“Ted, just know that he’s a soldier, and he can do soldierly things. It’s not like we’re trying to fix up a civilian here to do these things.”
“It’s risky,” Tedaues said, “and unethical.”
The colonel looked at him hard.
“I’ll have him ready.”
“That’s all I’m asking.” The colonel unlocked the door, opening it as a dim light flowed into the dark room, then turned his head and looked over his shoulder. “If you’re still worried about our boy here, you’re welcome to accompany him on his mission when the time comes… to keep an eye on him.”
“Yeah, right,” Tedaues said with a chuckle. “I’ve been on enough of those. The only cutting I want to do is with this scalpel.” The shiny blade glistened in the crease of light.
“Call me in an hour,” Rampert said.
He nodded as the colonel departed and turned back toward the treadmill. The patient was on his seventh mile, no slack in his pace. Truly amazing.
He had given a dead man a new life… only to send him to his death.
CHAPTER 13
Meredith sat in the video teleconference room of the alternate command post in Middleburg. It was equipped with bright lights, a large plasma screen, and two cameras. The vice president was seated to her left. No one else was in the VTC room with them, though the Pentagon and White House were also connected. Meredith noticed the secretary of defense, Robert Stone, and chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General “Shark” Shepanski, on the Pentagon feed. President Davis and Roger Houghton, the CIA director, were on the White House feed. Too many people, she thought.
Colonel Jack Rampert began speaking and talked with a slight country drawl Meredith couldn’t exactly place, maybe Arkansas, or Texas. Somewhere in the South, she was sure. Wearing his Army-green uniform, he looked every bit the elite warrior that his reputation purported him to be. His crew-cut hair, rough-hewn face, and lean frame fed the image of his standing as a no-nonsense combat veteran.
The surgeon who had operated on the man they called Boudreaux was seated next to Rampert. Meredith guessed he was in his late thirties, handsome, but he seemed to have a certain hardness that was out of synch with the rest of his character. Perhaps all of these guys were that way. They have killed and have been shot at who knows how many times. It probably took something different to deal with that lifestyle.
“This is Dr. Ted Tedaues,” Rampert said. “He’s our surgeon, and quite frankly, one of the best all-around doctors in the country. He’s jumped into combat from an airplane flying five hundred feet above the ground; he’s been on multiple special operations missions that served the vital interests of this nation; over the past year he has helped Boudreaux rehabilitate from combat wounds, and now he is ensuring Boudreaux is ready for Operation Maple Thunder.”
Rampert’s voice trailed the movement of his lips because the secure satellite delayed transmission of the visual images by a fraction of a second. Meredith watched as Rampert punched a button on a remote, causing a PowerPoint slide to appear on the VTC screen.
“This chart shows our patient’s progression over the past eight months. He was in a solid coma for two months,” Tedaues explained, pointing at a matrix on the chart. “He first showed signs of recovery in September of last year. His right hand had a muscle spasm, not altogether uncommon for coma patients.” He paused and looked at Rampert, then flipped another slide onto the projector. It was a picture of a skeleton with muscle mass.
“But what followed was an immediate contraction of the bicep, here, and an extension of the forearm muscle, here. For two weeks we had no other movement.”
Tedaues paused again and Meredith began to wonder where all of this was leading.
“Then we saw a series of similar muscle movements in the opposing arm and in both legs. It was as if the patient was trying to force himself out of the coma. Really quite extraordinary. Naturally we had twenty-four-hour camera coverage of his entire body. In early October the patient lifted his head and opened his eyes.”
Another pause and another chart.
“From that point, he was officially conscious and registered a three on a fifteen-point scale that certified neurosurgeons use to classify coma patients. Our patient was different, however, than others that I have worked with and any other that I could find in my research. From the moment he became conscious, he had almost all of his physical capabilities. Only his cognitive abilities lagged behind his ability to move, sit up, and shortly thereafter, walk.”
Meredith cocked her head. Remarkable.
“This individual, before going into his coma, was an impressive physical specimen. He remains one today. Throughout his dormant stages, his body would go through a series of muscle spasms every day. Over time it appeared as though his subconscious was performing isometrics, stationary exercises. For example, his bicep would tighten for about a minute then relax. Then his forearm would flex, and relax. Most of his major muscle groups got some form of isometrics every day. Craziest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Who is this person?” Hellerman asked.
Rampert interjected quickly and said, “His name is Winslow Boudreaux. He’s from Louisiana. He is a special operations soldier. And he is ready for the mission.”
Meredith looked at the vice president, wondering why he would ask that question. Her curiosity was piqued. She turned back toward the VTC screen, looking at the chart and then the doctor. She also wanted to ask what the patient’s real name was but knew she would be rebuked. Even at her level, these things were best kept secret. Plausible deniability was a very real fact of life in the national security business and knowing just a bit of Rampert’s reputation for risk-taking, Meredith logged a red flag in the back of her mind.
“For the past two months, he has been more physically active than most Olympic athletes,” Tedaues said. “Every day he has been running, swimming, jumping from airplanes, lifting weights, and training with weapons.”
“Mentally?” Meredith asked.
Tedaues hesitated, looking at Rampert. “Operationally, he’s fine. He only lacks a recollection of experiences prior to his coma. But his instincts are formidable. He cannot tell you, for example, his name or phone number prior to his accident, but from the minute he woke up, he has been an expert marksman, just like before.”
Meredith sighed and looked down at the table. This was a more complicated problem than she had originally considered.
The door opened, producing a short male dressed in a blue blazer, white shirt, and red tie, with khaki pants. He looked harried, racing toward Hellerman. Ralph Smithers, Meredith noticed. Usually the bearer of bad news.
“Sir, we’ve got a confirmation. Over five hundred passengers and crew members were killed in the train derailment. We’re still working the Charlotte Coliseum and Mall of America, but it’s… it’s bad,” he said.
The VTC room fell silent, and Meredith could tell that everyone in the president’s situation room and the Joint Operations Center at Fort Bragg had heard Ralph’s comment.
“When can he go in?” The president’s voice was crisp and sure.
“Sir, he’s ready now.” Rampert’s voice was decisive.
Meredith looked at Hellerman and nodded. He returned her knowing glance. They were about to send Frankenstein to meet Ballantine.
The vice president turned to the video camera with a confident stare. “Mr. President, I recommend we execute Maple Thunder, now.”
CHAPTER 14