That meant, as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t sit around in the ready room all day, drinking coffee and fending off pilots who wanted to sleep their lives away.
She found the ladder she was looking for and descended from the gallery deck, also known as the “oh three” level, to the second deck. Located just beneath the hangar, it was the first level above the ship’s waterline and home to most of the amenities — few as they were — that made shipboard life bearable. The ship’s store, post office, laundromat, and enlisted mess halls were all on that level. Wedged between them was the main medical department, known as “Sickbay.”
“What’s the latest, HM1?” Doc asked when she walked in and saw First Class Hospital Corpsman Diona Browne making notes in a medical chart.
“Just the usual, ma’am. Fever, cough, nasal congestion, and sore throat,” she replied.
“Anything we need to be concerned about?”
Diona shook her head. “Nobody has been too bad. I gave them decongestants and ibuprofen and sent them on their way.”
Doc nodded and took a seat on a stool located in the Sickbay’s ward where sailors came to be treated. Not unexpectedly, more than a few came with the hopes of receiving an “SIQ” chit — or Sick in Quarters — that permitted them to remain in their racks instead of toiling in the machine shops or on the flight deck. But for those who were genuinely ill, it was an opportunity for them to receive medical treatment and return to duty as quickly as possible. Fortunately, both types were relatively rare, despite the closeness of almost six thousand people.
“Just wait until after our next port call,” Doc said.
Diona laughed. “I’ve already put in the requisition for more penicillin.”
Doc furrowed her brow as she tried remembering where their next port call was. “We’re not going to Thailand next, are we?”
The first class petty officer deposited the completed chart in the filing cabinet, then picked out another. “Busan, I think.”
“South Korea,” Doc mused. “Could be just as bad.”
“That’s why I requested it.”
14
Lisa floated in a lake. No, it was an ocean. The water was clear, and she saw a sandy bottom and bright, colorful fish swimming under her. The water was warm. No, it was cold. Her body tensed as the gentle swells carried her up and down, and she struggled to find comfort. Then, suddenly she realized she wasn’t wearing a swimsuit. Not a one-piece. Not a two-piece. She was naked and exposed to the world, and she tried lifting her head from the water to see if anybody was watching from shore.
But she couldn’t lift her head. It felt like a hand pressed down on her, holding her face in the water and forcing her to look at the sandy bottom. No, it was rocky. The water wasn’t clear. It was dark and murky, and creatures slithered in and out of view as she fought against the hand on the back of her head. For a moment, she forgot she was naked or worried who might see. Her lungs burned for oxygen, and she needed to breathe.
I’m drowning.
She opened her mouth and felt a shock of cold water rushing in, threatening to invade her lungs. She wanted to scream but kept the air sealed tight in her chest, concerned what might happen if she gave in to panic.
Suddenly, it stopped. She felt the hand release her head, and she tried lifting it but discovered she wasn’t floating facedown in the water at all. She was lying flat on her back on a concrete floor with unseen hands pinning her arms to either side, the surrounding darkness caused by a burlap sack still over her head. She opened her mouth to breathe and inhaled icy water that she quickly expelled with a violent coughing fit.
“Again,” the emotionless voice said.
The burlap sack pressed tighter against her face before a deluge of water poured over her nose and mouth. Her lungs screamed for air, and her mind swirled in a panic as the biting water filled her nasal cavities and mouth. She coughed and choked and struggled to keep from being pulled under into the turbid abyss.
I’m drowning!
Then the water stopped. Again, she used every ounce of breath in her chest to clear her mouth, then quickly gasped. Before she could fill her lungs, the onslaught resumed. She tried closing her throat off before inhaling any but was too late. Her vocal cords spasmed and seized up, and she once again teetered on the precipice of passing out. Her body relaxed as she succumbed to the inevitable, incorrectly believing that blacking out would save her from the torture.
Again, the water stopped.
They ripped the hood from her head, and she coughed, fighting to breathe. The room’s brightness stunned her, but through her good eye she could make out three uniformed guards and a man in a suit she had never seen before. She locked her eyes on him, silently pleading for him to make it stop.
“Lisa Mitchell,” he said, using the fake last name from her airline crew identification badge. “We know you have stolen from us, shagua.”
She recognized the term of endearment that literally meant “silly melon” but shook her head vigorously to deny the accusation. “No… I’m just a flight attendant.”
He knelt over her naked body and held a flash drive in front of her face. Seeing it reminded her why she was there and shored up her weakened resolve.
“We know Shen Yu gave this to you,” he said. “There is no sense in denying it.”
She rocked her head from side to side. Her throat was still constricted, and she was only able to draw in brief wisps of air. As much as she wanted to speak and deny the accusation, she focused all her energy on breathing. On staying conscious. On staying alive.
But he was unfazed by her silence. “Who do you work for?”
She worked her mouth to answer, but no sound escaped.
He leaned closer and brought his ear near her lips. “Who?”
“Delta,” she whispered in a raspy voice.
He made a soft clucking sound, then stood and placed the flash drive back into his pocket as he looked down on her with sadness in his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you, shagua.”
When the hood snapped down over her head again, she reflexively gasped and took a deep breath before the water came. But it never did. The hands pinning her down lifted her to her feet. The sudden motion left her disoriented and woozy, as if the room had started spinning around her.
The voice whispered in her ear. “One more chance. Who do you work for?”
She wanted more than anything for the torture to end and to go home. She wanted to be warm. She wanted to be clothed. She wanted to feel something other than pain radiating from every part of her body. Lisa broke down and cried.
Without warning, a fist slammed into her stomach and knocked the wind out of her. The invisible hands holding her up prevented her from doubling over from the blow, then dragged her limp body across the floor. Before she could recover from the punch, they picked her up and set her down in what felt like a box.
They crossed her ankles and drove her down onto her knees. Even through the pain, it felt different than the concrete floor she had been sequestered to. They pulled her body back so her buttocks rested on her heels and pushed until the pressure against her ankles became unbearable.
Before she could shift her weight to find a modicum of comfort, they bent her body over at the waist and brought her hooded face within inches of her knees, her thighs pressing against her bruised breasts. The hands twisted her arms and pulled them behind her back before abruptly letting go. She tried sitting up but met solid wood pushing down on her from above.