you all right?”

 
          
“I
... I think so.”

 
          
Carmichael
started to put the oxygen mask on his face again but Patrick pulled it away,
choosing instead to take occasional deep breaths from it.

 
          
“It
was so weird,” McLanahan said, trying hard to control his breathing. He seemed
to be reviewing, reliving, the scene in his mind. “I was watching the intercept
and the kill like a spectator. ANTARES was doing it all. It was like I wasn’t
there. But I felt the pain building and building, and ANTARES getting stronger
and stronger, along with the pain. But then I couldn’t do anything. I knew I
still had to fly the aircraft on ground-position freeze but I couldn’t give any
commands. I felt like . . . like a million hornets were buzzing all around me.
I knew those hornets carried information, important data I need to know, and I
knew something was wrong. But with the pain, I couldn’t do a thing . . .
Suddenly everything was dark and empty. I didn’t have a body, just a brain. I
was searching for a way out of a room but didn’t know how I was going to make
it even if I found an exit. That’s when I heard J.C.’s voice. The more I heard,
the more ... alive I felt. I followed his voice . . . I . . .” His voice began
to fade, and he appeared to be drifting off to sleep.

 
          
“Get
him out of here,”
Carmichael
ordered.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
He
woke up later to find Wendy Tork asleep in a chair beside his bed, a magazine
across her lap. “Wendy?”

 
          
She
came upright. “Patrick? You’re awake! How do you feel?”

 
          
“Tired.
Thirsty.” She poured him a glass of water from a plastic pitcher, then rang for
the nurse. “I feel like I’ve just paddled a kayak across the Pacific.” He found
he had the strength to sit up and take the cup in his hands. “What time is it?”

 
          
“Nine
P.M.”

 
          
“I’ve
been asleep for twelve hours?”

 
          
“Patrick,
it’s nine
P.M.
on
Saturday.
You’ve been asleep for
forty-eight hours.”

 
          
The
water glass began to tremble in his hands, and he quickly set it on the bedside
table. “Was I in a coma?”

 
          
“No—well,
technically, yes,” Wendy said, moving close to him and taking his hands in
hers. “They called it extreme exhaustion and depletion. You lost seven pounds
while you were in that simulator. You could have hurt yourself even without the
strain that. . . that thing put on you. Are you sure you’re okay?”

 
          
He
sat up and took a few sips of water. Nothing was said until he asked, “How long
have you been here?”

 
          
“I
never left. I ... I wanted to talk some more about the other night. I know how
it is for you—”

 
          
“Works
both ways, kid.” He let out a tired sigh and his head dropped back to the
pillow. He managed a short laugh. “I think I know why Doctor Jekyll drank his
own potions. You want something to be so successful that you’ll try anything,
even making yourself into your own guinea pig. I never should have strapped
myself into that simulator. I wasn’t ready for it.”

 
          
“It
must have been terrible.”

 
          
“It
was . . . different,” he said uneasily. “I have to give guys like James and
Powell all the credit in the world for flying the real thing, never mind the
simulator. It’s an awesome contraption if you can keep yourself from going
crazy.”

 
          
“Talk
about going crazy,” a voice said behind them. They turned to see General
Elliott and Hal Briggs enter the hospital room. Hal went over to Patrick and
clasped hands with him. “You had the whole place going crazy, brother.”

 
          
McLanahan
thought that Elliott looked drawn, tired, as if he hadn’t slept in days. His
blue blouse was sweat-stained and rumpled, and he seemed to favor his
artificial leg more than usual. “How do you feel, Patrick?”

 
          
“Fine,
sir.” A damn lie.

 
          
“Takin’
a nap for a day and a half, you should be fine,” Hal put in.

 
          
“We
can do that SPO conference tomorrow after I get out of here,” Patrick said to
Elliott.

 
          
“I
think we’ve all had enough for the weekend, Colonel,” Elliott said. “I’ve
scheduled a meeting with the senior project officers and the engineering staff
for Monday morning. You’re on sick leave until then. Clear?”

 
          
But
something else hung in the air—Elliott was showing more than just concern for
him. Elliott turned to Wendy. “Can I have him for a few minutes?”

 
          
“Visiting
hours are over.” She went to Patrick and kissed him. “I’ll come by at nine to
bail you out.” Wendy nodded to Elliott and left. Briggs took a big glass of
Patrick’s ice water and moved unobtrusively in front of the door, casually but
effectively blocking it.

 
          
“You
gave us a scare, Patrick,” Elliott said. Patrick sat up and watched as Elliott
began to pace the small room. This, Patrick thought, was not an ordinary
get-well visit. “I hope you’ll forgive me for suggesting that you train in the
ANTARES simulator for this project—”

 
          
“On
the contrary, General, I
wanted
to do
it. It was a part of the project. I think we should continue—”

 
          
“You’re
not expendable. I can’t go on using my senior officers for experiments—”

 
          
“I’m
a flyer first,” McLanahan said quickly. “You needed someone with operational
experience to see how well a non- ANTARES-trained person could adapt to the
system. I was a logical choice.”

 
          
“We’ve
got flyers lined up around the block for a chance to do that. I can’t risk you
again. From here on out, no more ANTARES simulator for you.”

 
          
Patrick
was just too tired to argue. “Who then?” he said. He turned to Briggs. “Hal,
you’ve got the latest clearance-list of applicants. Bring the list by my office
and I’ll—”

 
          
“I
had a talk with Dr. Carmichael early this morning,” the director of HAWC said.
His tone was low, somber, like he was delivering a eulogy. “At this stage of
the game we could put a hundred men through that system and we wouldn’t be any
closer to understanding how it really affects the human mind. There are just too
many unknowns. And we just don’t have the resources to study each and every one
of them—”

 
          
“All
it takes is time and training. I’ve been working with ANTARES for just a few
months—”

 
          
“And
it nearly killed you,” Briggs cut in.

 
          
“I
flew it in combat after only four months of work,” McLanahan said. “I’m not a
pilot but I flew the hottest jet in the world with only four months’ training.”

 
          
“It’s
not the same and you know it, Patrick . . .”

 
          
“I’ve
made progress. I’ve taken the worst that machine can dish out. I can control it
now. Besides, I’m an old fart. I’m forty years old. A guy half my age could
master that machine a lot easier. Don’t judge the whole program because of what
happened to me—”

 
          
“Unfortunately
we must,” Elliott said. “We aren’t getting the information we need from only
one successful pilot in the program. We were hoping the progress you and Powell
had made could clear the way for a more extensive ANTARES training program, but
now it appears that we can’t adequately quantify the experiences of any
participant. What happens to you, or rather
why
it happens, is an unknown. We can’t have training based on hit-or-miss
procedures—we’ll end up killing half the trainees.”

 
          
McLanahan
shook his head. “So you’re really considering canceling the DreamStar project
because of my incident the other day?”

 
          
“There
are other considerations, which you’re aware of. We do spend half a billion
dollars a year for a plane that many congressmen may not ever see fly in their
lifetimes. They hesitate continuing the funding, especially if there’s some
pork- barrel projects in their home districts that could get them a political
leg up in
this
lifetime . . . And of
course there’s the security question.” Elliott glanced at Briggs, who remained
stone-faced. “Our security problems have tended to overshadow our advances. The
way of least resistance for these Pentagon officials is simple—terminate the
project, continue lower funding levels for research into the ANTARES interface
but discontinue all flight operations and plans for development and
deployment.”