“You’re going to let that asshole dictate what you do?”
“He works directly for the Joint Chiefs, Boomer,” Forster explained.
“I think the best thing to do is to get you out of here before someone goes headhunting to lay blame for this mission. It’s for your own good. I’ll cover your ass and take care of things here.”
CHAPTER 2
The computer screen glowed in the darkened room. A woman sat in front of it, her glasses reflecting the electronic images. She was still except for the repetitive tapping of her right index finger on the scroll key.
As her finger brought forth the words, she read:
18 DECEMBER 1945. EARLY MORNING HEIDELBERG, GERMANY
“I’m dying, aren’t I?”
The nurse put down the book she had been reading and stood — it was necessary in order or the patient to be able to see her. His head was immobile; a large plaster collar had been placed around the neck earlier in the day to replace the surgical hooks that had been implanted in his cheeks eight days ago to keep the head immobile and relieve pressure on the spine.
Colonel Hill, the hospital commander, had left standing orders that everyone was to stand in easy eyesight of the patient when addressing him. Given who the patient was, they were orders no one dared disobey.
The nurse leaned over and wiped the slight sheen of sweat off the old man’s forehead without answering. The general bore her silence for almost ten seconds, the flinty eyes following her every movement.
“No one around here will tell me a damn thing,” he rasped.
“They act like I’m an old lady who can’t handle the truth. They even told me today that I’ll be flying home on the thirteenth.” He finally caught her with his eyes; the only way he could keep attention nowadays other than with his voice.
“You can tell me, and I give you my word that I won’t tell anyone.”
She met his gaze, her face blank, her voice flat.
“Yes.
You’re dying.”
A slight sigh was the only sign he’d heard. The eyes turned straight ahead, staring up at the ceiling. The nurse picked up her book and sat back down. For the rest of her four-hour shift the only sounds were the rustle of paper as she turned the pages and the general’s steady breathing.
19 DECEMBER 1945, EARLY MORNING
“You’re damn quiet,” the general muttered.
The nurse briefly glanced up from her book, then resumed reading.
“Everybody else, all they do is talk, talk, talk, but they never say anything,” he continued, speaking to the white painted ceiling. The bed was in the middle of a sixteen-by fourteen-foot space that had served as a utility room. It had been stripped bare for the general, the only private room in the hospital. There were two MPS outside the doors. They were necessary during the daytime to screen the visitors who streamed in. In the early hours of the morning, during the nurse’s shift, she and the general were usually alone.
The old man coughed, his body shifting as much as his condition allowed.
“I appreciate you telling me the truth yesterday. A man ought to have the right to know the truth about himself. Especially when he’s dying.”
The nurse slowly closed the book and stood, moving so that he could see her. She reached up and checked the collar.
He caught the glint of gold on her left hand.
“You’re married?”
“Yes.”
“You look damn young to be married. How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Two years.”
“That’s a long time during a war,” the general muttered.
“Where’s your husband? Is he in the service?”
“He was.” Her voice was cold.
“Where is he now? Mustered out?”
“He’s dead.”
The general’s eyes narrowed.
“Dead? How?”
“The war.”
“Where?”
“Hammelburg.”
The general averted his eyes, looking across the bed to the far wall for several minutes. The nurse stood still, silently staring down at him. Finally he looked back. “Task Force Baum?”
“Task Force Baum,” she confirmed.
The tip of the general’s tongue appeared, flicking against his lips.
His eyes lost their focus for several minutes, and silence reigned as each occupant of the room remained lost in their own thoughts. The general was the first to break the silence.”
“That was a mistake.”
“I know.”
His eyes flashed angrily.
“War is full of mistakes. I only made two.”
“One of them killed my husband and quite a few other good men.”
He didn’t seem to hear. “Two in four years. But no one talks about what-I did right. They only talk about what I did wrong and the things I said. They don’t want soldiers any more, they want damn politicians.
That’s why they’re pushing Ike. He’s good at that horsecrap. They’we got him all set to—” He paused in mid-sentence as his mind reeled in, realizing his surroundings and the company.
The room returned to silence. The nurse sat back down, but she left the book lying on the floor, her gaze boring into the wasted body lying in the bed. After thirty minutes, the general spoke once, briefly, his voice so low it almost was inaudible.
“I’m sorry.”
She picked the book back up.
20 DECEMBER 1945, EARLY MORNING
The question was purely professional.
“How is he?”
The outgoing nurse shrugged. “Not good. He had a bad coughing spell slightly after ten. We gave him phenobarbital, but the coughing kept up. We followed that with codeine.
He coughed up some blood twice and Dr. Spurting thinks it’s an embolism. He’s dyspnoic and suffering from cyanosis. Respiration is rapid and erratic.”
She pointed at the bed. “We put him on oxygen and that’s helped some.
Dr. Spurling’s on call. He was in here twenty minutes ago to take a look.” She handed over the patient’s chart. “He’s sleeping now.” With that, she was gone, leaving the room in silence.
The nurse checked her patient. His chest was rising and falling very slowly and with great difficulty. The eyes were closed. She was just about to sit down when the eyes flashed open and blinked. “They came today,” he muttered under the oxygen mask.
The nurse frowned. The general had dozens of visitors each day. He had never before commented on any of them, not even his wife when she had flown in from the states with the famous neurosurgeon who had been able to do nothing to help the patient. She looked at the chart. His situation had most definitely taken a turn for the worse.
“Take it off,” he said.
The nurse didn’t argue. She reached forward and unfastened the oxygen mask, letting it lie next to his head, shutting off the valve on the tank.
He could speak more clearly now, although he had to pause between every few words to catch his breath. “They weren’t satisfied… that I’m in here flat… on my ass dying.
They were worried… that I still might cause… trouble.” His breath came out in a long rattle. “I gave them their damn gold,” he muttered.
“You think they’d be… happy with that.
The nurse put the chart back and sat down.
The general hacked in what might have been an attempt at a chuckle.
“They talked about… Task Force Baum too.
Everyone blames me for… that because my son-in-law… was at that prisoner of war camp… but liberating that camp wasn’t… the real reason we sent… the Task Force out.”
For the first time, the nurse looked interested.