The Seventh Angel

“No,” Ann said. “I didn’t.”

Sheldon said nothing.

The line moved ahead a little, and Sheldon lifted two thick plastic cafeteria trays off of a spring-loaded metal rack. He passed one to Ann.

“You’d help them, wouldn’t you?” Ann asked.

The line moved another pace forward, and Sheldon pulled two sets of knives, forks, and spoons out of round metal holders.

“Yeah. I would help them,” he said. He sorted out a set of utensils and passed it to Ann.

She accepted the small bundle of flatware. The metal was warm, and still a little damp. The utensils were obviously fresh from the dishwasher.

“Why?” she asked. “I know you, Sheldon. You haven’t got a violent bone in your body. Why on earth would you participate in the killing of 130 human beings?”

Sheldon started to say something, and then checked himself. “Let’s talk about this later. This is not a good conversation to have, just before we eat.”

“Now,” Ann said. “Answer my question.”

Sheldon exhaled sharply. “Did you ever study First Aid?” he asked. “Do you know what a tourniquet is?”

Ann nodded.

“I was a Boy Scout when I was a kid,” Sheldon said. “I had merit badges like you wouldn’t believe. I loved it. I was on my way to Eagle Scout. And one summer, I took my little brother camping on Dutch Island, in the Wilmington River. I was fifteen that year, and Charley was thirteen. We had to get there by boat. And man, it was the stuff of pure adventure.

“Imagine it,” he said. “Two boys on an island by themselves. It was Huckleberry Finn and Treasure Island, all rolled into one. And on the third day of the camping trip — it was supposed to be the last day — the hatchet bounced off a knot when Charley was chopping firewood. The blade hit his left wrist, and it cut him bad.”

The chow line had moved forward, but Sheldon made no attempt to follow it. He put his tray back on the rack, and returned his utensils to their holders. Then he turned toward Ann. “I couldn’t stop the bleeding,” he said. “I tried direct pressure, and pressure points, and all of the First Aid tricks in the Boy Scout handbook. But nothing would stop the bleeding.”

Sheldon swallowed, and looked away from Ann. “And all I could think of was a tourniquet.”

Someone tapped Ann on the shoulder and she turned to see a line of Sailors bunching up behind them. She tugged Sheldon to the side, and waved for the Sailors to go around.

Sheldon’s voice was hoarse now. “I remembered my scout training,” he said. “They told us to never use a tourniquet unless there was no other choice. Don’t use one unless it’s a choice between the tourniquet and death. Because the limb begins to die the second you tighten down the tourniquet. It shuts off the blood flow to the wound, but it shuts off the blood flow to the entire limb as well. Most of the time, after a tourniquet has been used, the doctors have to amputate the arm or the leg.”

Sheldon wiped at one of his eyes. “My little brother is bleeding all over the pine needles,” he said. “And I can’t stop it. Nothing is working. It’s coming out like a fountain, and I cannot stop it. And I know, if I put a tourniquet on Charley’s arm, the doctors are going to have to amputate. They’re going to take the arm off.”

Sheldon looked at Ann. “Charley’s thirteen years old, and they’re going to have to take his arm off. But there’s nothing else I can do. My belt is too thick to work, but I’ve got boots on, with heavy laces. I double one of them up, tie it off just below Charley’s elbow, and I slide a little piece of tree branch in for tension. And I twist that stick, tightening the tourniquet. And I twist it again. In my heart, I know with every turn of that stick, that I’m killing Charley’s arm. But I twist, and I twist again, until the bleeding stops. And then I carry Charley to the boat, and I head for the docks at Tidewater.”

Ann returned her tray to the rack, and her eating utensils to the round holders.

“Come on,” she said. She turned away from the waiting line of Sailors and started walking.

Ann had no idea where she was going, but Sheldon followed her through the maze of passageways. She came to a staircase and climbed. After a few wrong turns, she found a watertight door that led outside. Sheldon followed her out into the frosty pre-dawn air.

The wind hit them immediately, and it was far colder than Ann was expecting. The sun was a feeble glow below the slate gray horizon, and the sky was still dark enough for the stars to stand out clearly.

Ann’s teeth began to chatter, and her eyes started to water. She wondered if the cold-blasted tears would freeze on her skin.

They’d only stay out here for a minute or two, but Sheldon needed the change of scenery to reset his mental clock. They’d be okay for a couple of minutes. At least Ann hoped they would.

She looked at the dark and motionless form that was Sheldon. She couldn’t see his eyes, but his body posture suggested that he was looking toward the dusky blur of the horizon.

Ann hesitated. She wanted to ask a question, but she was not at all sure she was ready to hear the answer. She braced herself for the worst, and took a breath. The cold air bit at her lungs. “What happened to Charley?”

“They saved his life,” Sheldon said softly. “He lost his left arm, but the doctors saved his life.”

“No,” Ann said. “You saved his life.”

“Yeah,” Sheldon said. “I guess.”

His face was still pointed toward the horizon. “You asked why I would help the Navy guys destroy the submarine,” he said. “That’s why. Because sometimes there aren’t any good choices. Sometimes you have to choose between something bad, and something worse.”

He shivered, and looked down toward the darkly rolling waves. “There are 130 people on that submarine,” he said. “And I don’t want to hurt any of them. But there are millions of people in Washington, and Oregon, and California, and Colorado …”

He turned toward Ann. “I’m a liaison and logistics guy,” he said. “Not a technician, or an operator. I can’t make Mouse do his stuff. That’s your end of the business. So this all comes down to you. If you help the Navy destroy that sub, you’ll have 130 deaths on your conscience. I’m not going to lie to you, Ann. You probably will have nightmares. Hell, I’m just the hand-shaker and the pencil-pusher, and I’ll probably have nightmares. But if you do nothing to stop that sub, and it launches more nukes at the United States …” His voice trailed off.

“I wonder, Ann,” he said quietly, “How many nightmares will we get, if we let a million people die?”

CHAPTER 39

USS TOWERS (DDG-103)

WESTERN PACIFIC OCEAN

TUESDAY; 05 MARCH

0631 hours (6:31 AM)

TIME ZONE +11 ‘LIMA’

“Okay,” Captain Bowie said. “Let’s go around the table again. There’s a solution to this, people. We just haven’t found it yet.”

He looked to his left. “XO?”

The Executive Officer of Towers, Lieutenant Commander Bishop, took a deep breath. “ONI thinks the bad guys have pre-staged explosives at various positions around the ice pack. Maybe there’s some way to detect them. If we can get some helos to over-fly the ice, they might be able to pick up infrared sources, or MAD signatures from the hardware attached to the explosives.”

“That’s a good thought,” Captain Bowie said. “We’ll borrow a couple of helos from Seventh Fleet to try it out.” He looked to the XO’s left. “Chief?”

Chief Sonar Technician Theresa McPherson pursed her lips. “I’m not getting any brainstorms, Captain. All I