pain?” “Headaches?” Or the voice would give him instructions such as: “Stand with your arms out, then raise them above your head,” or “Walk heel to toe across the room in a straight line.” He felt like a drunk.
But when Ash asked questions back, they were ignored, and the anger he felt toward the terrorist who’d perpetrated this disaster started to leak a little toward the voice in the ceiling. He just wanted to get out and bury his family. He wanted to sit by their graves and grieve. It was his right.
“Good morning, Captain,” the voice on the speaker said.
Ash opened his eyes. It was the beginning of his eighth day in the cell.
“Are you feeling anything unusual? Aches? Pains?” the voice asked.
Ash looked up at the speaker. To him it had become the face of the voice. He could almost see eyes now, and a nose. And, of course, the big round mouth.
The speaker had become his own version of Wilson the volleyball from that Tom Hanks movie,
He gritted his teeth. “How much longer?”
“Please answer the question.”
“Answer mine first. How much longer until I can get out and deal with my family?”
For more than a minute the cell was silent.
“Are you feeling anything unusual? Aches? Pains?” the voice asked again.
“Go to hell.”
“Captain, you are not at liberty to choose whether you will answer the questions or not. It’s your duty.”
Ash rolled onto his side, as if turning away from the speaker would make it disappear.
As he lay there, he could smell eggs and bacon, and knew a tray with his breakfast was waiting for him by the door. It was the only hot meal he got each day. Lunch and dinner would be in boxes next to it. Sandwiches, most days.
“Are you feeling anything unusual? Aches? Pains?”
The captain let out a snorting you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me laugh. “Unusual? Yeah, I’m feeling something unusual.”
“Please explain.” There was a note of concern in the voice.
Ash just shook his head. If the voice couldn’t figure out there was something unusual about his situation, he wasn’t going to enlighten him.
“What are you feeling?” the voice asked.
No response.
“Captain, please answer the question.”
Ash sat up, suddenly having the urge to eat. He retrieved the tray then returned to his bunk. In addition to the bacon and eggs, there was also a container of orange juice and a cup of coffee. He opened the OJ and downed the contents.
“Captain, if there’s a change in your condition, you need to tell us.”
Ash lifted the plastic top that covered his plate and picked up his fork. He was just about to scoop up some egg when he noticed a small, folded piece of paper tucked under the bacon. He hesitated for a moment, then placed the lid back down as if he’d decided he wasn’t ready to eat yet, and turned his attention to the coffee.
“Captain, are you going to cooperate?”
Ash took a sip of the coffee and made no indication he had even heard the question.
“Captain?”
It was another five minutes before the voice finally fell silent. Still, Ash waited, knowing that after a while their interest in him would wane, and those watching him through the surveillance cameras would no longer be paying as close attention as they had been.
Finally, he lifted the lid off the plate again. This time he grabbed both the piece of paper and a strip of cold bacon. He tucked the paper against his palm, then raised the bacon to his mouth and took a bite. While he chewed, he casually slipped the paper under the blanket.
He ate everything on the plate, even though the eggs had gone rubbery and the bacon had lost much of its flavor. When he was done, he set the tray by the door as he always did, and commenced his daily exercise program.
This consisted of push-ups, sit-ups and running in place, the perfect exercises for the confined man. Outwardly, he maintained an aura of blank detachment, but on the inside he could think of little else but the scrap of paper waiting for him in his bed.
After sixty minutes, he’d worked up quite a sweat. He removed his clothes, then used the cup the coffee had come in to give himself a sink bath. Still sticking to his routine, he toweled off with his shirt and pulled the flimsy cloth pants they’d given him back on.
For the next twenty minutes, he paced the room. This was his cool down, also part of his new daily habit.
As he walked back and forth he began to wonder if he was making a big deal out of nothing. Maybe the paper was just trash, something accidentally dropped there when his food had been prepared. If so, he was getting himself worked up over nothing.
Once his palm touched the concrete wall at the end of his last lap, he returned to his cot and lay down. After a few minutes he closed his eyes, then twisted around so his back was to the vent where he assumed the camera was. As he turned, he slipped his hand under the blanket and grabbed the paper.
Though he kept telling himself that it was nothing, he could feel his heart race as he silently unfolded it. Keeping it close to his chest, he held it out at an angle, lowered his head and opened his eyes.
In the center of the paper, written in pencil, was a single word:
TONIGHT
4
The man running the show in Dr. Karp’s absence was Major Frank Littlefield.
The major had left his previous posting three years earlier for a special assignment. After a year in which a whole new world had been opened up to him, the assignment became permanent. It was on that day that the Army-and the U.S. Government, for that matter-ceased to be his true employer. He was a member of the project now, and as such, that’s where his loyalties lay.
Major Littlefield was sitting in his office sipping a cup of coffee. Via the monitor on his wall, he had access to all the same feeds as the observation room two doors down, but was limited to watching only one at a time. That wasn’t such a big deal anymore since there was just one cell still occupied.
Cell number 57. Captain Daniel Ash.
The captain was taking what had become his usual post-workout morning nap. But this morning there was definitely a change in him, a defiance that had only been a spark in the previous couple of days.
As the major stared at the screen, his phone rang. He pressed the speakerphone button and said, “Major Littlefield.”
“I just read your report.” It was Dr. Karp. The major had been expecting the call, waiting for it, actually. “Has there been any change in attitude?”
“No, sir.”
“What about physically? Still no reaction?”
“None whatsoever, sir.”
The doctor was silent for a moment. “I had hoped to give it a few more days, but I think it’s safe to assume the results won’t change. Where are we with the current dosing cycle?”
“It’s scheduled to complete at two a.m.”
“All right, we might as well let it run. Once it’s complete, pull the plug, Major.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want the autopsy performed immediately. Once you have obtained all the required samples, and the body
